by Karen Hayes
That's why I offered her a hand. Later, I tried to explain it to her as we hurried along the waking streets toward the bus station in the south of Hell's Kitchen.
We chose it because it was the closest but also because we'd attract less attention there. All we need to do is get to New Jersey: once there, we'll see what we can do.
The pedestrian traffic gets busier, which is a good thing: we're not as conspicuous anymore. Sarah is trotting along. No idea how I managed to fall for her in the past. She may be a ballerina and all that, but a pretty body isn't everything, you know. A girl's attitude matters too. And so do a girl's manners and the way she speaks.
And what's with this constant gum chewing? It seems to be her way of dealing with stress. Well, all it does it stresses me out.
Still, just as we approach the squat station building, she actually offers something useful,
"We need to make sure we don't appear on camera."
She puts her hood up, then turns to me, looking at me expectantly.
I should have grabbed a baseball cap when I had the chance. I remember seeing a couple on the shelf in my apartment. But I was too busy thinking about other things.
Her expression is sarcastic. I'd love to say something back but I don't want to stoop to her level.
"Come on, don't drag it out," I say.
"I'm not the one who's dragging it out."
She just won't zip it, will she?
The huge screen under the station roof sports the trailer of the latest Netflix series. As I approach the entrance, I lower my head and pretend to be scratching my forehead, covering my face. Where are those cameras?
Just as I think about it, I see one: a black glass sphere flickering its eyeball lens at the crowd. There have to be more of them around. A bus station is a high terrorist threat area: here, those cameras which are in full view only serve to distract the criminals' attentions from the hidden ones.
The large, echoing station hall is already busy despite the early hour. We slow down, taking in the round fish bowl of the Information stand and the galleries of the second floor looming overhead. That's where we'll need to go to board the bus.
"The ticket windows are over there," Sarah says.
"I know."
The wide, long hall stretches the whole length of the station. I immediately turn off into one of the 24/7 menswear shops. I must look really stupid, constantly scratching my forehead, wiping my eyes or rubbing my neck while shielding my face with my elbow. Speaking of which, my neck still hurts a lot from that gorilla's punch.
That was the first time I ever met my match in a fight: someone of approximately the same weight and strength. Ever since nursery school, I was used to being much stronger than my peers. I never gave it much thought. It was just a trait of mine. Some men have long arms, others a pouch, yet others a bald patch, and I'm just a big bastard, as simple as that.
Still, my brief hand-to-hand with two of our pursuers explained to me why Sarah keeps calling them "gorillas". Their size makes them much more dangerous. I need to keep in mind I can't tackle two or three of them at once. Even one was almost too much for me. It's a good job Sarah had helped me; without her, I could have been dead by now. I hate to admit it but still.
I enter the shop and buy a Yankees cap from a bored saleswoman. I slap it on.
"You can land a 747 on it," Sarah comments.
We walk out of the shop. The station is getting busy with all sorts of departing and arriving folk.
"Can you smell coffee and hot rolls?" she asks. "Your kitchen cupboards were empty. All I could find was some breakfast cereal."
"This isn't the right moment to worry about food," I say. "We need to get our tickets first. Then we can buy something from a vending machine up there."
"How are you going to get the tickets?" she asked. "We still don't know where we're going."
I know the answer. I've been pondering over it for the last few minutes. "We'll go to Jersey first."
"That's not far, is it?"
"From there we'll go to L.A."
"Why?" she sounds surprised. "I've never been to L.A."
"What difference does that make? We'll go there because it's easier to get lost there."
She waves my suggestion away. "I don't think so. Let's go to Louisiana. New Orleans? Or McAllen."
"But that's in Texas!"
"Exactly. It's almost on the border. We need to get as far from here as we can."
"That's what I mean. You can't get much farther than L.A."
"Or Texas. Forget McAllen, it's not important. What I mean is we need to find a tiny little place, like a small community."
"Yeah, right. A small community! So we stick out like a sore thumb, right? But if we go to L.A.-"
"L.A. is absolutely packed with cameras. Is that what you want?"
