No Happy Endings

by Angel Luis Colón

  Of course the door popped open. The dickhead that was tailing her and nearly wrenched her damn shoulder from the socket stood smiling at Fantine. “You got plans?” He produced a gun from his side holster and aimed it at her. It looked a sight bigger than the one she brought along—and lost.

  Fantine didn’t know how to fight. She didn’t know how to disarm a person holding a gun to her face. All she knew was how to open locks and crack the occasional website. Still, they couldn’t stay in this place. Even if she had to give up breathing, her father would get out of here. That decision was made the minute she walked into the clinic and since then she was on a shit decision streak, a dumb move for a noble cause didn’t seem too demanding.

  Fantine didn’t give the tail a chance to react. She reached up with her left hand and pushed the gun away from her and her father. Leaned in and chomped down on the bastard’s ear as hard as she could.

  The shock of it earned her a scream, but best of all, he dropped the gun.

  “Dad, run!” Fantine started to punch anywhere her fist could land. She bit, scratched, and shoved.

  The tail managed to get his bearings long enough to hit and shove back, but the adrenaline dulled it all for Fantine. She was a rat trapped in a corner and while this asshole outweighed her and could certainly outfight her, she’d leave a mark before she died.

  “Fucking, bitch.” The tail popped her on the chin with a hard right hook.

  Fantine sprawled back and lost her footing. She couldn’t tell whether her father was in the room anymore, but she hoped he was smart enough to run for it. If he made it outside, he could get help. Sure, the streets were empty and the weather was dangerous as all hell, but there had to be someone—anyone—out there to help. There had to be first responders checking the street for homeless or something. It was New York, someone would be out.

  The tail mounted Fantine and smiled down at her. He smelled like Axe body spray and weed. His face was scratched and his cheek was missing a decent chunk—it’d leave a scar. That was her victory right there. The tail lifted both arms, set to hammer his fists into her skull.

  Then the gunclap came.

  Then the tail’s face contorted—a frozen howl with no noise. A sharp exhale of breath came from him as his lungs contracted for the final time.

  The tail reached behind him and clawed at something in his back. A high wheeze emerged from his throat and he fell over. The wheeze continued and he kept pawing at the invisible monkey that had mounted him. As if scratching enough would resolve that itch.

  At the doorway, Jae, gun in hand. A sour frown on his face. “Stand up.” He reached a hand to Fantine.

  Fantine took his hand. “You should have run.”

  “You’re my daughter. You get to bury me, not the other way around.”

  Fantine snatched the gun from him. “Fine, come on.” She led Jae to the elevator and slapped the call button like it owed her money. The elevator came without a sound. The doors slid open. She shoved her father inside. “Go to the main floor and call the cops.”

  “What about you?” Jae held the elevator doors open.

  “There are still guys here that need help. Maybe I can get a few together and we can all make it out of here.”

  Jae shook his head.

  “No speeches, just go upstairs.” Fantine raised the gun. “I’ve had more practice with this thing than I’d like to admit. I’ll be okay.”

  Jae watched her and slowly pulled back. He reached to the elevator’s button panel and pressed the one marked M. “Fifteen minutes. Then I come back down for you.”

  “Make it twenty. Those old man feet are slow.” She smiled. “Check if the phones work upstairs and call the cops.”

  “I will. If you’re not back in twenty minutes, I’ll come running.” The elevator doors slid closed.

  Fantine leaned against the closed doors and sighed. “Love you, Dad.” She turned and went back down the hallway. She had a gun and a plan—well most of a plan. If she couldn’t save Pete, maybe she could save some of the others, and if she played it smart, maybe she could get past Placido and his nurses. All she had to do was get a few of these donors out.

  “Quick and easy,” she lied to herself, “Quick and easy.”

  15

  Opening the first door to her left was the only quick and easy thing about Fantine’s idea to save Placido’s victims. Inside the room, five flat panel TVs played the same porn flick on mute. The victim—her college-aged patsy from the other day—was strapped to a reclining chair with a rig set up to turn on whenever the kid’s unit did the same.

