What To Do About Wednesday

by Jennie Marts

  “Shut up,” he yelled, shifting the barrel of the gun toward Fitz. “It doesn’t matter. It’s too late for excuses, too late to try to talk your way out of this. It all ends tonight and tomorrow morning. I have something special planned for Kyle and his friends.” He let out another hair-raising laugh. “Something that’s going to ‘blow’ their minds—and their bodies, to smithereens.”

  Piper caught her breath. Had he really made some kind of bomb? Where was it? And how many people were going to get hurt if he detonated the thing?

  They had to get away—had to escape and tell the police.

  “This whole thing has been rather easy,” he said, almost as if he were bragging. “I thought it would be much harder to actually take a life, but it isn’t really difficult at all. And the police are buffoons and don’t seem to have even the slightest clue to connect me to any of you. Even finding you all was a piece of cake—none of you had even left town. It was so simple to watch you, to learn your routines, to know when you’d be alone. And you, with putting that dating profile up, it was almost like an engraved invitation to get to you. If only you’d have been a tad sluttier, I would have had you alone and taken you that first day after the ice cream. That date was titillating torture for me. Sitting across from you, talking to you, watching you eat, completely clueless while I was imagining closing my hands around your throat and choking your last breath from your body.”

  Her stomach pitched, and she swallowed to keep from vomiting.

  “That’s enough,” Fitz said through gritted teeth, the muscles of his neck and jaw tense.

  “Yes, it is enough. I’m tired of talking. Sit on the floor,” Clay instructed her. “And keep your back to the display case and your hands out in front of you where I can see them.”

  She lowered slowly to the floor, not wanting to make any sudden moves or do anything to set him off. Her mind was frantically searching for a way to break free or take him down, but until she thought of something, their best bet was to comply with his demands.

  He waved the gun between them as he spoke. “You, stay there,” he said to her. “You, drop your phone and kick it over here,” he said to Fitz.

  Fitz did as he said, dropping her phone and kicking it across the floor.

  Clay took a step forward and stomped on the phone, cracking the case and smashing it with the heel of his boot. “No one can hear you now,” he jeered, then pulled a roll of duct tape from the front pocket of his sweatshirt and tossed it to Fitz. “Tape up her hands and feet. And don’t be an idiot. I’m going to check to make sure they’re tight.”

  Fitz gripped the tape as he offered her an apologetic look.

  “Do it,” she told him.

  He ripped a length of tape from the roll, the sound echoing in the empty hallway. Then he knelt in front of her, gathered her ankles together, and wrapped the tape around them. He tried to tear another piece but fumbled the roll against him.

  “Come on, Mr. Brainy Engineer. You’re supposed to be so smart, surely you can handle this simple task,” Clay chided him.

  Fitz kept his chest close to her knees but turned his head to respond to Clay. “I’m doing it. And I am smart—smart enough to know you’re not going to get away with this.”

  Shut up, Fitz!

  Why was he baiting him?

  And how the hell did he know Fitz was studying engineering? Had Clay been following both of them? Her thoughts were interrupted as she felt Fitz push a hard metal object inside the side of her sneaker.

  She kept her eyes on Clay, but she knew what it was, what it had to be. Fitz had just slipped her his pocketknife. He wasn’t baiting Clay—he was distracting him—diverting his attention away from his hands so he could sneak her the knife. Clay was wrong. Fitz wasn’t smart—he was brilliant.

  “Make sure it’s good and tight, College Boy. I don’t want her getting away while I’m dealing with you,” Clay said. “I’m not sure what I’m going to do with you yet, but I’ve always enjoyed eating my dessert first.” He licked his lips and eyed her with hunger.

  She fought a gag as her stomach went rock hard. Everything in her wanted to escape, and she swallowed at the bile burning the back of her throat.

  Fitz wrapped another piece of tape around her wrists. She tried not to cry out as the adhesive tore at her skin and ripped the hair from her wrists. It was okay though—she could take it. Some torn skin was a small price to pay for her life.

