Shit. They are coming my way, it’s only a matter of time. I look around, crazed. I have to start moving, that much is for certain.
I decide to move further toward the back of the warehouse, thinking there might be an exit or at least somewhere I can hide back there. In my rush to move quickly, I knock one of the stacks of boxes with my shoulder so hard that it actually rocks back and forth for a second.
Recoiling, I dart away from the boxes, praying that they don’t actually fall. I hadn’t considered that possibility yet, but I don’t want to alert the cops that I’m inside this particular warehouse. Knocking some of these giant boxes to the ground will definitely do that, at the very least.
Far behind me, I hear one of the cops curse, and I get the sense that he just figured out that the boxes are moveable too.
As I go, the pathway gradually opens up. I rush down the widening corridor, trying to make out what lies at the other end. My breathing sounds ragged and harsh to my own ears.
I silently pray that no one else can hear my breaths. I keep going, moving by willpower alone, and then, suddenly, I am running out of the maze.
I look left and right; on the left, at the far end, there appear to be a set of double doors. In front of me, there is a second floor of what appear to be offices. On my far right, there are stairs that lead up to the second floor.
I race for the exit, ignoring a rat as it scurries across my path. I pump my arms and legs, sprinting flat-out towards the doors. There is graffiti all along the walls here, all red and black, the artist practicing their tag over and over again.
“Skinx”, it says. “Skinx. Skinx. Skinx. Skinx. skinx.”
I can hear the cops yell to each other as they navigate the maze. I can’t tell exactly what they are saying, because their voices are muffled by all the cardboard, but I know that they’re still in pursuit.
I make it to the double doors, only to find them padlocked shut, a locked chain entwined between their individual push-to-open handles. I push on one door anyway, feeling panic rising again. It opens a quarter of an inch before the chain pulls tight.
Shit! I bang the door with my hand, only wincing afterward at the noise. I need another escape route, or at least a hiding place.
I glance behind me, then to my right. I don’t want to be locked in here, but it looks like I don’t have a choice. I start running toward the other end, focusing all my energy on the ratty looking set of metal stairs that lead up to the second floor.
My lungs burn as I reach them. I clatter up the first few before I realize how loud I’m being. Glancing into the forest of boxes, I slow my pace, hoping that I haven’t already given myself away.
Every slow step is gut-wrenching. I creep up the stairs on silent feet, taking off running the second I hit the landing. One of the offices is right in front of me, the door left carelessly ajar, and I scramble inside. I close the door behind me, but the door only swings three-quarters of the way shut.
I glance around, trying to get my bearings. There is a large plate glass window right behind me, part of the wall of the office. I don’t care, though. At least this way, I’m not as horribly exposed as I was on the stairs. I look around the office, which is filled with dozens of stacks of small boxes. I spy a desk back behind all the boxes.
Bingo. I can hide there.
Crouching low to avoid being seen, I make my way between the stacks, finding the desk in the far right corner. It’s made of musty old wood, leaning terribly under the weight of the boxes stacked on top of it. It looks as though it may collapse at any moment, but that doesn’t matter to me.
I gladly get on my knees and scramble underneath it, grateful for the cover it provides. I get a charley horse on my thigh as soon as I stop moving, my body protesting all the sudden activity of the last hour.
I massage my leg as best I can, sitting and straining my ears for the sounds of the cops. I try to breathe as regularly as I know how while my mind whirls desperately.
Is it possible that they will just give up, figuring that maybe they had the wrong warehouse? Can I please, please get one single break in this day of horrors?
When I hear the faint clatter of boot steps on the stairs, I swallow. I should’ve known that I’m not that lucky. I squeeze my eyes shut for a second, fighting back the tears that prick my eyes.
There is no time for tears, not right now. I slap a hand over my mouth, terrified that if I make a sound, they will know just where to find me.
Thunk, thunk, thunk…
I listen to the sound of heavy boots leaving the metal stairs, prowling in my direction. Shivers begin to wrack my body as the sounds grow closer and closer.
“In here, Hunt,” one of them says, just outside the office. “Look at how the dust has been disturbed, here and here.”
“Could’ve been whoever tagged downstairs.”
“You ever knew a tagger who explored any area without leaving a mark?” The cop chuckles.
There is the long, sad sighing creak of the office door being opened.
“You ought to come out right now!” the cop calls to me. “We’re not going to hurt you unless we have to.”
No, you’re just going to sell me on to some crazy person. A person who believes that they can and should own people.
I clamp my mouth shut, trying to squelch the bitter tears that threaten to overwhelm me. Huddling under the desk, I pray to God, even though I don’t believe in him.
Please. Please, if you’re listening… save me. Please!
I jump as the cops overturn one of the stacks of boxes.
“Come on!” the same voice calls. “Don’t make me hunt for you! Just get out here!”
“She’s not in there,” the other cop says, his tone bored.
“Yes, she is.” The voice grows closer and closer. “And she had better come out if she knows what’s good for her.”
I can’t move. I can’t breathe. I can’t think.
All I hear are the footsteps, circling, ready to jump on the slightest sign of life.
“Let’s check some of the other rooms up here, man.” The cop sounds impatient. “We don’t have all day to deliver the girl. I have shit to do.”
There is a long pause. I sit there, terrified, while the cop tries to make a decision. Then a dissatisfied male sigh.
“Yeah, okay.”
The footsteps start to recede. I am so relieved that I almost let out a whoosh of breath. I shift a little to my left, and the desk creaks loudly.
The footsteps pause. There is a muttered curse.
“I fucking told you she was in here,” the cop says. “I fucking told you!”
Their footsteps fly my way. I close my eyes, shivering convulsively, unable to watch the cop search for me. He grabs my arms, dragging me out from under the desk. My eyes pop open as he hauls me upright.
“You fucking stupid bitch,” he hisses, triumphant. “You are going to regret ever running from us. We are going to make sure that you are sold to a buyer who makes you beg for your death.”
I see the other cop approaching, a syringe at the ready. I open my mouth to reply, although what am I supposed to say? Instead, I just start blubbering, making incoherent sounds.
“Get her right here, in the arm,” the first cop