by JJ Krzemien
She quickly typed and clicked on the computer in front of her. “Okay, we have a double queen room available. I need to see ID, and which payment method will you be using?”
“I have cash.” I grabbed the bundle of 20s and set them on her desk.
“And form of ID?”
I pulled out the school ID from my back pocket and handed it to the receptionist. She stared at it in her hand, then slowly waved it in front of me.
“What is this?” she asked.
I shuffled from one foot to the other. “A form of identification.”
“Are you being smart with me? How old are you?”
“Almost sixteen.” What was wrong with this woman?
She set down my ID, then pushed it and the cash toward me. Her lips pursed. “You have to be at least eighteen years old to book a hotel room. I’m sorry, you can’t stay here.”
It took a moment for her words to sink in. “But my parents stay at Hilton all the time. They’re members. Just look up the account under Ross.” This was ridiculous.
She clasped her hands in front of her. “I can’t do that. It’s against the law. Your parents have to reserve the room, you can’t.”
I could feel my face growing hot. “You don’t understand. My parents are dead.” My throat closed on that last word. It was the first time I’d said it out loud. And it was beginning to feel like the truth.
“I’m sorry to hear that.” She seemed sincere, in a stoic kind of way. “It’s still the law.” As if I hadn’t heard her the first time. She went on, “It’s not only for the Hilton. No hotel will let you book a room. I’m sorry.” She took a step back from her computer, clearly waiting for me to leave.
“This is so unfair.” I choked out, taking the money and my ID “What am I supposed to do? Where am I supposed to sleep tonight?” My head swam with overwhelming uncertainty.
“Try one of the women’s shelters. They accept all women who’re going through difficult situations.”
The dream-like quality of the past few hours dissipated to leave me reeling into reality. My parents gone. This woman turning me out. Nowhere was safe and no one cared. There was nothing I could do about any of it. A bone-deep tiredness settled in me. With slouched shoulders, I turned away. As I made my way to the doors even the pillars seemed to turn their backs to me.
“Ms. Ross.”
I turned to see the receptionist briskly walking toward me. Had she changed her mind?
“Here.” She held out a folded piece of paper. “The nearest shelter is on 2nd and Burnside. It’s the Salvation Army’s Women’s shelter.”
I knew I should’ve been grateful, but I didn’t even say thank you. It was all I could do to take the paper and walk out the door.
CHAPTER FOUR
I wanted to scream. Being under eighteen meant I had no rights. It’s like I wasn’t even human. My throat tightened and tears of hopelessness welled in my eyes. I brushed them away before anyone could see.
I would have to spend the night at a shelter—or on the street. The street wasn’t an option, so that left the shelter. My mind filled with the vision of a huge room full of cots and stark lighting. The smell of body odor ripe in the air. No privacy.
Feeling sorry for myself, I wandered the streets for a while looking in shop windows without actually seeing the lit-up holiday displays. I pulled my blond hair over one shoulder and braided it. The singed parts looked smoother. How long would the effects of that miracle drug last?
A plan couldn’t wait until morning, I needed to come up with something now. All I could think of was getting to Sarah and her parents. But their house had been broken into. I felt like this was all my fault, and I didn’t even know what I’d done to get into this mess.
One thing became clear the more I thought about it: If I tried to contact Sarah, I could be putting her in danger. I was alone. Truly alone, for the first time in my life.
I bought a gyro at the last open food cart and continued my aimless trek. I wasn’t ready to accept the reality of spending the night at a shelter yet. It felt weird being out so long after my usual curfew. As I walked, the city nightlife sprung up around me. Late-night shoppers, carrying glossy red and gold bags filled with last minute gifts, filed out of the closing stores. Club-goers and bar crowds packed the only warm places that were still open this late. I sighed.
Through a bar window I caught sight of my face on TV. From outside I couldn’t tell what the news said about me, but they dedicated several seconds to the story. I shifted from one foot to the other waiting for my photo to leave the screen. Gosh, how famous was I?
