Survival Rout

by Ana Mardoll

  "Goddammit. We've got ten minutes, maybe less. Pull him back into the alley, Craig."

  I'm hoisted up by hands that feel like stone mitts. I'm too woozy from the blow to struggle effectively and let myself go limp, figuring he'll drop me and have to drag me into the shadows—anything to slow them down—but my dead weight doesn't even faze him; the bouncer hurls me over his shoulder like I'm a sack of flour.

  "Don't like the look of this one," the low voice rumbles underneath me. "You want me to kill him and throw him in the back?"

  He shrugs his massive shoulders and I'm tossed hard on the ground, my vision spinning again. We're beside the van, the tires so close I could reach out to touch the mud in the treads. The side door of the vehicle is wide open and I can see the girls sprawled on the matted carpet. Their eyes are closed and they've been tied up with that brightly-colored rope people use on boat docks. The bartender stands nearby, glaring at me with cold anger.

  "No, we're going to have to port over from here," he says, shaking his head in annoyance. "Might as well bring him with us."

  "But the usual place—"

  "Craig, I don't need you driving around with three bodies in the van if cops pull you over," the bartender snaps. "I don't want to pull a portal here, but it's better than the alternatives. You'll have to take them in by yourself. I'll port back, close the bar, and answer any questions if police show up."

  My head is still pounding. I press my hand to the side of my face, registering dully that the slick wetness under my fingers is blood. "Dude, I told them everything," I slur, dragging my swimming vision up to meet the bartender's gaze. "What you look like, the name of the bar, your friend here. They're gonna catch you. Let us go and you'll just be facing an assault rap instead of murder. You can be smart about this."

  The beefy bouncer cuts me off, though I'm not sure he's even heard me; his slow rumbling voice seems to respond about two minutes late to everything. "You want me to take all three of them in by myself? You don't even know if he's changeable, Tim. What if he's one of the ones who can't handle it over there?"

  The bartender snorts, but his cold eyes don't leave mine and I know he heard me loud and clear. "Then you'll only have to carry in two bodies and not three," he says. He clasps his hands together in front of his chest, and for a moment I think he's praying. "But after all the trouble he's put us through, I fucking hope he survives," he adds in a low tone.

  There's something wrong with the periphery of my vision. I shake my head, trying to clear my eyes. Probably a concussion, I think with a wince, but I've never experienced one like this: white mist is filling my vision, swirling in the air around us. It can't be real; aside from the fact that it must be eighty degrees out here, mist wouldn't be bright white in the middle of night in a dark alley. Yet the mist grows until it forms a thick wall that encloses us in a glowing bubble.

  The manifestation of white mist is enough to make me worry about the state of my bruised brain, so what I very much do not need right now is for these two dudes to begin shifting and changing around the edges. The bouncer, already two heads taller than me and as broad-shouldered as an ox, begins to grow. A sandy-brown texture ripples over his skin as everything about him widens and his edges sharpen to angular points, until I could swear he's a giant made of rough-quarried stone slabs. No wonder that punch took me down, I think, staring at the strange apparition.

  The bartender, too, grows a little taller, but he doesn't harden out into a half-man, half-rock monster; instead, his facial features shift and his hair grows brighter until each blond strand is shimmering like real gold. I've seen the stuff in candlelight, the way the metal glows, and there's nothing quite like the real thing. Before, he seemed impossibly bland and boring with nothing interesting or noteworthy about him, yet now his face clarifies into one of the most beautiful I've ever seen. He's still not my type, but for those cheekbones I'd make an exception on principle.

  "What the—?" Words are inadequate to encompass the mist, the strange blond beauty, and the beastly rock-creature.

  "Lights out, kiddo," the man with golden hair declares, grinning at my confusion. "Craig, put him under for the trip."

  "Right," responds the beast, his voice like the slow grind of gravel. His impossibly huge fist swings towards me; I can feel the momentum behind it and have just enough time to know that this will hurt in the morning. Then the impact hits home and I'm out like a light.