  “Fucking hell.” Fantine frowned. Her disgust outweighed the adrenaline quickly and she suddenly found a severe lack of desire to touch anything in the room.

  Not that the kid really noticed her. He seemed to be in a stupor. His eyes were fixed on one of the screens, but he was bobble headed. He turned his eyes to Fantine and gave her an idiot’s smile. “Hi.” Slurred speech. He drooled as he spoke. “I remember you.”

  A lot of good this was going to do her.

  Fantine ignored the sedated state of her damsel in distress. She shut off the machine attached to the poor sap’s privates and pulled the tube away. Walked around the back of the reclined chair and lifted the victim up by his armpits. There were wires hanging out his ass, just like Pete. She sighed, closed her eyes, wrapped her hands around the wires and pulled. The pop Fantine heard as the wires went slack made her stomach turn. “Pull up your pants, jackass.” She released him when she could tell his legs were braced.

  He followed instructions—a good thing. Fantine wasn’t about to help him get sorted out. Things were desperate, but not that desperate. She imagined the shower she would take if she made it out of this. Hours under scalding hot water would be necessary.

  The other rooms were in similar states—drugged up, college-aged men with tubes attached to their dicks and roofied to the gills. After collecting eight of them, Fantine managed to find two with enough tolerance to the sedatives to patrol the halls for other victims. Fantine pointed them all to the elevator and continued searching the area. Where was Placido? Hell, where were the rest of his people?

  Searching the rest of the floor was fruitless. Fantine made her way back to the elevator. The rescued were all gone. She hoped they made it out—maybe even met up with her father. They’d all stand a chance together. She hoped one of them was clear-headed enough to call the cops if Jae hadn’t already. Deep breath, she thought to herself, things were going to work out. Placido seemed content to be busy with other problems. She slapped the call button to get the elevator and stood in wait. Checked the gun she’d taken from the nurse Jae killed. There were a few bullets left, but she wasn’t raring to use the thing. There were enough bodies on her conscience.

  The elevator bell pinged and the doors slid open. Fantine looked up to see Placido—his face red.

  “You,” he roared and grabbed her by the shoulders. Spun her around and ran her into the back wall of the elevator car. He shook with rage.

  Placido hadn’t noticed the gun and she’d been smart enough to keep a grip on it, so Fantine lifted it. Braced the barrel under his chin.

  “Easy, big man.” She bared her teeth. “Get your fucking hands off me.”

  The elevator doors slid closed behind Placido. He furrowed his brow and took a long breath before letting go of her. Muttered a string of curses in a language she didn’t know. Fantine eyed the numbers on the digital readout above the rows of buttons for each floor in the building. It counted up from the sublevel they’d been on—six—to one. She wondered how much further to the ground floor.

  The doors slid open and the two nurses from earlier stood in wait with a glass container that stood about Fantine’s height. It was filled to the lid with product.

  Without hesitation, Fantine trained her gun to the container and popped off three shots. The container shattered. Its contents spilling onto the floor. Then she placed the barrel back under Placido’s chin. She
heard his skin sizzle from the gun barrel’s heat—smelled burnt hair. One of the nurses was smart enough to backtrack away from the gunfire and mess. The other one—the one who seemed to know about storms earlier—didn’t have that same instinct. He lost his footing and fell onto the remains of the container a jagged shard of glass cleaving into his throat and through his chin. The blood was sudden and plentiful. The poor bastard twitched and gargled.

  “Jesus,” Fantine couldn’t hold it in.

  The distraction gave Placido an opening and he took it. Batted her hand to the side and delivered a haymaker to Fantine’s jaw.

  Fantine’s vision blurred, her neck snapping to the side. She couldn’t hear anything—felt like she was floating. Her back was against the wall again and when the world snapped back into frame, Placido nearly had his nose pressed against hers. No, it wasn’t his nose—it was the barrel of the gun.

  “This is getting tired, cadela,” he nearly spit out the last word. “It is over.”

