It started eight days ago. There was
some sort of disaster that created a domino effect. The bombings came first,
which knocked out power and water and just about everything else. People fled
in mass hysteria while I tried to wait it out. I didn’t hear much before the TV
was gone — chemical disaster, and something about gas masks, and locking
yourself inside.
It had been seven days since I left my
home—one full week of solitary confinement. Although I guess I could have left if
I wanted to. I just had no reason to walk out into what I suspected was a
warzone and risk my life. This house was all that I had to my name. I had
nowhere to go.
Luckily, according to Jean from next
door, my lack of family or any meaningful relationship allowed me to stay
hidden in my home. She’d left two days ago to find her parents who lived on the
Eastern side of Rhode Island. She was worried about having to travel through
Hartford to get there. I had a sinking feeling I would never see her again.
But what was worse than the destruction
outside my window was the screaming and moaning and crying. People wandered the
streets with empty eyes. Three days ago, I saw a man meandering down the road
with tattered clothing. He was missing an arm—it looked like it was torn from
the socket, no clean break and rounded skin. Just crimson emptiness. I emptied
my stomach at the horrific sight of that broken man, but made no attempt to go
help him.
Instead, I hid from the images. I now
found myself spending most of my time in my bedroom since it was facing the
woods and had only one window. I boarded the window with my kitchen table to
block the noises. I hated the cries—hated the torture. I didn’t want to know
what was going on, but I had to face it sometime.
A cacophony of explosions rocketed me
backwards into the maple bookshelf in the dusty corner of my bedroom. My head
erupted in a searing pain. I cradled my head as waves of hurt tore through me
and pulled my knees into my chest. I lay there in a ball as the world around me
was destroyed—again
It sounded like a shot gun shot off
a round near my front door, too close to be near the road, and then the world around
me quieted. It was too silent. I was paranoid by this point. I almost came out
of my ball in the corner of the room, but then sirens wailed in the distance. Cop
cars, ambulances and whatever other emergency vehicles zoomed through the
streets, sounding louder but then fading, like they went right past my home.
I could smell burning human flesh
nearby, a bitter, vile smell like fat on a grill that I wished I could forget,
but I couldn’t react. I squeezed my eyes shut harder and tried to count to one
hundred without the sounds of screaming forcing me to stop.
As I hit the lucky number one
hundred, I peeked open my eyes. My house was only a one story—an old ranch with
a rickety front porch and a screened door that bangs with the wind. I lived
just outside of Hartford, in a neighborhood that is painfully white trash.
Jean’s place had a metal fence that
squared off her small plot of land. It was rusted from not being taken care of.
She had this annoying yippy dog that would bark at every passersby, which was a
lot since most people couldn’t afford cars.
Before the destruction, I’d spend more
nights than not listening to dubstep through the walls from the house next door
on the other side. There was a group of five guys who lived in the house and
they never stopped partying despite being in their mid-forties. They’d get out
their white lawn chairs and park them right on the front lawn. They’d sit with
their beer bellies popped out, crack open their blue cooler and drink until the
sun came out. I was constantly going to work singing lyrics to Skrillex that refused
to stop haunting me and nursing my exhaustion hangover.
I wished that I could go back to my
biggest worry being my noisy neighbors. Hell, I’d take moving back into my last
foster house over whatever is going on outside my door. That says a lot since there
were ten of us under the age of sixteen living in a two bedroom trailer with a
guy who couldn’t lay off the bong for more than an hour.
Another loud gunfire shot back to me,
shaking my small home and my head back to reality. I tried to convince myself
it was just the old wood creaking. I tried to convince myself that it was just
the screen door opening an inch or two by the wind and then shutting. But what
I knew were footsteps got closer and closer to my bedroom.
I scooted on the wood floor of my
bedroom against the wall until I felt the familiar paneling of the closet.
Creak—another footstep, this time just outside of the bedroom door. I rolled
backwards into the closet and pushed myself until my back was flush against the
back wall, clothes hanging and whipping me in the face.
I covered my mouth with my hands,
worried my ragged breaths would be too loud A warm tear trickled down my face,
stopping at the dam my pointer finger made below my nose. I didn’t wipe it away.
“Make sure you clear it.” The door
to my bedroom slammed open against the wall. Crumbles from the wall landed on
the hard wood, clicking like rainbow sprinkles. I squeezed my eyes shut harder
and if I could have stopped my heart from beating, I would have.
The same deep, gruff voice mumbled
something and then stomped through my bedroom. His steps sounded as if he was
wearing combat boots, each move a mini explosion rumbling. He huffed under his
breath; even his exhale sounded angry. I heard a knee crack. He became oddly
quiet and I fought the urge to look out from the veil of my closet.
“I swear I have to do everything
myself.” My bed creaked and a foot shuffled. I faintly smelled something sour
and bitter, like sweat and vodka, but it was too close to be the man near the
bed. I struggled to hold back a sob. His boots got closer. The clothes above me
swayed, a soft wind trickling over my face. I couldn’t move.
“You didn’t think we’d leave you?” Arms
wrapped around my shoulders and two more hands got my legs. “We’ve got a live
one!” the man yelled, and two more sets of feet came towards me, heavy and
strong, pounding—thum thum, thum thum, thum thum.
