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TOM WIPED HIS FOREHEAD. Notorious for cool evenings, May held true to the standard and Tom was grateful. Running in a balmy August would have dehydrated him faster and he needed all the strength he could store.
Scrambling into the crawl space between his “radio station” and the kitchen, he clutched the small mic. Transmitting equipment would run when he clicked the talk button and continue to appear in sleep mode. But his voice would carry and the men in his house listened, waiting, hoping he would slip up.
A chance to escape had come and gone, but another would slide into view. The damnable thing was, he’d been out. Three times. Yet he continued to return in case his parents made it home.
Hopefully they didn’t come home.
The radio equipment had to be left behind. He’d take his portable unit, but how long would it work? Was anyone even listening? Did anyone even care? He couldn’t get anyone on the ham to respond. Spokane had been hit, and who else? How many Americans were still out there? Tom had to make another announcement. Just in case.
Guttural voices thudded through the drywall. Tom closed his eyes and tried to control his breathing. He focused on a mundane memory the way his psychologist had taught him to take on fear. He’d started hamming with his buddies. Borrowing his dad’s equipment until he’d paid off his own. He’d learned tricks and tips and taught his friends.
In class, his physics teacher had pulled them aside and warned them from pursuing the hobby further, something about Big Brother had Cousins outside the big 50. But Tom and the other three had ignored his conspiracy theories, certain the instructor thought everyone was out to get them. Heck, the man wrapped his cell phone in aluminum foil when he wasn’t using it, missing calls and text messages on a regular basis. He wasn’t the only one in the northern Idaho and eastern Washington region whose religious gospel was made up of theories conjured by men on the extremes of idealism.
Dang if the teacher’s prophecies hadn’t played out, one by one. Tom was the last of the original four... still alive. His friends had died in a car accident, built up as alcohol related, but Tom and his friends didn’t drink. Losing control had no appeal.
Sitting in on his dad’s radio conferences had added to his fear. Riding his bike and running for stress relievers, Tom had researched escape and survival, joined the Scouts and annoyed the owner of the local Surplus Store. He could tie a knot while tapping Morse code with his foot.
Pressure had built in the air, like steam in a kettle, needing release. Everyone had recognized the rush toward something, a change, but no one had understood what it was. Tom had broadcast his own ideas, but he’d been stupid. He’d never protected his location and hadn’t thought of it until a few weeks ago.
Too late. Invaders in his home.
Tom closed his eyes. He was an only child. If his parents had been hit during their graveyard shifts at the hospital, he’d be completely orphaned.
If the foreign-speaking men found him, his family could be demolished. He gulped against the tears. Hardened reporters didn’t cry. They listened and learned. Suck it up. He could do what was needed.
The sweat on his forehead and neck collected particles of dust, the itch unbearable in the mounting heat. Fortunately, his dad had never gotten around to remodeling this side of the house with new insulation. Fiberglass would not be welcome.
No more than eighteen inches wide, the crawl space allowed very little room for Tom to move. He stood sideways, his growing body large and awkward in the tight area. But clumsiness came when he moved... and he wasn’t moving.
A door slammed, the walls shook and dust sprinkled down on Tom.
“What’s going on? Why haven’t you found the boy?” English but heavily accented, the voice hummed through the wall where Tom rested his head. He pulled back and stared at the studs, trying to predetermine if the man sensed he was there.
Shuffling feet, a barked command in another language and sudden quiet unnerved Tom more than the rummaging and rifling of his family’s belongings. He pressed his ear to the cardboard colored backing of the drywall, the stamp in line with his nose. His stomach hurt. He desperately wanted to hold his mom and dad – but thinking about them would have to come later, when he could cry or plan or something. But he had to be alive to get to that point.
“Tom. Tom, where are you, little boy?” Sing song, the man’s voice raised like he talked to a small toddler, the contrast extremely offsetting like fangs on an Easter bunny.
