Chapter 11 - The Delivery Van
The unmistakable hydraulic squeal of a delivery vehicle's air brakes was followed by the low, idling rumble of an engine outside the main iron gates. Clara held the newborn tight against her ribs, her hand cupping the baby’s mouth just enough to muffle the fragile cries without restricting her breathing.
Through the wooden slats of the shed wall, she saw a large, brown delivery parcel van stopped in front of the locked vehicle gates. The driver had stepped out, holding an electronic signature pad, looking around with visible confusion. The gate was completely shut, and the call-box was unlit due to Ethan having shut down the primary electrical breakers.
The driver walked up to the gate, rattling the iron bars before pressing the buzzer that Clara knew was dead. He glanced at his manifest, swore under his breath, and turned to walk back toward the cab of his truck.
This was her only chance. The gatehouse was three hundred yards down the winding gravel driveway, and the private guard was likely still inside the gate structure, waiting for the delivery driver to leave before logging his shift report. If the parcel driver pulled away, the property would return to total isolation until morning.
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Clara moved with mechanical determination. She used the twine to bind the cord in two places, severing it with the paring knife, then tucked the baby securely inside the remnants of her knit cardigan, tying the sleeves around her own neck like an improvised sling.
She could barely stand. Her legs trembled violently, her lower abdomen screaming in protest with every shift of weight. Leaning heavily against the tractor, then the doorframe, Clara pushed the shed door open and stepped out into the blinding glare of the afternoon sun.
