Gated

by Amy Christine Parker

  Mr. Whitcomb makes one more grab for my feet and I surge upward. The board slides up and over my back. All at once, dirt covers my head, my mouth, my body. It slips under my shirt and down into my pants and shoes.

  Mr. Whitcomb makes a startled sound and I open my eyes. He’s fallen down a few rungs. His feet dangle downward, bicycling to get a foothold on one of the rungs or the wall. Daylight streams into the space, lighting the entire tunnel all the way to the bottom. The flashlight and Pioneer are no longer below us. The dirt has settled at the bottom of the tunnel and the air is starting to clear.

  Suddenly Pioneer pokes his head back out of the hatch down there and looks up at me. “I won’t let you leave. You belong down here.”

  A few more feet and he won’t have a say. I’m almost there.

  I look down one last time. Mr. Whitcomb has regained his footing. He reaches into the back of his waistband and pulls out a gun. He aims it at me.

  I cry out and start climbing again, but the rungs are coated in dirt now and treacherous. My feet slip out from under me. I struggle to keep my hands on the rungs.

  I’ve almost made it.

  I close my eyes and wait for the gun to go off, for the bullet to hit me, but then there’s a flurry of movement above me—the sound of dozens of heavy feet pounding the ground outside. I open my eyes and blink. The brightness above me hurts my eyes, makes my head hurt. Suddenly the circle of powder-blue sky above me is blotted out by a man wearing a black helmet. Then there’s a loud thunderclap sound behind me and the man’s face disappears again.

  Mr. Whitcomb shot at me.

  I wait to feel pain, but there’s nothing. He must’ve missed. I look down at him as he struggles to regain his balance and shoot again.

  “Help!” I yell up at the sky, to the people I can’t see. I scramble up as best I can, my feet slipping more than climbing. My ears are buzzing an alarm inside my head. The gunfire has temporarily deafened me.

  My fingers finally find the grassy lip of the tube and then hands grab hold of mine and haul me upward. My legs hang out over the mouth of the tube for a moment. The right one catches fire. I scream, but I can’t really hear myself as I slide across the grass. The man holding my hands is shouting something at me, but I can’t hear him either. The buzzing in my ears has increased to an all-out roar.

  I roll over onto my back, smacking my head hard against the ground in the process. I watch as two other men point their guns down into the Silo and shoot. Someone crouches down by my leg and carefully rolls up my jeans.

  There’s a sizable chunk of skin missing from my calf. Mr. Whitcomb managed to hit me after all.

  I gag, but nothing comes out, just a thin line of spittle. Bright, hot pain blossoms in my leg and spreads, and I roll back and forth on reflex, like the movement will somehow lessen the pain. I wish to faint, for the tiny dots of darkness that have been bordering my vision all day to finally grow and blot out the world. But for the first time in a long time, I am completely and utterly wide-awake.

  The man who rolled up my jeans scoops me up in his arms before I have time to protest. He takes off toward the stable at a run. I cry out as my leg hits the side of his body, bouncing against it in time with his strides.

  “Almost … there,” he says, exhaling after each word. His face is turning red with exertion. “Sorry … I know it hurts.” His eyes are focused on the stable. He’s running like I still might be in danger.

  I look over his shoulder at the place where the tunnel to the Silo is. There are still men gathered around the lip of it, but they’ve stopped shooting for now. And there are police and cars and trucks scattered everywhere—across the corral and down by the clubhouse. I feel like I’ve just emerged into a combat zone. It’s like something out of one of Pioneer’s movies. Above me a helicopter passes low enough to send my hair flying, and I have to tuck my head into the man’s chest to keep strands of it from whipping into my eyes.

  I made it.

  I got out.

  But the rest of my family is still underground, and they’re running out of time.

  Don’t be afraid to die.

  —Jim Jones

  The stable is crowded. Noisy. There are a dozen tense conversations happening around me all at once, each one distorted by a steady rhythm of static from walkie-talkies, and there are men with grim expressions on their faces crowded into every corner. They all seem to be on important errands, rushing in and out, setting down boxes filled with equipment and tacking up maps and images of the corral and orchards on the walls.

