Hashtag Rogue

by Chautona Havig

  And underestimated the guy. Lighter on his feet than a ballet dancer, Thor dodged the attack and kicked Keith into a fence. I think that just displaced the fracture. Great.

  Only two real options remained. Get up and hope to overtake one—possible, but difficult the way he kept seeing black spots—or pretend to be out. Langat needed him to make it. Keith struggled to rise and let himself fall. Lord, please don’t let them see I didn’t let my face hit the ground.

  Even without seeing or hearing, Keith knew. Thor squeezed that trigger. A moment later, he figured the safety was now off. One of the other boys pointed. “Look. It’s air soft—like they do in those things on YouTube.”

  Oh, do not…

  The other kid piped up. “I think you need these containers. BBs in there?” Silence followed.

  And now you shook it…

  “No, to push the BBs out. You need…” Rifling sounds followed. A low whistle. “Whoa… these are like—you know, for animals.”

  The other scrawny one started shuffling away from him. “He’s probably a cop!”

  Thor scoffed. “Cops carry real guns, stupid.”

  “Not if they’re animal control. They use those for, like, rabies and big game. We gotta get outta here!”

  Scuffles. A kick to his shin. Keith did everything he could to flop and ignore the next wave of nausea that followed his chin hitting the ground. Again.

  “Hold ‘im, Skeez.”

  What kind of nickname is Skeez?

  The sounds—Keith knew them well. He had to try. More than one tranq… “If you shoot him more than once, he could die.”

  His words came out garbled. Probably that jawbone not moving like it should.

  It earned him another kick, another scrape of his face across the asphalt, and likely a shot of his own. At least I can take two—maybe three.

  The first one hit his ankle. Not too bad.

  The second hit the kid, if the yowling and cursing meant what he thought. Keith tried to rise and found his head crushed to the ground by an oversized shoe. Probably a Nike. He “just did it.”

  When the second tranq hit his thigh, the other boy protested. “I’m not gettin’ caught for killing someone. Let’s go!”

  “What about Talon?”

  Thor snickered. “He knows what’s good for him.”

  A thud followed—likely “Talon” hitting the ground. “Gonna search his pockets—see if he’s a cop.”

  They took his cash—what was left of it, anyway—and tossed the crumpled newspaper page on the ground beside him. Crunches followed. Keith grew groggier and groggier. One eyeball pried open and saw the last wadded up newspaper page lay in the gutter, wet, dirty, soaking up blood.

  His blood.

  Fifteen

  Saltshaker to the left and peppershaker a few inches above it, Flynne’s hand hovered over both, clutching the napkin holder and waving it about as if some housekeeper’s magic wand. She sighed and set it left of the saltshaker. “That’ll have to be Minneapolis.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  Flynne jumped and sent the napkins flying across the table and onto the floor. “Don’t. Do. That!” She turned to glare at Erika. “It’s supes annoyzballs.”

  “That’s a new level of cheese, even for you”

  “Well, I’m trying to figure out how to get you somewhere safe. And it’s not easy when you don’t know what you’re doing! I’m going cray-cray!”

  “Stop!”

  Erika had the grace to look chagrined at Flynne’s second glare of the night… or was it morning? Flynne didn’t know anymore.

  “Sorry. But seriously. How does someone as intelligent as you are decide to dumb it all down into teen-speak… that no one uses anymore?” She dropped to a chair next to Flynne and moved napkin Minneapolis over to Fargo, North Dakota. “You know that, right? No one says ‘awesalicious’—which sounds like something salacious, by the way—or ‘totes adorbs’ or most of that stuff anymore?”

  Flynne moved Minneapolis back to where it belonged. “I don’t know anything about Fargo.”

  “Huh?” Erika reached for St. Louis the saltshaker, but Flynne swatted her hand away. “What?”

  She pointed. “That’s Chicago. We’re pepper here in St. Louis, and the napkin holder is Minneapolis.” She tapped the spot where Erika had moved the napkin holder. “That would be Fargo or something over there. I don’t know anything about Fargo—just where it is.”

  “Oh.”