  Chapter 3

  Aniyah

  "Hey. Wake up!" A demanding hand pats my cheek as bright sunlight casts red spots on the back of my closed eyelids. I groan, trying to work out why I feel so groggy. It's rare for me to sleep late into the morning. Why didn't my alarm go off?

  "She's coming round. Slap her again."

  Another pat against my cheek, the hand cool and strong. "Wake up, do you hear me? We haven't got a lot of time. Imani, how's the other one?"

  "Stirring slowly, but we'll get her awake. C'mon, sweetie, there's a good girl."

  Girls' voices, unfamiliar and too many. The other one? Other than me? Do they mean Miyuki? Is she here? Where are we? Oh god, Miyuki! Memories flood back, jagged and broken at the edges, a flash of disarrayed images: Timothy, golden hair and bright smile, leaning against the side of the bar. Green liquor hiding bitter poison in my glass. Heavy, unfamiliar hands restraining me before hurling me into darkness.

  My eyes fly open in panic. I twist my limbs wildly to no effect: I'm tied from chest to foot, rope biting the skin of my arms and ankles when I struggle. "Miyuki!" Her name is a hoarse cry on my lips, my tongue too dry to shout properly. I turn my head to look for her but the world spins around me. Cool hands reach to hold me down; I try to yank away but searing pain shoots through my spine at the motion.

  "Hey! Hold still, you're going to hurt yourself. I know you're scared but I need you to listen to me."

  I freeze, less from her words and more from old familiar instinct; if I keep twisting like this, I'll pull a muscle in my back and be bedridden for a week. But holding still while restrained is harder than I'd ever have imagined. Animal panic rises in my blood, uselessly urging me to struggle against the ropes even as my mind knows better. I must calm down, or I'll never get free. Blinking against bright sunlight and the lingering dizziness, I turn my head slowly to look around me and my jaw drops open in surprise.

  I'm in some kind of cave. Sun spills from a wide shaft set high in the ceiling, bathing the curving reddish-brown sandstone walls in warm light. In the very center of the cavern, a long table has been cut from the rock and its mineral deposits sparkle in the glow of the sunny spotlight. The table has been set with bowls of fruit I don't recognize and spiced meats which cause my stomach to clench greedily. The wall on the far side of the cavern glistens with moving water, the silent stream feeding a natural pool below. The water looks clean and inviting, and my dry tongue aches with need at the sight.

  I've been laid out on a stone platform roughly the length and width of my full-sized bed back home, leveled off about three feet from the ground. The slab is set back from the light so that I am sheltered in cool shade. Red nylon ropes hold me bound, but I'm relieved to see I'm still dressed; whatever Timothy did to me while I was unconscious, it didn't involve the removal of my clothes. When I turn my head to the right, I see Miyuki similarly trussed and lying nearby on an identical rocky altar and beginning to stir awake.

  Around us are the girls I heard before: four young women who can't be much older than I am. No, five, I amend when my eyes sweep the back of the cavern. The fifth girl is slender and tall, with olive skin and light brown hair swept up into a ponytail. Her ear is pressed against a set of enormous ornately-gilded doors dominating the far cave wall. She looks frightened and alert at her post, like a rabbit poised to run. Her body is liberally covered in an impressive array of tattoos that will be easy to pick out of a police line-up, and my inspired plan to make a collected witness grounds me against the steady panicked roar in my ears.

  Yet there's
something wrong about her. Aside from the fact that she's standing in a warm sunny cave that ought to be in Arizona or on a movie set, she's dressed in what looks like white gauze. The other girls are dressed in the same filmy cloth, as though they'd collectively decided that clothes were too much of a hassle and just wrapped themselves in translucent bath towels instead. The diaphanous fabric does little to hide the outline of their bodies, and embarrassed heat rises to my cheeks. Why would Timothy kidnap us only to drop us off at a day spa? What is this, some kind of cult?

