DWP - 2110: prompt

Detroit 2110

Isolde stares at the faint blinking light on the screen of The Tracker that monitors the unused tunnel traversing Point Edward and Point Huron below the pocket of Lake Huron, the blinking travels steadily away from the Canadian side.

Isolde clocks out of her office and rides her Vespa ten miles to the northwest and stops at the point where she knows the tunnel ends - right underneath the Tourist Information Booth or the TIB, a solitary building in the middle of the network of highways leading to the big cities. She does not see any vehicles for miles, as the curfew is still in effect. The light at the Tim Hortons kiosk inside the TIB is on. She kills the motor and parks her Vespa by the entrance surprising the middle-aged woman inside, her face turning ashen as she slams the trapdoor close.

Isolde takes her Taser and aims it at the woman who raises both arms without saying anything. She tells the woman to kneel and face the wall. The woman obeys. Isolde hears hushed conversation down below the trapdoor, she reaches for the handle and pulls it open. An old woman, all wrinkled, a few white hairs on her almost bald head, her dark eyes glossy with age, stares at Isolde.

"Up," Isolde commands and motions the woman to climb up. Slowly, the old woman climbs the ten steep steps up, her old bones making small cracking noise as her face winces in pain, the winkled skin of her knuckles turning white as they grip the steps, eyes blinking as the muted fluorescent lighting of the shop assaults her eyes. Down below Isolde hears footsteps, running towards the tunnel entrance then the sound of small motorized vehicles fading as the old woman's accomplices escape. Her Taser ready, Isolde goes down the tunnel and at the bottom she finds five metal boxes. She tugs at one of the boxes but it is so heavy it wouldn't even budge.

"Please don't destroy my books," the old woman says, her voice quivers and her head trembles involuntarily.

Isolde climbs back upstairs.

"Those are paper books in there? You are aware that possession of paper books is a felony, a federal offence that carries maximum penalties?" she asks in her booming voice.

"Yes, I am aware," the old woman answers, her glassy eyes defiantly meeting Isolde's.

"What is your name? Who are you?" Isolde demands.

"The name's Summerfield."

Summerfield. Isolde eyes the old woman; she's heard about this oldest living writer born during the mid-twentieth century. She can't believe she could still move about, let alone travel through a tunnel 200 meters below the surface.

"I am a writer and publisher of books," Summerfield proudly says, the chin shaking as she speaks.