Andrew Klavan - If We Survive

I swung the wheel. The truck’s fender went wide of the old man—but now a palm tree loomed in front of me, yards from my face. I swung the wheel again. I saw bullets hitting the pavement, bursts of dust and gravel flying into the air.

Palmer shouted: “Turn! Turn!”

I didn’t see any place to turn, but I did what he said, hauling the wheel over as far as I could. The tree was gone. A shed appeared in the windshield. A woman clutching her baby was huddled under the tin roof, staring at me, staring at the oncoming truck. She didn’t even have time to cry out in fear.

But the truck kept wheeling round, wheeled past her—and then I saw what Palmer saw: there was a narrow alley right beside her shed.

I muscled the wheel over even farther. The shed and the screaming woman went by the window as the truck bounced over a pile of garbage and charged into the passage between two buildings.

The alley wasn’t wide. I felt the buildings pressing close on either side of me. I kept my eyes glued to the road, fighting to keep the truck centered so we wouldn’t sideswipe the walls.

Palmer was shouting over the siren: “Left! Left! Left!”

We burst out the other side of the alley onto another street, a narrow street with crumbling apartment buildings crowding close. I swung the wheel left.

The truck came around the corner at unbelievable speed, two tires threatening to lift into the air so that I thought we might flip over and come crashing to the earth.

But the truck righted. I pointed it down the road. I had no idea where to go or what was happening. All I could do was drive and hope that Palmer had a plan.

But Palmer let loose a cry of fury and frustration.

And I looked up ahead, down the street, and saw the troop truck rushing toward us. The siren had brought reinforcements. They were racing to the prison. The street was too narrow to get around them.

There was no way past.

Hit the brakes!” Palmer shouted.

I hit them—hard—without thinking.

The truck went into an insane sideways skid. Even over the siren, I heard someone scream behind me as the bed fishtailed and the wheels lifted and the tires let out a hoarse scream of their own as their rubber burned and smoked.

Even before the pickup came to a full stop, Palmer was out the passenger door, shouting, “Go, go, go!”

I looked out the window and saw the troop truck barreling toward us. It was still about a block away and coming on fast.

I grabbed the handle of the driver’s door and threw my shoulder against it. It flew open and I tumbled out into the street.

I looked around—confused, disoriented, the siren blowing the thoughts right out of me. Where were we? What were we doing? Were Meredith and Nicki and Jim all right? Had they been shot by the guards in the tower? Were they hurt? Had they been killed?

And where was Palmer?

I saw him. He was at the door of one of the old apartment buildings. Lifting his foot…

He kicked out and the door flew open. He charged through it—and, with a wave of relief, I saw Nicki and Meredith come out from behind the truck and charge in after him with Jim right behind them. They were alive. They were all right.

One last glance at the troop carrier racing toward us, and I dashed off after them. Into the building, out of the dim daylight of the narrow street, into the interior darkness.

I couldn’t see a thing. My eyes hadn’t adjusted. The prison siren was dimmer. I heard screeching tires outside. The rebel reinforcements. They were on our trail. They were right behind us.

Up ahead, I heard running footsteps. My friends. I stumbled toward the sound. Then there was a loud bang and another door flew open, sending in gray light. I saw we were in a shabby corridor. I saw Palmer and the others rushing out the door at the far end of it, into the gray light of the day outside.

I rushed down the dark hall—out the door—into a cramped courtyard: a square of dead grass with a broken stone fountain at the center. Litter—empty bottles, crumpled newspapers, old cans—was strewn everywhere. Out here, the siren was loud again—so loud I couldn’t think. I didn’t try. I just looked for Palmer.

There he was, racing toward the courtyard wall. He leapt at it. Grabbed it. Swung up until he was sitting on top.

He stopped there, straddling the wall. He reached down for Nicki. She took his hand and he hauled her quickly up, helped her over the side. Meredith had already started to climb. Palmer grabbed her arm and helped her over. Jim clawed his way up next.

I raced toward the wall and leapt as I’d seen Palmer do. In a moment, I was up and over.

Palmer dropped down beside me.

“This way.”

I was breathing hard as we went down a very narrow passage between two buildings. There was barely room for us to move along it single file. I glanced behind me, knowing the rebels were only a few steps away, knowing they could appear at any moment—and that if they caught us here—or blocked the way out—we’d be trapped and helpless.

But we made it to the other end and came out into a cobblestoned plaza. A large church blocked out the sky and cast the square in shade. Its heavy wooden front doors were shut. Its stained-glass windows were dark. It looked completely empty.

All the same, Palmer raced across the plaza to the church door. I looked left and right as we ran after him. There were no rebels in sight for the moment, but there were other people. An old woman, a hefty man in overalls, a young woman with a scarf over her head… They stood watching us, blank-faced, as the siren filled the air around us.

I saw Palmer bang on the church door—what sounded like a code—three pounds, then two. What was the point, though? The church was obviously closed, obviously empty. The rebels were right behind us. There was no time for this. No time.

I glanced back anxiously over my shoulder, expecting to see the rebels come racing down the little alley while we dawdled here.

When I turned around again, the church door was open. Palmer and the others were ducking through it into the darkness beyond.

I followed after them. The shadows of the church closed around us. The smell of old incense filled the air, along with the hollow chill of stone. I peered into the dark and saw Palmer and my friends following a small, almost dwarfish figure into the shadows. As I moved to join them, I felt eyes on me. I looked around and saw statues against every wall. The statues seemed to be staring at me. There was an angel with a sword. A man with arrows in him. The Virgin Mary. Jesus with his hand upraised to give a blessing. All of them were carved out of wood, their faces painted. Their eyes seemed to follow my movements as I hurried past.

Up ahead, there was a raised altar with a carved pulpit. A wooden Jesus hung on a cross behind it. On the floor just below it, there were several tombs—stone boxes—set in a row against one wall.

Palmer and the dwarfish figure reached one of the tombs. They stood shoulder to shoulder on one side of it and began pushing at the lid. The heavy slab shifted with a grating noise.

I shivered, watching them. It seemed a gruesome enterprise: Palmer and that dark, small figure opening a coffin in this shadowy, mysterious place. I glanced around at the statues on every side of us—then up at the crucifix on the altar. Jesus seemed to be looking down at me. Man, I hoped he was!

I came up alongside the others. Now I could see: the dwarfish figure was a Catholic priest. He was a tiny, scrawny little guy with a wrinkled face and a down-turning mustache that made his expression look mournful. In his black suit and white collar, he looked almost like a child playing dress-up. It didn’t seem like he could possibly have enough strength to move that coffin lid.