Underground by Kat Richardson Page B

paperwork disappeared, and once the sign and locks were on the door, everyone seems to have figured it was someone else’s problem. Especially since no one’s keys work on the lock.” He shrugged. “Must not be the authorized personnel.”
     
     
    “Where’s the electricity come from?”
     
     
    He waved at the concrete wall. One end was covered in electrical panels. “It comes straight off the utility grid. Just looks like more of the city works to the system. I thought about pulling cable, but it’s been hard to get at without attracting attention. I use the library’s system or the Wi-Fi that’s all over the place in Seattle now. No water, though. I’m not too handy with plumbing.”
     
     
    I ignored the trivia. “How . . . ?”
     
     
    “People don’t pay much attention to things that look like they belong. I keep things repaired and smoothed over so no one has any reason to come and look for problems or wonder what’s in here. Just a utility hole for something no one’s curious about.”
     
     
    “So the symbol on the door . . . ?”
     
     
    “Means nothing—I made it up—but it looks like something you ought to be afraid of, doesn’t it?”
     
     
    “Yes,” I agreed, and I wondered if there were other things to be afraid of here. The diabolical cleverness of the bunker was unnerving. The situation with Will had left me raw, and the oddity of Quinton’s actions the previous day had me on high alert for trouble. “Why go to all this effort, though? What are you hiding from?” I asked. I was a little afraid to hear the answer.
     
     
    “Kind of a long story, but, basically, I just want my own life entirely in my own control. Or as much as I can get it.” That was a sentiment with which I could concur. Not knowing my thoughts, he continued, “The only way I can see to have that is to be out of the system. So I got out of it. I don’t have a social security card or a driver’s license or a voter registration. I have no fixed address, no job, no ties, no bank account.”
     
     
    He hung up his coat and hat and turned on an electric space heater that was sitting near one of the tables.
     
     
    “Sounds kind of isolated.”
     
     
    He shrugged and pulled the elastic band off his ponytail, scrubbing his hair loose onto his shoulders with a growl of pleasure before heading for the tiny fridge. “In some ways, yeah, it is, but it’s not so lonely. There’s a lot of people down here who are like me in one way or another.”
     
     
    “Down where?” I asked, leaning against the nearest wall with my arms crossed, still a bit unsure of the situation.
     
     
    “Here. The literal underground, Pioneer Square—the skids. The homeless, the discarded, the hidden . . . we’re all down here. We’re our own community. And that’s why I’m a little pissed about the deaths and disappearances. These guys are my friends—my neighbors. Sometimes I’m the only one around who isn’t off his rocker, and I feel like I ought to do something when we’re threatened.”
     
     
    “And of course getting me involved means that you don’t have to expose yourself in order to do the right thing.”
     
     
    He opened the fridge and looked into it. “That sounds kind of selfish of me. And cynical of you. You want a beer?”
     
     
    “Well, if you’re going to call me cynical, what kind of beer?”
     
     
    He laughed. “I don’t know. I have one or two bottles of about five different things in here—people keep paying me for stuff in beer. Or books.”
     
     
    A sudden muffled rapping came from the wooden wall by the bed. Quinton kicked the refrigerator closed and trotted past me to the sleeping alcove. He pushed on something and looked at the small screen that was revealed behind it. Then he covered it up again and grabbed one edge of the wall. He pulled and it swung open. It was, as I’d imagined, a door within a larger gate that only looked like a wall. Now I knew how he’d moved in the