  Two tables have been set up at the far end by the tack room. I can see the sheriff behind one of them. He’s surrounded by a group of men with black jackets on. I stare at the white lettering: ATF. I don’t know what the letters stand for, but I remember my dad—or was it Cody?—mentioning them and my stomach quivers. Up until now I’ve thought of all these men as the enemies. Now I’m supposed to trust them in order to save my family and friends.

  “You’re safe now.” I look up at the man who has carried me into the stable and try to relax my grip on his neck, but I can’t make my hands loosen. He’s smiling down at me in spite of this, trying to make me feel better. He’s still breathing heavy from our jog here, and his breath smells like cigarette smoke. It doesn’t put me at ease.

  “I need to talk to those men,” I say, and point to where the sheriff and the others are standing. “Right now!” I know that I sound too demanding, but I don’t have time to be polite.

  The urgency in my voice startles the man and he leans back a bit to look at me before picking up his pace again. He sets me down on the bench behind the tables, the one where I used to sit and sketch Indy and the other horses.

  Don’t think about that now. You have to keep it together.

  Time’s running out, I can feel it. I can’t quite catch my breath and I know that underneath us, in the Silo, breathing is even harder.

  “Sheriff!” I say as loudly as I can, and he turns. When he sees that it’s me, he rushes to where I am. I talk the whole time he’s coming. I have to make them hurry. “Pioneer turned off the air down there. He closed off the circulation vents. They can’t breathe.” Every man at the table behind the sheriff stops talking and looks at me. I want to stand up, but the minute I put weight on my leg it catches fire and I wince, so I roll onto my hip and pull the map Dad gave me out of my back pocket. I wave it at the men. “I brought you a map of the Silo. Here. Please, you have to hurry!” I keep talking as he unfolds the map and looks it over. I tell him about the horses and about Pioneer locking me in the cell and about Marie. By the time I stop talking, he’s not the only one listening. All the men in the stable are staring at me.

  The sheriff looks over at one of the other men and then takes the map from my hand. “How long ago did he do this, Lyla?”

  I try to think back, but I don’t have an answer. I was in the supply room cell long enough to lose track of time completely. I’m still not entirely sure what day it is or how long it’s been since everyone went underground. “I … I don’t know. But it was already getting hard to breathe when I left.”

  The sheriff pats my leg. “You did good. It was a brave thing you did getting this to us. And I promise you that we will do whatever we can to get your family out of there safely. Do you understand? We’ll get them out.”

  I want to believe him, trust him in spite of all the things Pioneer and my parents have said about people like him, but I don’t see how he can be so sure of himself. I bite my lip to try to keep my tears in check. “Just hurry, please,” I beg him.

  He pats my leg one more time and stands up. “Hey, where are the medics? This girl needs some attention. Now.”

  Two men enter the stable carrying medical bags. They crouch down by my leg and examine it. The one with my leg in his hands looks up at me after a moment’s poking and prodding and smiles. “Lucky shot, actually. It missed the bone completely. Cut right through the flesh. You’ll be right as rain again in no time.”
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br />   I stare down at my leg. How can getting shot ever be lucky, no matter what the injury? My calf is wet and sticky and still throbbing. I can see the open mouth of the wound, almost perfectly round and raw. It’s still bleeding. My white sock has turned bright red with blood, and my shoe is stained a gory tie-dye. Nausea creeps into my stomach all over again and I look away.

  “We’ll get you cleaned up and bandaged—for now—and then when it’s safe to move you, we’ll get you over to the hospital and get that closed up properly. You’re gonna be just fine.”

  “I’m not going anywhere,” I tell them. I try to sound sure, brave. “Not until they get my family out of there.”

  The men exchange a look that leads me to believe that the sheriff was being overly confident before when he said he’d get everyone out. They avoid meeting my eyes and get to work on my leg. I grip the side of the bench and try not to completely lose it. If I get too worked up, I won’t be able to help the sheriff if he needs me. They try to give me pain medication, but I don’t want it. I don’t like how it made me feel when I was in the hospital, all thick-headed and tired. I have to stay alert and strong. I turn my attention toward the sheriff and the men at the table and try to catch snippets of what they’re saying, but it’s hard to concentrate. Even the lightest pressure put on my leg hurts and I end up crying out.

