Storm Front

by Riley Flynn

  Once it looked weak, he hit a hand against the panel. The wall shook. Alex hit again. It splintered along the line of nail holes. Now, his whole hand could squeeze through.

  “Yes!” Alex shouted, then remembered himself.

  Pausing for a moment, listening for anyone outside, it sounded calm. He began to hammer the nail into the wall all over again, wincing with every sound.

  But each hit felt good. Alex hadn’t got a good look at his captors, but he could imagine caving their heads in with the rock. Each strike, the scratch as the surface hit the old nail – it was satisfying. This one’s for Timmy. This one’s for Joan. This one’s for Cam. This one’s for Finn. He hammered away, allowing the rage to course through his veins, speeding up his blood.

  Even as his muscles burned with the effort, Alex pushed on. He was running on autopilot now, propelled forward by rage and desperation. They’d knocked him down, bagged him up, dragged him away, and thrown him into a dark room. He’d barely had time to process anything, propelled forwards at a hundred miles an hour, acting on instinct alone.

  But then a thought crept into his mind, trying to attract his attention.

  Put this one with the others.

  There were other people here, locked up as well. The hammering stopped for a second, and Alex lowered his arms. That meant he wasn’t alone. His friends might be stored away in another dark room. But they didn’t know who his friends were. They didn’t know his name. These other people could be anyone, locked up by the strangers occupying the farm. They could be enemies. But they were still locked up.

  The enemy of my enemy is my friend, Alex thought to himself. There were other people being held prisoner. Even if there was the slightest chance that his friends were caged up on the farm, he had to try and find them. Again, he began to hammer the nail into the wooden wall, harder and faster.

  Alex was removing entire chunks of the wall now. The wood was soft, old, and full of worm holes. God bless Eames, he told himself, that lazy, glorious bastard never fixed anything. How much of the house was just a thin coat of paint over rotting wood? He could picture the old man running a thin nicotine-yellow finger over the rotten wood and smiling. He’d liked it when things stayed the same.

  Punching another square free from the wall, Alex heard it tumble down and hit the ground.

  Too loud.

  He stopped again, lifting his left ear up to the space in the wall, trying to listen. No movement. Nothing.

  The hammer started again, the stone chinking against the old nail. Alex had it down to an art now. He’d hold the nail in place, give it one sure smack with the stone, and drive the point all the way through the wall. The nail would bury halfway in and he’d have to tug it hard to bring it free. Then he’d move the whole thing a fraction to the side and start again.

  The skin on his hands was burning. Alex gritted his teeth against the pain. Every scratch, every hit, every action, he thought about his captors. He thought about his friends. Despite the exhaustion, despite the cramp in his fingers, the righteous fury drove him forward and numbed the pain.

  Once he’d weakened the wood just enough, Alex punched that part of the wall – sometimes twice – and it’d break away and fall on the ground outside.

  Now, there was enough room he could fit his whole head through.

  But the sound was too loud. Alex knew it. He could sense it. The rhythmic sound of the stone cracking against the head of the nail. The clatter and smash of the wood hitting the ground. No time to worry.

  Hammering, punching, the rattle of wood hitting the hard ground beneath. There was a rhythm to it, every beat bringing him closer to his goal. Alex heard all the sounds. The space in the wall was almost big enough that he could squeeze his shoulders through. He’d lost weight since leaving Detroit. A crappy diet comes in handy, he thought.

  Every time the noise got too loud, he had to tell himself: they took my friends, they took my dog, they took my farm, they took my guns, and who knows what they’ll take next?

  The noise didn’t matter. The pain didn’t matter either. He had to break free. He had to help his friends. He had to save his home.

  Another section of the wall fell away. Alex could feel the sunlight against his face. He looked up at the gray sky through the hole in the wall. It wasn’t warm. Winter in Virginia rarely was. But it was home.

  “Hey!”

  A shout through the door. Alex froze, scared.

  “Hey, what’s going on in there?”

