Threat warning

by John Gilstrap

  He heard a voice.

  His body acted instinctively, without him having to tell it a thing. He dropped to a low crouch and duckwalked quickly to the edge of the roadbed, where he fell to hands and knees along the edge of the tree line.

  He heard another voice. Both were male, and neither sounded all that close. Certainly, they didn’t sound angry or threatening; just two guys having a conversation about something. Ryan couldn’t make out the words, but when one of them laughed, he felt tension drain from his shoulders. They clearly hadn’t seen him.

  He wondered where they were. The night was so quiet, the air so cold and pure, and the breeze so constant, that they could have been thirty feet away or thirty yards away. Maybe even farther.

  But if their sound carried so easily, so would any sound that he made. It was time to be very careful.

  From where he lay in the ditch that ran along the raised roadbed, he couldn’t tell if the owners of the voices were moving or stationary. He remembered that the guards who manned the front gate carried guns, and he wanted nothing to do with any of that.

  But he couldn’t just stay here. Sooner or later, he was going to lose the darkness. When that happened, it was all over.

  He needed to move closer. He crawled on his belly at first-the way he saw soldiers do it in the movies-but that full-body dragging created way too much noise. He decided to risk rising to his hands and knees and advancing that way.

  Once again, the cold became a real problem. Why hadn’t he thought of bringing gloves?

  Yeah, he chastised silently, next time you get kidnapped, be sure to dress warmly.

  By being able to place one hand and one knee at a time, Ryan was able to move far more quietly. He still made noise, but not that much more than the wind. Besides, the wind was blowing in his face, away from the people he was approaching, so that should help him be quieter, too.

  At least that’s what he told himself.

  He figured it took five minutes to crawl close enough to be able to see who was talking. Barely silhouettes in the darkness, they were tall enough to be adults, though to Ryan’s ears, their voices sounded young. They both wore bulky coats, and from the roundness of their heads, he assumed they were wearing stocking caps to stay warm. He envied them those. He also envied them the rifles he could see slung over their shoulders.

  And then there was the good news: Beyond their silhouettes, Ryan could clearly see the outline of a fence. He’d finally made it to the edge of the property.

  Now that he’d finally gotten so close, he realized how flimsy his plan was-or, more accurately, that he didn’t have a plan. Somehow, he was going to get over the fence unseen, and then somehow, he was going to find a place where he could make a phone call. That was a lot of somehow.

  And all of it depended on these guys moving on. Or falling asleep. Or getting struck by lightning. For the time being, Ryan settled on becoming invisible and allowing his breathing to slow down. As the sound of blood thrumming through his ears died away, he could actually hear the words they were saying.

  “… starting a war. Like any war, people are going to be killed.”

  “But kids. I just don’t see how that is anything but wrong.”

  “It’s about the anger. It’s about focusing it on all those godless rag heads, and so far, Brother Michael says it’s going great.”

  A long pause followed-long enough for Ryan to wonder if maybe they’d moved along.

  Then, “Are you willing to go that far?”

  “I’m a soldier. If I have to kill, I’ll kill. If I have to die, I’ll die.”

  “I don’t mean that. That’s all of us. I mean kids. You’re willing to kill kids?”

  A derisive laugh. “Name me one war in the history of wars where kids didn’t get killed.”

  “That’s different. It’s one thing when a bomb falls in the wrong place, or a stray bullet goes through the wrong wall. I mean, are you willing to target kids?”

  “I will follow the orders that are given to me.” Another pause-a shorter one this time. “Are you saying that you wouldn’t?”

  Ryan heard a distinct change in tone. “N-no, of course not. I’m just saying I’d try to find a different assignment.”

  “But if you were given an order-”

  “I’d do my duty.” Another long pause. In Ryan’s mind, the guy was getting defensive. “Seriously. I’m just talking here. Don’t look at me like I’m a traitor. I’m a loyal servant to the cause, just like you are.”

  “You make me wonder sometimes, Brother Samuel.” The other one said this in a tone that dripped with disapproval. “Questioning leads all too easily to disloyalty. You know this.”

  “Of course I know it. And Brother James, I’m sorry that I said anything. I think sometimes that I am not as strong as the others. I worry that when the time comes, I might freeze. I don’t want to be one who fails.”

  Who the hell are these freaks? Ryan wondered. Brother this and Sister that. Killing children? Holy shit.

  “We all have doubts,” Brother James said. “But I believe that when the time comes, our training will take over and we will do everything that is expected of us. We need to stay focused on the honor, and if we do that, the rest won’t matter.”

  “Do you have your mission yet?” Brother Samuel asked.

  Still another pause. “We’ve been here too long,” Brother James said. “You need to walk your route. So do I. Stay warm.”

  With that, the night grew silent again.

  But what did the silence mean? Ryan hoped it meant that they had wandered off, a conclusion rendered more likely by their need to “walk their routes.” He thought again of the guards he saw at the gate when they first arrived. First there were just a couple, and then more arrived. It made sense, didn’t it, that they would walk the fence line, like sentries in the POW movies?

  Only one way to find out.

