Gretel (36 page)

But the Klahrs played a different role in this story. They weren’t part of this twisted history that her grandmother brought here so long ago. They were of
this
world. Back Country folk. Righteous and charitable. They had saved Gretel when her mother went missing (not dead, Gretel remembered again, her mother wasn’t dead). Even when Odalinde suggested the Klahrs had betrayed Gretel, in the car on the way to Deda’s, Gretel knew she was wrong. She knew they were as pure a people as she could ever expect to know, and Gretel would never bear losing them. Even if she found her mother—when she found her—Gretel would always need the Klahrs.

“It’s okay, Gretel, I’ll be extra careful. Got my companion, you know.” Mr. Klahr unhinged the twin barrels of his shotgun and loaded the chamber. “I’ll be just fine.”

Gretel’s fear hadn’t shaken Mr. Klahr, but Mrs. Klahr’s face was now serious and concerned. “Be careful, Georg. If something’s happening you can’t handle, you come back here.”

Mrs. Klahr’s tone left no space for discussion, and Mr. Klahr simply nodded, then walked briskly to his truck and drove off.

Anika opened the exit door and could see instantly that night would be arriving soon. She had freed herself from captivity, but her struggle to get home remained, and darkness would present a formidable obstacle. She had no idea where she was, and The System officer would surely be back soon, likely with that savage witch in tow. Wandering these foreign parts in the dark seemed all but suicidal.

But as Anika stepped on the ground outside the bleak building, a flood of recognition overtook her. The smells and landscape, and even the siding and structure of the building itself, all became familiar. She knew this place. Perhaps not the exact earth she stood on, but for certain, she knew this ground. Or at least the area surrounding it. She looked to the sky and inhaled deeply, attempting to coax a memory from her senses. It was there, this memory, bulging at the surface of her mind; and from what she intuited, it wasn’t some stray thought from a single moment in her distant past—this memory was close, with a feeling of security and routine. It was a memory of Home.

As Anika stood recollecting, she absently took note of the land extending before her at the back of the property, and how it proceeded quite differently from that in the front. When she’d arrived at the warehouse, she recalled the road leading to the front of the building had been long and flat, innocuous and rural and had ended rather lazily at the front door. But the back sloped steadily away from the house until, at a distance of perhaps thirty yards or so, the land dropped off dramatically, sloping at such an angle that she couldn’t see the ground below. The building, it seemed, was atop a large hill.

Anika walked toward the edge of the slope, not knowing exactly what to expect, and at about halfway to the drop-off could see another building enter into view. It was just the roof at first, and then, as she proceeded closer to the edge, the whole of the large industrial complex below came into view. And the memory was complete. Anika knew exactly where she was.

She jogged zombie-like the rest of the way to the edge of the hill and looked down, breathing spastically in disbelief, consciously slowing her inhalations to keep from hyperventilating.

It was the cannery.

There was no mistaking it. The rusted out factory shell and overly secure barbed wire fencing that strangled the grounds were as recognizable to Anika as her own reflection. She’d seen it a thousand times. It had been years, but her family—and at times, before the children, just she and Heinrich—had spent countless hours at Rifle Field picnicking and playing games, or, in their somewhat wilder and more adventurous days, shooting their guns through the fence at the broadside of the building. She was staring down on the Weinheimmer Cannery. It was impossible, Anika thought. Her house was right across the lake! She’d no way to get to it from this spot, of course—even if she were to get over the fence she’d need a boat to get across the water—but if not for the trees and cannery, she would be able to see her house from where she stood! She wouldn’t speculate as to why her father would have held her so close to her home until much later; her thoughts now were soaked of her children.

