Page 64 of Unmasked Anarchy
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Istalk to the duffel, my knees wobbling as I try to get my legs to function.There’s no time to hesitate, so I grab the zipper and jerk it, half-waiting for some tripwire to pop and take my hands with it.The thing unzips easy, more casual than a gym bag, and inside I find exactly what I expect, a handmade bomb that looks lethal.It reads 1:06:37.I have a little over an hour.
I pull the bag open further, hoping to see instructions, a schematic, something.There’s nothing, just the bomb.This doesn’t look like some movie device, no blinking fancy preparation, no colored wires waiting to be snipped.Just a bunch of industrial crap and a clock that is a horrible reminder of what’s coming.
I wipe at my forehead, the sweat instantly replaced.I can’t escape, not without being seen, so my only hope is getting this thing out of here before the clubs arrive.I don’t know what the kill radius is, but if they put it here to wipe out both clubs, it’s got to be big.If I get it far enough into the woods, it might shake us, but it won’t kill us.
I hope.
I eye the barn door.My hands are still shaking, blood sticking on my fingers, but I press them against my pant leg and order myself to focus.The guy said there were eyes on us, but there’s no one in here now which means they aren’t watching me, because they would have come the second I freed myself.
That gives me a glimmer of hope.
I haul the duffel up.Jesus, this thing is heavy.I sling it over my shoulder, and the momentum nearly topples me, but I catch myself.Each pulse in my wrists comes with a blast of fresh agony, but I grip the straps and move.Just inside the barn door, I pause, strain to hear anything—cars, voices.There’s nothing but birds and a soft breeze flowing.I creep up to the door and ease it open.
The clearing outside is blinding.Sun slices through low morning haze, painting everything gold.I blink fast, scan for movement.To the left, a pickup sits behind a shed, rusted rails catching the light.No one inside.To the right, the woods are probably fifty meters or so, a clear line with nothing in the way.
No matter where I look, the woods are thick and full.Still, it’s my best option, so I slip out the door, keeping low, and make for the trail.Each step jostles the bomb against my back and lights up every pain receptor in my midsection.But I keep going.I have to.
I just pray all this movement doesn’t set the bomb off.Though from what I understand about these types of bombs, is that they can be moved and transported, as they are made exactly for that.But when that timer goes off...nobody would want to be around.
The woods close in on me the second I step in, and I see just how thick they are.It’s going to take a hell of an effort to get through them quickly.Gritting my teeth, I hike the duffel up with one hand, positioning it better, then I use my other hand to start pushing branches and shrubs out of the way.
I can hear my own heartbeat tunneling through my skull.
After a minute or so I stop, glancing over my shoulder and listening.Nothing.If they were watching me, they’d be here by now.My guess, is that they’re waiting hidden at the end of the road at a safe distance, making sure the club arrives, and their bomb goes off.
I keep going.
I stop at a break in the trees.The ground drops off here, a sudden slope choked with fallen down trees.From here I can see the old dirt road snaking to the east.It’s almost peaceful.Almost.I set the duffel down and drop beside it, chest heaving.The clock now reads 48:14.I’ve burned so much time getting here.
I need to move faster.
Taking a burning breath into my lungs, I push up and keep moving.I pick up the pace, shoving the trees harder, jumping over fallen logs and letting the bushes scratch my arms as I barrel through them.I don’t know how far I need to go, but I’m going to walk until it reaches thirty minutes to go, then I am going to put it down and get the hell out.
I just hope that gives me enough time.
The minutes chew down, and with each step, I wonder if my death is inevitable.I don’t let the thought linger.Instead, I move.Leaf mold sticks to the sweat of my palms; needles crackle and crunch under my boots.At one point, the thorns tear a line down the inside of my arm.No time to care.I keep moving.
The woods fight me.It’s like they know what’s on my back, and they want me out.I try to think how far a bomb blast would reach—what counts as “far enough.”I guess anything has to be better than it being in the barn.I force my legs to move, counting steps, counting breaths.At thirty minutes, I stop and nearly collapse, knees buckling under the load.
I set the duffel in a hollow at the base of a large pine.It looks small, almost harmless, sitting on the ground.I back away slowly, then turn and run, letting everything behind me fall out of focus.The path back feels so much harder than before, probably because my adrenaline is pumping and I feel like the world is going to collapse around me at every moment.
