Storm Front

by Riley Flynn

  “Crap.” As Alex cursed, he saw his breath turn into a cold cloud, his skin rippling and prickling with gooseflesh.

  The lockpicks were back at the farm. This was meant to be a smash and grab. No time for delicacy. Alex looked around. There was no one. He had a pistol tucked into the back of his pants and a rifle slung across his shoulder.

  Alex eyed the lock. It was old. Rusty. A bullet might be able to chew through the metal. It’d be loud, though, and it’d probably bounce right off and hit him in the chest. The guns were no good.

  The padlock was big. Old and rusty, sure. But secure. Kicking it, hitting it, smashing it with the butt of the gun: none of that would do anything.

  But this was the only way in.

  Alex stared and stared at the lock. There had to be a way. Then it hit him.

  The lock was in good shape, sure. No chance of breaking that. But the metal loops holding it in place? They were older. Brittle. Probably been here for decades. Alex kneeled down in front of the door and took his rifle in his hands.

  “I’m sorry about this,” he told the gun. “Really.”

  The aged wood of the stock hit hard against the metal loop. The whole door reverberated, shaking with sound. Too loud. No choice.

  Alex did it again, hitting the loop hard. This time, it moved.

  So he hit it again and again, each time twisting the metal just a little bit.

  On the fifth hit, the brittle metal cracked. The padlock came loose. Alex lifted up the door and let himself in.

  The flashlight clicked on. He was in a basement. An empty basement.

  Finding the stairs, Alex began to ascend.

  In the school, it was quieter than a midnight graveyard. Nothing inside had moved for months. A thin layer of dust lay across the floor.

  Strange, Alex thought but he couldn’t reason why. There was something odd about the building. Something other than the darkness bothered him as he tiptoed around, aiming for every set of stairs he could find. It didn’t seem like a school.

  There was nothing there, he realized. No furniture. No pictures on the walls. No homecoming banners hanging up along the corridors. No trophies or lockers. Nothing he’d associate with the typical small-town high school in America. Just one empty room after another.

  It had been ransacked, Alex knew. Levine and his people had trawled through, taking anything of value and burning the rest. They must have been working their way through every building in Athena.

  They hadn’t got to Sammy’s house. Not yet. But it couldn’t have been long. All of a sudden, Alex wasn’t so sure that his former sweetheart had gotten away so safely after all. Levine and his people were a virus, infecting everything they touched, eradicating every semblance of life as they went. The warm wave of fear crashed through his thoughts, chasing out the cold, harsh reality.

  Alex reached the top floor.

  He walked through a desolated corridor, making his way to the very end. This wasn’t the school he’d attended. It had been built later. But Alex knew where to go. His internal compass pointed him in the right direction.

  Arriving at the far end of the building, Alex found himself in a vacant classroom. It should have been filled with junk. Tables and chairs and kids’ drawings and everything else. There was just the tiled floor and a long, boarded-up window.

  The boards had been fixed from the inside. Alex approached one, examining the nails. They’d been driven in hard. But there were spaces between the boards.

  Alex stepped toward the middle of the window, squeezed in his fingers and pulled. The board flexed. It moved, even if only a little. He pulled harder. The board moved again. Millimeters.

  Pressing his foot against the wall, Alex flexed every muscle in his body. He heaved on the board. It groaned and creaked and then burst free from the wall.

  Together with the board, Alex tumbled back into the classroom.

  It wasn’t dark anymore. In the space where the board had just been the window was lit up, a burning orange glow hitting against the glass. The bonfire burned outside.

  One by one, Alex ripped the rest of the boards free from the wall. As each one fell to the floor, the room began to drown in firelight. Alex had to squint as he looked out.

  The fire was fifty feet away. The fence was just below, the chain link section which formed the upper tier sitting below Alex and ten feet away. Looking straight down, there was only darkness.

  Alex knew what he had to do. There was a choice, sure. To jump or not to jump. Either throw himself out of the window and hope like hell that he hit against the fence and grabbed on to it at just the right time or don’t do it. But there wasn’t another way into the compound.

