Chapter 8 - The Tunnel and the Iron
The bricks didn't give way on the first strike, nor the second. The sound of metal hitting masonry echoed through the small concrete room like artillery fire, each impact sending a blinding flash of pain through Beatrice’s broad shoulders. The air was growing heavy, her lungs burning, her vision blurring with black spots as the carbon monoxide began to replace the oxygen in the room.
Lily was coughing now—a sharp, dry rattle that signaled an impending asthma attack.
“One more,” Beatrice gasped, her apron strings tearing away as she swung the extinguisher with every ounce of heavy, working-class strength she possessed.
With a deafening crunch, the ancient mortar gave way, and three bricks collapsed outward into a dark, damp void. A rush of cold, mud-scented air swept into the bunker, clearing the gas for a fraction of a second.
Beatrice didn't hesitate. She pushed Lily through the narrow opening first, then squeezed her own broad frame through the gap, the sharp edges of the broken brick tearing the fabric of her uniform and leaving long, bloody scratches along her hips and ribs.
The tunnel was a narrow crawlspace of wet mud and rotting timber, the ceiling dripping with slimy condensation. Beatrice dragged herself forward on her stomach, pulling Lily along beside her through the absolute darkness.
Behind them, in the safe room, the heavy iron door was suddenly blown off its hinges with a violent explosion, the sound of Arthur’s men shouting echoing through the brick opening.
“They’re in the tunnel!” a voice yelled from behind them.
Beatrice didn't look back. She scrambled forward on her hands and knees, her large body blocking the path, protecting Lily from any stray rounds that might be fired into the dark. Her uniform was completely ruined, soaked in black mud and blood, her hands raw and bleeding from the gravelly floor of the tunnel.
After what felt like an eternity, the tunnel terminated at a heavy iron grate that looked out over the gray, winter-chilled waters of the Chicago drainage canal. The air outside was freezing, a sudden flurry of December snow drifting through the bars.
The grate was secured by a rusted iron padlock.
Beatrice grabbed the lock with both hands, her purple fingers screaming in protest as she pulled with all her weight. It didn't move. From the darkness behind them, the sound of splashing water and flashlight beams signaled that Arthur’s men were closing the distance. They were less than fifty feet away.
“Bea!” Lily cried, clutching her rabbit. “They’re coming!”
Beatrice looked at the lock, then at the cold water below. She didn't have the key. She didn't have the extinguisher anymore.
But she had the strength of a woman who had spent twenty-eight years being ignored until she learned how to lift the world on her own back.
May you like
She wedged her broad shoulder beneath the lowest iron bar of the grate, braced her feet against the crumbling stone foundation of the tunnel mouth, and pushed upward with a guttural, desperate scream that shook the mud from the timbers above. Her muscles tore, her spine popped under the immense pressure, but with a sharp, metallic snap, the rusted iron bars bent outward, creating a gap just wide enough for a child—and a heavy woman—to fall through.
They dropped fifteen feet into the freezing black water below just as three bullets slammed into the stone where they had been standing.
