Trapped

by Ella James

  I finished screaming, tears pouring down my cheeks, and that finally caught his attention.

  “Whoa. You’re—”

  BOOM-BANG. The front door had been knocked down! I had the sad thought that I was about to become bait, but at least I would see Mom, when the bathroom door slammed into my back.

  West caught me, and we turned to stare at the two hulks in the doorway. One of them raised one of the weird guns I remembered from their compound: short barrel, strange design. He pointed it my way, producing a red laser mark right over my heart, and West gasped.

  Then there was a crackling sound, and the other one crumpled. My body thrust into action; I kicked my would-be shooter in the groin and he doubled over, groaning.

  West lunged forward, and I heard the crackling sound again. I realized West has a Taser, and he was applying it to the guy I kicked.

  “WEST?”

  Shaking and white as a sheet, he pointed to an open window over the tub. “You first,” he cried.

  I backed up. “No! I...can't!”

  “There's a balcony, it has a rope ladder! Go!”

  When I still hesitated, he said, “Fine, I'll go!”

  West heaved his body out the window just as one of the guards, the first he’d shocked, began picking himself up. I threw myself over the window sill and tumbled out behind him, landing on West and knocking us both to the balcony floor just as the bathroom wall over our heads exploded.

  “Holy shit!” West cried.

  He pulled me up and tossed me toward the rope ladder dangling from the balcony.

  “Milo, go!”

  I went over the railing without a second thought, making it halfway down the swaying ladder before I lost my grip and fell. I landed on a potted plant and cried out as its sharp leaves pierced my leggings. Then West was there, and he was dragging me behind him, streaking through a courtyard. Dark shadows zoomed around us, and a hand was reaching for me when West pulled me sharply left, and we were in a tunnel that must have been some kind of modern art. I saw light, and West went out first, then yanked my arm and we were running again. Everything was a swirling mess of grass and shrubs and apartment walls as West jerked me behind him just like Nick had not so long ago.

  We ran between apartment buildings and I saw people through the windows; regular people living regular lives. I felt a strong longing for Dad, for my old life, and just as quickly re-acknowledged that was over. Gone. This life was mine now, and imperfect though it was, I wanted to hang onto it. Still clutching West's hand, I lengthened my strides, feeling the sting of cold air on my cheeks and the breeze from my cover-up/dress blowing up around my leggings. I was missing a sock, I noticed, but I didn't let it slow me down.

  We burst into a parking lot and West muttered, “Hell yes,” and then we were at the bottom of another apartment building and West said, “Jump” as he pushed me over an iron railing framing someone’s patio. I landed in a crouch as West sailed over and I heard the heavy footfall of pursuers as he shoved a wicker table out of the way, yanked open the door to a supply closet, and pushed me inside.

  It was a small space, no bigger than a broom closet, filled with ski gear and smelling of mildew. My pulse rushed in my ears as we heard more shouting, followed by the static sound of walkie-talkies. I wondered why they were using those when there was Bluetooth now. Thinking that reminded me of Vera, which reminded me of Nick, and for a long second I had to struggle not to puke.

  West's arm went around me, pulling me against his side; I was shaking hard, which I noticed because West wasn't shaking at all.

  “I expect a story,” he said in a low voice.

  My breath hitched, somewhere between a sob and a gasp, and his tone turned gentle as his hand found mine. I whimpered, trying not to cry and draw attention to us. I could still hear them outside. Probably about to find us. What would they do to me this time? What about West? And did they already have Nick?

  “This sucks so bad.” My voice quivered, and West hugged me closer.

  “Whatever happened, you can tell me. Remember, I'm your Bestie Westie.” I'd called him that one time when I wanted him to let Aerie and I take his car for a spin when I was still fifteen.

  “I know, and I'm so sorry for this! It's just...I really needed to know about my mom. But I already knew!”

  I just didn’t want to admit it. Why else would Vera and Nick have left without waiting to see if West had any news?

  My body shook with quiet sobs and West patted my shoulder. We hadn't heard voices for a while, but I knew they were still out there. And I thought there was no way they wouldn’t find us.