  “There, it’s done,” Fitz said. He stayed in a crouch as he gestured to her bound hands. “Check it if you want.”

  Clay took a tentative step toward them and bent forward to examine her hands.

  Fitz took the opportunity of his momentary distraction to lunge forward, driving his shoulder into Clay’s stomach and knocking him to the ground.

  Clay grunted as his butt hit the floor, but he didn’t drop the gun. He kicked his legs out as Fitz tried to tackle him.

  But Fitz let out a growl, his face contorted with determination as he dodged his kicks and charged toward him again.

  The next few moments seemed to happen in slow motion as Fitz sprang forward, and Clay raised the gun in his hand and pointed it at Fitz’s face.

  Piper’s heart stopped in her chest as the roar of the gunshot exploded, the sound ricocheting through the hallway.

  She watched in horror as Fitz’s head snapped back, and he fell to the floor, his head hitting the linoleum with a sickening thud.

  Swiping at the droplets of moisture that sprayed across her face, she finally let loose the scream that had been building in her as she stared at the smears of Fitz’s blood streaked across the back of her hand.

  “Shut up!” Clay screamed at Piper as he swung the gun toward her.

  She clamped her lips together, biting down on her lower lip to keep from screaming. The coppery taste of blood filled her mouth, and she wasn’t sure if it was from where she’d bitten her lip or if it was from Fitz.

  Tilting her head to the side, she couldn’t hold it back this time, and retched onto the floor. Acid burned her throat and mouth, but it was better than the taste of blood. She coughed and wiped her mouth against the sleeve of her jacket.

  Clay had pushed up from the floor and stood ominously over Fitz’s prone body. He lay motionless, either unconscious or…

  No! He had to be unconscious.

  She couldn’t bear the alternative—couldn’t conceive of the idea that Fitz was dead.

  His forehead was crimson, his hair and cheek dark and streaked with blood. She searched his face, trying to figure out where he’d been shot and desperately seeking signs he was okay.

  A janitor’s closet was on the other side of the hall, and Clay tore open the door and peered inside. “This will work,” he muttered, more to himself than to her.

  Shoving the gun into his jacket pocket, he returned to Fitz, grabbed his arms, and dragged him toward the closet.

  A long streak of scarlet blood trailed behind him, and bile rose in Piper’s throat again.

  Think! Stop freaking out and think!

  Her mind screamed at her. This might be her only chance to escape. Fitz had given her a chance, and she couldn’t let him down.

  While Clay was struggling to get Fitz into the closet, she fumbled inside her shoe, trying to retrieve the small pocketknife. There, she got it. Pinching it between her fingers, she drew it from her shoe and sought to pull the blade open.

  Her hands were shaking so bad, she almost dropped it. But she didn’t. She finally worked the blade free and attacked the duct tape securing her ankles.

  If only she could get her feet free, she could make a run for it. She would have a chance.

  Clay disappeared into the closet. She could hear him shoving things aside and his grunts of effort as he must have been maneuvering Fitz’s body.

  The stupid tape was strong and unwieldy but the little knife was sharp, and she sawed through the tape.

  Clay charged back through the door, a folding chair in his hands. He turned
his back to her to slam the door and unfold the chair. She guessed his intention was to wedge the chair under the door handle.

  This was her chance. And it might be her only chance.

  She jerked her legs apart, ripping the last bit of tape and scrambled to her feet.

  She didn’t know for sure where the gun was. The last she’d seen it, Clay had stuck it in his pocket, but there was no way she could overpower him and try to take it.

  Her best bet was to run.

  Her legs were achy and tingled from sitting on the floor, but she ignored the pain, and took off, sprinting down the hall.

  Heedless of where she was going—except for away from Clay, she heard the clatter of the folding chair and his shriek of frustration.