  They’d heard him. All that pain came flooding back at once. No more time. He had to move now.

  Shoulders writhing in agony, Alex shoved the rock and the nail in his pockets and reached up for the space he’d cut out of the wall and the roof. The palms of his hands prickled, pressed against the rough edges and splinters of the broken wood. Alex pulled himself upward, feeling the pain.

  A bolt slid across the door, he could hear it. A breeze blew into the room.

  “What the hell? Jenna! Help!”

  It was the man’s voice. Alex recognized it now. Gruff and coarse but still staccato. Annoyed. He had pulled himself up halfway, his shoulders pushed out through the space. He tasted freedom on the other side, took a big gulp of air. The fall to the ground was six feet. He’d hit the ground hard.

  Footsteps echoed as the man ran across the room to Alex.

  Alex’s hips passed through the hole. He tucked up his left knee, wriggling and climbing up and outwards. The sole of his sneaker found a ledge; all he had to do was lift his other leg out through the space and he’d be free.

  The man grabbed Alex’s ankle, dragging him back inside the room.

  Alex hung on, his fingers biting into the ripped-apart wooden walls. Every sharp edge bit into the skin. The sunlight was still on his face and he wasn’t going back into the darkness. He had to get out. He was desperate. The man pulled, hauling and heaving at the leg.

  Ignoring the pain, Alex wrenched himself forward. A tug of war, his body being torn apart.

  He kicked out frantically with his free leg, hitting nothing but empty, anxious air.

  Alex kept trying, flailing wildly and pumping his knee, twisting his hips, desperately keeping his hold on the broken-up wall and his way to freedom. The sunlight still fell across his face.

  Finally, a kick connected. Alex felt the satisfying crumple under his heel. The hold on his ankle disappeared instantly. A heavy thud as the man collapsed on the floor. Must have hit him in the face.

  The release flung Alex forward, up and halfway out of the hole in the roof. He crawled the rest of the way clear, dropping out and falling onto the ground below. That cold, hard ground. Free, at last.

  Standing up, he looked around. For a second, he paused. A moment to take everything in.

  He was next to the barn. Two stories high, space inside for two tractors and a hay loft, it hadn’t changed at all. The same white paint – probably the same coat – was still peeling off the wooden panels.

  All around the barn were lean-tos, sheds, and shacks. Too many to count. Some as big as a closet, others able to hold seeds by the ton.

  Alex was standing at the rear of the barn. He had an unfettered view out over the fields. Bare, barren fields. About fifty acres, most of it decent growing ground. Not right now. Alex could see all the way to the horizon. No crops, no buildings, no nothing.

  Right now, this was winter. Only the wind thrived in the fields.

  The sudden jolt of nostalgia struck Alex, stopping him dead, just for a second. He knew everything. He knew the position of all the buildings, the way the breeze smelled, the way the clouds sat on the horizon and brought a new rain every week. The birdsong and the whisper of the dry grass. He knew where he stood, how the buildings on the other side of the barn were laid out.

  The farm house, the stables, and a few others. They were the main parts of the home. They were clustered around an informal courtyard, a kind of empty space where the track up from the big road simply ended.

  Th
ere’d been chickens scratching there, plants potted by his mom, and a big, long porch looking over it all, where they’d sat on long summer evenings. Once a year, Alex and his mom would take a pot of paint and make palm prints on the wall beside the porch door. Then they’d sit and wait for his father without washing away the paint, waving their red hands as he walked out of the barn.

  Alex couldn’t see any of it now, but he knew it was there. Home.

  He had to run. No time to reminisce. He’d see it all soon. He’d have to.

  The man was stirring inside the room. Alex ran.

  He rounded the bend, slowing down as he reached the courtyard. Leaning around a corner, pressing his back up against the wall, he stole a glimpse.

  It wasn’t the same as his memories. If the exterior of the barn hadn’t changed, the house had. The chickens were gone, as were the plants. Broken pottery and scrap metal lay in front of the porch.

