Prisoner of Warren

by Andreas Oertel

  I had never been here before, but it was obvious the rumours were true. Concrete was everywhere. All the sheds were concrete. All the storage buildings were concrete. Even the cattle trough in the pasture was concrete.

  No wonder people had called him Cementhead.

  Rake’s battered truck and a grey Dodge (it looked like Mr. Peterson’s) sat parked near the house. The front door dangled on one hinge and empty whiskey bottles littered the porch. It seemed like Rake and his friends had made the abandoned farm their private hideout.

  Without even thinking about it, I began to walk toward the house. But that wasn’t where we were going.

  “That’s my house, Rabbit. Nazis aren’t welcome there.” Rake cackled, then choked and coughed, and finally spit another chunk of tobacco on the ground. “We’ve got a special place for you two.”

  Brent walked away from the house, toward one of the concrete sheds. He swung open a heavy wooden door and walked inside. My kidneys got another jab with the gun barrel, so I followed.

  “Okay, Turd,” Rake said, brown saliva still dripping from his lip, “this is your new home. Make yourselves comfortable.” He waved his gun around the shed.

  I lowered Martin to the ground as gently as I could. “You can’t leave us here,” I said. “He needs a doctor.”

  We all looked down at the bloody cloth on Martin’s head. It looked like he’d leaked a gallon already.

  “You know,” Rake said, “he probably does. Thing is, nobody’s around to help you or let you out.”

  I was getting tired of his drunken games. “Just let us go!”

  “Here’s the way it’s gonna look, Webb. You two were playing around the farm, and got in this shed. And then, somehow, that door swung shut, locking you in from the outside.”

  Vance rubbed his bruised jaw and laughed. “But Rake,” he said, mocking me, “does that not mean that they could die? It may be weeks before they’re found.”

  “Golly, gee,” Rake said, “that would be terrible. And to top it off, the Rabbit is going to miss his race. What a shame. All that training for nothing.” He spat on my shoe again and laughed.

  They slammed the door closed as they left. Then I heard a steel pipe sliding into the handles of the heavy door, jamming it shut.

  I was a prisoner.

  Chapter 13

  I turned to help Martin. His eyes were closed and he looked awful. I had to do something.

  But what?

  A new bandage? No, that didn’t sound right. You’re supposed to leave the original, and put a new one over top. Right?

  My eyes adjusted to the dim light in the shed, and I looked around. The building we were in was made of four concrete walls, with metal sheeting on the roof. It wasn’t much bigger than my bedroom.

  Three of the walls had windows—well, actually they were more like holes—and escape through the holes was impossible. Two pipes were firmly imbedded in the concrete around each opening. This made the shed look (and feel) even more like a jail.

  I tore another piece off my T-shirt, and carefully folded it into a bandage. Then, with some strips off an old flour sack, I tied it firmly to Martin’s head. I tightened the knot and was relieved to hear him groan. He was still alive.

  Dear Pete, How’s that look?

  Dear Warren, Good. But he still needs help, and he needs it now.

  I found some pieces of burlap and gently raised Martin’s head. I remembered Dad telling us that deep cuts had to be kept above the level of the heart.

  Would Rake really leave us here to die? Or was he just trying to scare me? Either way, I had to get help. I didn’t think Martin would last through the night.

  A car started in the yard and I jumped to the window. Through the bars, I could see Rake, Brent, and Vance climb into the Dodge and drive away. But the truck stayed in the yard, thirty feet from the shed. Why would Rake leave the truck? Was there someone else in the house?

  “HEY!” I yelled, feeling stupid. “Is anyone there? HELP!”

  I waited.

  “HELLO?” I screamed again.

  Nothing.

  Martin had heard my yelling and muttered something I couldn’t make out. I knelt down beside him and held my head close to his. He looked straight at me, but I wasn’t sure if he was seeing me. He opened his lips and seemed to be gathering strength.

  “Don’t talk, Martin.” I said quietly. “Try and rest.”