  The gym was at the end of the hall, and she burst through the doors, then froze as she stared at the vast expanse of space. She needed to either get out or hide. The locker rooms were to her right and the windows were across the gym. But she had no idea if the windows were unlocked or how long it would take her to climb out of one.

  Her best bet was to hide, then find another way out. She pushed through the door to the locker room as she heard the heavy footfalls of Clay’s boots in the hallway.

  Rows of lockers ran down the center of the room. The showers were to the left and the coach’s office was at the back of the room. If she could get to the office, she could lock herself in and use the phone to call for help. But what if the door was already locked? Or if the phone didn’t work? Then she’d be trapped in the office—a sitting duck.

  She slipped into the shower area, trying to run softly so he wouldn’t hear the slap of her sneakers on the tile. The room smelled like mildew and sweat, and a steady drop of water leaked from one of the showerheads, the sound shattering the otherwise quiet of the room.

  Crouching down in one of the shower stalls, she tried to slow her breathing, terrified the loud rasping would give away her hiding place.

  The pocketknife was still clutched in one of her bound hands, and she tried to maneuver it around to tear at the tape. But the angle was awkward, and she couldn’t get enough traction. She bit at the tape, using her teeth to rip through the strips holding her hands.

  Focused on freeing her hands, she still tried to listen for Clay, petrified he would appear in the locker room and discover her.

  She gnawed through the last bit of tape, jerking her hands apart at the same time the door burst open, slamming against the wall, the sound echoing against the walls of the shower.

  “Piper, where are you?” His voice had the same sing-song quality he’d used before—like they were playing a children’s game of hide-and-seek. “Come out, come out, wherever you are.”

  She pressed her fists to her ears, praying he would give up his search and move on to the other locker room.

  The sound of metal sliding along the lockers had her skin going clammy as she knew the thing he was running along them had to be the barrel of the gun.

  Then the sound stopped, and she heard nothing at all. No footsteps, no metal clanging, no soft whoosh of a door closing—nothing.

  And that was more terrifying than the sound of the gun barrel rattling along the lockers. At least then she knew where he was.

  She leaned the slightest forward, straining to hear any whisper of sound. She held her breath, knowing he had to be listening for her, as well.

  Clutching the pocketknife in her hand, she held the blade out, the torn strips of duct tape dangling from her wrists as she readied for an attack.

  Every muscle in her body tensed, alert, waiting for a sound, a stir, anything to alert her to his location. Her knuckles turned white, and her hand shook as she gripped the knife—it was her only weapon, her only defense.

  Her heart pounded so hard she was sure it would give her hiding place away.

  She waited, wanting to poke her head into the room to look for him, but also terrified she would see him. Or he would see her.

  Finally, she couldn’t take another second. Her knees were cramped from crouching, and her back ached from tensing her muscles. She had to check, to take one quick glimpse into the room.

  Slowly, so very slowly, she peered around the edge of the shower stall toward the lockers where she’d last heard him. The room seemed empty, but she hadn’t heard him leave.

  She started to turn to check the other side of the room when she felt his presence.

  The hair on her neck stood on end.

  Her muscles went rigid, her neck so stiff she was surprised it didn’t creak as she turned her head another inch and saw him standing on her other side, not a foot away.

  His face broke into a macabre grin. “Boo,” he whispered.

  Piper froze, terror sending chills through her body, her head spinning with dizziness as she struggled to keep her legs from collapsing beneath her.

  He must have known where she was hiding and been standing there, like a hunter stalking his prey, just waiting for her to come out. His hands were empty so the gun had to be back in his pocket.

  Fight!

  The knife was still in her hand, but her body wouldn’t move, wouldn’t listen to her command.

  Fight or die!

  His sweatshirt was too thick for the small pocketknife to do much damage. She had to go for some place she could hurt him. She thrust her arm up, stabbing the knife toward his neck.

  His eyes widened in surprise, and he lifted his arm in defense, knocking her arm from its intended target. But he wasn’t quick enough, and the sharp little blade sliced neatly across his chin and up his cheek.

