Free One Last Night by Clara Bayard

paydirt. The huge metal thing wasn’t operational. The building had probably been upgraded years ago, but it was cheaper to leave it there than remove it. In a wooden crate beneath it I found a set of rusty tools I couldn’t identify. And at the bottom, one I could. A crowbar.
    I was covered in dust and sweat from the search, but it was worth it. I pulled the crowbar out with my good arm and smiled. A rush of adrenalin went through me, dulling the pain that throbbed from my shoulder.
    Not wanting to waste a second, I went back over to the door and put my ear against it, listening. Nothing but silence. I wedged the bar in the gap next to the doorknob, figuring I could use the leverage to force it open. But after two minutes I gave up on that plan. The door itself was old and groaning, but the lock was solid metal and I thought the crowbar and wall might give out first.
    I leaned against the door to catch my breath and come up with another plan. I thought back to all the movies and television shows I’d seen of similar situations. Sam had teased me for thinking real life was like fiction, but it’s all I had to go on. An idea flickered. Some distant memory about hinges on old doors.
    Squinting in the gloom I saw the door was attached on two sets, one at the top and another near the bottom. They were painted over, but peeling, the rusty-looking metal showing through quite a bit. That seemed promising.
    I braced myself, wedged the bar into the crack just below the bottom hinge and pushed with all my strength, bent double to lean into it. Jagged shards of pain shot down my arm, but instead of screaming I pushed harder, putting all my weight into it. For a long time nothing happened. The door didn’t budge and my agony intensified. But still I pushed harder, channeling the pain and frustration and fear and anger. And finally, after an eternity, something cracked.
    I pushed even harder, sweat dripping down my back and tears sliding down my face. My jaw ached from how hard my teeth were gritted. Another crack and a splinter. I could barely hear it with the roaring in my ears, but I could see it. The hinge itself separated from the door and dangled from the frame. I was halfway there.
    Success provided renewed energy and I reached up to repeat the action on the top hinge. This one was harder to get. Even at my height it was too high for me to have good leverage. But it didn’t matter, and I just focused and went for it. Instead of steady pressure I had to rely on short bursts of increasing strength.
    Another age passed, but finally it gave way. Just like the lower one, the hinge disconnected from the door itself. I pushed the crowbar farther into the gap and pulled this time. The door opened a tiny crack. Peering through, I saw the hallway was thankfully empty. With the door open a bit I could hear sounds. Voices coming from down the corridor. I couldn’t tell if they were from the other room or down in the tunnel, but it didn’t matter. No one was coming right that moment, so I had time to do what I needed to.
    I propped the crowbar against the wall and stuck my hands in the open back side of the door. Wincing from using my bad arm, my vision grayed a little and then cleared. Knowing my energy reserves were almost depleted, I hurried. With all the strength I could muster, I pulled. Wood groaned and metal squeaked, and as I thanked the gods of late night movies, the door started to open. It wasn’t far, but it was enough. The old wood, already somewhat warped, moved for me. I held it open, grabbed the bar, and started to squeeze through. And, of course, I got stuck. Breasts and butt too big, I shoved and pulled and shimmied and cursed.
    Finally, holding my breath and thinking thin thoughts, I managed to slip through. My skin scraped, my shirt ripped and I felt my shoulder wound begin to bleed again, but none of that mattered. I was out of the room and one step closer to finding Sam.
    Brandishing the crowbar like a weapon, I