Retribution

Chapter Two

January, 1940: South America

 The sudden light which flooded the room burned into Johnny Morgan's eyes, jerking him painfully awake. “What’s going on?” He grumbled crankily as he sat up rubbing his eyes, trying to let them adjust to the brightness and Jerry Weinman's silhouette as he looked at his coworker standing by the light switch. “I thought you were working on a project for Torres?”

Jerry's voice was harsh from excitement: “We need to get out to the job site now!”

Johnny robotically leapt out of bed and hastily pulled the nearest pair of black paints on over his long johns. “What’s going on?” he asked for the second time.

“There’s a storm coming in . . . looks bad.” Jerry flung over his shoulder as he opened the room's one tiny closet and plopped to the ground to pull on a pair of tall rubber boots, thrusting his feet into them as he explained: “Grab your boots. We need to get the rest of the structural joints into place before it hits or the entire structure could come down.”

Johnny reached over Jerry, still fumbling with his boots, and pulled out his own work boots, hurriedly lacing them up around his ankles. “What about all our tools? Do we have time to get them from the shop?”

Jerry gave a vicious tug on his last knot, hoped up to his feet, kicked open the door and jerked his head motioning for Johnny. “Get a move on it will you! No.  Sam or whatever that intern's name was—Philip—is meeting us there with some.”

Johnny nodded and staggered after Weinman through the open door, not bothering to shut it as he shoved his arms into a black raincoat. “I’m ready.”

The dark, pouring rain almost obscured the steel structure from view when they arrived at the site. It cascaded and bounced off the sides of the metal skeleton, drenching Johnny's hatless head and running down his hair in rivulets. I needn't have bothered pulling on that jacket he thought with irony—it only took a few minutes before he was soaked to the bone. His feet sank several inches into the deep mud and stuck with each step. He grimaced and squinted to see through the rising wind which blew the rain at a slant into his eyes.

“Damn this wind!” Jerry swore through clenched teeth.

It seemed like an age had passed before they'd reached the other car which sat waiting with its motor running, its headlights failing to penetrate more than a few feet of the thick darkness.

The two men huddled against the huge car as Jerry knocked on the driver's window.

It rolled down a mere two inches to reveal the senior architect's white, drawn face, Sam Everhart. Beside him sat Philip Drake, Everhart's intern who did most of Sam's work.   

“Where’s the tools?" Jerry's voice demanded, "You going to get out and help, or just sit in there like an idiot?”

“They’re in the trunk.” Sam replied, his eyes panicky as they rested on the looming black structure and all its scaffolding. “I’ll open it for you.”

“Why, thank you.” Johnny replied sarcastically as Sam got out of the car and winced when his shiny black dress shoes sank into the mud. The passenger door opened next, and a figure in a long yellow rubber raincoat stepped out.

Then all four figures were at the trunk of the car waiting as Sam fumbled with his keys in the lock. Jerry let out another curse under his breath as he reached in and grabbed a box of clamping bolts and fasteners. “This all you could bring?" Something apprehension dawned in his voice, and he said slowly, "You'd better pray to god that those hold the load."