Moonbow

by Sheila Hollinghead

  A doorway revealed a closet with floor-to-ceiling shelves packed with supplies. She lay down the cell phone and walkie talkie and yanked items from each shelf, throwing them on the floor— various bags and backpacks, a whole shelf of maternity scrubs, and various medical supplies. But no shoes.

  She grabbed the largest backpack and ran to the kitchen, wrenching open cabinets until she found food supplies. She had already planned what to look for—nonperishable foods that were lightweight. She threw in crackers, a jar of peanut butter, packets of tuna fish and a dozen protein bars. Pickings were slim. They obviously didn't keep a lot of food stuffs on hand. Fortunately, there was almost a full case of bottled water. She finished filling the bag with several bottles of water, stuffing the bag until no more would fit. Yanking open drawers, she scoured through them, searching for matches. She only found a couple of lighters and stuck them into the side pocket.

  She went back to the hallway, found another bag, and stuffed it with scrubs. Then she forced herself to walk slowly through each room, searching through the windows to see if the house was guarded. She saw nothing but thick stands of oaks and pines surrounding the house. But men could be lying in wait behind any of those trees. And what if there were booby traps? Should she risk it? Should she venture out?

  She paced the house as she had once paced her room, trying to make a decision while the panic bubbled inside her and threatened to spew over. As she walked down the hallway for the fourth time, she noticed a short rope hanging from the ceiling. A trap door to the attic, she assumed. She pulled on the rope and a ladder came into view. She unfolded the ladder and clambered up the rungs. The attic, large and unfinished, had wooden beams spreading apart as if in welcome. She scanned the area and saw no way out from the attic. No, this wouldn't help her.

  And there was nothing in the attic except several old filing cabinets and cardboard boxes filled with old papers. Nothing that would be of use to her. She clambered back down the ladder, not taking the time to fold the bottom portion to let it spring back up.

  Didn't Tom or Ralph have a gun somewhere? They should have, shouldn't they? She went into the bedrooms and rummaged through the closets and drawers. In one of the bedrooms, she didn't know if it was Tom's or Ralph's, she found a case that looked as if it held bow and arrows, and also a length of rope, fishing line, two fishing poles, duct tape, and a couple of flashlights. Nothing to help defend herself. No guns and time was running out.

  She had to have a weapon. She picked up the backpack, ran to the kitchen, and grabbed a knife from the block. She added it to the side pocket of the backpack.

  A voice squawked, making her jump, and leaving her hands shaking. "Tom, you have missed your call in...Tom!"

  The walkie talkie.

  Her heart leapt to her throat. She stumbled to the backdoor at the side of the kitchen and yanked it open. Immediately, alarms blared. She slammed the door shut.

  She was trapped.

  * * *

  Rayden

  Rayden had packed his backpack and was standing in the yard saying his goodbyes to the Andersons. He shook his head at them. “You’ve done so much for me already.”

  “It’s just the old farm truck that I’m not going to be needing it anymore. So what am I going to do with it? You take it.” Andy caught Rayden’s wrist, twisted his palm up, and dropped the keys in his hand. “I’ve had the truck transferred to your name. Paperwork’s in the glove compartment.”

  “Thank you, Andy.” His hands closed around the keys. He hated to take the truck, but Andy was right. After selling the farm, he wouldn't be using the truck, a 1977 Ford pickup. The truck paperwork, however, wouldn't do Rayden much good since he didn't have a license, or any other ID for that matter, in the name of Richard Brown. Andy had not asked any questions when he had requested cash. He had been paid a little over a thousand dollars for the work he had done, with Andy apologizing for the small amount. And now he offered the pickup to make up for the meager pay.

  Rayden opened the door to the cab, patted the seat, and Prometheus jumped in, looking eager to go.

  Rayden turned and stretched out his hand to Andy who pulled him into an embrace, patting him on the shoulder.

  When Andy released him, Betty hugged him and gave him a kiss on the cheek. "I don't know what I would have done if you hadn't been here the night Andy had his stroke."