Tom’s stomach no longer hurt – maybe it had vacated his body. He held his breath. Fingers numb and tingly. His legs wobbled. The other men would be outside or downstairs, or up, or wherever. But Tom had to get out. A promise in the newcomer’s voice scraped Tom’s vertebrae with ice and dread. He’d escape or the man would make him regret ever waking up.
Determination won against the impulse to flee. Tom clenched the microphone in his hand, grateful for something to hold onto. Before running, he’d need his backpack he’d left in the radio room which so far had remained undiscovered. His dad had built him a nook in the back of his closet for a private calling space. Tom would pretend to be a spy or reporter on a special mission. He’d give anything to be pretending right then.
The man’s stealth couldn’t sneak past the creaky floorboard in the hallway to his parents’ bedroom which meant he walked in the opposite direction of Tom’s room.
Only a moment’s reprieve before the man would redirect toward Tom’s room to inspect and maybe destroy his radio equipment. The further the enemy walked to Tom’s parents’ room the higher Tom’s chances at escape.
A click from farther down the hall, probably the linen closet came through the plaster. Attic stairs would distract the accented-intruder for a minute, maybe less. Tom had to run for it.
The thin wooden panel slid into the wall. He waited. The rub almost imperceptible, but in the stillness of the house anything could carry. A footstep sounded overhead.
Tucked under his desk across the room sat his pack with his supplies. He could do anything or go anywhere with the items in that pack. He needed to grab it and get to the front door. And get the hell out.
Eyes trained toward the door with the occasional glance at the window, Tom darted across the thin carpet. He knelt on the ground and grabbed the bag. He didn’t have time to collect anything else. Escape had to be the primary goal. Tom would find food and other supplies along the way. The weight of his and his dad’s ham radio conversation pads thunked him in the lower back.
The lack of time didn’t stop him from pushing the small family picture from the wall into his front coat pocket.
Who knew when, or... gulp... if he’d see his parents again.
Pressed against the door jam, Tom waited for the hall clock to tick ten seconds. The footsteps dragged out slow and steady across the ceiling, stopping every few feet. Around the corner would be the empty kitchen, and the hallway to an office, the master bedroom and bath, the linen closet and laundry room, with stairs making up the far wall. To the right, down his hall, was his room, another bath, a storage room and the door to the lean-to garage. He’d never make it out, if he went to the garage. His dad had covered the entire thing in plastic and sided it to eventually be made into a workout room, but he’d never gotten around to finishing the project. His mom had asked for help with the garden, then the kitchen, then something to do with patio furniture. The time to finish it came and went, lost in the busyness of the Honey-Do lists.
The lean-to exit was blocked and the front and back doors had men covering them, exact number and location he didn’t know. Tom was stuck in a raccoon trap with no experience getting out. He wanted to pinch his arm, wake up in his bed, his dad yelling for him to get a move on, or rain pattering the window.
Wait a minute, he could use the window, maybe not in here, but off the kitchen. The large bay window led to the greenhouse over the deck. Hide under the wooden slats. What did he have to lose? Best not to think about that.
A footstep thudded on the narrow stairs. Tom held his breath and dashed over the tiled floor into the oversized pantry. It would have to do. The man would head into Tom’s hallway next.
Tom slipped between the partially folded doors and froze amongst cans of soup and boxed pastas. Another missed opportunity because he’d waited too long. He deserved a swift kick in the butt. Come on, Mason, get your head in the game. Life or death now.
Heavy tread from boots scraped past his room. A moment later the lean-to door creaked. Tom poked his head around the white bi-folds. No one in sight. The window was inches away and cracked. He wouldn’t have to flip the lock.
Kneeling on the cushions, Tom grimaced as he slid open the window. Angling his body through the opening, Tom rolled onto his front to wiggle the rest of the way. Maybe he’d find his stomach under the deck.
The hammer of a revolver clicked and Tom jerked his head up.