  Ryan rose again to his hands and knees slowly and quietly, and dared to peer into the night. The spot where the guards had been standing was now empty, their cube of space now occupied by the outline of the chain-link fence against the night. The fence was the goal. The first goal, anyway. If he could make it over that, then other options existed for him. If he couldn’t, well, only one option remained, he supposed, and that one sucked.

  If he tried the fence, he might get out. If he got caught trying, they’d probably kill him outright. That’s what the guns were for, right? But if he stayed, they were going to kill him anyway. The fence was the only option.

  Even as he inventoried his options, he continued his slow, steady crawl toward the fence. Toward freedom. As he closed to within fifteen yards, and then ten, he fought the urge to hurry. At the ten-yard mark, he realized that the trees were all gone. An unpaved roadway of sorts had been denuded of trees on either side of the fence, presumably to allow the guards to walk their routes, just like Brother What’s-his-face had said. He remembered with a shudder how easily he’d been able to make out the details of those guards in the starlight, and now realized that the clarity came from the lack of tree cover. The lack of any cover at all.

  Shit. I have to climb the fence in the open.

  At the very edge of the tree line, which at this point was more scrub growth than real trees, Ryan leaned out into the cleared space. He pivoted his head first to the left, and then to the right, and there they both were, each about thirty yards away from him, but on opposite sides. They appeared to be moving away, but how could he know without being able to see faces for a reference point?

  Time to find out.

  Pressing himself flat against the ground, he lizard-crawled across the open space to the base of the fence. He thought to look both ways again, just to be sure, then talked himself out of it. What was it that Dad always said? In for a penny, in for a pound.

  It wasn’t till he actually rose to his knees and touched the fence that he thought about the possibility that it might be electrified. It wasn’t.

  Ryan slipped h
is fingers through the chain links and started to climb, telling himself that this was no different than climbing the fence to the athletic field on the days when he beat Coach Jackson to practice. He’d done that half a dozen times, and each time, he’d earned one of those scoldings that was really an expression of veiled admiration.

  He didn’t expect one of those this time.

  The hardest part was to not make any noise. Chain-link fences make a unique tinkling, clattering sound when you climb them. If the guards heard that, it would be over. Good God, there were so many ways for this to be over, and none of them were good.

  He refused to look at the guards, fearing that the energy of his glance might somehow make them turn, the way that your eyes are drawn to the girl across the classroom who happens to be staring at you, or the way the teacher knows to call on you the one day out of thirty when you don’t have your homework done. Maybe if he didn’t summon their glances, things would continue to break his way.

  The frigid air registered almost as hot against the exposed skin of his hands and face, and as he scaled higher, the metal chain links felt like they were somehow turning his finger bones brittle.

  It took less time than he thought it would to reach the top of the fence, where a Y-shaped frame of barbed wire awaited him, daring to thwart his escape.

  Not a chance. He’d already been beaten, and people were already planning his execution. Spiky wire was nothing.

  At the top now, he reached up and behind with his right hand to wrap his fist around the wire, taking care to place his palm in a spot between the spikes. That done, he let go of the fence with his other hand and allowed his feet to dangle as he hand-walked upwards and backwards, hand-over-hand until he’d reached the fourth level of wire, which left him dangling free over the cleared aisleway.

  A pull-up brought him chin-high to the wire, and then he faced the hard part. Squinting against what he knew was coming, he raised his left leg and hooked the wire with his ankle, where one of the spikes bit deeply into the soft meat in front of his Achilles tendon. Ignoring the pain, he gritted his teeth and hoisted his left leg parallel to the wire. Spikes found his calf and knee and thighs, and he prayed to all things holy that his junk would be spared as he heaved himself with agonizing slowness into the trough formed by the torturous Y. While his scrotum got poked, the point missed the boys, so he called that a victory.

  As he lay on his back on this elevated bed of nails, staring at the sky, he paused to collect himself. The dark, negative part of him waited for the sound of gunshots to rip the night, but the rest of him pushed those thoughts away. What was going to happen was going to happen. All he could do was his best; and if his best wasn’t good enough, he’d never know it because he’d be dead.

  It was time to finish the job.

  He rolled to his right, this time clutching his crotch as his belt buckle and parts south passed again through the danger zone. Still in the Y, he was able to get his feet under him enough to duck into a low crouch. He wasn’t good with distances, but to his eye, he was ten or twelve feet off the ground-too far just to launch himself into the night.

  He turned his hands so they were fingers down, thumbs in, and he carefully nestled his palms into another dead space between the spikes. From there, he pressed his belly against the wire and doubled over, allowing the momentum of his head and upper body to propel him into a somersault that left him dangling by his hands, his shoes maybe five feet off the ground. From there, he let go and dropped to freedom on the far side. He tried to remain limp as he hit the ground, allowing his knees to fold at the impact, and he forced a shoulder roll that left him on his stomach, flat against the ground.

  Jesus, he’d made a lot of noise.

  Without even thinking, he scrambled for traction with his hands and feet and he darted for the cover of the bushes on his side of the fence. He was still half a stride away when someone yelled, “Who’s there?” The voice came from the direction of Brother Samuel, but Ryan couldn’t tell for sure that it was his voice.

