No Easy Way Out

by Dayna Lorentz

  “Like get out of the mall? Yes, please.” Lexi watched the hallway into the med center like any second Dad would come running down it, the whole thing being some misunderstanding, a bad joke.

  Her mother smiled weakly. “We can’t do anything for him here.”

  Lexi couldn’t do anything for him anywhere. “Can I stay with you?” She didn’t want to deal with the mall.

  “I’m not sure my office is a good place to be, for you or me, only I don’t have a choice.” Her mother smiled like this was funny, but didn’t she have a choice? Who told her to take over running the mall anyway?

  “Why didn’t you run?” Lexi asked. “When you first saw the bomb, you could have just grabbed me and Dad and left and none of this would have happened.”

  Dotty didn’t yell, which was in itself a surprise. “You’re right,” she said. “I could have run, we could have escaped. But what if one of us was infected? What if we brought this flu out into the world? This is the deadliest flu virus anyone’s documented. Millions—and I’m not exaggerating, millions of people in the tri-state area alone would have died. Around the world, who knows? Billions? So I made a sacrifice. I made a very hard choice to choose the whole planet over the individual needs of myself and my family. I hope you can understand that, if not right now, then someday.”

  Lexi hugged her mother. If the choice had been up to her, she would have run. Lexi wasn’t a martyr. A part of her was glad that her mother had some hero streak, that she chose to save the millions. But the rest of her stared down the hallway into the med center, her mind’s eye seeing straight through to the ice-skating rink above it on the third floor, her father’s body added to those anonymous piles, and hated her mother for choosing them over her family.

  “I’ll check in with you around dinner?” Lexi said, releasing her arms.

  Her mother nodded. “If I hear anything before, I’ll have a guard let you know.”

  People were still settling down with their lunch trays as Lexi approached the center of the first floor. She heard some grumbling about portion size, that there was less slop than normal on their plates.

  “You hated the slop, and now you want more of it?” she heard one guy quip.

  This was the mall for you: complaint after complaint after complaint.

  She passed a group of guys around her age heading for a store full of crap. She noticed that the crap had been moved around, like these guys had decorated. The only problem was a lone guard who was trying to figure out how to lower the security gate over the store’s entrance.

  “Dude,” the lead guy said to the guard. “This is our place.”

  The guard kept tugging on the chain like that would get the gate moving. “I have orders to close down all non-essential stores.”

  “This store is essential. It’s where we eat.”

  Another guy chipped in. “Who cares if this one store stays open?”

  The guard gave the chain a final yank and the gate came crashing down. “Look, I was told to lock up all the unused stores. You got a problem, then talk to the people upstairs.”

  “I’m talking to you,” the guy said, passing his tray to a friend. “Open that gate.”

  The guard pulled out his stun baton. “Back off before we have a problem.”

  People at nearby tables were staring. The guard kept glancing around like he knew he was the center of attention.

  The kid did not seem at all deterred by the stun baton. “You open the gate and we won’t have a problem.”

  The guard lunged. The kid dodged and grabbed the baton above the pronged end, jerking it down. The guard lost his hold on it. For a moment, they both stared at the long, black stick dangling in the kid’s hand. Then the guard made the poor choice to grab for the handle. The kid whipped it back. His friends laughed.

  The guard sensed the bad way this was going. “Gimme that back.”

  “Open the gate,” the kid said.

  The guard went for the walkie-talkie on his belt. The kid stunned him and the guard fell to the ground. The group of them stood over the guard like they couldn’t believe what had just happened. Then someone at a lunch table screamed. Then another. The kids dropped the stun baton and ran. Security guards swarmed.

  The mall speakers crackled to life with an announcement—Goldman’s voice, this time. “All residents, return to your Home Stores until further notice. I repeat, return to your Home Stores immediately.”