When the reporter moved on, the TV filled with the dead nurse’s picture and my gut twisted. I really wanted to forget the hospital, if only for half an hour. Turning away, I rubbed my temples. My eyes stung, but no tears came.
A flash of light blinded me for a moment. Standing in front of me a plain woman in a brown tweed suit held her cell phone toward my face. She’d taken my picture.
Bewildered, I asked her, “What are you doing?”
She typed furiously with both hands on the device. Her eyes met mine and with a dramatic gesture she pushed one more button. “Monster.” She spat the word at me.
My brows drew together. “Excuse me?”
Backing way, she brought the phone up again. “I’m recording this. Don’t you try anything, Beast.” Another few steps and she disappeared around the corner.
There were some mentally disturbed people that inhabited downtown, but this woman had looked so normal. Like she worked at one of the office buildings around here. I shook off the interaction. I had bigger problems—like my face being shown all over the city. I needed to get off the streets.
∞ ∞ ∞
As I got closer to Burnside street, every block had at least one strip club or over-packed bar. It had to be some time between 10PM and midnight; business was hopping. I ignored the cat-calls. Kept my head down and walked faster. Two streets ahead the traffic was heavier. Once I got there I’d turn toward the river.
“Hey, what’s the rush?” A deep voice said in front of me.
I looked up and got a face full of cigarette smoke. Coughing, I tried to dodge around the guy blocking the sidewalk. He laughed and spread his arms wide, beer in one hand and cigarette in the other. “Where you going, honey pie?” He slurred the words. Beer sloshed down his wrist and he wiped it on his maroon Ralph Lauren shirt.
I turned away from him down the side street, retracing my steps to the corner. A cold sweat spread from my neck to both shoulders. I looked back. He was following me. An ear-splitting whistle echoed down the street. When I looked back again he leaned against the building, lighting up another cigarette. Disgusting.
I rounded the next corner and stopped to catch my breath. Clenched my hands to stop them from shaking. If that guy hadn’t said anything I’d have run right into him. How could I be so stupid? Wiping damp palms on my jeans I decided to stay close to the shadows of the buildings; make it harder for him to follow me, in case he did. And be more vigilant.
Without my cell phone I couldn’t call 911 for help. Actually, I guess even if I did have my phone I couldn’t call the cops. I shook my head and buried my hands in my coat pockets. Still, I felt even more alone without my phone. Cut off, vulnerable. What did people do before cell phones? How did they live in this world and be so disconnected from everything?
The streets were darker where the businesses were closed, and less occupied. Every so often a bundle shifted in a doorway. Tents were set up on one whole block, so I crossed to the other sidewalk. I zigzagged for a few blocks, hugging the shadows until I was to the corner, checking over my shoulder. No one followed me. Somehow I got turned around, or went too far, and ended up under a bridge. Not sure which one. I hoped it was the Burnside Bridge.
I’d have to either double back or go underneath to the other side. The old street lamps seemed dimmer there. Several had burned out which created dense, dark patches along the smooth cobbleston
e street.
Going back the way I’d come was impossible—I didn’t even think I could find my way even in the daylight. Onward it would have to be. In the vast parking lot under the bridge, homeless people huddled in groups and in more tents. They sat nearly shoulder to shoulder against the building to my left. Most seemed to be sleeping. But I felt watched. Like an intruder. When the sun went down this part of the city belonged to them.
I walked more slowly, trying not to step on blankets or the trip-hazard legs resting in my path. Stale urine and rotting food accompanied the smell of unbathed bodies. I smothered my face in my coat sleeve.
At the end of that long block I emerged from the dark and found the next street corner. I took several deep breathes to clear my lungs. That’s when I noticed it. The red circle of a lit cigarette glowed from the shadows ahead. My heart beat faster. Could it be the guy from the bar? Maybe I was being paranoid.
Not going to risk it, I turned up the street instead of going straight. The tall buildings felt like they were closing in on me. I couldn’t breathe. The dark, unfamiliar surroundings made everything seem frightening.