  Sliding the window open, Alex stuck his head out. It was colder up here. The wind blew harder. It kissed him on the cheek, leaving a red mark.

  Nothing but darkness down below. The fence lit up from the other side by the furious, burning fire. It was huge. Alex could almost feel the heat from the window ledge. He eased himself out.

  The rifle dangled from his shoulder. Flashlight held in his mouth, he tried to reach up and return it to his pocket. The rubber handle slipped through his grip. The device tumbled downwards, a fading speck of light which vanished into the shadows. If it ever hit the ground, it didn’t make a sound.

  As Alex sat himself on the open window, the edges of the frame pressing into his thighs, he could feel the cold metal touch of the pistol thrust down the back of his pants.

  It all weighed him down. But he didn’t want to throw it away.

  Alex held on tight to the inside of the window. He was outside now, staring at the fence. He had to make it perfect. He had one shot. Once chance. He fixed his eye on one section of the fence. Ten feet away. Below him.

  Closing his eyes, Alex took one deep breath. He was going to get that baby back. He was. For all his anger and recklessness and stupidity, he was going to make it right. For Joan and Timmy. For the child. For Cam. Even for Finn, for the strangers, and for himself. He had to make things right.

  Alex opened his eyes and threw himself forwards into the cold night.

  25

  Alex flew through the air. For a second, he felt lighter than air. Floating on the wind, caught in an updraft. The wind whistled around his neck. Snowflakes caught against his face.

  He hit the fence and gripped with his hands, pushing his fingers through the gaps in the wire and clinging on. Fall here, he knew, and he’d be a dead man.

  Holding on to the fence, Alex felt his fingers stretch. The bone and muscle pulled apart, straining to hold up his weight. The rubber soles of his sneakers fought with the wire, trying to find somewhere to grip.

  But he held on. Alex had landed on the fence, had caught a hold of it. Now, he was fixed to the surface, like a fly resting on a wall. It was time to climb.

  One hand at a time, his fingers unfolding slowly, Alex began to move up the fence. It was slow work. Tough work. He could feel the metal biting into his skin, could feel the weight of his whole body dragging him down. But up he went.

  Alex reached the top. He pulled himself up so he was straddling both sides of the fence. For a moment, he thought about pausing and surveying the whole compound. From up here, he had a good view. But the wind blew hard, nearly knocking him from the top of the barrier.

  Quickly, Alex swung his leg around and over the fence and began to climb down the other side.

  This way was easier. He was inside the compound, at least. If he fell here, he’s end up where he wanted to be. Dead, but in the right place.

  With careful fingers, Alex climbed down the inside of the fence. About halfway up, it turned into a real wall, all concrete and garbage piled up together. With a searching toe, he found the top of the barricade.

  He was still one story up but, now, he could see the ground. A light covering of snow made it impossible to spot a good landing place. Maybe it would cushion the fall?

  Alex looked at the wall below him. It was a mess. A distended collectio
n of furniture and junk, fixed together at random. Not meant to look pretty, just meant to keep people out. Climbing down - trying to find a foothold in the dark - would be impossible.

  That meant one thing. One option.

  Alex didn’t hesitate. He just jumped. Better to get it over with.

  The fall was short and he hit the ground hard. As soon as he landed, he felt a sharp pain in his knee. The snow only broke some of the fall. Below that was asphalt. Alex tried to roll, remembering low resolution videos Timmy had shown him on a phone screen, attempting to take his momentum with him. It didn’t work.

  It was harder than he’d thought. Stumbling and bubbling along the dusty floor, Alex crashed against a wall. With a dull thud, his skull smacked against a wall, leaving a dent. Cheap public-school plasterboard broke the blow. Thank God for our underfunded education system.

  But he was inside.

  The town square was wide. A large, empty space usually filled with finely-trimmed grass, park benches, and – at one end – city hall. Next door to city hall was the church, itself a few hundred years old.

