Strikers

by Ann Christy

  The cells are silent and that says volumes. If they’re willing to go out into the dark with each other, with no possibility of help and a long way to travel, then none of them can really be that bad.

  “Well, Jovan. This is what we’re going to do. I’m going to let these fine people out and they are going to leave without letting on that you’re in on this.” I turn to the cells and ask them, “Am I right about none of you making a peep?”

  Murmurs of assent and nods all around are no less than I expected. Their other choices aren’t grand: death now or death in a day or less. Jovan doesn’t say a word either, so I decide to take that as assent to this very quick plan.

  “After that, I’m going to make a big fuss dragging you out there and use you to get those other two in these cells. Then I’m going to make an even bigger fuss by hitting you in the head and locking you in the cell. After that, you will lay there like you are out for the count until the next watch comes in. You can do the rest, can’t you?”

  He nods, but tentatively, so I ask him again,” You can do that, right?”

  “Yeah, I can figure it out,” he says, sullenly. “Do you really have to hit me? Can’t you just lock me up?”

  “It will give you a good reason not to talk. Since we’re good, let’s get started.”

  Chapter Ten

  There’s no clock in the cell block so that’s the first thing I look at when I go back out into the reception area. I can hardly believe that less than thirty minutes have passed since the midnight meet-up behind the Justice building. That’s good, but the truth is that even if we get till five in the morning before the alarm is raised, it’s not enough time.

  I shove Jovan ahead of me and put him on his knees again, my gun very elaborately on his neck so the soldiers see me do it. Now that he’s playing along, I have to fight the urge to laugh at how badly Jovan plays prisoner. The taller of the two soldiers blanches, his eyes round, so his acting can’t be as bad as it looks to me. The shorter one glares at me like he wouldn’t object to knocking me around a little. I don’t blame him.

  I jerk my head to bring my father over and he sidesteps over to me, a steady eye on the two soldiers looking miserable and defiant on the floor. They’re probably wondering how many strikes they’ll get for getting into this mess. I hope they’ll get none.

  When he leans in I tell him what I’ve got planned and ask if he thinks all those brought in with him are safe to let go. He considers a second or two and I can see he’s really weighing everything.

  “Maybe,” he says but his frown and furrowed brow tell me his answer isn’t as certain as I would like it to be.

  He must see my uncertainty because he takes one hand from his gun, shoots a look at the two soldiers to let them know he hasn’t forgotten them, and then squeezes me on the shoulder. It’s a quick gesture, finished almost before I can enjoy it, but no less warm for having been so brief in duration. There’s no way he can know what that simple touch means to me.

  “Let’s do it. It’s the best option we have,” he says quietly, and looks back at the soldiers, making ready for the next part of our increasingly elaborate act.

  We both know that the danger of being outnumbered by all those in the cells once they’re free is probably the most significant we’ll face in this building at this point. My father moves to the other side of the room, where he can keep the soldiers and the entire path from the cell block to the door in view.

  Connor clearly has no idea what’s going on and he still has the keys. I wave him over once I know my Dad is in position and ready, Maddix at his side. I give him the short version and I can feel the arguments welling up inside him, ready to come out. Connor is a thinker and he’s probably found about a million reasons why this won’t work. I’m pretty sure he’s about to list them all for me.

  We don’t have time to argue and I tell him so before he has a chance to launch into anything that will give us away. Connor doesn’t feel good about it, I can tell that, but he trusts me. He jingles the keys and then goes, his feet light on the tile floor in typical Connor fashion.

  The first to come out are the maybe-woman and the young four-striker I spoke with first.

  “Where’s our stuff?” asks the person I’m now positive is a woman. Her voice was rough and harsh in the cell block when she spoke in whispers. Now that she’s speaking in a regular tone it’s clear and low, but very feminine. She has the voice of a singer.

  Her question throws me and I look at my father.

  “We need it,” she urges. She’s right. It’s cold at night and there’s a whole lot of dry, nearly barren, land between them and freedom.

