If you don't have the time to read, you don't have the time or the tools to write - Stephen King, On Writing, p. 147
The Viewing Platform
Sneaking along the fence Roger risked a glance at the viewing platform to his left. The guard was leaning casually against the barrier, smoking.
Moving faster, slipping through the undergrowth, he could feel the tension in his body. His heart was hammering. Sweat poured over his face and he swiped it away with his sleeve. One misstep, one snapping twig and it was over.
A whistle came from his right. He stilled. Crouching, trying to resist the urge to scratch at the runnels of sweat on his neck, he waited. A tense minute later the boots passed within two feet of his hiding place. He was convinced they would stop. Gunfire, a single shot.
He caught himself as his body reeled. His mind had so convinced him of that scenario that he had come close to passing out in terror. He was willing to fight for the cause but dying for it was not on his agenda.
A second whistle sounded and he got moving. He reached the dull grey pillar of the viewing platform and pressed his back against it. Its solidity reassured him. The cold metal through his thin shirt hardened his heart, brought back the images the whistler, Darren had shown him.
Until then he hadn’t been certain that he could go through with the plan. Had he harbored such thoughts they would not have availed him. From somewhere to his right came a shout.
“Wanted in the guardhouse”
Darren’s assured voice. Just a faceless security Joe following orders. The guard above asked for confirmation, was given a repeat performance. Roger could hear him grumbling as he descended the ladder and set off across the compound.
Five minutes. He knew that was all he had. He wiped his fingers on his jeans and still fumbled the explosives as he took them from his backpack. The world actually stood still for a split second. Then he had the taped block, secure.
In two minutes he had it placed on the pillar, primed and was running for the car awaiting him on the far side of the highway. He threw himself into the passenger seat and shot an enquiring look at Darren.
“Unlocked. Do it.”
Roger took out the untraceable, disposable mobile and pressed the send button. Darren gunned the engine and roared away. A second later the sound hit them, rolling over the fleeing car and rattling the windows. A cloud of flame and smoke brightened then darkened the sky behind them as the pillar collapsed. It left a gaping hole in the compound fencing.
A nondescript truck passed them heading toward the compound. As it disappeared in the rearview mirror, Roger saw the back doors swing open. Women began to pour out of the compound and clamber into the truck.
Darren and Roger smiled at each other as a cop car and an ambulance fled by them. There would be one less incidence of female slavery in the world after today.