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
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
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