  I cried some more, and after a long time, West moved in front of me. My eyes had adjusted so I could see how serious he looked when he said, “Milo, what are you taking? You can tell me,” he added. “No judgment.”

  “You sound like your dad,” I said in a hoarse voice.

  He scoffed. “Proving you are on something.”

  When I didn't answer, he rubbed his head. “Shit, either I'm tripping or you are. I just thought you told me something about some frexing aliens.”

  “I did. West, this is real.” I rubbed my eyes and tried my best to drive it home. “Nick and Vera... They're not human. They're here from another planet. I swear they are, and no, I'm not on anything.”

  “Right,” he laughed. “I want to try it.”

  “West.” I grabbed his forearm, resisting the urge to squeeze it hard. “I'm serious! Nick and Vera...” I had to struggle to make myself say it. “Nick and Vera are aliens. I know it's hard to believe, but I mean it. That was real, when you thought they disappeared. I wish I hadn’t laughed at you then but you have to believe me now. Those people were from the Department of Defense, and they're after me.” I waited a second while his face grew serious. “And the virus in Golden isn’t really a virus. It’s them!”

  West shook his head, raking his hands back through his dark hair. The expression on his face was locked somewhere between anger and disbelief. “Milo, if this is some kind of crazy elaborate intervention, I swear to God.” He brought his face closer to mine. “Did my mom put you up to this? My dad? Are they waiting for me outside with Father Oscar? Really, you have to tell me. We’re supposed to friends.”

  “We're cousins,” I whispered.

  My heart ached as he sank down to the floor, holding his head between his hands.

  I knelt beside him, finally realizing he was really freaking out. I put one hand on his shoulder; he shrank away. “West, please. Don't freak out, please. I'm telling the truth. I'm scared.” I rubbed his back. I remembered Aunt Skylar used to rub circles on our backs—she'd done that for me the day I'd found out about Dad's leukemia—so I thought it might help.

  “It's okay, West. You're not crazy or anything. It's all my fault. But,” I fumbled, “we'll get out of this together. I swear, I'll get you out of this.”

  His voice was a strangled screech. “I shocked a cop, Milo. I shocked a crapping cop.”

  I leaned against the cement wall, closing my eyes. “He wasn’t a cop,” I said. “And Nick can help.”

  They could erase memories or something. Nick and Vera could do anything, I told myself, just as long as the DoD didn't get them.

  “We need to find Nick and Vera! We need their help.” I lowered my voice, worried we might be found in our closet. “How can we do that?”

  “Are you kidding me?” West asked. He lifted his head, and I felt the weight of his inquisitive gaze.

  “No.” My eyes stung as I said that, and I felt the awful crush of guilt. “Westie, I'm so sorry. I should have never come to your house. I was worried about my mom and I was desperate.” Saying the words, I was reminded of Nick in my bedroom that night.

  “What do they want with you?” he asked in a surprisingly even voice.

  “They want Nick and Vera,” I said. “I just know them.”

  “What kind of aliens?” he asked, still sounding remarkably calm.

  “Ones from another pl
anet! West, I'm serious.”

  “How do I know you're not on something?”

  “Do you want me to say my ABCs backward?”

  “It could be a mental break,” he said.

  “Or it could be true.”

  He rubbed his hair. “I'm tripping. God, I really want to be tripping now.”

  I spent what felt like hours whispering the story, wondering when we’d be caught. When I was finished, and I'd answered all West's sharp-as-a-tack, mostly unanswerable questions, he shook his head.

  “That's unbelievable, cuz.”

  “Yeah, I know. But you believe me, right?”

  He shook his head. “I guess so.” He looked down at his lap, and when he looked back up, his jaw was locked tightly. “What were they like?” he said softly. “The people at the DoD?”

  “They were jerks. They tortured Nick and threatened me.”

  His brows shot up. “Harsh.”

  I flushed, then felt my eyes burn. I nodded. “That's why I have to find him. I couldn't stand it—” I inhaled deeply, trying not to set off another crying jag. “I'll flip out if they catch him again.”

  West gave me a pointed look. “Ever heard of Guantanamo Bay?”