  “You can hold my hand if you want.”

  Suddenly Cody is right beside me, standing next to the bench. The very sight of him loosens my control over my tears, and my face crumples in an instant. I start sobbing. Loudly. He sits next to me and gathers me in his arms. He doesn’t say anything and I’m glad. The last thing that I want him to do is tell me that it’ll be okay. We both know that it’s more likely that it won’t. A lie won’t make me feel better.

  “What’re you doing here?” I ask between sobs.

  “I had to come. I couldn’t watch all this play out on the news and wonder if you were okay. So I, um … borrowed my dad’s cruiser and here I am. He hasn’t noticed I’m here yet, right?”

  I look over his shoulder. I don’t see the sheriff anywhere. “I don’t think so.”

  Cody reaches up and strokes my hair slowly. “Everyone else is still down there, huh?”

  I nod into his chest. “My parents wouldn’t come with me. My mom wouldn’t go at all and my dad wouldn’t go without her. And when I tried to get the others, they … They blame me for all of this.” I’m crying even harder now.

  “They won’t once they know the truth,” Cody says quietly.

  “WHAT ARE YOU DOING HERE?”

  The sheriff is looming over us all of a sudden. I can feel Cody stiffen.

  “It is way too dangerous for you to be here, Cody. You will turn around and head for home. Immediately!”

  “If she’s here, then I’m staying,” Cody says quietly.

  “That is not your decision to make!” the sheriff yells. His face is bright red. It’s the first time I’ve seen him angry, and it’s scary.

  “I’m not leaving!” Cody raises his voice. “You have bigger things to worry about right now than me. Let me stay with her. She shouldn’t have to sit here and wait all alone. We’ll stay in the stable, I swear. How much danger can we really be in in here? Your guys are everywhere.”

  The sheriff opens his mouth to argue but doesn’t get so much as one word out before there’s a loud boom outside. The earth under our feet vibrates and dust rushes into the stable, turning everyone into a grimy silhouette. I have to close my eyes to protect them. Cody pulls me closer. When I open my eyes again, it looks like the stable has been through a brown blizzard. Dirt is everywhere.

  “They’ve collapsed the tunnel, sir!” a man yells from outside, and suddenly everyone scrambles toward the corral.

  “Stay here!” the sheriff yells at me and Cody before turning to follow the others out.

  I cough and cover up my nose and mouth with my sleeve to keep from swallowing more dust. “My mom and dad!” I holler through the fabric. The sheriff can’t hear me; the sleeve muffles my words. I try to get up and follow him in spite of his order not to, but Cody won’t let me go—and neither will my leg.

  “My dad’s right, we need to stay put.” He’s yelling even though I’m right beside him, and his voice echoes in the sudden quiet inside the stable. I can hear shouting outside and the hum of a helicopter somewhere overhead, but I can’t see anything but the empty stalls and the litter of papers, walkie-talkies, and coffee cups strewn across the tables in front of us. I’m not sure I can just sit here and wait. There has to be something we can do to help. Anything. I suck in a breath and double over into a fresh round of coughs. I feel like my lungs are coated with dirt.

  “There’s gotta be some water around here.” Cody stands up and begins to look around, picking up scattered papers as he goes and putting them back onto the tables. He manages to find a half-empty bottle of water somewhere. He wipes the dust off it with his sleeve and brings it to me. I drink it slowly. My lungs keep spasming and it’s all I can do not to choke.

  No one’s come back yet. It has me on edge. If everything were okay, you’d think at least a few of the men would have returned. What if the explosion did more damage than Pioneer meant it to? What if most of the Silo collapsed and is buried under a foot of dirt and rock right now? My parents. Will. Brian. They could all be gone. I wrap my arms around myself.

  “Cold?” Cody asks.

