His Obsession, Her Perfect Calculated Escape

Alma sat on the top step of the rotting wooden porch. The late afternoon sun beat down on the back of her neck. She kept her head down. Her pencil scratched against the lined paper of her history notebook. The air in the rust-belt town always smelled like sulfur and exhaust. It was a smell she was used to. The rusty chain-link fence at the edge of the yard rattled violently. Alma looked up. Tommy, a boy from down the street, sprinted into the dirt yard. His face was red. Sweat dripped from his chin. He stopped at the bottom of the porch steps. He grabbed his knees, gasping for air. "Alma," Tommy panted. His chest heaved. "It's Gus. They're at the site. They're hurting him." The pencil slipped from Alma's fingers. It rolled off the porch and into the dirt. Her history notebook slid from her lap, the pages crumpling against the wooden boards. Her mind went completely blank. A cold weight dropped into her stomach. She stood up so fast her knee clipped the plastic pitcher of lemonade resting on the railing. The pitcher tipped over. The plastic hit the floorboards with a loud crack. Yellow liquid spilled everywhere. The screen door behind her creaked open. Her mother, Marge, stepped out, wiping her hands on a dish towel. "Alma? What did you break?" Marge asked. Alma didn't look at her. She didn't have time to speak. She jumped off the side of the porch. Her boots hit the dirt hard. She grabbed the handlebars of her rusted bicycle leaning against the house. She threw her leg over the seat. Her feet slammed onto the pedals. She pushed down with all her weight. The bicycle lurched forward. She rode out of the yard and onto the uneven dirt road leading to the edge of town. The road was full of potholes. The bicycle tires bounced violently. The metal frame rattled under her. Her breathing turned shallow and fast. Dust kicked up from the tires, stinging her eyes. She blinked hard, refusing to slow down. The energy company's construction site appeared in the distance. Alma squeezed the handbrakes. The rubber brake pads screeched against the metal rims. The bike skidded to a halt. A thick crowd of townspeople blocked the road. Yellow caution tape was stretched across the entrance of the site. Alma dropped the bicycle. It crashed into the weeds. She walked into the crowd. She pushed her thin shoulders against the backs of the adults in front of her. "Move," she muttered. She shoved a man aside. Someone cursed at her. An elbow hit her ribs. She stumbled, her knees scraping against the rough gravel. The sharp pain shot up her legs. She bit her lip, tasting copper. She pushed herself up and kept shoving through the bodies. She finally broke through the front line of the crowd. The roar of a massive bulldozer engine vibrated in her chest. It was deafening. Harlan Sutkowski, the site foreman, stood on a mound of dirt. He held a red megaphone to his mouth. He was reading a forced eviction order, but the words were drowned out by the engine. Alma's eyes darted to the ground below Harlan. Her father, Gus Alexander, stood directly in front of the bulldozer's massive metal tracks. Gus held a stack of union papers high in the air. His jaw was set. He was not moving. Harlan lowered the megaphone. He looked down at a man standing near the machine. The man was Clell Hart, the head of the company's security. Harlan gave Clell a single, sharp nod. Clell stepped forward. Three large men in black shirts followed him. They rushed Gus. Clell grabbed the union papers from Gus's hands. He ripped them in half and threw the pieces into the mud. Gus yelled something Alma couldn't hear. He swung his fist. His knuckles connected with Clell's shoulder. It was a mistake. One of the men in black stepped behind Gus. He swung a heavy black baton. The hard plastic cracked against the back of Gus's knee. Gus let out a sharp grunt. His right leg buckled. He dropped to one knee in the mud. Alma's throat tightened. She couldn't breathe. "Dad!" she screamed. She lunged forward, trying to duck under the yellow caution tape. A heavy hand clamped down on her shoulder. A police officer in a tan uniform yanked her backward. "Stay back, kid," the officer barked. Alma struggled. She watched as Clell lifted his heavy combat boot. He kicked Gus squarely in the stomach. The impact made a sickening thud. Gus collapsed completely. He curled into a tight ball in the wet dirt. Blood poured from a cut on his forehead. It mixed with the muddy gravel beneath him. Jedediah Pruitt, an old man from the town, stepped across the tape to help Gus. One of Harlan's men shoved Jedediah hard in the chest. The old man fell backward into a puddle. Tommy's father, Waylon, ran forward. The men in black raised their batons. They started swinging at Waylon, hitting his arms and back. Alma thrashed against the police officer holding her. "Let me go!" she screamed. She stopped thrashing. She didn't reach back to scratch him, and she didn't scream. Instead, she went completely, terrifyingly still. She slowly turned her head and locked her eyes on the officer's face. Her gaze was so cold, so entirely devoid of childish fear, that it didn't look human. The officer hesitated, unnerved by the absolute void in her stare. "I said stay back," he muttered, his voice losing its bark. He didn't twist her arms or slam her onto the hood, but he kept a firm grip on her shoulders, forcing her to stay put near the perimeter. Alma didn't blink. She stood perfectly upright, her breathing evening out into a slow, rhythmic draw. She was forced to watch from a distance. She watched as three men pinned her father to the ground. They pulled his arms behind his back. The metallic click of handcuffs echoed over the engine noise. Harlan walked down the dirt mound. He looked at the silent, terrified crowd. He didn't use the megaphone. He just smiled. The men dragged Gus to his feet. His legs dragged in the mud. Gus lifted his head. Blood dripped into his left eye. His gaze found Alma standing frozen behind the yellow tape. His chest heaved. He looked at her. Slowly, Gus shook his head. It was a tiny movement. A silent command. Don't fight them. The men shoved Gus into the back of a second police cruiser. The doors slammed shut. The siren wailed. The cruiser's tires spun in the mud, kicking up dirty water, before it sped down the road. The officer holding Alma finally let go. He gave her a slight push backward to ensure she stayed behind the line. Alma stumbled on the uneven gravel. She dropped to her knees, falling hard onto the ground. Her bare hands sank into the cold, wet mud where her father's blood had spilled. She stayed on her hands and knees. She stared at the tire tracks left by the police car. Her lungs burned. Her fingers were freezing. The panic in her chest slowly stopped beating. It hardened. The fear drained out of her veins, replaced by something entirely different. It was a cold, absolute hatred.