  “I know. That place is disgusting. But Nick isn't a terrorist.”

  “I thought you just told me he was a card-carrying member of Team Alien.”

  “He's not carrying his card,” I said. “He cut it up or, I don't know...incinerated it, or made it cease to exist or something. Remember that part of the story?”

  West nodded, lips pressed tight, like he was thinking. I tried to remember his many ethical stands. At one point, he'd wanted to be an ethics professor or a philosopher, so I was sure he must have some views on life and its value.

  When his thoughtful expression turned darker, I touched his knee. “Thank you,” I said. “You know you might have saved my life.”

  I scooted closer and hugged him, and to my kind-of surprise, West let me. “Thanks,” he said into my hair. Then he stood and put his hand against the door.

  “Feeling claustrophobic?” I asked.

  “Yeah, but that doesn't mean we should go yet.”

  “How are we going to find Nick and Vera if we're in here?”

  “I'm not sure I want to,” he said darkly. “I know they're your BFFs and all, but...” He shook his head.

  “I understand.”

  “That is some unequivocally scary shit.”

  “Yeah. I know.” My eyes watered again, because I really did.

  West sank to the floor, sitting cross-legged with his back against it. “Let's give it a little while longer. Let things clear out.”

  I was opening my mouth to reply when we heard footsteps just outside the door. West moved like lightning, grabbing the doorknob and holding it with both hands. Half a second later, the knob jiggled, just so. We heard a sigh, then footsteps. My heart hammered between my ribs as we listened to what sounded like clomping boots.

  West slowly turned to me, and I realized there was no lock on the door.

  “How'd you do that?”

  He smiled tightly. “Hold it tight. Learned that one busting into houses.”

  I gaped, aghast. “You did what!”

  He shrugged. “Only once or twice.”

  “But you're well-off,” I said.

  “That wasn't the point.”

  “What was?”

  “What do you want me to say? Life’s got to have a little edge.”

  “Yeah. I guess it does.”

  He surprised me by ruffling my hair. “Thanks, Milo.”

  “For what?”

  “For providing the edge.”

  WE DECIDED TO stay in the area a little longer to link up with Nick and Vera. We didn’t talk about what we’d do if they didn’t show. I had no idea.

  “Give them a chance,” West told me. “If they're everything you say they are, they've probably already found you.”

  I nodded. “Hopefully.”

  West pressed his palm against the supply closet’s door. “I'm gonna look out. Cool?”

  “Yeah.”

  He opened it slowly, and I could see a sliver of the pale vinyl siding on the other side of the patio. I held my breath as he eased his torso out. A few seconds later, he came back in and pressed his back against the door. “Looks clear.”

  I flexed my leg, which was scraped and bruised during my clumsy exit down the rope ladder. “I guess we probably can’t go back to your apartment?”

  West snorted. “No way. C'mon, Milo, I know you used to watch that crime show—”

  “What crime show?”

  “The one with Claire Danes.”

  “‘Homeland?’”

  He nodded.

  “It's not a crime show.”

  “Well, terrorism, whatever, the point is they'll be watching that place. But I know somewhere we can go and get cleaned up. Not far from here, so if your buddies use their seventh sense, they'll find you close to where they left you.”

  “Okay, I guess, but...what will you do?” I asked. “I mean, you don't want to…get involved with this, right?”

  “I'm already involved. Even if I wasn't, this is the kind of shit I love. The crazy.” He thumped my arm. “Stop feeling guilty, Milo. I can see it on your face.”

  I took his hand, but I wouldn't meet his eyes, because I did feel guilty. Very much so. I'd screwed up West's life.

  When I looked back up, his lips were twisted and his pale blue eyes were earnest. “So the place I mentioned—it happens to be right across the street. You can see the door to my building and everything. If we run, I think we can make it.”

  We didn't run. West was right—the DoD was still here and there and everywhere, wearing dark clothes and sitting in Where is Waldo type places: under an umbrella at a sidewalk table, smoking in a hoodie outside West's apartment building, holding several bulging shopping bags outside a nearby boutique, even standing behind a hot dog stand. They were men and women, young and old, and somehow they'd managed to work the area without using any yellow tape or alerting anyone to their presence.