  “And as for how I talk…” She shot her best frustrated look at Erika and said, “I worked hard to learn all the totes cool stuff so people would quit saying how I’m ‘so ooold for such a young person.’ They don’t do it anymore, so it worked.”

  “Yeah, well they don’t ‘do’ your ‘supes last year’ teen-speak anymore, either.”

  As if she didn’t know it. Still, habits die hard, and the memory of Mark’s smile and shaking head when he thought she wasn’t looking… “So what? I learned it. Spent foreves learning it. Got it all wrong at first. Totes newbie. Now it’s me.”

  She pulled a water glass down and to the left of the pepper shaker. “Tulsa. We could go to Tulsa.”

  “Why?”

  It was a fair question. “I don’t know! That’s what they do, though. They move you guys all over the place.”

  “Not always, Flynne.” In a tornado of epic proportions, Erika swept the cities and their markers into the center of the table. “Look, I lived here.” She put the peppershaker on the left of the table. The salt went right next to it. “One street over is where Keith took me. We immediately went in a van…” She dragged the napkin holder off to the right. “Up to this cabin over here. Probably up by Lake Vienna, but not sure where, actually.”

  “And you stayed there the whole time?”

  Erika shook her head and reached for the water glass. “No. Then, they got word for us to get out of there. So…” She dragged it down from the napkin holder cabin. “We went really close and were there for quite a while. But, usually, we only moved if they thought Helen was getting close—although, we didn’t know it was Helen.”

  That caught her attention. “Who’s Helen?”

  Erika tapped the peppershaker. “That was her house. I was a house sitter for her. Lived there most of the time because she was down in Australia. Turns out, she was into human trafficking. She was being protected by the Agency… hired them to protect me! And then tried to take me out.”

  “So, she’s, like, totes jailie?” Flynne winked at Erika’s wince. “C’mon. You asked for that one.”

  “As far as I know, she’s locked up for good and won’t ever get out again.”

  Those words didn’t set well with Flynne. “What do you mean, ‘as far as you know?’”

  Erika toyed with the house—was it the safe house or Helen’s?—and avoided her question until Flynne pressed again. After shoving the shaker away, Erika folded her arms over her chest and huffed. “Look, I know it’s stupid and everything, but I just didn’t want to know if they found some technicality that got her a reduced sentence. I like to think of her sharing a cell with someone tough enough to keep her in her place.”

  It made sense—it did. But Flynne knew she never could do it. Still, something told her that saying as much to a “client” was probably not the right thing to do. Besides, Erika had given her more to think about. “So… does Morgan knowing about you here mean we have to move?”

  “…does Morgan knowing about you here mean we have to move?”

  The question looped itself through Erika’s mind until she thought she’d go crazy. I shouldn’t have to wonder. I should be able to trust that she knows. And why am I still here? She doesn’t seem to know that Keith locked me in or actually used chains on me to keep me there. I could get out of here, walk to a gas station or something, and call Keith. He’d be here in just a few hours at worst.

  Why she wasn’t leaving… that question nagged and badgered her until Erika faced facts. She sat up
in bed and muttered, “I’m seriously still here because I don’t want to make the girl who kidnapped—” the word came out in a hiss. “—me feel bad? Really?”

  Off went the covers. In less than a minute, she’d donned fresh yoga pants, t-shirt, and hoodie. Nothing else mattered—not now. With such a short drive, there was no reason she couldn’t be home in a matter of half a day.

  A soft snore from the couch told her Flynne had at least had the sense to try to prevent escape. Maybe she has decent instincts that just need a bit of training. The idea of paying to listen to Flynne’s chatter, however, nearly drove Erika nuts. Nope. She needs to stay where she is.

  Blankets rustled as Erika inched the door open and slipped out. She hesitated, deliberating between running like mad and stealth. Stealth won—barely. The half-moon and clouds colluded with her and provided enough shadows to creep between until she made it to what she thought was the end of the drive. The street, however, turned out to be an alleyway. Still, escape was escape.

  Erika made it three steps before a familiar voice said, “I have her gun. Don’t make me figure out how to use it.”

  Furious, both at him and herself, Erika whirled and stormed over to rip it from his hands. “Seriously, Morgan? What are you thinking? If you don’t know how to use a gun… Don’t point it at people!”