A bundle shifted in a doorway as I passed it, making me jump and swear. I jogged up the street trying to find my way back to the busy part of town where there would be more lights and people. As if that were safer than going unnoticed in the shadows. Which it probably wasn’t. However, my gut was really set on needing lights and people.
Ahead two men emerged. They stood there staring at me, arms folded. I crossed to the other side. They crossed too. I turned around. Bolted toward the corner. Smoke passing beneath a streetlight halted me. The smoker with the Ralph Lauren shirt stepped out, letting the light wash over him. He grinned—more like bared his teeth. The two behind me came closer. I crossed the street again. They followed as though an invisible rope bound the four of us together.
My heartbeat pounded in my ears. “What do you want?” I hollered at them.
They kept coming closer. Surrounding me until I was backed up against a hard, brick wall.
“Give us your backpack, honey pie,” the smoker said, seeming less drunk than before.
The short burly one held out his hand. The third, not much older than me, pulled a knife from his jean’s pocket and clicked it open. Several seconds passed as they stood there waiting for me to comply.
If I gave them what they wanted would they let me go? I wanted to scream for help, but the guy with the knife looked almost eager to cut me. He stared at me with wild eyes. That was more terrifying than the smug, twisted grins on the faces of the other two.
With a shaky hand I slowly took my backpack and set it on the ground. “There. Now leave me alone.” My back scraped against the wall as I tried to side-step.
Smoker stepped in my way and shook his head. “Empty your pockets.”
I piled the contents of my pockets on top of my pack. Money. School ID. Everything I had in the world. Burly and Knife started going through my stuff. Pocketing anything they thought of value. They threw my change of clothes in the street. I felt like my life was being destroyed again right in front of me. And I was powerless to do anything about it.
Smoker looked me up and down. “I’ll take your coat and shoes.”
I gawked at him. Why on earth would he want my shoes? From the clothes he wore it looked like he didn’t need to steal anything from anybody. Or was it all stolen?
“You deaf? Take off your shoes.” He blew smoke in my face.
“N-no.” I clenched my jaw, lifting my chin. No idea where my sudden defiance came from. I had to draw the—
Smoker’s fist smashed into the side of my head. As pain seared through my face I collapsed to the concrete. I drew in a gasping breath through the shock and agony. “Help!” My cry echoed between the buildings.
I drew in another breath to scream, but Burly’s foot drove it out of me. Terrible gasping, gurgling noises escaped my throat. I spat blood. Holding my chest, I tried to inhale.
A figure cast its shadow on the street as it passed under the lamp light. Through my own gasping, I heard a whooshing sound like giant wings. When the screaming began, I was surprised it wasn’t mine. The noise came from three distinctly masculine voices. I covered my ears, closed my eyes, and curled up at the base of the brick wall.
Some time later the night was quiet once again. I sat up and gazed around. In the street lay Burly and Knife. Smoker rested partly on the sidewalk. His blood pooled and seeped, edging closer to me.
I stood up too fast, my head swam and I braced myself against the wall. Standing had been a mistake—Knife’s detached arm lay beside most of Smoker’s gashed and torn body. So much blood, yet no one else around. On my knees I emptied my stomach into the street.
My head pounded as I sat back on the cement. What had happened? I needed to get up and run. I felt weak and began to shake all over. My mouth dry. Black dots speckled my vision until all I could see was darkness. Pass out or throw up again, I wasn’t sure which would come first.
The flapping sound of leathery wings filled my ears again. I glanced up into the night sky. An enormous creature landed in front of me. Blue eyes shone out of a demonic, short-snouted face. Pinned against the wall, I couldn’t move. Hard, cold arms wrapped around my waist and lifted me into the air. A chilly wind rushed against my face, and I screamed.
CHAPTER FIVE
No light. Couldn’t breathe. The darkness pressed against me—into my mouth. Fear twisted inside me, coiling and tightening as I writhed. My heartbeat raged in my ears. Fighting for air, I struggled to sit upright. A sliver of light appeared above and I reached for it.