  That was Athena as Alex remembered it. Now, he stood on the edges of the square, looking at a blanket of white snow. He could see the church in the distance. To his right was a large, raging fire. Beyond that was another fire, farther away but just as fierce. Across the middle of the town square were a collection of long, rounded tents. Alex didn’t stop to count them but there were many. They sat tightly packed together, like furrows in a plowed field, all of them thirty feet from the walls.

  The church, Alex knew, was on the far side of the square. On the other side of the tents. The guard house, where Krol had entered, was to his left. The entire place seemed to be unpopulated. Wherever Levine and his people were, it was not here.

  Standing in the snow was a bad idea. It made him visible. Alex ran to the nearest tent, one right on the end of the first row. He pressed himself up against the surface and the burning bonfire lit him up like a Christmas tree. If anyone was watching, he’d be an easy target.

  Alex ran again, this time inserting himself into the space between the two tents. A gap about a foot wide, it was dark. It was quiet. The congregation seemed to have their attention turned elsewhere. It would be fine for sneaking around. Even the snow disguised his footsteps.

  Hidden from view, Alex took stock. His rifle, still slung across his shoulder, was there. His pistol, too, and his pockets filled with ammo. Alex felt for his flashlight, forgetting that he’d dropped it. He’d have to do without.

  It wasn’t quiet. The crackle of the bonfire could still be heard but so could voices. In the distance, Alex could hear movement. A heavy thud. A shout cut short. He tried to lean around the corner, trying to glimpse back in the direction of the guard hut. But he the sound of approaching footsteps kept him hidden in the shadows.

  They were on the other side of the tent. Quick, determined footsteps. The snow did nothing to slow them down. They sounded like people searching for something, Alex thought. He pressed himself up against one of the tents, trying to hide his shape.

  All around the square were buildings he half-remembered. Storefronts and the library, buildings which had been standing for decades. They looked different now. The same shapes but with different faces. Nightmarish, half-remembered silhouettes rising up around him.

  There were windows all around, he realized. Not just the one he’d jumped from, but others. There might be people up in those windows, watching.

  As the footsteps moved away, Alex decided to check inside one of the tents. If he could run from one end to the other, along each row, then he’d be able to get to the church without being spotted.

  The church. Somehow, Alex had a feeling he had to go to the church. Something about Levine made it seem right. A sense for the theatrical. A man of God.

  Each of the tents had a wooden door without a lock. It seemed unlikely that the child would be left alone inside. But it would be easier to start here. Alex looked both ways and slipped inside.

  A row of lanterns lit up the room, each one hanging from a bunk bed. There must have been twenty beds, stationed along both sides like the legs on a centipede.

  There wasn’t much time. Alex had to find the baby as soon as possible. He had to get back to his friends. But, as he crept between the beds inside the tent, he could not resist examining everything inside.

  Everything, as it turned out, meant mostly nothing. Each bed was made, the sheets all folded in the same manner. Beside each bed was a Bible, though every owner seemed to favor a different edition. At regular intervals, someone had hung a crucifix from the bed posts. Rather than simply fixing the cross to the bed, however, large nails had been driven into the Christ’s hands and feet.

  Instruments of the Passion, Alex said to himself. They really believe it.

  Nearly at the other end of the tent, which was marked by another door, Alex stopped searching. There was nothing inside. These people lived like monks. There was no frivolity to their lives, no window dressing. There was little humanity here, little he could learn.

  Joan’s kid, most importantly, was not inside the tent.

  As Alex laid a finger on the handle, about to exit, he felt it move. Someone on the other side, about to enter.

  Alex dived backwards and rolled, sliding himself under the nearest bunk bed. His rifle rattled on the floor and he slipped it from his shoulder. Then, he held his breath. Someone was coming in.

  The person who walked in was alone. Alex could only see their feet. From the way they walked, it seemed like a man. Whoever he was, he knew exactly what he wanted.

