by Megan Hand
What do I do when I find him? You’re not going to find him. You’re going to figure out where he’s going and get the hell out of here.
Right. I just need to find the apartment and make sure this is the place. Then I’ll leave. I’ll be fine. I will. Convincing myself isn’t working, and I’m starting to wonder if Jay’s efforts will be wasted after all. I can’t really blame him for my own choices, though. I could’ve stayed back. I should’ve.
No. Don’t think like that. You’re saving lives here! Enough with the self-pity.
By the sixth floor, my footsteps are a muffled murmur as I ready for the sight of him. I do the one-eye thing again, and—oh, oh—there he is. He slides a key into a lock about halfway down the hall. He twists the knob. The door swings open, and he disappears from view. I’m breathlessly silent.
The door stays open.
This is it.
I tiptoe over, pressing my back to the wall just outside the door as I listen. I hear water running and bags crinkling.
I swallow hard while my fingers scratch and dig into the wall behind me until it hurts. Chips of paint cut the soft skin beneath my fingernails. I squeeze my eyes shut. I think I feel a tear slide down my face. Maybe it’s my imagination.
Hell, I’m scared. I’m a shit-ton more scared than last night. Before, I was fighting for my life. Now I’m just being reckless, pressing Death’s knife to my own throat.
Dewdrops of sweat tingle down my scalp. My finger cramps against the shutter release of the camera, dying to press it like it’s the trigger of a gun, like it can really save me in this moment. I don’t know what I need to take pictures of in here, but I’m prepped and ready.
Suddenly, that word trigger slams against a vacant wall in my brain, stirring a fast and vicious laugh that I have to literally bite my lips against. I’ll never see or hear that word again without thinking of Trigger, the man. Well, he’s sort of a man. More of a man-boy. Either way, that word is forever going to be mislabeled in my vocabulary, and I fully realize that this is only a glimpse of my future.
My whole body stiffens only a millisecond after it goes slack. I do not have time for this. I’m on a mission. That’s right. Cue the freaking James Bond theme song.
With bravery I didn’t even know I possessed, I listen for one more breath. He’s deep in the apartment somewhere, I think. I want to snap a picture, but I don’t dare. All I need is a peek. And that’s exactly what I get before I’m back down the hall, stuffing myself into a corner of the stairwell a half-flight down on a landing with a window. If he goes up, I’m good. If he goes down, I’m not screwed as long as I hear him coming.
I got what I needed. The carpet’s the same hideous shag from last night. The window frames and locks are the same. The view is not exact, but the fire escape out the window looks the same. This is the place. I’m positive. I memorize the number on the door—10F.
What feels like forever—probably only five minutes—goes by before I hear shoe soles coming up the steps. Hood still up, I position myself in front of the window and thrust the camera into the hoodie pocket, holding my arms out to exaggerate the exact size of the bulge. It kind of makes me look pregnant.
Two girls, one African American and one Caucasian, pass me at an almost dragging pace, swapping drunken tales about who they slept with last night and other dirty things I wish I wasn’t hearing. I pray for them to hurry the hell up. They’re totally ear-blocking me.
After they’re up to the sixth floor, I wonder if I’ve missed my chance.
Then I hear, “Oh, excuse me.” Alpha.
“Can we help you?” I think it’s the white girl, speaking with a dripping flirty tone. If she only knew.
His voice sends sharp chills down my legs, even from this distance. I sense the cocky smirk. “Oh no, I got it all.”
“I’m sure you do.” The girls giggle. I hear him moving. They continue yammering. “He’s so cute. Man, I wish it were him last night—”
I tune them out, redirecting my ears to Alpha’s movements only. I’m taking a huge risk right now, standing still. If he’s coming my way, I’m definitely screwed, but I stand my ground because I think the odds are in my favor. I feel it, and I’m right. He’s going up, stepping heavier, less cautiously from whatever load he’s carrying.
Briefly, I wonder if it’s the monitor they had Heather on last night, the one that documented her weakening heartbeats. My shoulders droop. With my own heavy steps, I force myself up the stairs, but I keep the shuffle to a minimum. He’s up a least two flights. I’ve been counting his footfalls. When they soften to a muted thud, I know he’s on carpet again and on his way down another floor hallway.