  Fantine felt water on her face. Great, she thought, tears. What a way to go. Her jaw was throbbing, she barely remembered her last name, and now she would give this piece of shit the satisfaction of being vulnerable at the end. She tried to blink back the tears, but that made it worse. Now it felt like half of her face was soaked. Her head felt cold.

  Fantine blinked again. “Wait...”

  Placido looked up. “Oh no...”

  The water came down in a rush, taking panels from the elevator’s ceiling down with it. One managed to strike Placido on the shoulder. Fantine noticed the movement and lifted a knee into his groin, shoved him aside and ran. She nearly slipped on the mix of blood, cum, and storm water, but kept her footing long enough to gather the momentum to break into a sprint. There was a sign only a few feet away labeled Staircase A. She nearly broke her neck trying to stop long enough to catch hold of the doorknob to open it, but it was managed. The drywall behind her exploded—Placido was shooting now.

  Fantine ignored it and ran into the stairwell. Water was cascading down the stairs from above. The place stank—brackish—like river water with hints of bleach. She made her way upstairs only to find herself face to face with the nurse who’d run away earlier.

  The nurse seemed indifferent to Fantine, though—too busy trying to open the door leading to the main floor lobby.

  Fantine ran beside her. “Is it locked?” Another gun shot from downstairs echoed through the stairwell. “Fuck.” She jiggled the door handle. “Don’t you assholes have, like, safety protocols?” She leaned in to inspect the space between the door and the frame. Not enough room to fit something like the nurse’s ID card through.

  The nurse frowned. “Can you open it?”

  “Do you care?”

  “Look, lady, I wanna get the fuck out of here more than I need to do anything to you.” The nurse peered over her shoulder. “You get that door open, I’m gone.”

  Fantine held a hand up to shush her and reached into her pockets. Nothing.

  “Damn it.” Plan B. She reached behind her and snatched the pen knife back from its hiding place. Slipped it into her waistband. She yanked her bra off in a single pull and produced the knife again. “I have no idea how well this is going to work.” She sliced the fabric near the underwire of the bra open and tugged a length from it. It took some effort, but she was able to get a reasonable amount out. The only option was to use one of the first picks her mother taught her to make and use; the Bogota rake. The pick wasn’t ineffective, if anything, it’s strange, jittery end would be perfect for the cheap stairwell lock, but Fantine didn’t have all the supplies she needed to craft a proper pick. She used her fingers and knife to fashion the end of the pick to resemble peaks and valleys. It was half-assed to hell, but they had seconds to spare.

  “You joking?” The nurse eyed Fantine’s makeshift pick.

  “Shut up and go over here.” She positioned the nurse beside her, but facing the stairs leading down. She’d need a shield.

  “Fuck me.”

  “Stop whining.” Fantine jammed the rake into the keyhole of the knob. It got in, but she was thrown off. With actual lock picks, a pro picked up certain tactile cues from the lock. At this rate, she may as well have been trying to put in a screw with spaghetti. She tried her best to ignore that Placido was probably a floor below. She bit her lower lips and twisted the wire while alternating a twist of the doorknob. She followed these motions with a quick pull. Three attempts and nothing. No love from the lock. Then—click—the door opened. “Oh, thank fucking God.” She slipped the pen knife into a pocket.

  Fantine jerked the door open. A torrent of water flowed over her ankles. It was cold—hard to ignore—and filthy. One look down and there was a brown ring on her pants where the water had reached a peak before settling down to engulf her sneakers. She shoved the female nurse away from her and ran out into the lobby. “Dad!”

  “Fan, here.” Jae was down the hall. He’d been busy with the sad sacks Fantine forced upstairs. “Are all these boys drunk?”

  Fantine caught up to him and smiled wearily. “Something like that.” Outside, the power looked to be out. No streetlights, no lights in the buildings. There were a few cars with their headlights flashing. It was as if the world had ended. The glass doors at the front entrance shook as the wind picked up again.

