Redemption Road(114)

She rolled onto her knees, her face flat against the hot soil. She could taste it on her lips and in her mouth; feel it in her nostrils.

“One more time.”

She straightened, and the plastic ties cut her again. Same pain. Same slickness. The earth tilted in the blackness, but she got to her feet, hands still behind her back, ankles still lashed together.

“I can do this.”

She’d already fallen fifty times, or a hundred. It was pitch-black. She was bleeding.

“Okay.”

She shuffled an inch, didn’t fall.

“Okay, okay.”

She tried a hop and kept her balance. She did it two more times, and that was the most she’d managed without going down. That was the pattern. Stand. Fall. Spit out the dirt.

There had to be an exit.

Something sharp.

She tried again and fell as an ankle twisted, and her body whiplashed. She couldn’t catch herself, and her face hit hard enough to drive dirt into her throat. She rolled, choking.

“Elizabeth…”

The name was like a prayer. Elizabeth would know what to do. Elizabeth would want her strong. But, Channing felt terror like a palm on her back.

The basement.

Now this.

The palm pressed hard enough to drive everything good right out of her. She’d killed two men, so maybe this was just, to be alone in this place.

Sliding through the dirt, she covered an inch at a time, first on her side, then on her stomach. She was sobbing quietly as she did it, but, at the far wall, pulled herself up and felt her way along it, finding vertical beams every ten feet, each of them as rusted as everything else. It took an hour, or maybe two; but the fourth beam had a narrow edge where metal had rusted away enough to make it sharp.

So sharp …

Channing backed against it, working her wrists, the zip ties. Skin went with the plastic, but she didn’t care.

Now!

It had to be now!

The plastic parted with a snap, and her arms swung like deadwood as she sobbed again and waited for them to burn. When she could move them, she lay on the ground and used the same sharp metal to strip the ties from her ankles. After that, she followed the curve of the wall until she found the door. Made of solid steel, it opened half an inch before the chain outside snapped tight. She stared out with a single eye, saw dirt and grass and trees. Afternoon, she thought, yellow light. She called for help, but knew he’d chosen the silo for a reason. That meant no one was coming. No one was there.

Channing pushed fingers through the crack a final time, then dragged herself up to explore the silo again. The structure was ancient and rusted and crumbling. She went around the perimeter from the door all the way back, tripping twice, then circling again. She found the ladder on the second trip. The lowest rung was high above her head, so she almost missed it, her fingers grazing it once, then coming back. When she pulled it made a clanking sound, and bolts scraped in the concrete. She dragged herself onto it, finding enough strength to reach the third rung, and pull her knees onto the first. When she stood, everything swayed. The ladder was skinny, barely a foot wide. Moving carefully, she climbed another rung, then a dozen more. Twice, the ladder groaned, and each time she froze, thinking it would pull from the wall or drop away beneath her. She managed another twenty rungs before she froze from all the blackness that tried to drag her down. Only the weight on her hands and feet told her which way was up and which was down. Channing closed her eyes and counted to ten.

The ladder was solid; the ladder was real.

Ten feet later, the first rung came off in her hand.

It broke quickly, and she spun into the dark, screaming as something in her shoulder stretched and tore. It took a mad scramble to get her feet back on the ladder, another rung in her hands.

But, the damage was done.

She felt all the space below and pushed a cheek so hard into the ladder it ached.

“Please.”

It was a useless plea, no more substantial than the air beneath her feet. Channing was alone and going to die. She’d fall or he’d kill her.

That simple.

That sure.

But did it have to be? Would it be like that for Liz?

Taking a breath, she forced herself past the empty space where the broken rung had been. It wasn’t easy. The metal was rusted thin, and her mind painted every rung the same.

It would break.

She would fall.

Already, she was fifty feet up, maybe sixty. How tall was the silo? Eighty feet? A hundred? She counted rungs, but lost track when the ladder shifted in the concrete. She held her breath for a hundred count, then started again, thinking, Please, please, please …

She was still thinking that when she reached up, and her hand struck the dome of the roof. It was inches from her face, and she couldn’t see it.

So black.

So still.

But the ladder was there for a reason; there had to be a hatch.

She pushed against the roof and found the hatch easily because it wasn’t latched or locked. A line of yellow appeared, fresh air spilling in as she pushed harder and the crack widened. Channing drove the hatch until it fell backward and struck the roof with a clang. Light burned her eyes. Fresh air was a gift. She clung until she could see, then clambered onto the roof, finding handholds and a place for her feet. A breeze blew, and the forest walked away beneath her. Miles of it. Many miles. She leaned out, thinking there should be another ladder going down; but it had broken off years ago. She saw bolts snapped clean, and a tangle of ladder twisting away from the silo halfway down. Everything else was sloping roof and sheer sides. She climbed to the top of the dome to be sure; but there was never any real doubt.