by Jo Ho
This was all the opportunity that the resourceful dog had needed. Sticking to the air shafts and lesser used walkways, the dog had snuck out of The Facility before the alarm was even raised.
Needless to say, when it was discovered that Julio was to blame, The CEO had had him disposed of. His family are still searching for him to this day.
The CEO fingered his sleeve now as he waited for the call to be patched through. The Mercenary wouldn’t let him down. He knew what was at risk. They had lost the dog for a few days, but a new sighting had pinpointed him in New York City. Feeling the beginnings of a headache, The CEO took another sip of his drink, a three hundred year old brand of Cognac that cost the same as a small car.
Finally Suzanne, his assistant spoke through the intercom.
“Sir, he’s on one.”
The CEO activated the speakerphone and spoke one quiet word.
“Well?”
The Mercenary’s voice was strained.
“Alpha escaped.”
The glass slid out of his hand, smashing onto the granite floor. Shards of glass flew in every direction. Almost immediately, the office door flung open and Suzanne bustled inside. In her forties, she was his right hand and prepared for every eventuality. Including this it seemed. Suzanne had entered carrying paper towels, which she now used to mop up the spilled liquid. He watched her in silence before issuing The Mercenary’s next command in a voice loaded with threat.
“Find him, or don’t bother coming back.”
Chase
GREENWICH, FAIRFIELD COUNTY
Everyone loved sunsets. Everyone, that is, but me, Chase Ryder, to whom sunsets signalled that yet another hard night was approaching.
In the leafy upmarket park surrounding a man-made lake, wealthy couples strolled hand-in-hand admiring the mottled orange sky. I stirred, waking from my nap beneath a towering oak. Oaks were best as they provided plenty of foliage to protect against sudden showers and prying eyes. There was also the added bonus of load-bearing lower branches that someone nimble could scramble onto should trouble come calling... and you should know, trouble had me on speed-dial.
I stared at my reflection in the water. The face that stared back at me was fourteen but looked younger. A button nose and blue eyes gave the illusion of innocence . My mouth was plump; a little bigger than I’d like, but at least I’d never need collagen. The shoulder length hair would be a glossy chestnut if it weren’t hanging in one big, greasy streak. Despite my current condition, I knew I was above average, but I’m not exactly what you’d call vain, usually choosing to hide my face rather than show it.
My stomach emitted a low rumble. I slipped a hand into a pocket and retrieved the last of my money, a hundred bucks or so. All that’s left of my stash. It might seem like a good amount, but I’d already been on the road for eight months. In that time, I learned to only spend when I absolutely had to. If only I was rich I wouldn’t be in this mess.
I looked around at my surroundings. Yummy mommy’s with Pilates-honed bodies bouncing designer-clad babies on tanned knees. The only hunger they knew was self-inflicted. I compared my figure to that of a passing cyclist, frowning when I realized that the only difference between us was our ages.
Originally from "The Paper City" Holyoke in Hampden County — one of the poorest cities in Massachusetts — I’d come here thinking I would receive more charity in affluent Greenwich, which had seen Mel Gibson and Meryl Streep among its wealthy residents, but these people, so caught up in their self-made dramas, barely noticed me. I’d totalled less here than if I’d stayed home.
I frowned as a shadow fell over the water, obscuring my face. Strange. The shadow didn’t encompass the whole park, just me. Too late the danger signs came into my head as a hand clamped down on my shoulder. The nails were ripped and blackened with dirt. I noticed the smell next, pungent, like raw sewage mixed with a brewery.
“Spare some change?”
I spun around to find myself gripped, vice-like, in the arms of a guy who was maybe seventeen. His glazed eyes focused on the money in my hands. I looked at his arms — yup, mottled with needle tracks. I scanned the area quickly, searching for help, but help wasn’t coming. Note to self: if tree’s are leafy enough to shield you from prying eyes, they’ll also shield the nasty druggie who has you in his grasp.
I froze in terror.
The druggie eyeballed the money in my hand and snatched it from me. He hesitated then, doubt clouding his eyes, but when he realized we were isolated from the rest of the park, they narrowed shrewdly.