  “Phones are all dead,” Jae said, “Something blew up further uptown, and then all the power went out. The sky turned orange out there for a second. Thought it was the end of the world.”

  “Oh, fuck.” Fantine laughed awkwardly. She wanted to find the levity in all this. No, she needed to find the levity.

  A shot rang out. Fantine turned to see the second nurse face down in the water. An angry Placido standing at the doorway. He eyed the escapees and snarled. Lifted the piece to aim at Fantine and pulled the trigger.

  Fantine had luck on her side, the clip was empty. She grabbed her father’s hand and pulled. “Hate to say it, old man, but you’re gonna need to keep up.” She broke into a run. Counted on Jae to keep quiet and deal with it. They got to the front door and she pushed it open. Outside, the saved donors all milled around on the steps staring out into the street.

  It hadn’t occurred to Fantine that all that water came into the building with a staircase leading up to the main entrance—a staircase that came up maybe four or five feet. She gasped as she caught site of the street. Only tops of cars were visible. Down the block, the Battery tunnel was clearly flooded. It was still pouring and the wind whipped detritus—tree branches and trash—everywhere. Water surged up in waist-high walls with every gust of wind.

  “What do we do?” Jae asked.

  Fantine turned to answer. Missed that chance when Placido tackled her at full speed, sending them both into the filthy, cold depths of the flood waters.

  16

  Fantine couldn’t see. She only felt the cold shock of water as she fell in. Heard the swish as the river poured into her ears. Salt scratched at her throat. Bubbles erupted from her nose and her sinuses screamed. The water wasn’t so deep that she couldn’t feel the concrete at her back. The trouble was the two-hundred-pound psychopath pushing her down with both hands.

  He’s going to drown me, Fantine thought, he’s going to drown me and kill my father.

  She reached up and tried to push him away, but the water and lack of oxygen made her useless. Her back lifted from the ground and struck down again. Something pinched at her waist. The knife. She reached down and found the grip. Her chest on fire, her eyes stinging, her fingers working against her. She swore she heard bubbles popping inside her head. It felt like hours before her hand wrapped around that pen knife, unsheathed the blade, and thrust it up. Where it found a home didn’t matter. Placido was a large enough target and the way he released her and jerked backwards let her know she hit pay dirt.

  Fantine didn’t release the knife—no—she pulled her hand back and forth as many times as she could before the popping in her ears went silent. When she felt n
othing in the path of the knife, she mustered the strength to push up and break the surface of the water. Fantine drank in the air instead of the filthy water and found a car to lean against. She could stand in the water, but it reached her neck. She decided it was a good choice to swing herself onto the hood of the car and let the oxygen get back to her brain. The coughing didn’t help—it got in the way of the dry-heaving from the taste of river water in her mouth.

  She thought she heard her father call out to her, but there wasn’t time to answer back. Placido stood only feet away—lit by the slow strobe of headlights—teeth bared like an animal, his left eye closed and bleeding.

  Fantine snarled. “I got you good.” Her head was pounding. She spit. Her mouth tasted like a New York City summer smelled. She had to ignore it. Not with Placido still standing. There was no way she could handle another attack from him. She had to stall him, or at best, find time to get a little more energy—lead him away from everyone else. Preferably closer to a place where other people lived. She stood on the roof of the car and turned to find a path behind her. There was no way she’d navigate without getting herself killed, but sticking around would do about the same. She dropped off the opposite side of the hood and pushed herself forward—a water-logged penguin walk towards what would hopefully be a shallower part of the flood.

  She heard Placido’s curses behind her. He was getting closer—probably a swimmer.

  The water was now to her waist and it only took a few more steps before Fantine could high step into a movement that resembled jogging. She took another step forward towards the center of the street. This was a mistake—the water was deeper there for some reason. Fantine wondered if there was an open manhole or worse, a sinkhole. There wasn’t time for that since she felt Placido’s now familiar grip on her shoulder.

  He pulled her by the hair and sent her sprawling into the water again. This time, she didn’t go under—thankfully.