  Rayden waved a hand in dismissal.

  A lopsided smile spread across Andy's face. "Can't thank you enough for all you've done." Except for a little weakness in his left side, he had made a remarkable recovery in the months Rayden had been there.

  “Betty's already thanked me with all her delicious home cooking. I’ll keep in touch.” Rayden touched his shirt pocket. “Got your address and phone number right here.”

  He threw the backpack in the truck, climbed in, and rolled down the window. “Y’all take care.”

  He would miss the farm, even the musty barn. Working in the fields with the sun shining, clouds banking, the colors soothing—God knew what he was doing when he paired the greenery of the plants and trees with the blue skies.

  But Rayden was eager to go back to Cumberland Falls, praying that Gisa would be there this time, waiting. If not, he would try out the symbol, find out if indeed it was more than superstitious nonsense.

  The Andersons watched him go, waving until he was out of sight. He drove down the drive and onto the road leading to the highway.

  He drove for a ways before he pulled over to the shoulder of the road and took the address out of his pocket. He studied it for a moment, memorizing it, and then shredded it, throwing it from the window. It had been just a scrap of paper, and the pieces would soon disintegrate. He watched them flutter in the wind before he pulled back on the road.

  He didn’t know how much good that would do—the shredding of the paper. If he were caught, they could trace the truck back to the Andersons anyway, couldn't they? But why would they want to? He was being paranoid.

  He turned on the radio and found a station, feeling his spirits lift with the music. Prometheus sat on the passenger's side, looking out the window at the scenery. His nose sniffed at the cracked window, and his tongue lolled from his mouth.

  Rayden smiled at his obvious enjoyment. It was good not to be alone, to have someone to trust, even if that someone was a dog.

  Only four hours from Chesnee, South Carolina to the state park. After all this time, he would soon be there. He allowed his mind to linger on Gisa. She would be waiting at Cumberland Falls.

  He hoped.

  GISA RACED BACK to the ladder. She quickly found the rope and tied it on the bottom rung. After sprinting up a few steps, she flung the backpack and the other bag into the attic. She hopped down, looked around, and racked her brain. Was she forgetting anything? Flashlight. She would need a flashlight.

  The bedroom. The flashlight lay on the floor next to the bag that looked similar to one of her old archery bags. She swept up both the flashlight and the bag, ran back to the hallway, grabbed the end of the rope, and scrambled up the ladder.

  After throwing down the flashlight and bag, she looked back at the ladder and jerked on the rope. Nothing. She jerked harder and toward the left. The stairs folded back and the trap door slammed shut, enveloping her in darkness. She steadied her breathing and listened. Tires crunched on gravel.

  Her eyes adjusted to the darkness. A little light came in through vents at each end, giving her enough light to see by.

  Gisa leaned over and fumbled with the rope until she pulled it loose. She gathered everything together and scurried to a corner, ducking behind a stack of boxes. Her heart thumped loudly in her ears, and her breath came in gasps. She heard the door downstairs open. She steadied her breathing and peeked around the boxes.

  The rope. She had dropped it. Too late now. She stole back into the corner and curled into a ball, making herself as small as possible.

  At first she could barely hear the footsteps below. She assumed they wer
e searching the rooms. Then she heard shouts and stamping feet of many men. A dozen? Half dozen?

  She raised her head and strained to hear the voices.

  "Tom! Check him."

  "He's dead."

  Her heart caught in a spasm of sympathy. No, it wasn't her fault; it had been her only choice. If he had not grabbed her, she would not have hit him that last time. Still, tears stung her eyes. She swallowed and blinked them away. She heard bangs and crashes and then a different voice spoke.

  “Check the attic.”

  “How could she be up there?”

  “Check the attic!”

  Gisa’s heart thundered in her ears, and she heard the squeak of the trap door being opened. How stupid she had been! She should have taken her chances and ran outside. Now she was trapped like an animal. She heard the creaking of the rungs as someone climbed and then silence.