  The man moved directly to a specific bed. Alex watched his feet as they turned to face one of the crucifixes. The man’s robes fell to the floor with barely a sound. Then, Alex heard him. He was crying.

  Still watching the man’s feet, still listening to him weep, Alex saw something drop down and hang beside one of the man’s legs. It was a length of electrical wire with a knot at the end. It dangled for a second before it whipped up.

  The sound was unmistakable. The wire whipping across the flesh of the man’s back. He didn’t wince. He didn’t moan. He cried, more, and then whipped again.

  It was all Alex could do to listen. It was dusty beneath the bed. The dirt was filling up his nose and mouth. But he didn’t dare to breathe or cough or sneeze.

  After the man had whipped himself ten times, he stopped. He bent down and picked up his robes, dressing himself. As he did, he dropped the cord to the floor.

  The man bent down to pick it up. He stopped. Alex saw his neck and wished that his legs were shorter, wished that he was almost invisible.

  Has he spotted me? Alex stopped breathing. The dust began to settle on his top lip. He had to sneeze. He had to cough. He had to breathe.

  The man stood up. He walked closer to the bed, to the spot where Alex hid.

  He came to a stop beside Alex’s feet, hidden as they were beneath the bunk bed. Alex tried to bend his neck but he couldn’t see. His view was blocked. His nose twitched.

  “What on earth?” A man’s voice. Alex knew he was going to check.

  Alex adjusted himself, rolling on to his side. He could see the man’s feet now. Still there.

  Slipping the rifle from his shoulder, Alex leaned further to the side, positioning his foot. The man said nothing.

  Then the feet arched as the man bent down. A face came into view at the bottom of the bed. Alex didn’t wait. He swung his foot.

  The sneaker caught the man square in the chin, sent him rolling backwards into the rest of the tent.

  Alex rolled on his side, escaping from under the bed. He was up on his feet before his enemy and ran across.

  The man – Levine’s man, Alex reminded himself – had begun to stand. Alex could see blood stains on the back of his robe. He didn’t care. He threw a fist.

  The punch missed, the man ducked out of the way. Alex tried again with his left, aiming for the man’s midriff. Nothing but air.
>
  Stepping back from Alex, the man looked around. He’s looking for help. He opened his mouth and Alex closed it for him, a feinted elbow followed up with a haymaker to the neck. Everything he’d learned from Cam, sparring in the stable. The man dropped down, rolling on the floor.

  Alex had to keep quiet. The biggest risk was this man calling for help. He had to be silenced.

  There was the pistol or the rifle. Alex looked down at the man. Already bleeding, a bruise had begun to spread across his face. He wasn’t a fighter. He was a believer.

  Without asking, Alex knew he couldn’t shoot the man in cold blood. Besides, the gun shot would attract attention.

  Shooting was one thing, but it didn’t mean he couldn’t hit the man. Alex laid another punch across the man’s temple.

  As the man’s head lolled around in a daze, Alex rolled him up onto one of the bottom bunks. He laid the man under the sheets, took the electrical cord and tied him to the bed. Ripping a strip of gray cloth from the man’s clothes made for a decent gag.

  When the man’s eyes began to clear, Alex lent over him and whispered.

  “Where is Levine?”

  A muffled voice. A desperate voice.

  “The church? Nod for yes.”

  Nothing.

  “Come on,” Alex barked a whisper. “Don’t make me test your immune system. How do you know I’m not infected?”

  The man’s eyes widened, he pushed himself as far back as he could, away from Alex.

  “The church?”

  The man nodded. Alex left the tent.

  This time, he moved fast. No time to waste wandering through the tents. Instead, he ran, his shoulders huddled low, the rife back strapped in place. Alex moved from shadow to shadow, pausing every few steps and listening. No one was around.

  He could see the church, the outline of it lit up by the raging bonfires.

  The front doors were open, Alex saw as he stood hidden behind the last row of tents. There were people inside. There were candles. There was someone talking. It had to be Levine. The baby wouldn’t be far away.