Chapter Twenty-Three Monika #3
“I think we’re almost there,” I shout, turning around, but the commander who had been right at my back is on the ground, screaming as acid eats at her face below her helmet.
I charge forward to help her, but she’s gurgling up blood, her body twitching as lifelessness quickly comes over her.
My gaze is trained on her body. I take a picture, my lower half shaking when I spy a shadow on the ground. And it’s approaching.
“Why don’t you come out and take my picture? I promise, I’ll smile pretty for you,” a male voice coos. He’s not far now, not nearly far enough.
I turn and run—not toward the road, I’ll never make it—but to the closest building.
The warehouse doors are unlocked. Some are missing altogether, but this one’s hanging ajar.
I enter it in a rush, light streaming into the big open space in patches.
It’s cluttered, and errant sunlight catches upturned crates, barrels, old broken machinery that was left behind.
I just pick a patch of light and run toward it.
As I’m crossing the space, I hear a door bang behind me.
I’m already at the opposite end of the warehouse, at another door—this one locked.
There’s a broken window to my right. I climb up on a few boxes to reach it, then use my camera body to smash what’s left and haul myself outside, tearing up my thighs on broken glass.
The drop is far, but I manage not to break anything as I land on the concrete below, then run some more.
I don’t have a sense of which direction I’m going, only that the sound of bullets is growing intermittent and fading to the background. I hope that means they’re running away, not that they’ve been caught by something.
Sweat drips down my spine. The buildings turn from metal to brick. They don’t look inhabited, and when I run past the mouth of a dead-end alleyway, I can see a cluster of houseless men looking out at me. They flinch when I come to an abrupt stop.
“Hide,” I hiss, trying to keep my voice as low as possible. “Hide!”
I start to run again, but one of the men calls out. “Come hide with us!”
I hesitate, but not for more than a moment.
My lungs burn, my thighs shake so badly it’s a miracle I’m still standing.
I turn around and the three men motion me forward.
They’re moving toward the back of the alley, which terrifies the shit out of me because I don’t see an exit.
And then one of them charges ahead of the rest and shoves a massive green garbage bin to the side, revealing a small hole that leads down into the brick building’s basement.
He slides inside and gestures for me to follow, going so far as to hold my waist so I don’t collapse when I hit the ground. It’s a far drop. The other man follows, but the final man shoves the garbage bin back into place.
My hand shakes as I point. I start to ask about him, but when I turn, one man’s pale face shines in the dark.
He lifts a finger to his lips and I don’t say a word, but I exhale in relief when I realize there’s also a hole in the garbage bin large enough for the remaining man to wriggle through.
He drops down onto the ground, and the three men guide me silently across a dry basement cluttered with objects I imagine might belong to these men or others living here with them.
They take me to a crawl space I would have never noticed was there. It’s covered by an old air-conditioning vent, which they remove and replace once we crawl inside. And not a moment too soon either.
There’s a banging sound. Loud. It sounds like an explosion.
“Where’d you go, little pretty camera girl?” an echoey voice calls. The same acid spitter as before. “Taranis’s little key. The Marduk isn’t happy with him,” he tsks. “Not happy at all now that he’s removed himself from the game. Which means you’re fair game.”
The men are all completely still. The world around us is dark.
So dark. Too dark. Panic I hadn’t felt before starts to seep into my pores, my flesh, my bones.
I can’t see anything, and I don’t dare move to pull out my phone or my camera.
I’m lying on my stomach, my forehead pressed to the cold, dry concrete below me.
I have the chills, and I can’t seem to stop shivering.
I think I might be bleeding somewhere. I don’t even know.
“I want my fucking picture taken,” the same voice roars. There’s a banging sound. Tearing. The fucker is destroying anything and everything he can find.
I feel so sorry I came to hide. I should have kept running. I shouldn’t have risked these men’s lives. I can’t believe none of them have thought to turn me in yet . . . and then one of them grabs me.
I jolt.
He has me by the arm. I try to pull away, but his dry, cracked palm shifts up my wrist to my hand. He holds it, squeezing it, and I realize he’s trying to reassure me. There are tears on my face as I press my cheek to the concrete, facing him. I squeeze his hand back.
I hear the male rage in the other room. He’s not giving up.
“I know you’re here!” He shouts and bangs and shouts some more, “When I find you, I’m going to burn your eyes out of your skull!
You have no idea what you’ve seen, and if you share those photos with a single soul, we will never stop hunting for you!
” A few more loud sounds and then, in a quieter tone, the male voice says, “You’ve been warned. ”
His stomping feet get quieter and quieter. I hear the sound of ringing metal that I can only hope—pray—is him kicking a garbage can as he leaves. Please leave.
I’m suddenly finding it hard to move. My breaths are too shallow.
There . . . there might be something wrong with me.
Or maybe it’s just the dark. Maybe it’s my crashing adrenaline.
All I know is that there’s a sudden disconnect between my thoughts and my actions, and all I can do now is squeeze the hand of the man lying beside me. I squeeze it with everything I got.
My eyes close, rendering the darkness complete. I wish I could call Darius.