  Powerful flashlights clicked on, and he heard the sound of running feet as the lights bounced in the air and converged at roughly the spot where Ryan had climbed the fence.

  He pressed himself flat against the ground, and tried to control his breath, conscious of the telltale cloud he made with every exhalation. His heart pounded hard enough behind his breastbone to actually hurt.

  “What’s wrong?” Brother James yelled. Ryan recognized that voice.

  “Didn’t you hear it?”

  “Hear what?”

  “The fence moved.”

  “It moved? How would it do that?”

  “I mean it moved.” The night filled with the sound of rattling chain link. “Like that.”

  The darkness around him lightened as flashlight beams scoured the ground.

  “I didn’t hear a thing,” Brother James said. “Are you sure?”

  “I’m sure I heard something.”

  “Did you see anything?”

  “ No.”

  The flashlight beams scoured the ground some more. “I don’t see anything out there, either, do you?”

  Brother Samuel didn’t answer as the lights played on and on.

  Ryan didn’t know how much longer he could control his breathing. He lungs were screaming. He opened his eyes long enough to see that the lights were near him but not on him, and dared to cover his mouth with his hand and exhale, oh so slowly.

  “There’s nothing there, Brother Samuel. Maybe it was a deer.”

  “Maybe we should check with Brother Stephen and have him look in on the prisoners.”

  Ryan’s heart nearly stopped.

  “Right,” Brother James mocked. “They overpowered him though a locked door.”

  “I’m just saying that I heard something.”

  “And I’m just saying that there’s nothing out there.”

  A light swung away from Ryan’s woods, and played into the woods on the other side-the area he’d just left.

  “What’s wrong with you?” Brother James said.

  “Maybe it was someone climbing in. We’re at war now, after all.”

  “And who would do that?”

  “The cops? The FBI? The army? How would I know? But if they found out-”

  “Nobody’s finding out,” Brother James said. Ryan could hear the frustration in his voice. “This is just more of that same problem as before. You have no faith.”

  “Not true.”

  “It is true. I’m not going to report you-at least not yet-but you’re getting paranoid, and the paranoia is making you question all the unquestionables.”

  “I am not! Maybe I’m a little jumpy-”

  “You’re a lot jumpy,” Brother James accused. “Do you or don’t you have faith in Brother Michael and his plan?”

  “Of course I do. But-”

  “No, stop. No buts. If you have faith, there’s no room for buts.”

  The lights returned to Ryan’s side of the fence. “I know what I heard,” Brother Samuel said.

  “I’m not saying you didn’t hear anything. Just that you didn’t hear an invader. Or an escapee. You heard a deer. Or the wind.” One of the lights went out. “Now, turn that thing off before your night vision is ruined for hours.”

  The light stayed right where it was. Ryan wondered if Brother Samuel was just making a point by defying the order to turn it off. Finally, darkness returned. The boys-Ryan had come to think of them as teenagers, though he didn’t know why-said some parting words, and then the night became quiet again.

  Ryan lay frozen on the ground-in every sense of the word. Were they really gone, or were they sandbagging, pretending to be gone, and just waiting for him to show himself by moving? If he were them-particularly if he were Brother Samuel, who not only felt sure that he’d heard something, but had something to prove to Brother James-he’d stand there and set a trap for a while. He’d read somewhere, or maybe seen on television, that that was how snipers and countersnipers u
sed to wait each other out during World War I and World War II. The one who lost patience first died.

  With his hand cupped to his nose and mouth to disperse the clouds of breath, he forced himself to lie completely still, hoping that the hammering of his heart wasn’t audible ten or fifteen yards away.

  But how long was long enough? He decided to count to five hundred, metering the rhythm in his head as one one-thousand, two one-thousand, three one-thousand, and on to the end. That would keep him from going too fast.

  As he got to a hundred twenty-three one-thousand, he heard Brother James say, “So, can we just say that I was right?”

  The sound of his voice made Ryan gasp and his skin nearly stripped itself from his skeleton. Jesus, they had been waiting.

  “I guess,” Brother Samuel said. “I was just so sure.”

  “Happens sometimes. In ninety minutes, we get relieved, and you can get some sleep.”

  “Right,” Brother Samuel said. “Sorry for the alarm.”

  This time, Ryan actually heard the footsteps as they walked away. He sent up another prayer of thanks that God had made him so paranoid.

  When he could no longer hear the footsteps of the guards, he did a push-up on his frozen hands and brought himself to his knees, his back bent low. They were gone.

  But they were also nervous. Brother Samuel in particular would be on a hair trigger, waiting to detect things in the night and shoot them. And Ryan was upwind now, so he needed to be that much more careful about making noise.

  He needed to get the hell out of here. Distance was his only weapon.

  As Ryan stood and turned his back to the compound, the starlight revealed a lighter strip along the black ground that he presumed to be the extension of the road that he’d been following all along-the road that he hoped was the same one that had brought them here.

  It was time to run. It was, after all, the only thing in school that he was any good at. He needed to find the houses he saw on the way in that had electricity burning in the windows. Where there was electricity, there had to be a phone, right? And where there was a phone, help was only a police-car ride away.