ARC: Crushed by Eliza Crewe Read Free Book Online

reaches me, but grabs my arm and shoves me backwards. We go a half dozen feet, then she wrenches open the door to a storage closet and shoves me in, wedging herself in after me.
    “Where are you going?” I barely breathe the words, and still they earn me an elbowed hush in the ribs.
    When the coast is clear, she slides back into the hallway, me close on her heels. I try again. “Where are we–” I whisper, but she cuts me off with evil eyes and a mouthed “Shhh.”
    This time we don’t run into anyone, and Jo pulls me into another stairwell.  
    It’s dusty and doesn’t have a railing, and I try to imagine the layout in my head. If I’m right – and I’m nearly always right – this one actually goes nowhere. I shoot Jo a questioning look, which she ignores, and we continue up one more story. When we turn the corner to the last leg of stairs, Jo’s plan becomes clear in the shape of a small, mesh-enforced window.  The window is over our head, but there’s a handy crate filled with construction garbage shoved in the corner. Jo drags it under the window and we each balance on a skinny edge.
    On the other side of the valley we see the dull shine of cars, about ten of them, as they come down the road, surrounded by a motorcycle escort. The shine disappears behind some trees as the road curves.  Below us, lined in front of the bunker is our army of Crusaders. About two-hundred adults stand at the ready and, behind them, a ring of motorcycles.  As we wait, the riders kick-start their engines, and they burst to life with an angry roar. I know more Crusaders are hidden out of sight, ready to ambush the visitors if it becomes necessary.
    The cavalcade keeps coming, undaunted by our welcoming party. The cars are silver and expensive, BMWs I’d guess, with darkly tinted windows. The motorcycles aren’t the chrome-covered Harleys our people ride, but sleek little machines that keep the rider bent forward toward the handle bars.  As the cars approach, our motorcyclists arch around our army to circle alongside and behind the incoming vehicles.
    When the cars are a mere ten feet from our army they roll to a stop.  There’s a quiet minute, when nothing moves. Jo’s forehead is wrinkled, but more in thought than terror.
    “Jo–”
    She shushes me with a hand, then points out the window. A door in the first car opens.  A man in a suit, the same grey as the car, steps out.  He says something, but we can’t hear. Jo scans the crowd below, but all eyes are on the drama unfolding, and she eases up the window.
    The Sarge steps out of the crowd.  “Hello, Art.” She talks loudly enough for the assembled Crusaders, and, coincidentally, us, to hear. At the name, Jo draws in a breath.
    “Who– ?” I ask.
    “Arthur Graff. The Sergeant of the Northern Chapter,” comes the quick reply.
    So, expensive cars and suits notwithstanding, they must be Crusaders. But why are they here?
    I shift uneasily on the crate, and I look again to Jo for the answers. Again she ignores me, her focus out the window, where Graff is speaking.
    “Thank you, Lizzie.” Dear God! Lizzie? The Sarge’s name is Lizzie? “I’m sorry to drop in on you unannounced, but I was in the area and thought we needed to get some…things settled.”  
    What things? I flash a look at Jo, but she’s still fixated out the window.
    Graff doesn’t say more, and I see that the Sarge has her hand up as if to stop him.  She walks toward our guest, but stops with five feet still separating them.  “On Tuesday morning, what did I tell you I would be having for lunch?” she asks him.
    “Tuna on wheat. With relish,” Art answers, promptly.  
    The Sarge smiles and strides forward to shake his hand. Apparently it was a test to make sure he wasn’t a demon in disguise.  Everyone assembled lets out a collective breath. The angry grumbling of the motorcycles dies as they’re cut and helmets come off their riders. Hands are shaken and backs slapped all around.