Floor ten. I was on the nose. Go me.
Silently hopping the rest of the way, I hunch just inside the corner of the stairwell, straining my ears until I hear the rough grate of a key in a lock. I turn my head until one eye gets the visual. Alpha is about seven or so doors down with a heap of beige machinery in his arms. I think I was right about the heart monitor. He pulls his key out, twists the knob, and kicks open the door.
I count to ten before I let myself come into full view in the hall. I don’t need pictures here either, just a number. I just need a peek at the door again and I’m done with this place. Then I’ll wait outside for Jay and Trigger or Alpha’s evil counterparts, whoever comes first. I’m silently sending out prayers for Jay and Trigger to be first.
Inhaling once, I trot over until I’m beside the doorframe. I don’t wait against the wall this time. I don’t swallow, breath, or blink. I shift my head just enough to glimpse the number, and then I’m gone.
I sprint like a lightning bolt without the thunder aftereffect. My legs, knees, and toes are on fire because I’m vacating this place like a soundless moron. I couldn’t care less what I look like as long as I don’t make any noise. Two floors down, I slow a tad, jaunting like a normal person to catch my breath, but I’m instantly overtaken by a need to get out. Four floors down, I take the steps two at a time. Six floors down, I switch to three. I know I’ve gotten this far, but I’m not taking any chances.
Once I’m out in the fresh air, I round the building, find a cozy spot next to a dumpster in the alley, and toss myself against the brick exterior, gulping air in huge asthmatic mouthfuls. From here, I’m hidden, but I have a large enough view of the street. I’ll know when someone’s approaching or pulling up to the entrance.
I made it! I did it!
Now I know where they’re going to be tonight. 7J.
I did it, I tell myself again because I’m so damn proud. I walked into the lion’s den and came out without a scratch. Part of me wants to punch the air and hit pause like a cheesy 80s movie, but this is not over, not even close.
Now I have to wait for my backup to show.
Tick tock.
Waiting. Waiting. Waiting.
I passed bored like an hour ago. Several people came in and out of the building. All strangers, all on foot. No cars have pulled up yet. My quiet little corner has remained quiet the entire time. No one has tried to come down the alley. The area in general is eerily empty.
The sun went down a while ago. I watched anxiously as it lit the sky on fire, a finger painting of oranges and reds.
My stomach growls again from where I sit in a heap in the dark. My back is cornered against the building and the dumpster. Earlier, I collected scraps of cardboard and plastic grocery bags to cushion me. Regardless, my butt is starting to go numb, and my exhausted body is warring with my shrinking stomach. That half a cheeseburger has long since digested.
With the lack of action, the adrenaline overload has left me Jello-ey and hollow. All my bodily needs are now front and center, except that I haven’t had to pee since the lab because I haven’t drank anything. My parched lips are starting to pay for that.
My hands are tingly from the cold. The hoodie isn’t doing much to help my body temperature anymore. Bringing the cloth pocket to my mouth, I huff warm air through the fabric to w
arm my fingers.
Jay and Trigger probably won’t be here for several more hours, depending on their awesome scheme and where they started first. I don’t think I can wait any longer without at least trying to find some food. Most normal people could go days in this kind of situation. I could not. I’m a total pushover when it comes to my stomach. If it came down to me and my stomach in a war, I would lose. My stomach would eat me.
As hungry as I am right now, I might even eat KFC. Hopefully not.
I glance around and weigh my options.
Without money and the ability to go anywhere, my choices are the dumpster…um, no. Or scavenging the trail of trash and rotting leftovers from the ground…um, hell no.
Dumpster it is.
It takes an entire minute to unfurl my legs from their paralyzed curled position. My left foot fell asleep some time ago, and I haven’t had the motivational energy to revive it. I stomp the pins and needles until they recede and shake my entire body to put some life back in it. Truthfully, I needed to do this anyway. Sitting here for another fifteen minutes would’ve put me to sleep, and then I’d be completely useless.