  Martin shook his head so slightly I barely noticed. “Varren, you must…get out of here…you must race.”

  I thought he was getting delirious. Running was the last thing on my mind. “I’ll get us both out,” I said, trying to sound optimistic. “Don’t worry.”

  He shook his head again, this time with more energy. “No. Listen to me.” Martin closed his eyes momentarily, and then opened them again. “Please do not worry about me. Just get yourself out of here so you can race. Please.”

  “Ahh, okay.” I wasn’t sure what to say.

  This still wasn’t good enough for Martin. He grabbed my hand with his and held it tight. It felt like ice—like he was already dead. “Promise me. Promise me that you will run if you get out.”

  “Don’t worry, Martin. We’ll both be out of here soon.” I tried to sound convincing. “Someone will be by shortly, and we’ll go home.”

  His head began to tremble. “Please promise me, Varren.” A tear rolled from the corner of his eye and into his ear. “If I die, I do not want to die for nothing. I want to know that you will run. For us you must race. I want you to run as I have taught you. Then you will win and I…I will be happy.”

  I understood now what he was saying. Still holding his hand, I touched my lips to his ear. “I promise, Martin,” I whispered. “I promise I will run in the race.”

  Martin smiled. “Then…I will not die for nothing.”

  Talking seemed to have drained his energy, and his eyes closed again. I wiped my nose and my eyes, and rested my ear on his chest. Thank God. I could still hear a heartbeat. It was faint and barely there—but it was there.

  I had to escape, or Martin would die.

  I looked out the window again. The sun was dropping toward the horizon, but I still had an hour of daylight.

  There was no way out of the shed—it was just too solid—but maybe I could get someone’s attention.

  But how?

  Frantically, I searched the building again. In one corner there were broken garden tools and sticks. Next to that was a spool of baling twine. A large rack with two enormous shelves covered the entire back wall. The top shelf had an assortment of paint, stains, and varnishes. Nothing useful. And the other shelf was empty, except for scraps of rope and paper.

  Underneath the shelves, I found a five-gallon pail of well disinfectant, a stack of cement powder, and a half-licked salt block.

  It looked like Rake had really ransacked the farm. Anything of value he’d probably already sold or traded for whiskey.

  There was nothing left I could use.

  I paced the floor trying to think. How could I signal for help, without something to signal with? I scanned my prison again—solid walls, with a solid door. There was no way I could get out. I had to get someone to let me out.

  Dear Pete, Help me.

  Nothing.

  I tried again.

  Dear Pete, HELP ME.

  Dear Warren, I’m thinking…

  I paced some more, hoping one of us would have an idea.

  Five minutes went by before Pete got back to me.

  Dear Warren, Boy Scouts! The answer to getting out is there.

  Dear Pete, That’s pretty bloody vague! Can’t you just spit it out?

  Dear Warren, I can’t spit. I’m dead.

  Boy Scouts, huh? I looked around again. But there was nothing I could use to help me. No rifle to fire in the air. No mat
ches to start a fire. Nothing! But then why did Pete mention Scouts?

  Then it hit me. Dad’s campfire!

  I dragged the big drum of well disinfectant into the fading light. Under the brand name Atlantic Chemicals, the container said CALCIUM HYPOCHLORITE. We had the same stuff in our barn. And I was sure it was the stuff I had caught Dad and Pete using.

  A month before Pete got sick, we went on a Boy Scout camping trip to the Bay of Fundy. And the first night there I had caught Dad and Pete setting up the campfire for the evening. I was supposed to be fishing, but had gone back to the camp to fetch some bug repellent. At first they both seemed a little bit mad that I was there—I couldn’t figure out why—but then Dad showed me what they were doing.

  “It’s an old Scoutmaster trick,” he’d said. “To build a fire and trick you boys.”

  Dad showed me how he piled a small mound of the well disinfectant on the ground, and then carefully placed kindling on top of it. Then he took a paper cup filled with oil and soda pop, and gently placed it on top of the kindling.