  The light from a flashlight swept around the space. She resisted the urge to stand and shout “Here I am” just to slow the pounding in her ears. Her muscles became rigid as footsteps moved closer to her hiding place. She dared not breathe.

  Another voice from below reached her through the opening.

  "What's going on?"

  She recognized the speaker—his voice sounded slurred as if he were on a perpetual high. Ralph.

  And then the footsteps moved away from her in the attic. “Ralph! Glad you're back. She’s not up here!”

  The ladder creaked, and the door banged shut as it swung back in place.

  Gisa silently slumped to the floor, breathing heavily. She closed her eyes, resisting a sudden urge to urinate. The problem of a bathroom had never entered her mind. She tried to ignore the steady pressure of her bladder as she placed her ear to the floor of the attic. She could still hear voices but could not make out the words.

  How many men were there? It sounded like the house was full of stomping feet. Surely they would realize she was hiding up here? How long before they would re-search the attic again and find her? And she had to really use the bathroom. How long could she hold it?

  And how long would she be stuck up here, afraid to move? She rolled quietly on her back and waited. Lying on the hard plywood that covered the floor of the attic made her back ache. She rolled to her side and tucked her knees up. That was better. Her eyes became adjusted to the sparse light. She felt a tickling on her arm and slapped at it. She hoped it wasn’t a brown recluse. Or a roach. She was more afraid of roaches than spiders. And that was ridiculous. Roaches didn’t bite.

  Why hadn’t she thought to use the bathroom before climbing up here? She heard the murmur of voices drift away. She risked pressing her ear against the floor but heard nothing, only the beating of her own heart. Maybe they were now searching outside.

  She really had to use the bathroom. The minutes ticked by, and still there was no sound. Slowly she got to her knees and crawled a couple of feet to relieve herself. Then she crept back to her hiding place. She curled up and listened again. Only silence.

  She waited. And prayed.

  * * *

  Rayden

  Rayden turned onto Interstate 26, careful to stay at the speed limit, not over, nor under. He had no driver’s license, no identification—the last thing he needed was for a trooper to stop him. He drove about forty miles and then took the off-ramp to stop for a restroom break, for Prometheus as well as himself, and to find some black coffee.

  Only a little over three hours, and he would reach his destination. His pulse quickened.

  He drove up to a four-way stop and made sure he pulled to a full stop. A glance in the rearview mirror showed a state trooper pulling up behind him.

  Oh, just great. A tall sign indicated a gas station to the right. He switched on his blinker, turned, and immediately the blue lights flashed. Rayden pulled over and the trooper pulled in behind him. Rayden watched him approaching. He had done nothing wrong. He just had to stay calm and everything would be all right. He rolled his window down.

  “Good afternoon,” Rayden said politely.

  “Nice day today,” the young state trooper said. “I noticed back there that your blinker’s not working.”

  Rayden breathed a sigh of relief and smiled. That was all. This guy was not part of Die Auserwählten. “Thanks for letting me know—I’ll go now and get it fixed."

  The trooper studied him for a second. “I'll need to see your license and registration.”

  Rayden made a show of looking for his wallet. “I know my wallet’s here somewhere.” He patted his pockets. I must have left it back at the motel.”

  “Registration?”

  Rayden reached over to the glove compartment and pulled out the registration. A low growl emanated deep in Prometheus's throat. He spoke a word of reprimand and then handed the information through the window.

  The policeman read it carefully before looking up. “Please get out of your vehicle.”

  Rayden groaned softly but opened the door and stepped outside. He scanned the area. There was a steep drop off to the left, four lanes of traffic on the right with cars speeding by.

  With barely a thought, more on instinct, Rayden slammed his elbow into the man's stomach and followed it with a blow to the back of his head. The trooper fell to the ground.