I softly set down the camera on a torn slab of cardboard. Then I bounce side-to-side at a distance as I gear up for this run-jump thing that will hopefully get me in the dumpster. If this were any other day or any other situation, I’d be busting a seam right now laughing at myself. Even in my dire situation, it’s still almost funny.
Almost.
My heart rate is picking up again, blood pumping through my veins, warming me, revitalizing me. I take a runner’s stance, left hand forward, right hand cocked back and ready to pump. With my right leg bent and left raised, I shoot forward. My foot plants flat on metal. The giant rusty bin groans loudly as it shoves back. The noise echoes off the buildings and down the street. Shit. I cringe from the sound as I throw my arms over the rim to catch myself and hold my position. Please tell me no one heard that. My right leg dangles until I remember to use it for leverage. But with two feet propped against it, I feel more like I’m pushing myself away from the dumpster rather than pulling myself into it. I’m about to fall and I picture myself holding onto the edge of a cliff for dear life. I gather all my might into this one hold.
I am not doing this again. No way.
Finally, my body decides to join my team. I painstakingly slide each slipping foot a little higher, grunting as quietly as I can until my arms have a strong enough grip to haul me over the side. I’m in.
If I thought the stench was overwhelming sitting next to it, lying in it is a real treat. Thin plastic bags of all shapes are filled with all sorts of contents. Things squish and protrude into my backside. This has got to be the most disgusting thing I’ve ever done, and that includes going worm hunting when I was seven with Tricky Ricky from down the street and completing a four hour mud obstacle course with a group of girlfriends three years ago. My mouth involuntarily forms little squeals of revulsion as I pick up my body one limb at a time. But there’s not enough waste to support my weight, and my legs sink between the bags. I grimace, reminding myself why I’m here—for food. My body needs it, soon. Or like three hours ago.
Pursing my lips and plugging my nose, I poke holes in the plastic, one bag at a time, tossing aside folded dinner boxes, crushed plastic soda bottles, and empty frozen food containers. A glop of loose spaghetti slithers out of a hole and down my jeans.
Swallowing a gag, I shake it off and rip open another bag. I think I’ve gone through about three or four before I find something edible—leftover Chinese in two thick paper to-go boxes. I put my nose near one container to sniff. It’s smelly, but what leftover Chinese isn’t? I decide it’s fresh enough. My stomach seizes, throwing a miniature party at the idea of food. Surprisingly, my mouth is watering. This must be what it’s like for all those Third World kids I’ve seen on TV. This is their every day on a much larger, constant scale.
One mission at a time, Lil.
I use my hands to scoop the contents into my mouth. Rice, sweet and sour chicken. Freaking heaven. Why did I wait so long to get off my ass?
After a few more bites, I’m feeling a smidge stronger, sturdier, but I need to get out of here. I finish off one container and cradle the other to my chest like I gave birth to it as I contemplate how to get out of this trash cloud. Lucky for me, getting out is a cakewalk. Since I’m higher up, I support my feet on two trash bags to give myself a few more inches. Then I back my butt onto the rim and swivel around, suspending my legs a few feet above the street. I take my one free arm and shove against the metal, launching myself forward. I land with an unfeminine thud, trip, roll, but the food is safe.
The food is safe, folks! I chuckle stupidly in my happy belly, low-adrenaline, lack-of-sleep stupor. Maybe a little insanity is leaking through. I’m putting my life and general safety up for grabs, but the food is safe!
Relaxing into my previous pose in the corner, I perch the paper container on my bent knees and drag the camera to me by the strap. I use a non-sticky finger to flip through the pictures I’ve taken so far today. This is the fifteenth time I’ve done this since I’ve been out here, but I do it again, curiously studying the details. Some are really bad with only blurry orbs of color. A few are just slightly fuzzy. The ones I took of Alpha and his exchange at the fast food place aren’t so awful. One of the license plate pics looks decipherable, and most of the ones I took when we pulled up here are quite crisp. One for Team Lila.