  “You see,” Pete said, “when the oil and pop spill onto the granules, it’ll react with the hypochlorite. After about three minutes you get a flame and then a nice fire. And all without matches.”

  I had asked Pete how he got the cup to tip, and he laughed. “That’s the sneaky part. I tie some fishing line to it, and lay it under the leaves and out of sight.”

  I watched them both closely that night. When it got dark, Dad told everyone to yell at the wood to burn. As we screamed our heads off, I saw Pete tug the fishing line. And as if through our own power, the wood magically began to burn. Pete told me if I ever told anyone the secret, I’d get a rabbit punch. I never told anyone, so I avoided that dreaded punch, whatever it was. And I’d almost forgotten about the whole thing until now. I mean the fire-making, not the rabbit punch.

  But how could I use the stuff to signal for help?

  I ran to each window and looked outside. Except for gravel, sand, concrete, and some weeds, there was nothing within burning distance of the shed. I couldn’t even set a hay bale on fire.

  If I wanted someone to show up, I had to burn something. And it had to be big.

  I’d been staring right at it—Rake’s truck. I’d burn the swine’s truck right here in the yard. It was close enough that I could throw something right into the open wooden box at the back.

  I had to hurry. In an hour the sun would be gone, and then no one would see the smoke. And if Rake came back and saw his truck on fire, he’d kill me for sure. But it was a risk I had to take.

  With shaking hands, I spread out another piece of burlap and dumped a pound of the white granules on it. Then, twisting the burlap tight, I made a compact ball the size of a grapefruit.

  Now for the liquid.

  Searching the shelves, I groped around for something that resembled oil. But there was nothing. Would any liquid work? I grabbed a paint can and pried off the lid with a piece of metal. No luck—it was dried out.

  I tried another can, but it was solid too. The third can was okay. Two inches of brown paint sat on the bottom. I scurried to the window with my prize, and poured it on a separate piece of cloth.

  I didn’t know how much time I had before the chemicals would start to react. So I stuck both arms between the bars, and then with sweaty palms, I wound the paint-stained rag around the powder. Carefully, I aimed…held my breath…and threw the package.

  Thump! It landed right in the back of Rake’s truck. A perfect shot.

  A minute passed, but nothing happened. Was the chemical too old? Was the paint too old? Did the paint soak into the burlap? I felt sick.

  I poured out another mound of calcium hypochlorite, soaked another rag, and lobbed the bundle into the truck box.

  Clang!

  What was that sound? It didn’t make sense.

  I stood on the drum and craned my neck to look into the back of Rake’s truck.

  Bottles!

  The box was full of bottles, and they were filled with moonshine—homemade booze. Alcohol! Rake’s truck was loaded with flammable liquids. He was using the Semenko house as a liquor plant.

  I spun around to look for something heavy. There…in the corner…a broken axe! I took the head over to the window and heaved it at the bottles.

  SMASH!

  Liquid flew through the air and splattered the box. But still no fire.

  I made five more bundles and tossed them into the truck. Come on, burn. Still nothing—not even smoke. Panic set in. I took all the paint cans, popped the lids, and threw them at the truck in frustration. Three cans dented the truck and spilled paint on the sides, but missed the box.

  Defeated, I sank to the floor. Why wouldn’t it burn?

  HISSSSSS…

  I bounced up and pressed my face to the bars. YES! Smoke—beautiful, lovely smoke. Then, seconds later, flames began to lick at the alcohol that had spilled on the wood. And a minute after that the whole box was ablaze. The crates holding the bottles burned as if they’d been soaked in gas. This caused the spare tire to catch fire. Then smoke really filled the sky. Black smoke, the kind you could only get from burning rubber.

  It was fantastic.

  Dear Warren, Now that’s a fire!

  I nodded.

  Thanks, Pete.