During the times she’d spent at Rifle Field she’d barely even noticed the hill upon which she now stood, and she’d certainly never dreamed there had been a warehouse at the top. It made sense now of course, this warehouse—maintenance workers and others would have needed a place to store supplies and tools or whatever—but it just wasn’t something you thought of, particularly since the cannery had been closed now for so many years. And with the dense foliage of the Backwoods and its location so far from the main road, the warehouse simply wasn’t visible from any place she’d ever been. She supposed that had the imposing fence that surrounded the cannery not existed they may have explored Rifle Field further, but the fence
had
always been there, and they’d never even considered what was beyond it.

Anika’s initial instinct was to scream for help. Their neighbors with the orchard, the Klahrs, lived on this side of the lake, had for decades, so it was possible—probable even
—
that
they
were aware of this place, and would have heard her voice if the sound carried right. Perhaps she’d even be heard at her own house. But Anika was disoriented and felt wildly insecure about her judgment of the distance. She’d never been great with directions and ranges to begin with, and after all she’d been through, she felt even less certain of her internal gauges. Besides, even if someone were to hear her, the noise would be faint and directionless, likely to be dismissed as far off children at play, or perhaps a bird. And, more importantly, for all Anika knew, the officer and the witch were rolling to a stop in front of the warehouse at this very moment, and the yelling would be as good as wrapping a chain around her neck and locking it to one of the warehouse shelves. Never again, she thought, I’ll die before ever being a prisoner again.

But could she make it over the fence? As fences went, it wasn’t particularly tall, and the portion of it that formed the barrier was standard chain link; she assessed it would be easy enough for her to scale to the top. But it was at the top where things got problematic. Four or five rows of gruesome barbs formed a wide V-shape that ran the entire length of the fence, making it as difficult to get on top of it as across it. From where she stood now, the jagged steel canopy appeared as some giant metal crocodile, waiting for her entry into its agape jaws, perhaps promising to take her across the lake—a painful retelling of the fable about the mischievous gingerbread boy, Anika thought, only this time she would star in the ill-fated title role.

But Anika knew a choice had to be made, and there were really only two options: head back down the long, dirt road on which she’d arrived, risking imminent darkness and the openness that seemed certain to expose her to The System officer; or, scale the fence in front of her and take her chances with the barbs and the awaiting lake beyond. She hadn’t swam in years, she suddenly realized, but she was comfortable enough in the water, and she trusted that instincts and desperation would take her the distance she needed.

It was the fence that would be the challenge though, and if that was to be her choice—the fence—she would need to move quickly.

Anika descended the hill and walked up to the fence, pushing the weight of her body against it and gripping her fingers through the links like a prisoner of war. It felt strong, stronger than she would have suspected after so many years. She could see through to Rifle Field the exact spots where she and her family used to lay out their blanket and set the picnic platters, Heinrich always meticulous in his combing of the patches to avoid settling on an ant hill. The grass was wildly overgrown now though it appeared certain areas had been recently trampled and used.

This scenario, her precise position standing at the fence, reminded her of something from a nightmare: pursuing some elusive goal—in this case, her freedom—yet ultimately able only to observe it in silent frustration as the monsters steadily moved in.

But this wasn’t a dream; here she was able to make choices, and Anika’s mind instantly sharpened as she assessed the fence and the possible ways over. The barbs atop were even more imposing at this close angle, and a panic started in Anika’s chest at the sight of the rusty aluminum thorns. She could bear the pain, she thought, but if she got caught—stuck—it would almost certainly spell the end.

She walked the length of the fence to the front wall of the cannery which stood only a few feet from the barrier. Rifle Field stared at her, mocking her with its closeness. Anika surveyed everything, not sure exactly what she was looking for, but loosely hoping that, perhaps, time had created a gap at the base of the fence, some opening wide enough for her to squeeze through. She wasn’t as thin as she’d ever been, that was certain, but even if she were as thin as Gretel it wouldn’t have mattered, the spaces between the bottom of the fence post and ground were sound, and not big enough for her even to put an arm through.

