Once her legs were clear and the pack was too, she rolled away from the opening, spinning like a log. When she came to rest, she was on her back with her eyes peering up at the missing cannery floor above. Beyond that opening and another floor up was a gaping hole in the roof.
There were stars, but not as many as she expected, probably due to the full moon washing out a portion of the night sky. Regardless, freedom never looked so amazing.
Summer brought her hands together in front of her chest and mouthed the words, “Thank you.”
Now all she had to do was figure out how to get out of the basement and up to the cannery’s production floor.
She sat up and looked back at her would-be tomb—more specifically, at the pole she’d grabbed onto to pull herself free.
That’s when she realized it wasn’t a pole after all. It was the handle of push broom. She didn’t remember seeing a broom in the production area before, yet there it was, exactly where she needed it, lying on top of the other stuff that had fallen through from above.
Talk about lucky. What were the odds?
That’s when she saw them. Footprints. Two sets. One leading to the broom and one leading away.
Summer unhooked the straps of her pack around her foot, then got up and went to inspect the prints, checking the edges with her index finger. They were clean, perfect edges and soft to the touch.
Someone had just been there.
Her heartbeat shot up, adding pressure to her chest as she followed the tracks leading away from her. They took her under the edge of the hole in the production floor. That’s where the tracks stopped.
She looked left, right, and behind, but she didn’t see anyone. If someone was with her, she couldn’t see them, reinforcing the notion that the someone was gone.
Whether they were still around or not, it didn’t change the facts. Whoever it was had just helped her climb out by placing the broom handle above the hole.
Her mind went into analysis mode, working through the scene.
She’d been buried deep and unless someone had been tracking her and stayed close, they would not have known where she was under all that debris. Not unless they heard her scratching at the snow with the can opener or had seen the light from the crayon torch just beneath the surface. Either way, that’s when they took action with the broom.
Given the sudden halt to the tracks, a rope must have been used from above. It was the only explanation, other than some kind of ghost had walked to this spot and then flown away.
A rope would allow a quick descent to place the broom, then a fast retreat. If she was right, then this person was a friend, not a foe, only helping for a moment.
They weren’t looking to take her into custody or do her harm. Therefore, it wasn’t any of Frost’s men, that was for sure. Nor was it the Scabs. They would have stuck around for dinner.
Summer put her foot inside her helper’s prints in the snow. They were at least six inches longer. They belonged to a man. A big man.
“The Nomad,” she mumbled, wondering if he might still be around, hiding in the shadows somewhere, watching her.
She craned her neck up and cupped her hands around her mouth before adding volume to her words. “If you’re still here, mister, thank you!”
She waited for an answer, but none came.
He must have taken off. That’s why nobody knew who The Nomad was. He never stuck around after helping those in need.
She thought about it for a moment and realized his tactics made sense, assuming he wanted to remain anonymous. If that were true, he would never remain to chat with those he saved.
Too bad he didn’t leave her his rope; then she could climb out in a snap. He must have figured she could do it on her own. Or perhaps he was needed elsewhere, heading out in a hurry to go help someone else.
Either way, she had to figure this part out on her own.
Summer went back to her pack. After a quick check of its contents, she slung it over her shoulders, then looked up.
The floor above was a good twenty feet away. Even if she scaled the highest point of the debris that had almost crushed her to death, she still wouldn’t be able to reach it.
It was too bad, too, because there was a section of conveyor just beyond the edge of the missing floor. If she could get close, there would be plenty to grab, allowing her to pull herself out.
Her eyes went in search mode, but she didn’t see anything she could use as a ladder. There was plenty of twisted metal and of course, snow and ice, plus some broken lumber, exposed wires, and other odds and ends. But nothing she could use to build a pyramid of boxes and climb out.
She opened her pack and took out the bundle of paracord. It measured roughly a hundred feet in length, but without being tied to something sturdy on the next floor up, it was basically useless without a grappling hook.
Some of the metal wreckage in front of her would work, but only if she had a blow torch or hacksaw. She’d need to cut off a section of conduit and bend it, or do the same with one of the metal support struts lying about.
The crayon torch she’d made might have helped, but she’d left it behind without thinking. And since there was no chance in hell she was going to push her luck and climb back down into that hole, she’d need to figure out a different plan.
That’s when she remembered the caster wheel.
She snatched it from her pack and held it up for inspection. The weight was good and she could tie the paracord to its axle fork, just below the ball-bearing swivel. So that’s what she did, using a few extra knots to make sure it would not come loose.
Now that the wheel was attached, she swung the rope in a series of vertical circles, like a cowboy preparing a rope trick. After the fifth revolution, she let the wheel fly, sending it straight up.
It clanked hard against one of the legs of a conveyor, making a horrible pinging sound, then bounced off. Gravity took over, sending it straight back at her, making her duck out of the way.
Summer picked up the wheel. “Come on, girl. You can do this.”
She prepped the paracord again, swinging it the same as before. This time when she let it go, she aimed higher, setting the lariat free from her hand a split second sooner and with more force.
The wheel took flight, soaring above the edge of the conveyor with the paracord trailing behind it. A second later, it disappeared from view, clanking again when it hit something beyond her view.
Summer yanked on the rope.
It didn’t budge.
That was the good news. The problem was, she didn’t know how secure it was on the other end. She’d thrown it too far, landing out of sight. Now it was stuck and she couldn’t bring it back for a better shot.
There was only one way out—straight up.
It was now or never.
She wrapped her hands around the cord and began to climb, praying the makeshift grappling hook would hold.
Franklin Horton gave his newly-acquired patrol the hand signal to move ahead, working in four sets of pairs along the south side of a partially demolished store called the Liquor Barn.
He could see inside the smashed windows from his position. Several snow drifts remained in pristine condition, protected from the sun’s reach by the shadows. No obvious footprints.
The plan was to sweep each building, checking every inch for signs of their intended target. Unlike his predecessor, the late Slayer, Horton believed in caution before advancing.
Slow is steady and steady is fast.
Simon Frost had given Horton a clear set of objectives—take command of Slayer’s unit and find the girl named Summer. Bring her back to him alive.
Horton didn’t need Frost to lay out the penalty for failure, either. He already knew the answer, thanks to what he witnessed in Frost’s office at the time of his promotion to team commander.