  With a hiss and a clunk the rear of the truck sank onto its axle. The back tires couldn’t handle the heat and had blown apart. They were now on fire too.

  If only someone would see the smoke, then surely they’d come to investigate. Everyone knew Semenko was dead. They knew the farm was abandoned. Yes, someone had to come.

  The heat became too much for me and I climbed down from my perch. I sat next to Martin, and in the fading light I whispered in his ear what I had done. I think he was unconscious, but I didn’t want him to give up. I wanted him to hang on till help arrived.

  I got up and patrolled the windows, spending a minute at each one. If anyone came near the farm, I needed to see who it was. After ten laps, something caught my eye in the distance. It was something on the edge of the pasture, near the trail that came up from the swimming hole.

  YES! It was in the same place where Brent had had to help me get Martin up the bank. But what was it? I squinted into the fading light.

  It looked like a person…no, wait. There were two people—both on bicycles.

  “TOM! GWYNETH!” I screamed as loud as I could. “HELP!” I waved my arm through the bars.

  But they seemed oblivious to my screams.

  “HELP! OVER HERE!”

  Neither one of them moved. I was horrified. They both just stood there holding their bikes. I was certain they saw the flames, but they didn’t see me. They seemed to be scared to come closer.

  Rats!

  I ripped off what was left of my T-shirt and pushed it through the window. Waving like a madman, I windmilled my shirt to signal them.

  Finally, Gwyneth cocked her head slightly. I screamed again—louder than I’d ever screamed in my life. “GWYNETH, HELP ME!”

  It worked. She lowered her bicycle, said something to Tom, and then they both moved closer to investigate. I willed them on with my screams and my shirt. Then, when they were fifty feet away, I stopped waving.

  “Oh, thank God it’s you guys,” I croaked. “Quick, open the door.”

  They walked cautiously to the barred window.

  “What’s going on?” Tom asked. “How come you’re in there?”

  “Never mind that now,” I said. “Just open the door before Rake comes back.”

  “Rake?” Gwyneth spun around in terror.

  “Yeah, he locked us in here. And he’ll kill me if he comes back and sees his truck on fire.”

  “That’s Rake’s truck?” Tom said.

  “YES!” I hissed. “Now go unlock that door.”

 
Chapter 14

  “Hold the door open, Gwyneth,” I said, “but don’t come in.” I was scared the door would swing shut again, so I dragged Martin outside with Tom’s help.

  “What happened to your eye?” Gwyneth asked when we were safely outside.

  “And what happened to him?” Tom asked, pointing at Martin and trying to catch his breath. “He looks awful.”

  I quickly explained how we were ambushed and locked up, and why I’d set Rake’s car on fire.

  “That was good thinking,” Tom said.

  Gwyneth nodded. “We never would have come near Cementhead’s place if it weren’t for all that smoke.”

  “You saw it from your place?”

  “No,” Gwyneth said. “We went to your house—to wish you good luck at the Games, but your mom said you might be at the creek. That’s where we saw the smoke.”

  Tom shook his head at Martin. “I better go for help. He needs a doctor.”

  “No. You can’t leave,” I said.

  “But…but he might die,” Gwyneth said. “I could go. I owe him…remember?”

  “I know someone has to fetch help,” I said. “But we have to move Martin first. He’s way too heavy for two people to carry, and he can’t walk. If one of you leaves now and Rake shows up, we’re all dead.”

  Tom looked over my shoulder at the remains of Rake’s truck. “Yeah, he’ll kill us for sure.”

  “What about hiding him in the house?” Gwyneth suggested.

  “No,” I said. “That’ll be the first place they’ll look. Let’s carry him to the bushes over there.” I pointed to the trees on the other side of the house.

  Tom and I each grabbed a shoulder while Gwyneth did her best to wrap her arms around Martin’s thick legs. When we all had a good grip on him, we lifted him off the dirt and plodded across the yard. We were soaked in sweat by the time we rounded the house.

  Suddenly, I caught a new sound in the evening air.