  “Give that back.”

  If God gave bonus points, Erika wanted them for not laughing. “You’re kidding me, right?”

  “Do you know how to shoot?”

  “I’ve shot a gun before.” Okay, I shot myself, but he doesn’t need to know that. “That makes me the one with experience. Now…” she fumbled with the chamber and then frowned. “Seriously? Is this a BB gun?”

  He shrugged. “How should I know? Flynne’s the one with the cool moves. I’m just trying to keep her from losing her job.”

  You have no idea that doing this probably lost it for her.

  “Smoke Gets in Your Eyes” began playing from Morgan’s pocket. She couldn’t see his expression, or his skin tone, but Erika decided he blushed as he fumbled and answered. “Flynne?”

  Erika took two steps back, still holding the gun on Morgan—just in case he’d forgotten that air soft wouldn’t kill him. Or seriously maim him—dddrraat it all. Something in her spirit poked. Sorry, Lord.

  Flynne’s voice filled their little spot in the alley. “She’s, like, vannie!”

  “She’s what?”

  “Poofs! Gone. Vannie!”

  Before she could consider the wisdom of the movement, Erika snatched the phone from Morgan and demanded to know just what “vannie” meant. “Seriously, Flynne?”

  “Are you out there like… with my boyfriend—sorta?”

  If the grin on Morgan’s face—anyone could have seen it in the middle of a black hole if they wanted to—meant anything, she’d just made the night’s hassles worth it for him. Erika tossed him a bone. “He’s out here trying to stop me from leaving. To help you, you twit. Now what does ‘vannie’ mean?”

  “You know… vanished. Vamoosed. Vannie. Everyone says it.”

  “No, Flynne. No one says it. No one has ever said it, and neither should you.”

  “Toodles de-la tough. I’ll say what I want. Gimme Morgan.”

  She passed him the phone and took a few steps back. “You can have him.”

  It was a risk—a big one, but Erika took it. The moment Morgan half-turned away to talk to Flynne, she bolted. Three feet, five. Ten.

  “Hey!”

  Footsteps behind her. Oh, man. It’s déjà vu… but on asphalt! And Morgan doesn’t know how to tackle without hurting me.

  They grew closer. A glance back showed him just a few feet behind her. Step aside before he tackles…

  “I’m takin’ you down, Erika. You’d better stop.”

  The déjà vu moment ended. Erika slowed and jerked out of his path. Morgan landed, arms outstretched to grab her. His scream rent the night air. From behind, more footsteps followed—Flynne pounding her way to him.

  “What’d you do?”

  “Avoided getting tackled?”

  Morgan just laid there, shaking. Fighting back… pain? Tears? She wouldn’t blame him. He’d probably left half his skin behind.

  Flynne shot daggers at Erika as she passed. “He’s hurt!”

  “He was going to hurt me,” Erika shot back.

  “Well, you left!”

  “Because you…” Part of her didn’t have the heart to say it. The other ninety-eight percent outvoted that part. “—don’t know what you’re doing. I was going to call a professional.”

  As if they hadn’t been having a perfectly lovely argument, Flynne beckoned her. “Help me get him up.”

  Like an idiot, Erika complied. This Christianity thing is going to be the death of me.

  From somewhere deep within came the memory of Keith reading a verse about dying with Christ. Didn’t know it was supposed to be literal…

  The moment they settled Morgan at the kitchen table, Flynne turned on Erika and snatched the gun from her hand. “Give. Me. That. What is wrong with you? Are you trying to get us all killed?”

  “I’d say you’ve got that covered.”

  Morgan’s pain-filled voice interrupted the burgeoning argument. “Can you hate on each other later? I think I need to go to the ER.”

  Both women scoffed. “We just need to clean it out,” Flynne insisted. “Erika—find the hydrogen peroxide.”

  Poor Morgan whimpered. “Don’t think,” he gasped. “—we have any.”

  “Oscar performance.” Erika turned to Flynne. “So, where would I find this medical wonder?”

  “Be nice.” The problem was, Flynne didn’t know the answer to that question. “Um… Bathroom?”