We join the line to one of the ticket desks, lower our voices and continue to argue.
"In a small community, we're bound to attract attention. Besides, you can't just cross the border if that's what you're planning to do. You've been watching too many movies."
She wrinkles her nose. "Whatever. How about Alaska?"
"Yeah right! It's even worse."
"At least they don't have cameras there."
A little boy turns his head to our voices and freezes, staring at us. He then pulls his mother by the hand and whispers something. She shakes her head without looking at us.
A group of four people leave the desk in front. Relieved, we take a few steps forward. We're almost one-third of the way through the line.
A few more people join in behind us. I glance at Sarah but all I can see is the tip of her nose sticking out of the hood. I suppress the desire to give it a flick. This is my money. I'm the one buying the tickets. I'm actually the one paying for the whole escape scenario.
I might be wrong but I have a funny feeling that had Sarah been the one paying, she'd have said exactly that. But that would be wrong, wouldn't it? I want her to cooperate, not obey. Otherwise we might end up having no trust in each other, as simple as that.
"Let's think," I suggest. "We don't know very much, do we? We may have that data on the memory stick but it doesn't change much. In order to go somewhere, we need to-"
"We need to know what's going on," she completes my sentence. "We need to find out more about those people, why they're after us and what we can do about it. Also, this ability of mine. I want to know more about it. And about you, too. What makes you so strong..."
"I'm just like that naturally. But you're right: we need to find answers to all these questions. Including," I take a long look into her eyes, "including your ability."
She shrugs, then readjusts the straps of her backpack. "We should look it up. It's easy. All we need to do is stop a car at a gas station and use their Internet."
"And what if you have to drive a few hundred miles just to get to a town or a station with Internet access? Where do you think it's easier to find us? Wouldn't you rather go to a big city with a free Wi-Fi on every corner? Because that's what I think we should do."
That got her thinking. She freezes, staring past the crowd. We're already halfway through the line.
I wait patiently for a while. "So what do you think?" I finally ask.
She grabs my elbow and nods at something. I turn my head. A young man carrying a sports bag is walking toward us. A low forehead, a sharp gaunt face, dead eyes.
His eyes. This is the same glazed-over doll-like stare I saw on the guy by the car when Sarah made him obey her orders. But she couldn't make him move. This one, however, is walking right toward us.
He stops, staring into space between me and Sarah who's still clinging to my elbow. Then he begins to speak.
At first, I don't even realize it's him speaking. His lips barely move; his voice is dull and monotonous, making him resemble a ventriloquist's puppet.
"The guardians are here," he mumbles without looking at us - but somehow I know he's addressing us. "You're surrounded. You
need to leave."
Sarah ouches. I want to scream. What the hell! The kid in front turns again and stares at us, bug-eyed. His mother is too busy talking into her cell phone to hear anything, but those in the line behind us just might.
The man keeps blubbering. "I repeat: the guardian agents are here. They've tracked you down. You must leave the station now."
His whole body shudders. I watch as his wax figure comes to life. He blinks and looks over the crowd, totally lost. He seems to have forgotten how he got here or what he's just said to us.
His fingers slacken. The bag slumps to the ground. The kid giggles. The man picks it up, turns clumsily around almost losing his balance, and walks away.
"What the hell-" Sarah begins.
I interrupt her,
"They're behind you. Don't look! There're three of them. They're huge like... like myself."
"Guardians?" she whispers. "The guardians of what? This guy with the bag... he never said... Can they see us?"
"I think so. Let's go!"
I pull her out of the line. Immediately I notice two familiar figures striding toward us from the other side of the enormous hall. The nurse and the Hispanic guy.
Sarah gasps. "They're everywhere! Up the escalator, quick!"
Not the best idea but we don't seem to have a choice. Apologizing non-stop, we climb up the escalator steps packed with people, squeezing and elbowing our way through the crowd.
The station's second level is lined with departure gates. Outside, buses move up and down the ramps. The ceiling here is low; the hall is lined with benches and absolutely packed with people.