  My father waves the barrel of his gun at the two soldiers and demands, “Well? Where is it?”

  The taller soldier, the one who’s been most compliant, answers. “It’s in the property vault.” He looks at us, realizing what we’ll ask next and adds, “We can’t get in there and unless you’ve got a whole slew of keys for the doors between here and there, you won’t get in either. Only supervisors have access.”

  We can’t set them loose to steal or bring attention to themselves, but I’m not sure anyone can actually survive out there without a coat and some water at the very least. Then I see the two coats on the hooks by the door and jerk my chin that direction, “Take those and go. Fast. There aren’t enough for everyone.”

  They don’t waste time after that. One quick grim smile of thanks from the boy and they’re out the door.

  The next two are mad they can’t get their stuff, but leave quickly enough. I go in and make the announcement before the next round, hoping we can get a move on if they don’t waste time deciding if they’re going to strip the soldiers naked for their clothes. Before the minute hand on the clock has moved from one number to the next, the last six prisoners are gone and the room is chilly from the constantly opening door.

  Connor comes out, keys in hand, and says, “We’re ready for them.”

  The soldiers get marched into two opposing cells and I step back while my father and Maddix strip the soldiers of their boots and trousers. Even their socks come off and fly out of the cells like little bats.

  When it comes time for the shirts, they are careful, unlocking one handcuff, ripping off the shirt, and then cuffing the soldier to the bars of his cell. It takes mere moments before they are finished and the cell doors locked. While I have no real need of their clothes, at least not that I know of, Maddix made the excellent point that we don’t have a lot extra and it’s cold outside. So, down to the underclothes they go. Except Jovan. I just can’t go there.

  Now comes the hard part. Jovan is the last person I’d want to hit but if I don’t, his life is going to change for the worse. Depending on how things go, it might even end. I have no choice in the matter. It’s one of the most unlikely things I could ever have imagined doing.

  But I have to. Just the way his eyes search mine, full of encouragement, is making me hate myself just a little. I wish he’d close those eyes and just let me get to it.

  I push him into a cell well away from the others and tell him to get back to his knees. He obliges, turning his back to me. Even the little hairs near the top of his neck, where his closely cropped hair fades into his tan skin, seem to want to stay my hand and invite me instead to brush my hand along them instead of hit him.

  Just as I raise my arm, my father says, “Karas, try this instead.” He slides a nightstick he’s taken from the soldiers my way and it rattles across the floor toward my feet.

  “Less chance of breaking the gun,” he adds and it takes me a moment to decide if he’s actually joking with me at a time like this. I want to ask him to do it for me. But this is Jovan, and I don’t think I could bear watching anyone else do him harm. Plus, I’ve got to pull the blow so as not to hurt him too badly.

  I shake my head at the bad joke and grab the stick. It’s more comfortable to me, less alien than the gun. I know better how to heft and control the simple piece of hard wood. When I look at
my father, he quirks one of his eyebrows up as if to tell me he understands, but wants me to get on with it.

  One of the soldiers pipes up and says, “Don’t do it. You’ll kill him. Please.”

  His plea is more for himself because he’s just a regular soldier and worth less than nothing if Jovan dies. They can’t see us well in the dim light, but their imaginations are probably more than making up for that.

  I pull back the stick exactly as I do when I’m going after a raccoon running loose in the garden. When I let the stick come down, I realize I’m not holding back enough a fraction of a second after it’s too late to fix it. I meant for it to be a tap, something he could point to and show a nice lump but not really hurt him. Him pretending to be out—maybe taking an actual nap—was the goal. The sound of the impact, dull but wrong, is loud in the room and the soldier who spoke lets out a groan.

  Jovan folds as gracefully as a bird onto the hard floor but his head impacts the cement floor anyway. That sound is even worse than the one my stick made, if that’s possible. I cringe.

