Aric Davis - The Fort

17

Amy was into the woods like a wild and finally loosed animal. Hooper was fit, but still had trouble keeping up with her, losing her visually only to find her a nerve-shattering second later, over and over again. Branches tugged at his skin, and brambles and thorns stuck in his shirt and hair, but he noticed none of the pain, ignoring everything except her.

She ran with an awkward gait, scrambling this way and that in a blind panic, tearing through trees seemingly at random, but heading toward the drive-in movie theater. If she made it there before him, there would be space for her to move in almost any direction, and if there was someone working, maintenance most likely, he would be forced to kill that person, and maybe even kill her too.

The cap and glasses were barely staying on his head, and Hooper kept having to fix them with his hands. If ever there was a time when he wished he were wearing a disguise, this was it, but the ball cap and sunglasses would have to do. The pistol was growing heavy in his hand. He’d never have chosen it as a carry piece, but in the time of need it had been his only option. When I catch her and get her back to the house, I’m going to beat the shit out of her, and I’m going to fuck her every which way but loose. The thought of punishing her lent speed to his legs, and for the first time since the chase had begun, Hooper began gaining ground on her.

She slowed as she crossed a small creek—sharp rocks don’t go well with bare feet, figured Hooper. He almost had her then, but she must have sensed it, picking up the pace as his fingers nearly touched her back. She darted away from his touch as though he had poison running through his veins. It was painful to see Amy running away from him all over again.

Finally, she leapt over a downed tree, and must have twisted her ankle or caused some other injury to herself, because she screamed and went down. Hooper winced at the sound and then hopped over the log, letting the Colt lead the way. Her eyes went a mile wide at the sight of it, and she backed up tight against the log.

“You need to shut the fuck up right now,” said Hooper. “Unless you want to get shot, get your ass up.” The gag had fallen out of her mouth at some point during the chase, and she was heaving air into and out of her lungs so quickly that Hooper was scared she might hyperventilate. “C’mon, it ain’t all that bad. Get up and relax a little bit. You’re going to pass out if you don’t.”

She screamed again then, and Hooper slapped her with the hand not holding the pistol. The noise stopped immediately, and he held up his hand like he might do it again if she gave him reason enough to. “You good?” She nodded, and Hooper knew he had her.

Amy led the way, Hooper walking behind her with the pistol buried in her back. She was no longer crying, and seemed to Hooper almost resigned to what was happening. Her dark hair hung in matted strands, and, not for the first time, Hooper ached to wash her. She wasn’t street trash like the rest of them. He wanted Amy clean, he needed her sparkling, done up and polished, but not as slutty as when he’d picked her up. All those things were going to happen once they got out of the goddamn woods, Hooper promised himself. It was time to break her, to make her give herself to him. He’d gotten lucky in catching her, but she’d gotten luckier by momentarily escaping. He couldn’t wait to get home and figure out how she’d done it, and he knew that with the stuff he’d bought today, it wasn’t going to be happening again.

18

Luke had beaten Scott after falling behind one–nothing and then scoring twice with paper to get the victory. Scott soured momentarily, but Luke perked up after the win.

Tim had been given the rifle, a single bullet, and a magazine to put the bullet into. Though the gun was semiauto, the boys hadn’t even had to discuss firing it in such a way, as that would almost undoubtedly bring angry parents, or worse, down on them.

Tim slid the little bullet into the magazine and then pushed the magazine into the AR-7’s tiny mag well, where it clicked into place with the satisfying sound of oiled metal on metal. “I pull this back to rack it, right?” Tim asked, and Scott nodded. Tim did so and was surprised at the effort it took. Then, once it was as far back as it could be pulled, he let go of the charging handle. It snapped back into place, and the gun was ready. “I’m kind of nervous,” said Tim. “Now that we’re really doing it. What if it’s, like, super loud?”

“It won’t be,” said Luke. “You saw how little the bullet was. It’s going to be loud to us, but only because we’re stuck in here. Somebody outside will just think it’s a firecracker.” Thunder rumbled in the distance. “Even better, they’ll think it’s just more thunder.”

Dad was right , Tim thought as he laid the barrel of the .22 on the windowsill. I guess it is going to storm.

He slowly shrugged his body around the gun, with his chin laid on the stock, just like they did with their air rifles. His finger was still off the trigger when it thundered again, louder this time, making him jump. Tim rested the barrel of the gun on the bottom of the windowsill and watched the front sight stop shaking in front of him. He took a deep breath, let it out slowly, and then began to acquire the target.

Luke was on his right side, Scott on his left, and the other boys were watching the target, wishing it was their turn, and waiting for the crack of the rifle.

The blade of the front sight was hovering between the ears of the rear sight, floating up and down with Tim’s heartbeat, settling over the target, then leaving, then coming back to the center of the target. Not making a good shot when he got only one try would be a colossal failure, and Tim took in a breath, let half of it out, and slowly began to pull back on the trigger. It was creaking under his finger, moving ever so slowly backward, when Luke whispered, “Holy shit. Look.”

“I’m trying to aim,” said Tim. “We’re all going to get a turn, so you don’t need to be a dick about it.”

“Seriously,” whispered Luke. “Look in the pines over there. Tell me I’m not crazy.” Scott and Tim both did, though Tim left the gun pointed more or less at the target, and blindly made it safe with his fingers. They both saw it at the same time, and as the man and the woman emerged from the pines, less than thirty yards from where they were sitting, they knew that Luke wasn’t crazy.

The woman was crying, had black curly hair, and was being pushed ahead by the man. He had something in her back, though none of them could tell what, and when it thundered again they all jumped. It was obvious to all three of the boys that the girl was Molly Peterson, or someone who looked a great deal like her, but the man’s features were indistinguishable. Rain began to fall in the forest, and they could see two things: Molly and the man were heading back to somewhere in the suburban neighborhood where Scott and Tim lived, and the man was pressing a gun into her back.

“You have to shoot him, Tim,” said Luke. “Like, right now.” Tim felt as though he’d been punched in the face. You were never supposed to point a gun at someone else, but on the other hand, the man was pointing a gun at Molly. “This might be her only chance,” hissed Luke, louder now, as the rain began to fall more forcefully. “If you can’t do it, give me the goddamn gun.”

The next moments would last forever in Tim’s mind, as the world slowed around him. He shouldered the rifle, put the front sight over the center of the man’s back, and flicked the safety off. His finger began to tense on the trigger, and he let out a deep breath, then moved away from the window and fumbled the gun to Luke and Scott. Scott was pale, backing away from the rifle as if it were on fire, and Luke took the weapon. “I can’t do it,” said Tim, with tears already beginning to stream from his face. “I just can’t do it.”