  The house, the barn, the stables, and the other buildings gathered around the courtyard seemed lonely. Forgotten. Abandoned. Alex felt a pang in the pit of his stomach, as though he’d just seen a relative for the first time in decades. Aged, thin, and in the thrall of a disease. Hospital sheets instead of their old clothes. Trying to square the memory with the reality was a distraction.

  Move quickly, Alex thought, forget all this. Find Joan and Timmy and Cam. Find Finn. Where would they be? The dog wasn’t barking anymore. The silence made him run faster.

  No time for careful thinking. The strangers knew he had escaped. If that man had woken up, he’d sound the alarm. Alex only had the smallest of windows, the briefest of moments where he might have the run of the property without anyone looking for him.

  So. Where to start?

  The barn.

  If three people were being held prisoner, then the barn would be the obvious place to put them. Big enough, thick walls, and the doors were heavy and secure.

  Alex leaned farther around the corner. He could see the entrance to the barn. A short sprint away.

  Checking over his shoulder, Alex ran. He kept low, almost scuttling along the outer edge of the courtyard like a crab across a beach. The others had to be inside.

  The closer Alex came to the barn, the more the doors towered up above him. They were tall. He’d forgotten how tall. A pair of huge sliding slabs, as though they were the gateway to an ancient medieval castle rather than the place his dad had tried to hide his smoking habit.

  Arriving at the door, skidding to a halt, checking again over his shoulder, Alex looked for a way in. The doors used to slide right open. But a huge chain hung between the metal handles, a heavy padlock binding them together. Lifting it up, staring at the mechanism, he might be able to pick it.

  Didn’t have the lockpicking kit. Didn’t have the time.

  “Damn.”

  In the distance, people were shouting. Raising an alarm.

  “Stop!” A woman’s voice. “Stop where I can see you.”

  Alex looked up. A woman had stepped into the courtyard and approached the barn. She was tall, taller than him. Built stronger, too.

  Her stern forehead creased as she looked down on the man in front of the lock.

  “I said stop.”

  Alex dropped the padlock. The chains rattled. He looked her up and down. She walked toward him. She had one arm, he realized, her left sleeve folded and pinned up against her shoulder. The woman didn’t seem to care as she trudged forward.

  As she approached, her confidence made Alex step back. There was a determination in her eyes. Even with one arm, she felt happy enough to take him on. But there was no time for trepidation. He had to find the others.

  Before he could process all this information, the woman was in front of him, swinging her good arm. Alex lifted his hands up, trying to protect himself. She caught him in the shoulder. A hefty blow. This woman hit hard.

  A knee knocked him in the hip as he reeled from the first punch, quickly followed by another haymaker. She advanced, and Alex stepped back, trying to catch sight of her between his protective wrists.

  She swung, aiming for his head. He ducked, weaved in behind her, raising up ready to drift in with an uppercut.

  But she brushed it aside with her forearm and lunged out with a heavy boot.

  Alex jumped back. On the other side of the barn, the shouts were getting louder. He didn’t have time for this. Already, he’d had his body beaten from Detroit all the way to his old front door. This woman was turning whatever was left of him into mincemeat.

  She heaved another fist around with the delicacy of a tenderizing hammer. The woman hit hard but slow, her balance affected by her missing limb. Alex dodged again.

  He couldn’t find a way to hit back. Every time she threw a punch, he’d take the blow or duck or weave away or roll, get himself ready to retaliate, and she’d be there. Ready.

  “I… I just want to… see my friends.” Alex tried to say between breaths.

  The woman didn’t reply. She threw punch after punch, wearing Alex down. As he ducked under her arm, Alex tripped and dropped to his knee. He felt the shape pressing into his thigh. The stone in his pocket. He rolled to the side, stepping as far away from her as he could.

  While she turned, he slipped the stone from his pocket to his palm. Hidden. She advanced, threw her fist at him. Alex ducked under it, came up with the rock in his hand, catching her on the chin.

