Devastation Road by Jason Hewitt

the beam and was trying uselessly to lift it. Owen could hear other rafters above them shifting, straining against the unexpected movement.
    ‘Janek, come on!’ he shouted. ‘It’s going to collapse. We need to get this man out.’
    ‘Please,’ the man begged. ‘
Janku, proboha, prosím!
’
    He managed to free an arm and reached out a dusty hand.
    ‘
Ne
,’ Janek said. ‘
To je za Bohumíra
.’
    The man then raised his hand to protect his face – a
stop, no, wait
– but the blast echoed through the ruins and the man screamed out, his hand suddenly bloody.
    ‘Jesus Christ,’ said Owen. ‘What the hell do you think you’re doing?’
    There were voices outside, then shouts.
    ‘For fuck’s sake, come on!’
    Then the two of them were scrambling through the rubble, the baby held to Owen’s chest as they pushed through the charred remains of the doorway and out into the rain. They sprinted across
the field, towards a line of trees, a bank and a river. He could hear a lone soldier chasing them and shouting, ‘
Halt! Halt, oder ich schieße!
’
    The trapped man was still shrieking as a shot whistled past, and another, and they heard the clang of a bullet hitting metal.
    Owen and Janek ran.
    They let the river take them, the slow current like invisible hands pulling the boat downstream. Around them the rain hissed, hundreds of thousands of droplets spearing the
water and splashing up again, every one a heartbeat. There were no oars and they were left to the river’s will; only occasionally would one of them lean over the side and paddle a little with
a hand to stop the boat from beaching or getting caught up among the overhanging branches. Otherwise they glided, hopelessly adrift.
    The boat was flimsy and the water rose up to just beneath the gunwale. Owen held the baby, keeping him as dry as he could within his open jacket. The infant’s arms and legs squirmed, and
his face screwed up and puckered but no tears came. Owen wore the mushroom cap Janek had given him and the towel requisitioned from the farmer’s widow wrapped around his shoulders. The rain
stuck his trousers and jacket to him and gradually filled the boat until there was water seeping in through the bottom of his shoes as well.
    They did not talk, Owen facing forward, while Janek sat opposite him, his back to the oncoming river, shaking uncontrollably. He would not look at Owen. He stared into the water as it passed
beneath them, furiously alive with rain.
    They were out of control, Owen thought. This boy was out of control.
Brothers
, Janek had said. But in Owen’s mind, whatever bound them together was starting to feel more like a
knot tightening around his neck.
    The house was tucked away behind the trees, but even as they stole past in the boat, they had seen that the ruins were empty. They walked around it, warily at first, as the rain
pattered down. It had peaked gables and a brown slate roof, and all the windows were without glass, some without even frames. As they came around the side through the thick grass and birch saplings
that pressed against the walls, they found stone steps that led up to a missing door, and inside a landslide of rubble where part of the back wall had completely fallen in. Through the paneless
windows, branches reached in like stretching arms, and where the roof had collapsed, grass had taken root along the top of the walls as well as nettles that were lined in regimental rows.
    There were two rooms downstairs but only one still with a ceiling. The cement rendering was falling away, exhibiting the brickwork beneath that looked pink and sore, as if the rendering had been
protecting it like a scab. Against the two window frames, cobwebs hung in drooling rags.
    ‘We ought to make a fire,’ said Owen. ‘For the child.’ He pointed at the grate.
    The floor was strewn with concrete dust and crushed bricks, bits of wood and loose nails. By the crumbling stone hearth there were animal bones and a rusty