Oh, God, oh, God …
Who was she kidding? He would drag her off the ladder as if she were nothing. He would drag her down and rape her and kill her. She saw it as if it had already happened, because in so many horrible, unforgettable ways it already had.
“Elizabeth…”
The chain made a final scrape.
He was coming.
When the door opened, she saw his shadow, sensed his movement. He stooped beyond the door, but nothing happened for twenty seconds, a minute. Then a flashlight clicked on and shot a spear of light into the silo. It brushed the far wall, then touched bits of plastic and settled there. After a few seconds, the light disappeared. “Are you on the ladder, child?”
No …
“I had a young lady fall off the ladder, once. Don’t know how high she was when it happened. High enough to break her neck, at any rate. Did you make it all the way to the roof? It’s a pretty view from up there.”
Channing started crying for real.
“In the wintertime, you can see the old church across the valley, like a smudge on the hillside.” He turned on the flashlight, swept the interior a second time. “Do you like a church? I like a church.”
The light clicked off.
“Why don’t you come on down?”
His clothing rustled.
“I can lock the door and let you cook, if you like. It wouldn’t be pleasant, I promise. You still with me up there?”
Channing scrubbed the tears away.
Gripped the rung tighter.
*
He wasn’t bothered in the slightest. Some got out of their restraints, and some didn’t. Those that did usually found the ladder; and that was part of it, too: the will to overcome darkness and fear, then the realization that the roof, too, was a trap. It was a difficult combination for most: the ladder in blackness, then fresh air and sunshine, a world of hope, and then the loss of it. Some got clever, and that was fine, too.
It wasn’t just the heat that broke them.
*
Channing forced herself to stop crying. She couldn’t go up the ladder and couldn’t stay where she was.
That left down.
“If you make me lock this door again, I might have to let you cook in there for a good long time.” Channing didn’t move. “Three days. Four days. I’m not sure when I can make it back, and I’d rather you not die pointless and overhot.”
“Okay, okay.” Her voice shook and cracked. “Don’t lock the door. I’m coming down.” She moved one foot, then another; made it to the bottom rung. That left six feet to the ground. She sensed him in the door. “I don’t think I can do it.”
“I’m sure you’ll manage.”
She’d have one chance. She needed him close. “I hurt my ankle.”
“‘Profounder truth,’” he said, and she had no idea what he meant. He stayed where he was, hunched in the door and watching. If she lowered herself gently, he’d see the rung in her hand, so Channing stepped out and dropped. She kept the bar close and folded at the waist to hide it, steel ripping skin from her stomach as she landed. She cried out, but that was okay.
She needed him close.
“Oh, God…” She curled in the dirt, praying he’d think it was her ankle, that he wouldn’t see the blood. She felt it though, hot on her stomach, and soaking the shirt. She rocked onto her hands and knees. He was through the door.
Coming.
“It’s my ankle.…”
His shadow moved closer. Hair swung across her face, and when he touched her, she swung the rod with everything she had. It struck something hard. A shoulder. An arm. She didn’t know, didn’t care. She felt the shock and saw a slash of red in the gloom. She hit him again, stumbling once and falling toward the door. His hand caught her ankle, and she fell facedown, the door just there, light burning her eyes as she pulled herself through, kicking back twice, hitting some part of him as she fell out into the grass, smelling it, feeling it tear beneath her fingers. She dragged herself faster, finding her feet and falling again as the car rose in front of her and seemed to spin. She was dizzy, her legs not right as she lurched at the car thinking, Keys, road, escape. Halfway there, she risked a look back.
He was coming fast.
She wasn’t going to make it, falling against the car as she left a smear of blood and ran for the door on the other side. She heard a thump and saw him on the hood, sheet metal buckling as he leapt and caught her and tried to drag her down. She shrugged out of the shirt, felt the bloodstain slide across her face, and ran for the trees. It was what she had, shadows and hope and desperation.
He had the speed.
He caught her three steps into the woods, cupped the back of her head, and slammed her face into the trunk of a tree. Something burst; she tasted blood. He did it again, flung her down; and though his face was swollen and stained with blood of his own, it was the eyes that sucked all the heat from the day.
They were that dark and empty.
That terribly unforgiving.