“That it, or you holding out on me?”
Without waiting for an answer, his hands started patting me down. Here’s something you should know about me: no one, but no one, touches me without my consent. Instantly a surge of white hot fury broke through the fear. I screamed into his face.
“Don’t you touch me!” and struggled like a wild cat. He was startled but much stronger than he seemed and moved like I was nothing but a mild annoyance. As he reached into my pockets I saw my opportunity and plunged two fingers into his windpipe, slamming the palm of my other hand under his nose, snapping the weak cartilage there. Eyes wide with shock, he released me instantly.
Groaning in pain, he sank to the ground, hands around his now bloody nose. Fallen, he looked much younger. Not much bigger than me and nothing like the terrifying beast I’d thought he was. I swooped in and snatched my money back.
Shooting a quick prayer to the YouTube gods of Krav Maga, I grabbed my backpack and got the hell out of Dodge.
Sully
ELLINGTON, CONNECTICUT
I tossed aside the thin sheet that covered my body and glanced at the bedside clock’s digital display: 1:47. Those seemingly innocuous numbers filled me with a sudden, though expected, weariness. I stared up at the ceiling and sighed.
Every night, the same goddamn thing.
As I rolled over to stare out of the window, a stray beam of moonlight caught the wedding band on my finger. The ring glinted, a tiny spark in the inky blackness, but I ignored it, the same way I ignored the framed picture that was currently lying face down on the vanity table. I didn’t need to see it to know what it contained; the image was seared into my brain.
Taking care not to disturb the empty side of the bed, I picked up my watch, absently running my fingers over the engraved inscription on the back. “To Sully, with love and thanks from the Bauer family”. The watch was a gift from a grateful family whose beloved cat I had saved. Although my actual name is Jake Sullivan, no one but my father calls me that, and anything that helped distance myself from that tool was a good thing in my mind. I slipped on the watch, grabbed a pair of tracksuit bottoms from the floor, and tugged them on.
Moments later, I jogged out into the dark. With my mussed brown hair, week’s facial growth, and sweat encrusted gym clothes, I knew I wasn’t quite the poster boy this prestigious neighborhood insisted upon, but to hell with it. There were extenuating circumstances.
The barren streets were silent, but in their own way, welcoming. Out here, in the dark, I could let the full range of my emotions run riot.
And tonight it was anger.
They say grief comes in seven stages, but for me, they alternated each night. Days were tough, especially the sunny ones that taunted me with how life could have been. On those occasions, I stayed away from parks and beaches, anywhere that might prove too nostalgic. The memories would flash up, stabbing like a knife in the chest even now, almost a full year later.
Things were changing though. I was beginning to find the odd moment to be grateful for: the scent of freshly cut flowers, a traffic-free Route 83 during an emergency callout. Little by little, I was learning to cope… but as soon as my head hit the pillow, the demons would come.
Placing one foot in front of the other, I stared up at the stars and wondered how much longer it would be before I would get used to sleeping alone.
Chase
The sun had barely risen, but I was already on the
hunt for breakfast. Like they say, it’s the most important meal of the day.
It had taken me all night to shake off the druggie incident. I knew I was lucky this time, but I couldn’t afford another slip up. In future I would stay away from trees, bushy or otherwise.
From experience, I knew Monday mornings were the most fruitful, with restaurants tossing whatever hadn’t sold from the week before. It was with this promise of delectable treasure that I jogged into the backend of a strip of restaurants and climbed into the dumpster behind The Blessed Palace, a popular Asian establishment. The place was kinda tacky looking, covered with gold and red dragons that looked more like distorted fish then those epic mythological characters, but they do a weekend buffet that never failed to impress, judging by the length of the waiting line that curved around the block on a regular basis.
Sadly for me, Lady Luck hadn’t just left the building, she’d taken a slowboat to China, as a deep dumpster dive only delivered some decomposed fish heads (seriously gross), half a fortune cookie (semi gross, and empty, so no good fortune for me — figures) and something I’d prefer not to examine in closer detail. All you need to know is it looked like Swampthing’s illegitimate lovechild with a roach.
