He tried to put both the distractions – both imaginary and real – out of mind. He traced the loop of plastic to its end. Felt a smoothed triangle. The spot that was inserted into the bottom of the locking mechanism to guide the cuffs so they could be tightened.
Ken drew his knees up to his chest. His eyes still closed, he felt the cuffs around his ankles. They were snug enough that there was no way he could slip them off. But not so tight that he was in danger of losing blood flow to his feet. Whoever had put them on – Aaron, Elijah, or Theresa – had done so expertly. The cuffs were comfortable, but utterly secure.
They were just right for what Ken had in mind.
He grabbed the broken cuffs in his right hand, holding them near the triangular end of the plastic. With his left he felt for the locking mechanism of the cuffs that rested between his ankles. He found it, then pulled it up as far as he could. Not much, but it gave him a tiny bit of space.
He pushed his right hand behind his ankles, then poked the end of the broken cuff up, following the plastic spans around his ankles into their locking mechanism. He pushed the makeshift loid as far as he could, hoping he had guessed correctly. There should be a plastic lever that clicked against the ridges of each cuff, and he was hoping to wedge it open with the end of the broken cuff.
He pushed as far as he could. Then moved his hand to the ends of the cuffs that bound his ankles. He pushed on one.
Nothing. It was still locked firm.
He pushed the other.
And it moved.
He wiggled his jury-rigged lock pick back and forth, pushing firmly as he did. At first there was almost no give. He kept pressing. Sweat dripped from his forehead, concentration wringing perspiration from him faster than a full-out sprint could have.
The plastic pushed through. An inch. Two. Three.
He pulled his foot right free.
He left his other foot bound in the matching circle. He could walk, and he didn’t think he had the time to work it free. The phantom cries were slamming into him.
He was free. Free enough.
Now he just had to get out of this boxcar.
And find his family.
12
Ken tried to orient himself for a few long moments before admitting it was useless. He had no idea where he was in relation to the walls of the car, no idea whether he was close to one of the sides of the car, one of the ends, or standing dead center.
He walked straight ahead. Sliding one foot after another. His rubber soles caught a bit, giving him a jerking gait that the cracking roll of the train exacerbated. The trailing edge of the cuff on his left ankle rasped on the floor.
His hands waved in front of him in the darkness. His toes tried to curl back with every step, as though possessed of their own intelligence and certain that they would hit something.
For all he knew, they might be right. There was no way of knowing if this car was empty or full, if he was alone in here or accompanied by some unseen cargo.
He kept walking. Sliding and rasping.
His left hand – always his left hand, dammit! – hit something. Hard and cold and unyielding.
A moment later his right hand hit the same thing.
And the boxcar moved again. This time there was no way to pawn it off as a normal event or even some small issue with the train. A vibration traveled through the entirety of the car, rattling Ken’s bones.
He felt something faraway.
give up….
give in….
“Dear God, please, no,” he whispered.
13
The cry had come to his mind, no sound to his ears. He might have imagined it, the same way he had been imagining the cries of his children.
But Ken didn’t think so.
He felt the cold metal under his palms. It vibrated in time with the tok-tok of the train’s wheels, the clacking of steel on steel. He thought it was one of the inside walls of the boxcar. He hoped so. He didn’t want to have to feel around some kind of shipping containers to find the sides of his cell.
He moved to the side. Feeling the metal inch by inch. He went as fast as he could without missing anything. Sooner than he expected he hit a corner. He wondered if that meant he had been on the end of the car and was now rounding to one of the sides. No way to tell. If he was rounding to a side it was a good thing. If he had been on a side and was now moving to the end, he was wasting time.
He decided to keep on his course. There was no way of knowing what to do. When in doubt move forward.
He kept feeling along, feeling along. His mind began playing tricks on him, making it seem like the metal stretched forward an impossible distance under his hands. Like he was walking not feet or yards, but miles in the darkness.
Must have missed it.
Keep going.
Should have felt it by now.
Maybe it’s on the other side. Maybe I should walk to –
Just keep going!
Panic curled its way up his spine, threaded vines through his gut. The phantom screams of his children grew louder, and so did the others.
Give up….
Give in….
Louder now. Harder to pawn off as imagination.
He kept moving. His jaw quivered, though whether with terror or concentration he could not say. The two had merged into one animal.