“She sure is pretty.” The new voice
was nasally and wicked. Goose bumps prickled down my arms and up my spine. I
screamed as he lifted me up. I quickly tried to memorize the man’s face, but
before I knew it, a calloused hand covered my eyes. I only got blue eyes and a
sad frown.
Hands smelling like raw sewage slide a
silky blindfold over my eyes. The hands were calloused and hard, needy with
each touch against me like he’d never had human contact before.
I didn’t fear for my life anymore. I
feared what they would do if they let me live. I couldn’t see them so I
listened for a female voice as they probed and inspected me. One man’s fingers
were digging into my upper arms, pinching my skin under my armpits. I felt
hands trail down the curve of my back and reach around my pants, searching.
Fingers dug into my pockets, lifted up my shirt, and felt around every crevice.
I never once felt like I had a chance of escape, their arms strong and firm.
A man hauled me over his back, my face
hitting his muscle covered back and my ass in the air. I just wanted to pull my
shirt down to cover my midriff. I wanted to fix my pants that had slipped to
show my butt. Before I had the chance, my arms were zip tied together and my
ankles as well.
The man carrying me walked through my
hallway. He acted as if he knew my home. He pushed through my rickety old
screen door. It crashed shut behind us and I heard another man’s feet catch and
a bang from behind me.
“Fuck, Jim. You shut the damn door in my
face.”
“Oh, screw off. Hold your own damn
door.”
Suddenly, my captor, Jim stumbled and my
head slammed against his back. His arms tightened around my waist and I wished
he’d just drop me to put me out of my misery. But without working arms and
legs, I wouldn’t get far.
“Where do you want her?” Jim asked.
“Just put her in the middle of the back
seat and I’ll sit next to her.” A finger traced the outline of my hip and
trailed up to my face, pausing along the way at my breasts. He felt the side
curve of me. He squeezed my nipple through my shirt and I screamed. His other
hand got lost in my hair and tugged my head backwards. I screamed again as loud
as I could. Someone slapped me hard—not Jim, since he couldn’t reach. My cheek ignited,
a sharp fire where his palm connected.
“Let me go!” I struggled in Jim’s arms, yelling
and kicking since I knew that no matter what happened I wouldn’t be free. I
bucked my hips up and thrust my shoulders forward, hoping to flip over and at
least stand alone. Jim pulled me down off his back and held me roughly in his
arms. My right ear was pressed against his chest, his heart thumping steadily.
His arm was behind my head, holding my shoulders a little too tight, and his
other arm was under my knees.
“Just get in the car before you get
yourself hurt,” Jim said, his voice hush hush. His knee cracked as his arms
released me into a low-to-the-ground seat, I ran my hands along the seat and
felt a cold firm fabric, like leather. I
heard the car rumble to life as one of the doors shut from the front. I wished
someone would just take the blindfold off of me. The edges bit into my temples,
a headache already beginning in the back of my skull.
I tried to sit up, but it was impossible
without my arms. A loud bang against the car jolted me and I quieted, trying to
listen to what was going on. Nobody else had gotten into the car and it didn’t
feel like we were moving.
“Get in the other car and meet us
there.” It was Jim who spoke first.
“I want to play with the lil’ lady.” The
nasally voiced man was farther away than Jim. He was probably standing near the
door to my house, or just past the front stoop. Jim’s heavy booted foot stepped
towards me.
“Get in the other car.” Another bang
against the car, like a body being shoved against metal. I could only imagine
the dents in the side of it. Jim’s voice was getting angrier by the second, the
gruffness returning.
“What the fuck is your problem? This is
what we do now. New world order and all that shit. You’re the jackass in
charge.” The nasal voice was painfully close to me now. It sounded like his
head was just outside of the car.
“Guys, just relax,” another guy said,
his voice completely foreign.
“I’m pretty sure if I was you, I’d
listen to the jackass in charge then.” Jim exhaled through his nose and I
pictured him about to charge with fists raised. “Now get in the other car and
get the fuck out of here.”
For a moment, there was just silence.
And then another hit. And then the heavy boots retreated. The man in the
driver’s seat mumbled under his breath, something about hurrying this along, I
gathered. And then I felt someone beside me, and I honestly wasn’t sure if it
was Jim, or the other guy.
“Drive to the house.” It was Jim. For
some reason, I felt relieved that it was Jim and not the other guy. I’m not
sure if it was the mere fact that I knew Jim’s name or what, but I was thankful
he was beside me.
“Got it.” The driver’s tone was clipped,
like he knew the drill and didn’t need to be reminded where to go. His voice
was quiet, soft, not menacing or evil like most of the others. It didn’t mean I
trusted him.
Jim’s hands touched my shoulders and I
flinched backwards. I used my knees to kick against the seat and I pushed
myself until I was pressed against the side door, my head tilting in an awkward
angle. I felt the indent of his weight in the seat as he hovered above me. His
breath was on my face, and oddly enough, it was minty and not unpleasant like
the others.
“I won’t hurt you.” He sounded sincere,
but I didn’t believe him. “What’s your name?”
I almost didn’t answer. But I figured if
he knew my name, maybe he’d be less inclined to kill me or hurt me. “Lana.”
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