  I yank my gaze to their faces, which I resolve to memorize as fast as I can; if I'm going to be kidnapped, I'll make damn sure everyone involved goes to jail for a long time. Yet my determination almost immediately falters when I study the girls nearest Miyuki. A pretty black girl with a compassionate face and short ringlet curls bends over her, gently touching her face as she stirs. Another girl hovers nearby looking impatient to help; with long auburn-red hair and thick curves all over, she looks like a model for one of those specialty plus-size stores at the mall where Miyuki buys her in-betweenie jeans. The girl pinches Miyuki's glasses between her fingers as though she's holding them for her. Nothing about either of the girls seems hostile.

  Who are these people? Nearer to me, a petite blond white girl sits on the cavern floor by the glittering table, her chin resting on her fist. She returns my stare with zero interest in her dull green eyes, and a belated realization strikes me: she doesn't seem to mind I've seen her face. None of them have, which can't be a good sign. My eyes flit back to the nearest girl, the last of the five: a short Asian girl with wavy brown armpit-length hair. Her eyes probe me like flint knives running over my skin, and her hand is poised to pat my cheek again—yet, as with the others, I don't get a sense that she wants to harm me.

  "Hey," she says, her voice firm. "I know you're scared, and I'm sorry, but we don't have much time before he comes. I need you to tell me everything about yourself, about where you're from."

  "Who are you?" My voice rasps against my dry throat. "Where are we? Look, if you let us go, we don't need to tell anyone."

  There's sympathy in her determined eyes, but not nearly enough to distract from her purpose. "I'll answer all your questions and protect you the best I can, but we don't have much time. I need to know your name and where you're from. Are you from the University?"

  "The university? Yes, I— We both are." I peer at her in renewed confusion, my temples throbbing with the residual effects of whatever drug Timothy gave us. The way she says it, 'the University', sounds wrong to my ears. She says it as if there's only one, like it's more important than a mere school.

  She nods in a manner probably meant to reassure me, but I'm too freaked out to appreciate it properly. "And your name?" she presses. "What's your name? What's hers? You said 'Miyuki'. Is that her name?" To my right, Miyuki groans softly and stirs at the sound of her name. I twist my head to look, but my interrogator grasps my chin with cool hands and forces my gaze back to her. "Please, I need to know."

  I can't work out her angle with these questions. If we've been kidnapped, wouldn't we have been taken for a reason? The only one I can think of is ransom; my parents don't have that kind of money, but Miyuki's father is loaded. If they kidnapped us with specific intent to shake down John, they'd need to be sure they have the right girl—and of course Timothy would have called her Emma, not Miyuki. No wonder they're confused.

  "My name is Aniyah," I tell her, trying to keep my voice steady. If all they want is ransom, we can survive this. I don't give her my last name; I don't want them to get greedy and hound my parents for money they don't have. "My friend over there: yes, I call her Miyuki but her first name is Emma. Emma Miyuki, you understand? Her dad is going to want both of us alive, not just her; I'm a close friend of the family. He's rich enough to pay anything you ask, so let's just stay calm. What should I call you?" I don't want their real names, but maybe if I can forge a bond with this girl they won't hurt us.

  "I can't tell you that yet," she says, shaking her head. Her voice is low, almost furtive. "I will tell you, but later. Right now, I need to know everything you can tell me about yourself and about her. Is there anything you don't want forgotten?"

  Forgotten? None of this makes any sense: this cave, her clothes, the urgency behind her questions. A suspicion I've been trying to keep at bay now worms forward: are these girls captives, like us? Maybe someone is coming to kill us, Miyuki and me, and the girls want to be able to tell our story later if they survive. I shiver against the ropes that bind me, blinking back unhelpful tears.

  "I don't understand. Please let me go. Take off these ropes. Tell me who you are and where I am."

  The blond girl scoffs, the sound dull and flat. "She's not going to tell you anything, you know," she says to the girl who questions me. Her voice lacks any interest or inflection. "Look at her; she's too scared. Can you blame her?" I hear the sounds of the other girls whispering to Miyuki, trying to coax her to lucidity.