  “Maybe a little,” I lie. The truth is that I’m chilled through. My fingers, my nose, my feet are all numb. Am I going into some kind of shock? I start to shiver violently and Cody looks around the table and the stalls; I guess he’s looking for a jacket or something.

  “There’re horse blankets in the tack room. Over there.” I point to the wall at the far end of the stable. “Just don’t get the one with the blue stripes on it.” That blanket was the one I used for Indy, and I can’t look at it right now. I won’t. It’s too much. This is all too much.

  Cody moves past the first few stalls and toward the tack room. I look away as he passes Indy’s stall. I make myself focus on the table in front of me instead. I hadn’t noticed before, but there’s a gun sitting there. One of the men must’ve rushed out without it. I study the dust-coated black handle and the leather holster surrounding it. I can’t help thinking about all the guns the men didn’t forget, the ones they will take with them when they figure out how to break into the Silo. Those guns will soon be aimed at my family and friends if they don’t give themselves up peacefully. And I didn’t get a chance to tell anyone other than my parents about Pioneer. I’m sure they think that I killed Marie. They won’t see the sheriff and the others as rescuers at all. They’ll still see them as intruders. They won’t surrender.

  I glare at it. I hate guns. I think I always have. I want to throw this gun across the room, get it away from me, but I can’t reach it from here. I make a frustrated sound in my throat and try not to let it turn into a scream. I feel like I might be crushed under the weight of it all. I should’ve stayed underground. I should’ve tried to make everyone see Pioneer for what he is. I should’ve made them listen somehow. Instead I ran out and saved my own skin. I’m not brave or heroic. I’m a coward, just like Pioneer always suspected.

  A loud thump breaks me out of my thoughts. I look up, expecting to see Cody carrying one of the horse blankets, but the walkway is empty. The tack room door flung wide open. I don’t see Cody anywhere.

  “Cody?” I call out. There’s no answer. “Cody? Are you there?”

  Still there’s no answer.

  I look around the stable. Why isn’t he answering? I inch along the bench until I can see the tack room a little better. He’s definitely not inside. But something’s lying on the floor at the far end of the walkway, a little heap of blue-striped cloth. Indy’s blanket. Where’s Cody?

  “Cody?” I try again.

  Something’s wrong.

  “He can’t hear you,” someone says.

  And the voice isn’t C
ody’s.

  It’s Pioneer’s.

  I straighten up on the bench, my heart in my throat. I scan the stable for him. He’s not anywhere, but the last stall door is now slowly swinging open. How can he be in here? How did he get out? It doesn’t make any sense. And then it hits me—the second emergency tunnel. On the map, it empties out into the stable. My breath catches in my throat. He’s here for me.

  Pioneer doesn’t show himself, but he does start talking again. “Cody’s resting,” he says. I can hear the grin in his voice. “We needed a little time alone. See, I’ve come to collect you, Little Owl. We should all be together when we leave this place. It’s what the Brethren would want. Even after all you’ve done, you still belong with me.”

  “Help!” I yell. “Sheriff, somebody, help!” But even as I yell, I’m drowned out by a second explosion in the corral. The stable fills with dust all over again, but I only cover my eyes for a few seconds. I feel Pioneer lurking in the dimness around me. Stalking me. My eyes burn, but I have to look for him. Outside, the shouts pick back up and the helicopter noise gets louder for a moment before it quickly fades.

  “That should buy us a few more minutes,” Pioneer says brightly. “You know, it pays to be prepared. I was almost certain that those explosives were overkill, so to speak, but now, well, I’m pretty pleased with that little bit of foresight.”

  I’m afraid to move or breathe. Pioneer could be in any of the stalls, biding his time until he can rush out and take me by surprise.

  The gun.

  I glance over at the table and the gun that’s just out of reach. I hesitate only briefly before I lunge for it. My leg screams in protest, buckling as soon as I put weight on it, but I still manage to grab the edges of the table and keep myself from going down all the way. My knees slam into the floor and I suck in a breath. I reach across the table and pull the gun toward me. Then I slip it out of its holster and cock it.

  “I have a gun.” I yell at the stalls. “Don’t get any closer or … or I’ll shoot.”