The fall especially hurt his left leg, which had ached ever since he twisted his back when – it seemed like a hundred years ago – all this began.
Mostly, though, it hurt his wrists, where the zip ties wrapped tightly around them. They bent outward, farther than they were designed to go, the ligaments and tendons straining at their limits. Pain speared through his wrists and forearms.
He barely noticed it.
He noticed the crack.
The twin cables that looped around his wrists joined in the center, between them. And he thought – hoped – that the crack had come from there.
That the cuffs had started to break.
He stood. Twisted his wrists. There was little give. As far as he could tell, no more give than there had been. He slammed the cuffs down against his stomach, twisting his wrists at the same time.
Nothing happened.
Ken started to hear screaming. He jerked, spinning in the darkness. Trying to pinpoint the sounds. His children! They were shrieking! The high-pitched yells of Hope, the breathy screams of little Lizzy.
A moment later he realized he was hearing his own fears. Reality had not bent to that extreme. Not yet. Not that he could hear.
But it would. He had to get out of here. Had to find his wife and his children.
After all he had gone through, all he had suffered, he was back where he had started: alone and unsure where his family was. If they were alive or dead.
He slammed the cuffs into his stomach again, so hard that the breath puffed out of him. So hard he knew there would be a long, thin line of purple across his gut in the coming hours. Just one more painful voice to join the growing choir of agony that was his body.
The cuffs didn’t give.
The screams began. He thought they were in his mind. But here in the dark, here alone, it was getting harder to distinguish between reality and imagination, between truth and terror.
One more slam against his stomach.
Nothing.
The train shuddered again. He worried about what was causing the shift.
Another shudder, and he almost lost his footing in the black.
And knew what he had to do.
8
Knowing is not the same as doing.
There are untold millions of people – or had been, before the world ended, before it was (according to Aaron) invaded – who knew how to succeed in one endeavor or another. Who knew everything there was to know. But who failed in one particular: they never did. Because doing requires a first step. A moment of commitment, and a leap of faith.
An opportunity to fail.
Ken knew that his family was relying on him. But in a strange way that just made it harder to make that first move. Because standing here in the dark he could almost convince himself that Aaron was wrong, that all this would blow over, that no one was in danger. That the cowboy would never raise his hand against Ken’s family.
Here, in the closed boxcar, Ken didn’t even have to close his eyes to stay in the dark.
But then the screams started. The phantom cries that seemed to urge him beyond what he was capable of.
Ken steeled himself. This was going to hurt.
He had fallen before. Now he leaped. Jumped as high as he could, angling his body so that he would be parallel to the steel floor when he hit the apex of his leap.
Slammed down.
He screamed. He couldn’t help it. Every muscle he had – including a few he had never been aware of – twitched. His wrists had ached before. Now they were on fire.
The cuffs were still intact. His wrists still bound.
He slogged his way to his feet. It was hard. Not just because his feet were bound, not just because he ached, but because his body was fighting him.
Most people are not made to cause themselves premeditated pain. Most people will fight against it, no matter how necessary it may be. They may jump in front of cars, rush into burning buildings. But those are usually reactions without thought. To contemplate such things is usually to hesitate. To fear.
The battleground is littered with the bodies of those who rush in. And with the cowering figures of those who have time to think of what lays ahead.
Ken wrenched himself to his feet. Jumped. And again.
The fourth time, the cuffs popped away. Flew into the darkness. He was free.
No. Not free.
His feet were still bound. And he had no idea how to loose the cuffs that bound them.
9
Ken felt his ankles. The cuffs were situated the same way his wrist cuffs had been: twin circles with the locking head in front.
He flopped over on his stomach and kicked against the floor. Knowing it was useless, that his feet would get in the way of the cuffs and prevent any serious impact. Still, it was all that came to mind.
The impact brought out a muted bong from the floor, a painful spasm from the back of his left leg. Both feet tingled, all ten toes went numb and then seemed to catch fire almost immediately.