  People did not react well, it seemed, to interruptions in their routine. They looked around—there was still another twenty minutes before the end of lunch. And what about afternoon work duty? Lexi heard one woman worry that she’d left a load of laundry soaking and would the colors run if she didn’t get back to it in time. It took the nearby patrols of security guards yelling and brandishing their stun sticks and Tasers to get people moving, hurriedly, some with their lunch trays, back toward their home stores. Every face Lexi saw looked completely freaked out.

  T

  W

  O

  P.M.

  Marco was caught behind a toppled stack of boxes with the unconscious Shay at his feet. Mike had some insane plan to flank the guards, but Marco was not sure what two guys and an unconscious girl could muster against the seven or so armed guards who’d arrived to subdue them in the stockroom. Mike had toppled the nearest stacks of boxes to distract them from his flanking move, but now Marco was left to hurl the few hard accessories he could find for the Stuff-A-Pals. Why couldn’t they have put the lockup in a kitchen store?

  He was not fool enough to think his puny assault was doing much other than distract or, at the very best, annoy the guards. The only thing keeping them back was the fear of Mike and his gun. He’d fired a single shot at them and that was enough to hold them off. Of course, once they realized Mike was not behind the boxes, Marco was screwed.

  And then he heard them. Screams erupted in the front of the store and then the bodies flooded in. Mike had freed the prisoners. The guy was a freaking genius. Why hadn’t Marco thought of it first?

  Not wasting any time, he hauled Shay’s body onto his back and began to kick the different doors in the stockroom. “Ryan!” He wasn’t sure that any amount of screaming would be heard over the noise the prisoners were making on their way over the guards and out into the service hallway.

  Finally, he received a kick in response to his own on a door. He held his ear to the wood and yelled for Ryan. He answered back, “Taco?”

  How much did he hate this kid?

  “We don’t have a key, so we’re going to have to bust the door,” Marco yelled.

  “I’ll stand back.”

  No really, stand right in front of the door, please . . .

  Marco propped Shay in a nook out of the way of the fleeing felons, then lined himself up with the door. He kicked as hard as he could, then slammed his shoulder against the wood.

  That hurt. A lot.

  Mike grabbed his arm. “Nice attack, but the frame’s metal. No luck with a ramming tactic.”

  “So what do you suggest?” Marco asked, rubbing his shoulder to regain sensation.

  “This,” Mike said, pulling a fire ax from the wall.

  The ax demolished the door to splinters.

  Ryan was crouched in a corner with his hands over his head. “You could have warned me there would be an ax!” he yelled when Mike pulled him up by the arm.

  “No, ‘thank you’? No, ‘I can’t believe you found me’?”

  Ryan tugged Mike’s arm and the two embraced. Marco couldn’t help but be jealous of what they had. What Ryan had with everyone. What was so great about freaking Ryan?

  Releasing Mike, Ryan saw Shay slumped against the wall. He immediately dropped next to her, cupped her face like that was going to help anything. “What happened?” he whimpered, looking only at Shay. />
  “She asked us for help,” Marco said. “Goldman punched her, but she’s okay.”

  “This is okay?” Ryan tucked a piece of hair behind her ear.

  “I told her to stay behind,” Mike said.

  Ryan pulled her to him, lifted her like she was light as air. “Let’s go,” he said. Marco could have sworn there were actual tears in his eyes. Pussy.

  Back at the IMAX, Drew was screwing around with a couple of guys who, from the looks of them, represented the meatiest members of the Tarrytown football team. They held plastic cups of beer and were tossing around what turned out to be a dead rat Drew had found behind the curtain under the screen. Sitting in the seats facing them were a couple of what could only be described as blond, airhead groupies.

  “You dirty rat!” one guy said in this fake scratchy voice, then threw the thing at another. Marco doubted they even knew what film or actor they were misquoting (Jimmy Cagney, Blonde Crazy).

  “That’s disgusting,” Mike said.

  “The hero returns!” Drew shouted, arms akimbo, beer sloshing from his cup. The girls in the audience turned to see what fresh meathead had arrived.

