and no one would probably even notice.
That is assuming that anyone would even look for me.
Based on the fact that my closest brother, Tony, just sold me to the cops who are pursuing me now, I seriously doubt that.
I clutch at my chest and refuse to let these thoughts settle in my mind. Not when there is so much else at stake.
I reach what seems to be the center of the maze, and realize the main problem with being among the boxes. There isn’t anywhere to hide here.
I stop, looking at the heavy cardboard box to my right, examining it for a way in. I find a seam, tracing it around the box with my fingers. But I would have to break into the box to get inside.
I glance up at the towering stack of boxes above it, biting my lip. There is no way of knowing that the box at the bottom wouldn’t collapse, trapping me inside. And that’s only if I managed to get inside, without any tools to help.
“Hey, in here!” comes a man’s voice. Although the voice is a bit distant, I recognize it as belonging to one of the cops. “She could’ve run in through this open door.”
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