  My interrogator ignores her. Leaning forward, she takes my face in both her hands. I try to move away, but I'm tied too tightly to escape. "Listen to me, Aniyah," she says, her voice solemn. "I will not lie to you, not ever. I need you to trust me right now. Tell me about yourself. Is there anyone you love? Do you have family, any parents or siblings? What's your favorite color? Your favorite food? If you could be anywhere else right now, where would you be?" Her tone speeds up, becoming more urgent at the litany of questions.

  What is this, freshman orientation? I try again to turn towards Miyuki—I need to know she's okay, I need to see what they're doing to her—but this girl holds me in an iron grip. "You're not making any sense!" I protest, blinking away the hot tears that spring up to blur my vision. "Am I in love?"

  "Aniyah, I need you to answer me," she persists, holding me in place.

  "Yes, I have family! I'm an only child and my parents don't live in the area; they're not rich, you won't get any money from them! My favorite colors are yellow and black. I like pizza with pineapple. Where would I rather be right now? What do you expect me to say: 'There's no place like home'? Please take me back to the university campus! Or anywhere but here! Now let me see Miyuki!"

  I throw answers out quickly, desperate to satisfy her so she'll let me go. Out of the corner of my eye, I see the blond one straighten where she sits, the bored flatness of her expression showing the tiniest spark of interest. "That's a new one," she murmurs, watching me with narrow eyes. "Ask her about pineapple."

  The dark-haired girl doesn't look away from my face. "Good! That's good. What can you tell me about your friend? Does she like the pizza with pineapple? Where is her home? You said she has a father; does she live with him? Do you all live together at the University Campus?"

  My answers tumble from her lips in a stilted jumble, repeated by rote as though the words don't carry the same meaning for her as they do for me. Forget Oz, this is Wonderland, I think, my breath coming in hard gasps now. Whatever is wrong with this girl, she's not in any position to help us.

  "Listen to me," I say slowly, enunciating each word as I hold steady eye contact with her. "I need you to untie these ropes. Can you do that?"

  A flash of frustration crosses the girl's face at my tone, and I hear the blond one sigh. "She's checked out," she says, her tone returning to the flat boredom of before. "Maybe the other one—"

  "He's coming!" A fearful yelp comes from across the room. The dark-haired girl releases my face and I twist to see the tattooed girl running over from her place by the doors. "He's coming, I heard him," she hisses, her voice high and anxious.

  "Balls," the blond girl observes in a dark tone.

  "We only just got the other one to come round." I hear a low protest near Miyuki and twist my head in time to see the big red-headed girl drop Miyuki's glasses down her cleavage.

  "We're gonna be okay. Take your places! Now!"

  The order from my interrogator is no less authoritative for her low volume. The tattooed girl scu
rries to the table in the center of the room, plunking down to sit cross-legged on the floor. She then pretends to pick lazily through a bowl of fruit for the ripest offering. The blond girl crosses the room at a fast clip, dropping her gauzy dress to the floor and sliding silently into the far pool; once in the water, she makes a show of washing her hair. Over by Miyuki, the other two girls scurry to different corners of the room.

  I have only a handful of seconds to register the panic rising in the room. Their leader whirls back to me, grasping my chin in her hand again. "Let go of me!" I hiss, my voice low to match theirs.

  "Aniyah!" The fear in her wide eyes scares me more than anything else thus far. "I need you to close your eyes and pretend to be asleep. Please. Please trust me. He'll kill me if he knows we spoke."

  I can't breathe, the ropes too tight against my chest. I shake my head, trying to escape. I don't know how to accept her frightening words, but I can't look away from her direct gaze. Two heartbeats later, I nod my assent, squeezing my eyes shut to block her out. Let this be a nightmare, please. Let me wake up now.

  I can't pretend to be asleep when I'm nearly hyperventilating, but her hand moves away from my chin and something warm touches my forehead—a damp cloth, soft and soothing. The warmth seeps into me, the muscles in my face relaxing in response. My breathing evens out to a soft cadence that might be mistaken for sleep as long as my eyes stay closed.