Aaron held the gasoline lantern high, searching his basement cell for a way out, but the four concrete-block walls offered little encouragement. He climbed the stairs and tried the door. But as he expected, it was locked.
From the stair landing he had a different perspective on the space. He could see that the block walls only went about half way up — eight feet maybe — with wood-framing continuing the rest of the way to the joists high above. He noticed what appeared to be a small casement window on the far side of the room cut into the wood-framed portion of the wall about ten feet off the floor — it had been blacked out with spray paint. He felt a pang of hope as the window appeared to be reachable via a narrow ledge that ran along the tops of the concrete walls where the wood framing met the block. He set the lantern down on the landing and stepped out onto the precarious ledge.
He had to take care not to lose his footing, as every few inches a foundation bolt tried to trip him up, and a thick coating of gritty dust made the going even more treacherous. He used the exposed wooden 2x6 wall studs as handholds and dodged protruding nails that jabbed at his face and sticky cobwebs that tugged his hair.
He looked down, and he was higher than he thought — a fall from here would make the headlines. He continued on until at last he reached the small window, then flipped the latch and cranked it open.
The window opened outward at about three feet above ground level. The skies had cleared, and a cold wind blew through his hair and chilled his face as he stuck his head out to take a look. The moon was full, and he was able to see out across the ruins of the cannery's shipping yard.
The yard was a rectangular space about half a football field in area, bordered on two sides by the towering walls of the L-shaped cannery. The basement window where Aaron stood was beneath the east wing — the short leg of the L — that formed the eastern boundary of the yard; the main warehouse — the long leg of the L — formed the southern boundary. To Aaron's right, parallel to the main warehouse, an abandoned railroad spur fronted by a concrete loading dock made up the third, or northern boundary of the yard; while on the far side, straight across from Aaron, a massive, iron-banded, wooden water-tower overlooked the whole yard from the western boundary.
A tall, chain-link, prison-security style fence, which Aaron estimated to be fifteen feet high, ran under the water tower to the west and along the length of the dock to the north, enclosing the yard. It was fitted with three gates: a pair of large gates providing access to the dock and railway spur, and a single smaller gate near the water tower. Aaron could see that the two large gates were chained and padlocked, but the small gate was too far away to tell.
He leaned through the small opening, managing an arm and a shoulder before his feet slipped off the ledge and flailed through the air. His cheeks puffed out as the breath squeezed from his chest, and he struggled desperately to regain a foothold. Finally his toe caught on a wood stud and he was able to push hard with his leg and get his other shoulder through.
He paused to catch his breath, his upper body chilling in the wind, then grit his teeth, twisted and wiggled, and with an enormous final effort, popped through and flopped out onto the cold ground.
– He jumped to his feet and tucked into the shadows against the high wall of cannery's north-east wing. Sweat stung his eyes and he couldn't help imagining he was playing a level in a first-person-shooter with the difficulty rating set on insane — mercenary soldiers hiding everywhere, ready to blast him with AK-47s. Except this game was real.
He worked his way down the wall of the east wing then turned and hugged the south wall. As he rounded the boiler house, which protruded from the main warehouse about two-thirds of the way down its length, he noticed a lantern burning in one of the second floor windows. He judged it to be the one in Souther's office, the window next to his desk.
Damn it, he thought, why'd he have to choose tonight to work late…
Under this window, sloping all the way from just beneath it to the ground fifteen feet below, Aaron was astonished to see what appeared to be a huge pile of trash — like the tailings from a vast garbage mine. The disgusting obstacle filled the entire corner, where the boiler house met the cannery, and unfortunately it stood between him and the gate to freedom. In order to stay in the shadows, he would have to climb over it — a feat he quickly determined to be impossible. His only other option, short of aborting the escape and retreating to the basement, was to go around the pile, a route that would take him through the brightly moonlit area of the shipping yard, where avoiding detection would be next to impossible.
As he neared the moldering pile, he was nearly overwhelmed by a noxious stench and pulled his T-shirt collar up over his nose as a makeshift mask. Great black swarms of plump flies buzzed his head, and he jumped when an obese ship-rat dashed across his foot.
In the shadows it took a few seconds for him to make out any detail in the pile, but soon a chaotic sampling of Johnny Souther's favorite food groups came into view: Stomped beer cans, broken booze bottles, squashed soda cups, and crumpled paper napkins. Banana peels, smushed ketchup and mustard packets, half-eaten burgers, fermenting French fries, chunks of sub sandwiches, dried-up tacos, green-tinged beef burritos, and buckets of greasy chicken bones with furry potatoes.
He pushed on around the pile, hugging the shadows as long as possible, waving off flies as he went. He paused at the edge of the moon's shadow for a moment then stepped out into the moonlight.
Staying low, he managed a few encouraging steps. Then he stopped, shuddering, his stomach lurching.
In the bright moonlight he could see that the putrid drippings from this landfill horror show collected into a septic sludge river that flowed leisurely across the shipping yard, eventually sloughing off the edge of the concrete dock onto the deserted railroad tracks like the fermenting flesh from a rotting carcass. He fought off the urge to puke and quickly chose a route across. But as he toed carefully through the ooze he was startled by a distant, but clearly audible voice.
"Nice night for a moonlight stroll. Eh, kid?"
Cold fear gripped his heart, and his gaze flew to the window high above him. Backlit by the gasoline lantern was the silhouette of Johnny Souther in his leather fedora. Aaron's luck had run out.
He made a break for the small gate under the water tower, but his feet slipped in the sludge stream and he fell hard, pain knifing through his knee, and slid on his side through the grayish goo. Up and running again, he made it to the gate, but it too was padlocked. With no time to think he began to scramble up the towering chain-link fence. His shoes, slick with muck, provided little traction, and the rough galvanized fencing pinched and sliced his muddy hands raw.
Souther took a sip from a glass of whiskey, then calmly drew his gun and took aim, sighting on Aaron as he climbed. For some reason he had taken an interest in the boy and he didn't want to kill him (at that range, with a pistol, it would be difficult not to). He hoped Aaron would simply fail to clear the fence and end the silly escape attempt on his own.
But Aaron was strong and he progressed steadily toward the top, trying desperately to ignore his bleeding hands and the gun no doubt aimed at the back of his head.
Souther steadied himself and slowly squeezed the trigger.
Just as the bullet was about to leave the chamber, Aaron encountered the coil of razor wire topping the fence, and it tore mercilessly through his clothing and into his flesh, gripping him completely. His remaining strength drained from him, and he hung from the top of the fence like a discarded stuffed animal, hopelessly entangled, expecting to be cut in two by a mercenary's AK-47 at any moment.
Souther laid down his gun, and Aaron could hear the distinct sound of applause echoing about the yard.