  “I see you wasted no time.” Mike waved a hand at the tapped keg.

  “Advance payment for services to be rendered,” one of the Tarrytown guys slurred.

  “About those services,” Mike said. He began listing the various chores he had in mind to fortify the IMAX. Both guys and girls sulked.

  Ryan snuck up a side staircase with Shay, laying her on the floor in the back. Marco followed at a distance, not wanting to admit what was obvious: He was not needed or wanted. He wanted to be wanted by Shay. Taking off his sweatshirt, he offered it to Ryan and said, “It’s kind of a pillow.”

  Ryan glanced up at him. “Thanks.” He took the thing, rolled it, and gently placed it beneath Shay’s head.

  “Do you think she needs anything?”

  “I’ve got it.” Ryan didn’t look up at him again.

  Fine. If Ryan wanted him gone, he’d go. Screw Ryan. Screw Shay. Screw everyone. There was plenty he needed to do. Mike was handing out tasks? Marco would be his go-to guy.

  “What can I do?” he asked, approaching Mike.

  Mike surveyed Drew and the four Tarrytown guys as they attempted to lift a row of seats. They strained, veins popping from their skin, but the things wouldn’t budge. “We’re going to need some screw guns.”

  “On it,” Marco said. He was the only one with an access card. He was the only one who could do jobs like this. He was needed.

  • • •

  Lexi lay on her cot blinking closed one eye, then the other: camera right, camera left, camera right, camera left . . . Her view of the ceiling tiles and track lighting shifted ever so slightly with each blink.

  This was how bored they all were.

  Maddie threw the copy of Us Weekly at the wall. “I’ve memorized the fine print of the Botox ads, I’ve read this thing so many times.”

  Ginger was biting her nails. “Why would they lock us in here over some kids taking a stun gun from a guard?” She tugged on a hangnail and winced. “Something worse is going on, I know it.”

  Maddie tossed her a copy of Seventeen. “Read the article on page twenty about the cuticle damage you’re inflicting on yourself.”

  Lexi sat up and surveyed the room. All the women seemed as nervous as Ginger, huddled together in groups, glancing out the gate into the mall like they expected a horde of zombies to rattle the links at any minute. This was a situation primed for Bad Things to Happen.

  Ginger’s cuticle crisis gave Lexi an idea. “Where did you get that makeup from the other night?” she asked.

  Maddie shrugged. “I found it in a pile of stuff from the cosmetics counters shoved in the stockrooms,” she said. “Makeup was not a ‘priority item,’ I guess.”

  “Let’s see what else is in that pile,” Lexi said.

  The cosmetics supplies were piled in a dark corner near the farthest wall. Ginger commandeered three of the carts they’d used sorting clothes and the three of them piled all the bottles of nail polish, plus the makeup and perfume, creams, cleansers, and tonics, onto the carts. They then each took one cart and rolled it out into the store.

  “Anyone want to try some NARS eye shadow?” Maddie called, hoisting a black box.

  “I have Sephora nail polish!” Ginger chirped, waving a few bottles on the other side of the room.

  “Face cream!” Lexi hawked. “Get your ridiculously overpriced face cream right here!”

  It worked like a charm. Women surrounded each cart and began sampling the various wares. Count on people to meet stereotypes. But even Lexi had to admit that it was fun to get a pedicure from Ginger after they’d handed out all the supplies on the two floors. And the mood in the Home Store? One hundred thousand times better.

  L

  I

  G

  H

  T

  S

  OUT

  The best Ryan could do in place of ice was cold, wet cloths. Shay would have a nasty black eye, that was for sure. Why didn’t she listen to him? She could have gone back to life in the mall and been fine. Now she was tattooed, but in a different way than when he’d met her. This was the gift he’d given her: violence.