  He howled in pain as he clutched his face, tendrils of blood already trailing down his neck. “You bitch,” he roared.

  She tried to stab him again, but this time he did block her arm then shoved her backwards with the force of an angry bull.

  Her head hit the tiled wall behind her and pain burst through her skull. Blinking her eyes, she fought to stay conscious as tiny bursts of light spun in front of her.

  Still clutching his face, he kicked out, sweeping his leg across her shins and trying to knock her legs out from under her.

  She went down, her knees cracking painfully on the floor of the shower, the smallest sound of a splash as she landed in a leftover pool of water and cold seeped through the fabric of her pants. Scrambling to get away, she crawled across the shower floor, slipping on the slick tiles.

  Just as she thought she’d gained some purchase, his strong hand clamped down on her ankle and yanked her back.

  She kicked her leg as hard as she could, her sneakered foot connecting with his chest and sending him back a few inches. The kick must have been enough to startle or hurt him because he let go of her ankle, and she crawled forward, pushing to her feet and running from the shower area.

  She heard him behind her, but didn’t turn around to look. For all she knew, he could be pulling out the gun and was readying to shoot her in the back. If so, she didn’t want to know.

  All she could focus on was getting away.

  She yanked at the locker room door, half-expecting the feel of his hand on her back or the jerk of her hair as he grabbed for a handful.

  But neither of those things happened, and she made it out of the locker room.

  A rack of basketballs stood against the wall, and she hurriedly pushed it in front of the door. It wouldn’t stop him, but it might slow him down.

  Bursting back out of the gym, she sprinted down another hallway, ignoring the throbbing pain in her knee where she’d hit the tile. A set of double doors were at the end of the corridor, and she prayed she could get out and find help, for her and for Fitz.

  Was he okay?

  She could only pray that he was.

  The crash of the basketball cart echoed through the empty hall, and she almost cried with relief as saw the doors leading outside at the end of the hallway. She was almost free.

  No. Please no.

  A padlocked chain wound its way around the handles of the door. There was no way she w
as getting out through them.

  What the hell? She could not catch a break.

  She slipped into the closest classroom and flattened herself against the wall. It was decision time. Should she hide or keep running?

  The last time she’d hid hadn’t worked out very well and hiding wasn’t going to help Fitz. She had to keep going—had to find a way out of the school.

  She’d had Algebra in this classroom and recognized the set-up. A Jack-and-Jill style bathroom in the back corner connected this room to the biology lab next door. She ran through the maze of desks, careful not to bump into any, terrified she would make a sound that would tell Clay where she was.

  Quietly pulling the bathroom door shut behind her, she pushed the lock in, hoping to buy herself a few extra minutes of time if he did follow her into that room.

  She pushed through the other door into the biology lab. The room looked exactly the same as when she’d last been there and bile rose in her throat as the memory of trying to dissect a slimy dead frog flashed in her mind.

  The smell of formaldehyde, chemicals, and cedar wood chips hung in the air. A row of terrariums lined the back wall, their small bulbs giving off a soft glow in the room as the mice, rats, toads, and whatever other creepy-crawlies were over there slept soundly in their cages.

  A cramp bit into her side, and she had to stop, doubling over as she pressed a hand against her stomach. Her palm hit something hard and rectangular in her jacket pocket and for a second she thought it was her phone. But her phone was smashed and broken on the floor in front of the display cases.

  Holy crap! She tore at her pocket as she suddenly realized what it was. She’d totally forgotten it was in there. Fumbling with the zipper, her hand still shaking, she finally got her pocket open and pulled out the thing Edna had shoved into her hand earlier that night—her pink stun gun. The Terminator.

  Piper turn the gun over in her hands, staring at the plastic case and the metal prongs, as a quiet resolve settled over her. She’d spent the last several months wanting, craving, needing to finally have control over her life, but she’d been waiting for that control to happen, and it suddenly struck her she wasn’t going to wait anymore.