Enough said.
I sighed with irritation. Damn greedy staff must have taken the leftovers home with them. That’s the problem with Asians. Never waste a thing.
Shoving the cookie into my mouth, I picked my way over the remaining mess of empty cartons and boxes. As I grabbed hold of the skip to haul myself out, I heard a sound and froze. Someone had just yelped. Loudly. In a that-really-hurt kind of way.
I raised my head and peeked over the edge of the dumpster. A mangy dog, some kind of collie mix, was backing away from a man. There was a bone in his mouth, but the guy had one hand on it. He wore the uniform of The Blessed Palace and struck repeatedly at the dog with a wet dishtowel.
THWACK! The towel made a whipping sound as it connected with the collie’s flank. The dog whimpered, but didn’t let go. He didn’t attack either, just kept backing away. It’s like the thing didn’t know he had two rows of sharp teeth.
My eyes narrowed into slits. From the collie’s thin frame, I could tell he was starving, maybe even more so than me. It could have been my own lack of food, or the injustice of it all, but I felt a sudden rage building.
Stealthily, I crawled out of the dumpster and dropped silently, landing behind the guy on my Kmart sneakers. He twirled the towel, readying another strike. Neither of them had noticed me yet, so I took full advantage of the situation. I reached for the nearest trashcan, snatched the lid off, and HURLED it at the guy’s head. The dull sound it made on contact made us all wince. He dropped like a hot spring roll. I looked at the dog. “RUN MUTT!”
And took off. I only glanced back when I reached the end of the block, so it was a shock to see the dog panting right behind me.
“Shoo! Scram!” I waved my hands at him, but he just cocked his head at me. Seeing that we were alone, I slowed my running to a jog. Clearly Angry Chinese Man wasn’t after us. Which, come to think of it, was weird.
I suddenly stopped. What if I’d hit him too hard? Heads are pretty soft and not the best defense against steel. What if I’d... killed him? My life didn’t flash in front of my eyes so much as my mugshot.
Muttface suddenly dropped his bone. That alone was shocking enough, but then he clamped his jaws around my wrist and started tugging.
“Hey, dufus! I just saved you! What kind of gratitude is that?”
And then I heard it. Furious shouts. Furious foreign shouts. I glanced back and saw Angry Chinese Man was not dead after all, but alive and kicking — and he had brought friends. With cleavers. The dog and I stared at each other, the same expression mirrored in our eyes… holy crap.
Muttface tore off, stopping a few meters ahead of me. He looked at me and barked once before tearing off again. Didn’t need a membership to Mensa to figure out what he meant. Having no plan b, I sprinted after him.
The dog ran fast, but never in a straight line. It was like he had experience evading capture. Already light-headed, I was becoming dizzy with all the twists and turns we were taking. I had no idea where we were anymore so Angry Chinese Man and chums had no chance. I followed Muttface down a side street.
And suddenly I collapsed.
One minute I was running, the next I tasted tarmac. I felt a wet, sandpapery tongue on my face.
And then there was darkness.
Sully
Staring moodily into a mug of black coffee, I stifled a yawn. I sat at a kitchen table, eyes staring blankly at a newspaper open in front of me. My next client was due any second, but I found it difficult to care. While the late-night workout sessions meant my body was in its prime, my mind felt groggy, and I wished I could sleep the day away. But duty called.
“Your eleven thirty cancelled,” came a shout from the next room.
Or maybe not. It was Florence, my elderly, no-nonsense receptionist-come-assistant. This was a small practice that didn’t require many staff, so multi-tasking Florence was a Godsend, though her domineering attitude wore me thin on occasion. Her long floral dress made slapping sounds against her legs now as she marched into the kitchen. An image of Florence doing a Hitler salute flashed into my mind before I shook it guiltily away. When I caught the determined look on her face however, I steeled myself, ready for trouble.