  Prometheus had his head out the driver's window, barking. Rayden wrenched the truck door open, shooing the dog back. He spun away, car horns blowing as he drove into the oncoming traffic. He made a u-turn and drove back to the interstate. He traveled down to the next exit and down the off ramp. It led into a residential section. He turned into a housing development, turning down street after street. When he came to a dead end, he threw the truck into park, grabbed his backpack, and snapped a leash onto his dog's collar.

  He ran, Prometheus at his heels.

  THE SMALL AMOUNT of light withdrew from the attic as the hours went by. The darkness lasted an eternity.

  Gisa again cursed her stupidity. Scurryings, whether of roaches or mice or simply her imagination, kept the adrenalin surging through her body. Finally the attic slowly let in the new day’s light, allowing her to at least see shapes of the boxes.

  It remained silent below. Should she stay here, make a run for it? Were the men still outside the house? Fear kept her from making a decision. Her stomach growled, and she searched the bag for something to eat. She found the crackers and smeared on some peanut butter. She washed it down with a bottle of water. How many bottles of water did she have? She couldn’t remember counting them. If she remained in the attic, water would be her most important commodity.

  The baby kicked, and she placed her hands over the spot. Surely he was just a baby? Not Hitler? At least not yet. Would he have become Hitler under the influence of Oberste and the nameless others? Probably. What they were doing was crazy. It didn’t make any sense to her. What was so special about Hitler that they would go through these lengths to see him reborn? She sighed. The baby kicked again. What if she did get out of this attic? Where would she go? Who could help her? Hadn’t Rayden said the police were compromised? So, no, she couldn't go to the police. If Rayden were alive, how would she find him? The only clue she had was keshet. Bow. If she could ever escape the attic, she had no choice but to act on her hunch and go to Cumberland Falls. At least she had a destination. But she was too afraid now to leave the attic. How long would the men stay, searching the grounds, re-searching the house? She lay on her back, wondering what had possessed her to climb up here.

  On the second day, some men returned, and she huddled in fear until she heard them leave again. They had not bothered to search the attic and only stayed in the house thirty minutes or so. Two more days passed and fear, fear that at least some of the men kept watch on the house, confined her to the attic. She often peered through the ventilation slats but could see nothing. She pressed her ear to the attic floor for what seemed like hours each day. Nothing but silence. Her food and water supplies dwindled. She slept fitfully when she slept at all. The reek of the attic and he
r hunger and thirst finally forced her to a decision.

  She had to get out. But how? How could she lower the trap door from up here? If she stepped on it, wouldn't she lose her balance and fall? Maybe she could put something on top of it. Perhaps the weight would force it down.

  She searched and found an old wooden filing cabinet. She yanked the top drawer out, spilling files across the floor of the attic. She walked to the trap door and braced herself on one of the beams next to it. Then she used the drawer to push down on the door. The door didn’t move. She let go of the beam and grabbed the drawer with both hands and slammed it down onto the door. This time the door swung down but her momentum also carried her with it. She dropped the drawer and desperately reached out to grab something, to stop her descent. Her hands gripped the sides of the ladder, but she continued down, the wood slicing into her palms. She hit the folded-up steps, and the impact loosened her grip. She landed with a thud on her knees. The ladder continued swinging down and caught her on her forehead. Stars exploded in Gisa’s vision.

  Nauseated with pain, it took a few minutes before she was able to get on her hands and knees and crawl to the bathroom. Pain radiated with every movement. She left a trail of blood behind her. Arriving at the sink, she pulled herself up and washed the blood from her hands.

  Hand towels still hung on the rack, and she wrapped one around the hand with the deepest cut. Blood trickled from her head into her eyes. In the reflection of the mirror, she saw a gash across her forehead. She rummaged in the cabinet and found gauze and tape. Catching sight of herself in the mirror again, she paused. Her hair hung oily around her face.

  She looked longingly at the shower. Perhaps the water would ease the pounding of her head and help ease the pain in her knees and hands. Fear pulsed in her veins, but she longed to be clean.

  First, she would take a look out the windows. If she didn't see anyone or anything suspicious, she would allow herself the luxury of a shower. But her knees buckled when she tried to take a step.