  At least their faces would match. Ryan had enjoyed the hospitality of Goldman’s fist himself. There seemed to be no check on the guy’s sense of self-importance. Didn’t he report to that woman on the loudspeaker? Didn’t she give a crap that he was beating kids up in a back room?

  Shay kept groaning, starting in her sleep. Ryan wished the crew down in the front would shut up for five minutes, but there seemed to be a heated debate over some bull. Everything was always the biggest deal. When would things go back to the boring crap they usually were? Certainly not before they were out of this hellhole.

  There was a knock at the door to the fire stairwell.

  “See?” Drew barked. “There are people who want to join us.”

  “There are people who want to drink our beer,” Mike growled, eyeing the bimbos. Why Drew had thought it wise to take not only the Tarrytown players, but their female companions, Ryan had no idea. Maybe Drew figured Mike would forgive him his insatiable libido, the way he always did.

  “We don’t have enough food to last us more than three days,” Marco said. He sat apart from the rest, knees scrunched up, back against the wall like some outcast.

  Another knock on the door. A muffled voice from outside.

  “So we get more food,” Drew said.

  “We nearly got killed busting into a makeshift jail,” Mike said. “How do you suppose security will react to our charging the food stores in Sam’s?”

  Drew frowned. “Taco will figure something out.”

  Marco chuckled in his corner. “I appreciate the vote of confidence, but I am at a loss regarding the Sam’s Club. I tried to bust in there, remember, and ended up a guest of our friendly security forces.”

  Banging now, whistles. Ryan thought it sounded like girls at the door.

  “Dude,” Drew said. “That’s totally a chick. Girls don’t even eat. I’m letting her in.”

  “Do not touch the door,” Mike snarled. He honestly sounded pissed off at Drew.

  “We had a vote and the vote was for more chicks.”

  “Do not touch the door.”

  Ryan trotted down the stairs. “Guys! Let’s all chill a second.”

  Drew began removing the barricade made of stacked rows of seats from the door. It was like Ryan hadn’t even spoken.

  Mike pulled out his gun and fired. The sound was deafening. Everyone froze.

  Mike tucked his gun back in his waistband. “I’m not sure when you all thought this became a democracy, but let me clear this one thing up: I am in charge until
someone else saves everyone’s collective ass. As I am the one who planned our little commune, I have final say on who the hell gets in on it.”

  Drew glared at Mike, then threw down the row of seats and went to the keg to get another beer.

  Ryan approached Mike. “What the hell?” he said. “Are you just going to fire the gun every time someone disagrees with you?”

  “Maybe.” Mike was glaring at Drew’s back.

  “He’s your best friend,” Ryan said. “Remember?”

  Mike flicked his eyes at him. “And what are you?” he asked. “My friend or that chick’s boyfriend? Just remember who’s saved your ass time and again.” Mike stalked toward the back of the theater, past Shay, and disappeared. The lights flicked on in the projection room. Ryan waited to see Mike look down, give some signal through the little window, but none came.

  “Guess you’re not the golden boy anymore, Shrimp.” Marco slipped by like a fart in the wind and joined Mike in his skybox.

  • • •

  Lexi sat alone in the dark of her office. She held little hope of Marco actually showing, but she couldn’t make herself leave. A small part of her would not let go of the hope that everything he’d said had been true, that there had been no lies between them.

  How much of an idiot was she? She’d morphed into one of those girls she’d sworn never to become: hanging on a guy who was a total jerk. But then a voice inside her got all offended, He’s not a total jerk. He helped you investigate the ice-skating rink. He liked you. He kissed you. Like this amounted to anything other than a desperate rationalization for having fallen for the wrong guy.

  God, but what if he wasn’t the wrong guy?

  This place had messed with her brain waves. She used to be so in control. Feelings: All over them. Boys: No problem. Now she was this weepy mess wringing her hands over whether some guy “really liked her.” Who was she?

  She desperately needed a reality check. Digging in the bottom desk drawer, she found the CB radio and called Darren.

  “Darren?” she whispered.