“Since there’s nothing in the diary until three, now would be a good time for you to do some spring cleaning. Clear out anything you don’t need,” she suggested. She gestured upstairs, at my house above the practice. Her eyes bored into me, but I refused to take the bait, lowering my gaze to the paper.
“Another time. I’m busy.”
She glared at me, but not without some sympathy. It was quite the feat and a Florence special. With a sigh of impatience, she snatched the paper away, grabbed my chin, and raised it to meet her gaze. But when she spoke again, it was unnervingly soft.
“It’s unhealthy, dear.”
I swallowed. I knew she was right, but just the thought of clearing her things away caused my chest to constrict. Experience meant I knew Florence wouldn’t be dropping this any time soon however. With no energy for a fight, I nodded meekly.
“I’ll make a start,” I conceded, and made my way slowly up the stairs.
At the top of the stairs, I shut the door that separated work from home and walked into the living area. The room was decorated eclectically, the result of many happy weekends perusing the local flea market, but right now, it seemed as if a tornado had left its devastation in its wake, with empty microwave trays and beer cans littering the floor. I stepped over them and turned the television on, finding comfort in the inane infomercial chatter. Tossing a crusty pizza box from the sofa, I lay down and shut my eyes. I’d get to it, but first I needed a snooze…
Chase
I don’t know how long I was out for, but it was the smell that woke me. My mouth was as dry as parchment, and my eyes felt like they were stapled shut, but I forced them open. I had to see what was causing the delicious aroma wafting towards me.
There was a something on the ground. It took a second for my vision to clear, but when it did, I thought I must still be in La La Land. There, in front of me, lay a carton of STEAMING DUMPLINGS! I blinked. The dog sat next to them patiently as if waiting for me to react. When I gaped stupidly, he nudged the carton towards me and grinned. I spotted the Blessed Palace logo on the side of the box and pulled what can only be described as a comical double take.
No way…
I forced myself into a sitting position, dusted the street scum from my face, and reached for the food. My fingers closed around the edge of the box.
It felt real enough?
Muttface woofed and pawed the ground as if to say get a move on. I needed no further urging and shoved a dumpling into my mouth. Holy taste bud explosions! Turns out, those lines were onto something! I inhaled the box of scrumminess, even giving a f
ew pieces to my new best furry friend, surprised to see how delicately he ate them. Clearly I could learn a thing or two. Together, we woofed them down. In no time at all, the carton was empty. I tipped it upside down, just in case there was another sucker hiding in there but nada. C’est finito. I looked at the dog.
“That was the best meal I’ve had in… just the longest time. If only we had some fritters too, huh? I could die and go to foodie heaven.” Muttface cocked his head like he was actually considering my words, then suddenly took off without a backwards glance. I felt a pang of crushing disappointment. “Thought we had something going here,” I called after him — but I was talking to thin air. Littlest Hobo was long gone. Feeling kinda bereft, I thought about how I was humanizing the dog. Me. Miss Anti-Dolittle. Eight months on the streets could sure change a person.
As a kid, the only pet I’d ever had was a baby duck, and that lasted for all of a week. One day, as a treat, I decided to let him swim in the gutter (The Paper City = Poor = No Paddling Pool for Ducky), only he got swept away by the current and into a drain. I’d lain on the sidewalk, ear pressed to the drain, listening to his cries until they were all but swallowed by the gushing water. I cried for months after. OK, I was five, but still.
Back to my present situation. Muttface is just a dumb animal. So, somehow, he brought me food from the same restaurant we ran away from. Ironic, but hardly rocket science. Maybe he’d already stashed them some place when Angry Chinese Man caught him. And while I was having my tarmac nap, he’d fetched provisions. It made sense. Kind of.
I could stay here waiting for Big Trouble in Little China to eventually happen, or I could move on and find a bed for the night. It was a no-brainer. I staggered onto my feet, swaying a bit, my blood sugar still low despite the recent meal. I’m one of those annoying girls who can eat whatever she wants without putting on a pound, but that also meant my high metabolism required more sustenance than the average girl of my size which, being homeless, sucks big time.