I emerged into a chilly, brown and white nylon world, a mummy bag smothering me. I wiggled the rest of the way out, kicking the sleeping bag away, as I dragged in breath after breath. The tent was empty except for me, the mummy bag, and my backpack. For a moment I wondered if the past couple of days had been a dream. Maybe I was camping with my parents. Except, I would never own a mummy bag; a shiver crept up my neck at the thought.
The shiver ran back down my spine as I remembered last night—and a monstrous face in front of huge wings. Monsters didn’t live in tents, did they? Sitting very still I held my breath. It was out there somewhere. I tried to look beyond the tent walls but no shapes appeared. A dim bluish light glowed all around. The sound of traffic came from overhead. I was still in the city.
Breathing as quietly as possible, I moved to the door’s zipper and opened it a couple of inches. Frigid air seeped in. For the first time I realized my breath came out as a white fog. I pulled my hood up and peaked out of the tent. Tarps covered the opening, causing the blue-tinted light. I made a larger opening to move aside the woven plastic obstructions.
“You comin’ out any time soon, or are ya just gonna keep playin’ with that zipper?” said a deep male voice.
I froze, zipper still pinched between two fingers. The voice sounded human. But given last night’s thugs, were humans any safer than monsters? I grabbed my backpack and opened it. All of my stuff had been put back inside, even the money. So he hadn’t stolen from me. He sounded human. I couldn’t stay in this tent forever.
At the door again, I opened the flap and moved the tarps aside. With backpack in hand I slowly emerged. I’m not sure what I was expecting, but an elderly black man in a wheelchair sure wasn’t it. For a few seconds I stared, adjusting to this very human, non-monster-looking man.
He chuckled. The sound was warm and matched the deep smile lines beside each of his eyes—unusually blue eyes. The humor stopped at his stubbled jawline. Below that he wore stained, dirty army fatigues and tennis shoes. The lower part of his body looked shrunken and too small for the top half.
“What? You never seen a black man before?” The laugh lines deepened.
I looked away, my face growing hot. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t mean to stare.”
The encampment was beneath an overpass, maybe for I-405, and set back about a hundred feet from the nearest sidewalk. Tal
l, wet grass grew where the sun reached. The rest was weed infested gravel.
The man wheeled closer to another tarp-covered heap. “You hungry, girl?”
Starving. I could have eaten a horse then slept for a week. “Yes, but I have some food in my pack,” was all I said to him.
“Water?”
How could I have forgotten that? “No, I don’t have any water.”
He rummaged through a low cart filled with cans and packaged foods. Setting his finds in his lap, he wheeled over to where I stood and handed me jerky and a bottle of water. I drank the water first then chewed on the protein.
“You can sit on that crate, if ya like.” He gestured to a wooden box set against the damp concrete wall.
I hesitated, not wanting to make myself too comfortable near this stranger. Then realized I was already eating his food. I shrugged and walked over to sit on the crate, setting my backpack on the gravel. Opening the pack I found canned soups—no can opener—and two boxes of Pop Tarts on top.
“I don’t want to eat all of your food. Here.” I held out the cans of soup.
He waved them away with a frail hand. “Oh no, you need those more than I do.”
I put them back into my pack.
We ate in silence, well except for the traffic thundering over our heads. He seemed as uncertain of me as I was of him—we kept glancing at each other and then away.
He looked like someone’s grandpa. His short gray hair had thinned on top. A close-cropped beard hugged his jawline. From his age and clothes, he was probably a war veteran. No family to take care of him?
I wasn’t the best judge of character, but this man seemed nice. I didn’t pick up any creepy vibe from him. Still, my shoulders felt tense. Then I realized what was making me uneasy—last night. I didn’t have any answers. What the hell had happened? The memory was so wild it seemed unreal.
He caught my eye. “What’s your name, girl?”
I shifted on the crate. “I go by Lili. What about you?”
“Pretty name. I’m Oscar Marmor. Nice to meet you.”