  Stumbling back, her face was a heady blend of surprise and pain. Don’t wait. Alex kicked out, forced her to block, feinted with his left, then slammed the stone into her ribs with his right. She fell down in a cloud of dust and dirt.

  Alex jumped on top of her, using his fists to strike her arm as it protected her face.

  The woman lowered her arm, exhausted. He lifted the stone up above his head. One blow. One hit. All it would take. The red mist clouded over his eyes, all the anger and the fury rising up inside him.

  The woman squinted in the pale light.

  “Please,” she said, her voice coming from far away, “I’ll help you.”

  Alex paused. He could feel the rough texture of the rock.

  This was it. The moment. A choice. He could kill her – quite easily – and he wouldn’t blink. Two months ago, he wouldn’t even have been able to throw a punch.

  The woman’s tired arm raised up again. She didn’t have the energy to protect herself. Instead, she was trying to cover her mouth and her nose.

  Worried about being infected, Alex wondered. She winced. She didn’t care. Maybe not.

  Alex lowered his arm, loosening his grip. He got to his feet as the woman drew herself up into a sitting position.

  “I’m not going to kill you.” Alex whispered the words into her face, crouching beside her. “But you’re going to help me find my friends.”

  There should have been fear in her face. Alex cocked his head. She wasn’t scared.

  For a moment – a fraction of a second – her eyes flicked to the right. Trying to trick him. Trying to divert his attention, giving her an opening.

  “I’m not going to fall for that.” Alex took a fresh, tighter hold on the stone. “But you are going to help me.”

  He could hear footsteps coming around the corner. Angry footsteps. Familiar noises.

  By now, the sound of a gun being drawn was all too familiar. Without having to look, Alex could feel the muzzle pointing at his back.

  “Drop the weapon!” A booming, angry voice. That same man as before.

  Alex dropped the stone and raised his hands above his head. The dull thud as it hit the ground echoed the plunging feeling in his stomach. The advantage was gone. The woman smiled at him, curling a lip as she spoke.

  “How’s that for help?”

  3

  “Step away from her!”

  Hands still in the air, Alex stood up to his full height. Even lifting up his arms hurt. Shoulders heaving, he struggled to stop the shaking. There was more than one of them, he could tell.

  “I’m just asking to se
e my friends.” Alex stared forwards, talking between labored breaths, focusing on the blank barn door while he talked.

  “You’re not going to see anyone! Get up against the wall!”

  Alex walked forward, pressed his hands flush against the surface of the door. The wood was cold. Behind him, he heard the one-armed woman being helped to her feet.

  “He hurt you?” Another woman asked. Younger. Nervous.

  “Sucker punched me.” The one-armed woman spoke with confidence. “Nothing I can’t handle. How’d he get out?”

  “Broke up the wall in one of the sheds.” The gruff voice, irritated but measured. “We’re going to have to seal it off now. Don’t know where he’s been. You should go and wash off, Jamie. Use the soap.”

  Tucking his chin into his neck, straining his eyes to the side, Alex tried to steal a look at his captors. They were keeping their distance. He recognized the same voices, not so muffled this time. They weren’t wearing masks. They hadn’t been prepared for his escape.

  But there were other people. Alex could hear footsteps and slamming doors behind him. There was a third person talking. People were walking across the courtyard and up to the porch. The front door of the farm house creaked open. The screen door slammed. Familiar sounds.

  “Please.” Alex closed his eyes as he talked. The darkness was comforting, quietening his pounding head. “I just want to see my friends. Two men and a woman. My dog. They should be here. The woman – she’s pregnant – she’s called Joan. Timmy and Cam are the others. Please. I told them to come here.”

  He talked fast, trying to say everything before another person hit him. Say their names. Appeal to the better angels. Even prison guards had a human side, he hoped.

  Silence and shuffling feet behind him. Alex liked silence. Silence meant they weren’t shooting him.

  “Where did Krol say to put him?”

  There was an uncertainty in the man’s voice Alex hadn’t heard before. A fear. The way he’d said the name, laden with dread.