Sara Reinke - Backwoods

“She’s been restricted to her personal quarters until further notice, as well,” Prendick said.

“I want to talk to her. I want to see her right now.”

“I’m afraid that’s not possible, Mister Braddock. It’s for her own good and yours. We need to make sure no one else gets sick.”

The soldiers stepped forward, grabbing him roughly, with enough force to prevent him from breaking free.

“Hey,” Andrew exclaimed, struggling. “Get your hands off me!”

“I’d prefer that you do this voluntarily, Mister Braddock,” Prendick said. “But I’m authorized to confine you by force, if needed.”

“I said get your fucking hands off me,” Andrew yelled as the soldiers began to haul him down the corridor.

As he was shoved unceremoniously into his room, Andrew stumbled and crashed to the floor, barking his knees. “Hey,” he began, frowning, his fists bared as he scrambled up again, but it was too late. The soldiers slammed the door in his face and he heard the tell-tale beep-beep-beep-beep as they locked it.

It was a moot point and he knew it, but he tried punching in his own pass code anyway. He wasn’t the least bit surprised when it didn’t work. There was no way they’d have been that stupid,

With an angry, frustrated cry, he struck the door. “Damn it!”

Spinning around, he shoved his back against the door, then folded his legs, sliding his spine down until his ass met the floor. Shoving his fingers through his hair, he closed his eyes, tilted his head back.

Great, he thought. This is just great. Now what the hell am I going to do? I can’t just sit here, twiddling my thumbs, waiting to see if I’m going to get sick. I can’t leave Alice alone in that closet or Dani locked in her room downstairs. There’s got to be a way out of this mess.

He’d felt something in his pocket poking him in the hip when he’d sat down, and shifted his weight now as that uncomfortable pressure continued digging into his skin. With a frown, he raised his hips, cramming his hand down his pocket, meaning to take out whatever was in there and hurl it across the room. Instead, when he pulled out Dani’s key ring—with her Gerber multi-tool attached to the chain—he paused, cradling it against his palm.

Less than three inches long, the Clutch had a little heft to it nonetheless and curious, he slipped his fingertip into the little grooves and notches, unfolding each of the miniature blades and implements in turn: needlenose pliers, a small knife, emery board, tweezers, flat head and Phillips head screwdrivers.

“I love you, Dani Santoro,” he murmured even though she wasn’t around to hear. Standing, he walked across the room to his window, shoving back the drapes to either side. The top three-quarters were unblemished glass, a picture pane designed more for aesthetics than any sort of practicality. But at the bottom, side by side, was a pair of casement windows. Like pop-out quarter windows in older model cars, these were designed to open only as far as the hinge would extend when fully unfolded, roughly six inches. It was a security feature Andrew had seen in both his college dormitory and hotel rooms, designed to prevent people from falling out.

Frowning thoughtfully, he went to the bed and yanked back the bedspread, heaping it in heavy folds on the floor. Working quickly, he stripped the bed sheet and bed spread from the mattress, then returned to the window and glanced down.

What is that, a fifteen foot drop? Sixteen? he wondered, studying the parking lot, the landscaped perimeter between it and the building below. If he estimated the distance from the vertex of his thumb to that of his elbow as one foot, he figured he could measure out the bed linens and cut them into strips to make a crude rope of about the right length to climb from his room to the ground.

If I can get those casement windows open a little more, he thought. Which, thanks to Dani, I just might be able to swing.

He knelt in front of the window. Working quickly, shooting nervous glances over his shoulder toward the door all the while, he used the multi-tool’s screwdriver implements to disassemble the hinge mechanism on one of the casement windows. Once he was able to dislodge it fully from the sill, he could push the panel out wider, giving him another six or seven inches, little more than a foot through which to try and escape.

I can fit, he thought, frowning again as he grabbed hold of the metal window frame and leaned out experimentally, shrugging his shoulders to squeeze through. Barely. This would be a hell of a lot easier if I was Dani’s size. Or Alice’s.

Ducking back inside, he set to work measuring out, then cutting thick strips from the sheet and bedspread, fettering them together in quick but secure double figure-eight, fisherman-style knots until he had a fairly sturdy rope assembled. Next, he shoved the bed, mattress, box springs and all, against the far wall. He secured his makeshift rope to the metal frame with a clove hitch knot. Rather than anchoring it on one of the legs, instead, Andrew tied it around one of the thicker, weight-bearing transverse beams.

Once finished, he stood up and stepped back, admiring his handiwork.

There’s no way in hell this is going to work.

But since the prospect of waiting around to burst into a virulent rash, along with grotesque nodules, was even less appealing than this, he muttered, “Fuck it,” then chucked the free end of the rope out the window, letting it droop almost fully to the ground.

Turning around with his back to the glass, he knelt on all fours, then backed up to the open casement. Slowly, carefully, he lowered himself past the sill, dropping his feet down the exterior wall. Once he’d gone out far enough to be off-balance, he caught the sheet rope in his hands, grimacing at the sound of cheap thread counts snapping with his sudden weight.

Back in his college years, he’d rappelled pretty frequently, one of many outdoor activities he’d enjoyed. While by no means an expert, and of late, fairly rusty at the art, he still felt fairly confident that he could get down from the window. If the line holds, he thought, not possessing this same faith in his rope-making ability.

As he slowly lowered himself down, he tried to balance his weight between his arms, which quickly began to feel the brunt of the strain, and his feet, which he planted against the wall so he could walk, of a sort, down the outside façade. The parking lot below was quiet and still, draped in alternating patches of stark glow and shadows from security lights, and Andrew felt very exposed and vulnerable as he dangled in perfectly plain sight of anyone who might happen to pass by. Once he reached the ground, he managed a shaky, astonished laugh.

Holy shit, I made it!

Then he realized there was no way to hide, disguise or remove the rope from the side of the building. The bright white cotton sheets looked damn near aglow in the proscenium of nearby lights, like a neon sign, a big fat arrow pointing down, declaring, HE WENT THAT-A-WAY.

Shit.

But there was nothing to be done about it, unless he wanted to climb back up the way he’d gone down and somehow try to re-rig a line that would be both secure enough to get him to the ground, but loose enough to come undone once he got there.

Not going to happen.

Sticking to the shadows, he crept to the entrance of the compound building and ducked beneath the concrete overhang. He glanced across the parking lot to the garage, wondering briefly if he should go and get Alice.

No. He shook his head. She’s locked in that closet. No one can get in, so she’s safe for the time being. It’s Dani I need to worry about.