Resilience | ✔

Chapter Twenty-Six

The Quinjet landed a few yards from a hunk of rock in Siberia. Metal doors were just barely visible beneath the snow-covered stone. A few flakes of snow were falling, but other than that the way was clear—aside from F.R.I.D.A.Y.'s report of the snow already on the ground being two feet high.

Marley had been bundled already, not wanting to waste power on heating the Quinjet as she flew further north, but she yanked on another coat and another pair of snow pants anyway, stuffing gloves and mittens into all available pockets. She tugged three hats down snug on her head and wrapped two scarves around her neck and mouth. Lastly, she heaved on the insulated backpack of supplies she'd packed on the way. Water, food, some first-aid kids, the like. She had no idea what she'd find in the bunker. F.R.I.D.A.Y. had said there were more super soldiers, more like Bucky Barnes, so she armored up with three Glocks, a dozen clips, and a knife. Then she slapped the button to lower the Quinjet ramp.

Cold blasted her in the face, and she tugged a scarf up over her nose as well, wishing she'd brought goggles to protect her eyes. She trudged down the ramp into the snow, feeling like an elephant in her snow gear. The Quinjet ramp closed behind her; its taillights lit the snow around her red. Good—she'd want to be able to find her way back, and if a storm picked up, those lights would save her life.

She waded through the snow, breathing in air that felt like it was coating her windpipe and lungs in frost. She slipped on a patch of ice and almost ate shit—or snow, whatever—but managed to stay upright. If she fell, things would not go as she'd planned or hoped. She knew what happened when people fell in the cold.

She reached the doors. One was already open, just a crack, just enough for her to slip through, bulk and all. She stomped her feet on the threshold, debating whether to dig out a flashlight. This bunker looked dark.

But then she remembered the super soldiers again, and decided not to, ignoring the leap of fear in her stomach as she realized there were four of them and one of her. If they attacked her, she would lose.

She pulled out one of the guns and made sure she could pull the trigger with her gloves on, then flicked the safety off. Once her eyes had adjusted, she got started.

The bunker was a tomb. It was a deathly silent maze of metal doors, spiral staircases, dark hallways.

Old fluorescent lightbulbs flickered on and off; the occasional gust of wind howled far away. The air felt thin. Maybe it was her; maybe it really was thin. Her breath was shallow and stifled as she tried to stay silent, and countless times she had to stop and take several deep breaths to keep from passing out. She thought she'd been scared with Jackson, but it was nothing compared to the downright terror she felt now.

Every time she opened a door, she expected to find her father dead on the floor, or a super soldier waiting to kill her. Her palms sweated inside her gloves. Her mouth grew dry, but she didn't stop to drink water.

She pushed open a door and found herself in a vast, cavernous room filled with metal debris. She stared, pressing herself against the wall beside the door, trying to make sense of what she was looking at. Something big had happened in here—something most likely involving her dad. She prowled through the wreckage, searching for red metal, a scrap of fabric, any kind of hint as to what exactly had gone on. She found nothing. She did find, however, four yellowed pods built into the walls, each with a human being locked inside. A dead human being, she realized, seeing bullet holes in their foreheads.

The super soldiers. They had to be. All sorts of wires and tubes were hooked up to their skin. Dead. Relief flooded her, and she felt herself relax.

But if they were dead, then who had caused the room to fall apart?

The relief turned back into fear, her chest constricting.