She dropped to her knees and raked her hand into the grass, clawing it like a badger. The earth was surprisingly loose, and Anika came away with a mound of wet dirt that left an ample hole just to the side of the fence post. With the cannery situated so close to the lake, the ground below the fence was essentially mud, and could be removed without much effort. But who knew how deep the fence went, and even with the ground being damp, her fingers would be numb in no time. If she had a day to dig, or even several hours, and if she were rested and nourished with the morning sun above her, and if virtually every single thing about how she felt right now was different, she was sure she could tunnel under using her hands alone. But Anika figured she didn’t have that time, and her strength was dwindling.

Once again Anika stared up at the evil barbs above her. It was impossible, she thought—over or under—she simply didn’t have the energy.

Anika slowly dropped her head to her chest and, for the first time in months, after all she’d seen and been subjected to, after all of the betrayal and cruelty that had become her daily life, she began to cry. Her weeping was almost silent as she stood and turned to face the cannery. Her eyes remained closed while she tilted her face to the darkening sky. The bout of tears lasted only a few seconds—Anika would later consider this burst of sorrow was somehow necessary, physiologically, as a means of cleansing her mind, ultimately allowing to enter the thought that would free her.

With her head still angled up toward the roof of the cannery, Anika opened her eyes. And she saw it. A window.

At first Anika rejected what she was seeing as an illusion, a mirage, a cruel trick of her desperate mind. But her memory instantly reacted, assuring Anika the window was real. She’d seen it before, of course, during any number of the Rifle Field visits, but each time it had gone unregistered: an unnoticed speck on the landscape.

Anika bolted toward the foot of the hill to the cannery entrance on the opposite side of the building, nearly losing her footing on the grass as she navigated the corner and then braked, almost instantly, in order to avoid passing the thick metal door. She stood tall and looked indifferently at the threshold, and then let out a disbelieving chuckle at the unlatched door before her. The rusted metal ring that normally, presumably, would have been looped through with the steel shackle of a thick padlock, was empty. Anika unfolded the latch, which barely resisted despite its worn, corroded look, and opened the cannery door.

The interior of the cannery was mostly empty, except for the large canning tables and various-sized tubes of copper piping—some as large as tree trunks—which ran in maze-like fashion from floor to ceiling along the walls. There was little else, however, to indicate that this building had ever been a cannery. There was no heavy machinery or shelving, no stacks of cans or old Weinheimmer signs, and Anika assumed everything had either been gutted by the failed owners or repossessed by the State.

But there were tools strewn about the facility, everything from hammers to pickaxes, which, Anika presumed, had been used to extract sealers and conveyors and whatever else of value existed from their moorings. She figured she wouldn’t need much to get through the window, and she scooped a thick, wrought iron claw hammer from the dusty floor. There was also a wide barn shovel leaning against the far wall, and Anika briefly reconsidered the tunneling-under plan. She decided to stay the course and head to the window, but she grabbed the shovel anyway. You never knew.

From there everything moved like a storm. She scaled the steps leading to the second floor of the cannery and then stopped in front of the window—the window she’d taken notice of, remarkably, for the first time only minutes ago. The glass panes were missing almost entirely, probably broken out decades ago, but the frame of the window remained. It was weak-looking and well rusted, but the grid which once divided the panes was intact and would need to be broken out. But Anika was sure in her plan, she had seen everything play out the moment she spotted her escape route from the ground below, and knew the frame would pose little difficulty. She gripped the iron hammer and banged once on the cross grill of the window and then again. Anika suspected the window would be frail, but when it virtually disintegrated on the second gavel-like blow, she was incredulous.

She placed her first foot on the sill, and then her second; her body was still plenty thin enough to fit between the jambs, though she did have to crouch slightly to avoid the head of the window. She looked just beyond the fence to her landing spot, and then back to the floor of the cannery.

The shovel.

Without really knowing why, Anika stepped down from the sill, grabbed the spade, and tossed it out of the window and over the fence to Rifle Field. She then climbed back up and re-squatted, and with both of her hands gripped to the sill on either side of her feet, Anika took one last breath, and jumped.