  Even West didn’t notice them until I pointed them out.

  We moved slowly, avoiding the shadowy areas between buildings and parking lots, and sticking to the sidewalk, under the piercing light of storefronts.

  “They're not looking for two normal people walking together,” he said, swinging my hand.

  Before we'd left the closet, we dug through an icky, mildewed bag of ski clothes, and I'd donned a red beanie, tucking my long, mahogany locks under the woolly fabric. I'd stripped out of my sparkly leggings, figuring they'd make me easily recognizable, and pulled on the deep purple overalls of a girls' ski suit. Width-wise, I fit into it fine, but the thing came up past my ankles, emphasizing my lack of socks; they'd both been lost somewhere along the way.

  West wore his same cozy PJ outfit, plus a seriously mildewed green beanie and a fluffy, black down coat.

  After less than half a block out in the open, and approximately zero funny looks, we walked around a two-story cement building with a royal blue awning I forgot to read, and West punched a number into the keypad beside an industrial-sized back door with a sticker: 105.9 FM.

  “We're going into a radio station?” I asked.

  West grinned as the door clicked open. He peeked inside, then pulled me into a long hall with green tile walls, rough brown carpet, and a stale coffee smell that overpowered even the mildewed scent we carried with us.

  “Welcome to Rock 106.”

  Not even two steps down—just beyond a wall clock in the shape of Shrek's face—was another door with another keypad. I watched West punch in '6-0-6', and the door clicked open. He held a finger to his lips, cracked the door, and listened for several seconds. When no one made a noise inside the room, he pulled me in.

  The room was dark, with just one small window with plastic blinds; two sets of metal bunk beds with worn, Sesame Street bedding; a huge, black speaker mounted on the wall
; and a scratched, faux wood dresser with an iPod MP3 player bolted to its top.

  West nodded at a small Keurig on a card table directly behind me, and I felt my stomach go sour. “What are we doing here?”

  “Laying low for a bit, Milo. Resting. Getting some liquid crack.”

  “I know, but I need to find Nick.”

  He cracked the blinds and pointed across the street. “This is the side entrance to the second building of The Edge. See the guy pacing in front of it?”

  “Yeah, so if Nick comes back, he'll walk into a trap.”

  “You really think that? That he wouldn't notice?”

  “I guess not,” I murmured, and West ruffled my beanie, which I pulled off.

  “You need to take a chill pill. Lay down for a while,” he said, pushing the dresser in front of the door.

  “Like that's going to keep them out,” I said hollowly.

  He wiggled his eyebrows. “My girl Lisa used to work here. Dresser up against the door is code for 'stay away.' At this time of night, there’s only one or two people on staff anyway, and they’re in the sound room.”

  “That’s good I guess. Thanks for bringing me here, West.” I gave him a small smile, then climbed onto the top bunk nearest to the window, so I had a clear view out the cracked blinds, and held my stomach, feeling irritated and upset.

  West stood beside me. “Let's just give them time to clear the street. Move on. We'll go back out and look for your friends. How does that sound?” he asked softly.

  “It's fine. Thanks, West. I'm sorry I'm in such a mood. I have no right to be, I know.” I was the one who'd gotten him into this, after all.

  He pushed the dresser into the door again and flopped down on the bunk below me. “Milo, you can feel however you feel.” I heard a rustling sound, like he was repositioning himself. “Didn't your parents ever send you to therapy?”

  I nodded. “You know it. Yours, too, right?” I'd heard this from Aerie years before.

  West confirmed: “Only since I was twelve.”

  I stared up at the ceiling: large, industrial-type tiling that was probably laced with asbestos. I thought about reaching up and smacking it. If I inhaled poison, would I live long enough to feel the effects? What was Vera thinking now? Was there any possible way humanity could charm her into making a decision that would hurt her own people? Now that I thought about it without Nick’s reassuring voice in my ear, it seemed pretty improbable. Which would have been scary if I wasn’t so god awful exhausted.