  While Erika went to retrieve basic medical supplies, Flynne filled a bowl of warm water and grabbed a washcloth from the linen closet. They met back at the table with Erika looking disappointed. “Nothing.” She pulled a bottle of rubbing alcohol from behind her back. “It’d sting more, but at least he’d—”

  “First aid kit behind the pantry door!” Morgan dropped his head. “Please, God, let there be something with lidocaine in it.”

  When Erika set both hydrogen peroxide and lidocaine spray in front of Flynne, she said, “I didn’t know you believed in God.”

  “I don’t.”

  She snatched back the lidocaine. “Then stop asking Him for stuff.”

  Despite her giggles, Flynne held out her hand for the can. “I’m, like, sursies that Jesus would want you to be nice.”

  “And I’m like…” Erika stuck quoting fingers in the air. “Sursies that I’ll smack you if you ever say that again.”

  “Do I have to turn the other cheek if I don’t believe Jesus was God?”

  Erika shrugged. “No.”

  “Good.” Flynne tried to hide the grin spreading. “Do you?”

  “Probably.” Before Flynne could gloat, Erika added, “But I doubt I will.”

  Morgan muttered something about her not needing to repent at least. So, while Flynne tried to squeeze a washcloth of warm water over the arm to clean it out, she asked what repenting actually did. “I’ve heard Claire say that, but…”

  “It’s just deciding you won’t do something again and asking forgiveness for doing it in the first place.” Morgan hissed the words between each squeeze of water over his arm.

  “So, you don’t believe now, but you did?”

  Flynne’s gaze swung from Morgan to Erika and back to Morgan again as both women waited for his answer. When he wasn’t forthcoming, she threatened to add a bit of the alcohol to the water.

  “My parents were Christians, all right? I just didn’t get the Jesus gene.”

  A “discussion” began. Erika informed him that even she, as a new Christian, knew that you didn’t inherit Jesus like you did crossed eyes. Morgan interrupted and tried to talk over her, insisting she knew what he meant. Flynne told him to shut up. “I don’t know what she means. What�
�s with the inheriting Jesus? So, if I want to be a Jesus freak, my parents have to be? What about grandparents?”

  “You can be one without anyone in your bloodline believing all the way back to Pentecost!”

  Both Flynne and Erika asked, “What’s Pentecost?” Erika added, “Again” to it like she thought she should know but wasn’t sure. Morgan just pointed to his arm. “Unless you’ve got some gift of healing that’ll take care of the pain and burgeoning infection going on here, either clean it up or get out of my way so I can get to the ER.”

  “I think he should go, actually.”

  Flynne shot Erika a look that was intended to say, “Are you totes cray cray?”

  She got the memo, too. Before Flynne knew what hit her, Erika had dragged her down the hall. “We can take him to the ER, get him all cleaned up, and give him Uber money to go home Then we can drive around and find an escape plan in case we need to get out of there fast.”

  “So… that’s what you were doing this morning? Just…” Flynne hooked her fingers on each side of her head. “—checking out alternate things?”

  “Nope. I was calling Keith to get me out of here. We need someone who knows what they’re doing. I barely know more than you… and you’re the so-called agent in this scenario.”

  The worst of it all was Erika was right. Flynne peered around the corner and stared at Morgan, shot a glance back at Erika, and went to inspect the wound again. The water in the bowl was bright pink from all the blood. Rocks were embedded in raw flesh.

  “That’s it. Get him in the car. We’re going.”

  Both Erika and Morgan pumped their right arms. Erika’s was accompanied by a, “Yassss!”

  Morgan’s victory shout ended in, “Noooo…” however.

  Sixteen

  Consciousness approached with the subtlety of a marching band in the Rose Bowl Parade. With each footstep, pain pierced deeper, throbbed harder, begged for a whimper. Even in a semiconscious, pain-induced stupor, Keith suspected it was a bad idea to indulge. He just couldn’t gather his muddle-headed thoughts enough to figure out why.

  Metallic and thick, he spat out the saliva congealing in his mouth and gagged at the pain it caused. Blood. Pain. I should know this.