It’s not enough though. This’ll never convict him for what he’s done. Drug trafficking, maybe. Loitering, possibly. Human trafficking or rape, not even a little bit. Neither of those puny charges will put him away for more than weeks or days, if anything at all. I’m sure one of the perks of being a senator’s son is being able to bring some tough-ass lawyers to the table.
No, this won’t work. I need… something. Real stuff. Him attacking a girl. Catching him with homemade drugs or a syringe. The food is beginning to feel like a brick in my aching stomach as it sinks in that all of this might be the biggest waste ever.
Am I doing any good by being here tonight?
Have we done anything to stop these guys?
A deep-rooted despair wraps around my heart and squeezes. To take my mind off of it, I set the empty food container aside, wipe my hands roughly on my jeans, and play with the camera settings. The flash pops up in the darkness. I snap a few pics of my surroundings to check the picture quality. I don’t want to find out later I bumped the lens and threw my focus out of whack right when it counts. That would be a bitch.
The pictures look plenty clear. Okay. Now I wait a little more. I whisper aloud my thoughts, “Not too much longer, I hope.”
A few minutes later, I want to gnaw off my tongue for wishing it.
After not hearing any footsteps in my area all afternoon, I ping straight up at the sound of shoes on pavement.
“Come out, come out, wherever you are,” chimes the Devil himself.
The way Alpha says it convinces me that he knows exactly who’s back here. All the air knocks out of my lungs in one quick exhale. I attempt to shove myself between the dumpster and the building, but there’s not enough space. Funny how the thing decides it’s not going to move when I don’t have the force of my running body flailing against it. Not that that would work in my favor. It wouldn’t move without scraping and groaning, thus worsening my chances of hiding.
How the hell did he find me? After all this time. I’ve been out here for hours.
“Come on,” he says lazily, almost pleasantly as if he has all the time in the world. But I know he’s only going to bestow it patiently for another few seconds before he comes after me. “I know you’re back here, little pumpkin-fucked bitch. We have some words to exchange.”
A familiar plea leaks out, hushed and dismal. “Oh God, oh God, oh God…”
“You have about three seconds before I take your ass out the hard way. Come out nicely, and I’ll preserve that fuck-ready face of yours a little l
onger.”
He’s giving me a choice? For what, a short death or a longer one? Is that supposed to appeal to me? Will I even make it out of this alive? Is this how it ends—me in the back alley of a shitty apartment in the slums an hour and a half away from my temporary college home and who knows how far away I am from the person I love most in this world? No matter what he’s done, Jay still holds that position in my life. Nothing could ever usurp him.
I picture last night, rolling on the concrete with Alpha. His heavy, panting body on top of mine. His livid, triumphant face inches away. I thought that was the end, too. This is déjà vu in its most devastating form.
“Three,” he starts to count, the same hair-raising smirk in his tone. He’s loving this.
Every inch of my skin springs with goose bumps. Do it, I scream inside my head, but my fingers want to remain in their shock-numbed state.
“Two.”
Do it! I make a move, press my hands tentatively against the side of the dumpster.
“One.”
Now or never. DO IT!
Before he can say anything else, I pop out of my hiding place and into his line of sight. The hazy glow of a streetlamp backlights his body and shadows his face, which only amplifies the deadly look in his eyes. My hands instantly become fists, legs prepped for battle or fleeing. There’s nothing behind me but brick. If I plan on getting out, I’ll have to go through him.
This entire experience has been one huge mind game, full of regrets and wishes and coulda, shoulda, wouldas. One thing I’m regretting more than anything else right now is not knowing exactly how to get myself out of this. That lack is probably the reason I’ve wanted to run every time I’ve seen him today. Other than common sense, I mean.
When Nilah, Heather, and I were sixteen, there was a rape at our school. It was a girl we all knew but didn’t really know. It happened on school property, which concerned school officials even more, and the guidance counselors set up extra office hours to handle the influx of concerned students and parents. There was a student body assembly that the three of us idiotically skipped to get lunch at a café down the street, not that we really needed to go. We knew exactly what had happened. A jackass football player had been not quietly bragging about it in the locker room afterward. Once the girl cried rape, however, he zipped his lips like the pansy that he was, but we all knew by that time. None of us were worried.