  Then the worst thing that could happen for Jovan happens. Worst aside from death, that is. He groans, rolls over and starts making incomprehensible noises that are probably meant to be words. He’s not out, but not coherent enough to play like he is.

  While I want to help him and apologize till the sun comes up, I step backward and out of the cell instead. Connor and Maddix grab all the soldiers’ gear and make for the reception area, eager to put distance between us and this place. My father is probably no less eager. Every line of his body seems taut with suppressed energy. Even so, he seems to sense that I’m in a little over my head and having difficulty processing the sudden change in my existence.

  His steps are quiet. He puts a gentle hand on my shoulder and whispers, “We should go.”

  The soldiers are quiet, perhaps thinking that we’ll hit them too if they make noise. Jovan, on the other hand, rears up even as I turn to go and looks around with unfocused eyes. They slide over me, then back like he’s having difficulty nailing down exactly where I’m at. He says, “Sorry, Karas. Thought this would work. Just wanted you to see your father.” He snuffles a little, his eyes wandering back toward me and adds, “You have such pretty eyes, like the sky.”

  His words are a little slurred, but unfortunately clear enough for anyone who can hear them to understand. That last bit proves he has no clue what he’s saying, but it doesn’t matter because the first part is logical enough.

  The taller soldier gasps but the short one laughs. It’s a bark of a laugh, bitter and victorious all at once. His voice is low and mean when he says, “Nice try.”

  I really don’t like the look on his face. There’s no question now what will happen when we leave. Jovan will be found out and this soldier will be only too happy to let the information flow. Whether Jovan can deflect it or deny it and do a good enough job is something I doubt. He may have dropped our friendship, but he has always been an honest soul. He’ll crack.

  My fist clenches around the night-stick and the soldier’s eyes dart toward it, then back to my face. The victory slides off and uncertainty comes back. He knows what I’m thinking and what I’m thinking is that I’ll have to bash his brains in.

  My father grabs the nightstick and says, “No. That’s not someplace you want to go. Let’s get him up.”

  Chapter Eleven

  The choice is made and I can do nothing except make sure he doesn’t die in the process of moving him around. Jovan isn’t a small person. He towers over me when he’s standing and he’s like a long floppy burden right now. We grab him, my father at Jovan’s shoulders and I at his feet, and do a clumsy job of maneuvering him out of the cell and into reception.

  Maddix and Connor are going through the duty desks and the shelves behind the big counter that splits the room. There are growing piles of stuff on the counter and the floor. They stop and gape at us when we huff our way out of the cell block with a groaning Jovan between us. This isn’t what we had planned out, so clearly something has gone wrong. My father gets Jovan’s head onto the pile of uniforms and eases him down as I settle his feet.

  Jovan immediately tries to get up, uncoordinated and confused. My father presses him gently back down and tells me, “Keep him still, Karas. We have to get moving.”

  Inside, I feel like a thousand bees are boiling out of a hive that’s inexplicably become lodged in my stomach. Panic is building and I know what will happen when it gets to be too much. I’ll make a mess of things by running or fighting or just creating general havoc. We can’t afford for that to happen now so I stroke Jovan’s forehead to keep him still, close my eyes and count slowly. It helps to bring me out of my frantic emotions and puts me back in the moment. I feel better by the time I get to twenty.

  Around me, the steady activity continues. My father is like the calm center of a storm, comfortable despite the fact that time is passing dangerously quickly. He even seems to know where everything would logically be, opening and closing drawers or calling out something that should be searched for.

  When I hear the sound of a successful find, I open my eyes to see him bouncing a handful of keys in his hand and smiling. He’s got a nice smile, very genuine, not at all the smile of a hardened criminal. Not that I would know what that looks like, really.

  Maddix stops cramming things into bags as my father dangles several sets of keys in his hand. “Yes!” he exclaims. “That will get us out of here.”

  That’s when I realize the keys must be for the Army vehicles here at the Courthouse. They’re probably all charging in the garage we passed less than an hour ago.

  My father tosses the keys and Maddix snatches them out of the air. He says, “Go find out what kinds of vehicles they have and check the charges on every vehicle. Hurry.”

  Maddix dashes through the door and is gone like a shot into the dark night. My father goes back to his searching, disappearing into the break room that the soldiers came out of.

  Under my hand Jovan moves differently, his movements with less aimless agitation and more purpose. His eyes are open and steady now, no longer roaming around and unable to focus. He winces when I touch the side of his head but smiles to take the sting out of it.

  He grabs my hand when I pull away and asks, “This didn’t go exactly as planned, did it?”

  I shake my head, not sure how I’m going to break the news to him that his privileged life as a Foley has probably just ended. Unless he wants to go in and kill a couple of soldiers and blame it on the escapees, that is.

  “I’m sorry,” I say and rest my free hand in my lap, letting him keep the other. I’m not sure why he has my hand since he’s not really doing anything with it. He’s simply holding it like he might hold a pencil or a piece of chalk, absently. Even so, I can feel how hot his hand is against my stress-cold skin.

  He sighs and says, “It was bound to happen, one way or another.” He tucks in his chin, puts on a deep and very cultured voice and says, “There is the right way to do things, the wrong way to do things, and then there is the Jovan way of doing things.”

  He rolls his eyes and I can tell this is something he’s heard many times. The voice is clearly an imitation of his father’s, who I’ve heard speak a good many times, even though the last time he directly spoke to me I was just a kid. Perfect though the Foley life may appear from the outside, it clearly isn’t perfect in Jovan’s view.

  Maddix comes rushing back in and breaks the moment, for which I’ll be eternally grateful. “Most of them are about half-charged, four or five lights, except the little one they used to bring us in. That one’s got three lights. There are the two little cars, one prairie jumper and a four-door. I put the right key on top of each one.”

  My father asks Jovan, “Is that all of them?”

  Jovan nods gingerly and adds, “Except for the patrol that’s out now in the other prairie jumper. They’re scheduled to go to the lake area tonight. Nowhere close to us.”

  My fathe
r hands a packed bag to Connor, who stacks it with several others by the door, clearly thinking hard. He says, “Okay, Connor, we’re taking the prairie jumper so load up everything in the back of it but don’t start it. We’ll need all the juice.”

  Connor looks like he might balk at this strange man telling him what to do, but an encouraging nod from Maddix settles the matter and he sets to the task.

  “Maddix, we need to drain the other vehicles of charge. Unhook them, cut the charging cables and then reverse the leads. That will drain them fast.”

  A quick nod of understanding and Maddix is gone again, leaving just the three of us in the room. I still don’t understand how he is so calm and matter-of-fact about the situation we’re in. It’s a dire one and I’m having a hard time wrapping my mind around it.

  All those little details are in my brain but I can’t let them come forward right now or they’ll paralyze me. Details like me not living in this town anymore after this night, like my mom not having anyone to take care of her, like leaving everyone I know other than the people with me behind forever.

  Even the idea of never seeing Mr. Carpenter, the man who runs the compost operation, who always has a smile and a cup of milk for me, is hard to take in. I’ve not had a chance to prepare for it, so all of the consequences keep bouncing off my thoughts like moths against a porch light.

  Not my father, though. He’s as cool as a spring morning and doesn’t seem at all ruffled by the idea of his daughter, who he left fifteen years ago, helping him to rob a Courthouse. That, and a bunch of other crimes too numerous to count at this point.

  Jovan levers himself into a sitting position, letting my hand go so he can use both of his to brace himself. I back away and stand, not really wanting to be near him given what I’ve just done to his life. He’ll figure that out soon and I can’t see him holding my hand for comfort once he does.

  He shakes his head and probes the back of it with careful fingers, sucking in a hissing breath when he finds the spot where I hit him. He looks up at me from under his brow and says, “Not bad. But it wasn’t hard enough.”