We hurry through the crowd. I look every which way in search for some place to hide. There're lines of boarding passengers waiting at every gate. We might try and wriggle our way into one of them... but no, they'll get mad at us. We don't have tickets, anyway. Between the cameras, the security and our pursuers, we need to keep our heads really low.
I slow down and take Sarah by the hand. I have to.
She casts a look back and begins to mumble, "They're up here already... They're gonna see us... They've seen us!"
I look back. Indeed, the blonde "nurse", the Hispanic guy and the three others are all hurrying after us. They're not running but they're walking really fast. They'll catch up with us in a moment.
"What if we scream?" Sarah suggests. "Oh no, bad idea. We might get arrested."
"Exactly," I give her a nudge toward a gate nearby.
The boarding has just closed but the gate is still open. A member of staff wearing an orange vest is standing next to it.
I lean toward Sarah's ear under the hood, "Go and speak to him."
"Why?"
"Tell him to let us through. This is our only chance."
"But I can't-"
"Just do it!" I give her a light push toward him.
Mechanically Sarah steps forward, facing the man. He gives her a quizzical look.
"Let us through," she says.
I stand behind her, trying to keep an eye on her and our pursuers at the same time.
Immediately I know that it didn't work. Last time she did it, I sensed something - a momentary bout of weakness so dramatically different from the surge of power I experience when standing next to her. Now I don't feel anything.
"Sorry, the boarding is closed," the man says.
"Let us through!" Sarah snaps.
Our pursuers are almost upon us. I grab Sarah by the elbow, preparing to drag her out of here.
"The boarding is closed," the man reaches for the walkie talkie on his belt.
"Let's go!" I whisper.
Sarah wrestles her elbow from me and steps forward. "Let. Us. Through. Now!" she enunciates, driving every word like a nail into his brain.
Now her voice is devoid of anger or desperation. It feels heavy. It squashes your mind like a block of concrete or a steel rail.
This time I know it's worked. My knees slacken; my heart misses a beat. The man's eyes glaze over. This isn't a human being anymore but a puppet, an automaton programmed to perform the simplest of actions.
Sarah tags at my sleeve. As we walk past him, she adds another command to his program, "Don't let anyone else through."
We step outside into a large space which rather resembles a multi-level parking lot. The concrete driveways are covered in complex markings; buses moving past; metal pipes painted red and yellow. The sounds of voices and motors echo overhead.
The station worker closes the gate behind us, ignoring the angry knocking at the small barred window.
We hurry down a winding ramp, then turn off to another and yet another. Finally we come to a heavy steel door with a small window in its upper part. The door is locked but that's not a problem for me. I push it so hard that the lock snaps.
Staying around here is not a healthy idea. We've been zigging and zagging the ramps for a while; I'd bet that we've been on a couple of cameras at least.
We have to leave the station ASAP. The video surveillance team must have already noticed the two funny passengers who have strayed away from the passenger area. They must have alerted security.
I can see that Sarah understands it too. We take the concrete stairs down three at a time.
The tiled stairwell is dimly lit; we can hear footsteps coming up. We slow down.
A man in overalls climbs the stairs holding a plastic tool case. He gives us a surprised look but walks past without saying anything.
We hurry down another flight of stairs leading to the station's first level. The door is locked. I can't break it. We can't just barge into a roomful of people. That's the easiest way to get arrested.
I ignore Sarah's protests and hurry further down.
The underground level corridors are lined with office doors. We're in luck: we don't meet anyone on our way even though we keep hearing voices from behind the doors or within the adjacent corridors.
Finally, we come to a door marked Exit. As we hurry toward it, the voices behind our backs grow louder, escalating to shouting and the stomping of running feet.
Unhesitantly I shoulder the door down. It swings open with a crunching sound. We walk out into the morning light. Behind us, there's more screaming and pounding.
"That's the gorillas," Sarah whispers. "They must have followed the security guards. You think they're fighting?"
"Sounds like it," I reply.
We hurry across the parking lot past rows of cars, slowing down as we approach the exit barrier. We're just an idle couple walking back after parking our car. The security guard in his booth is busy talking to a minivan driver. Neither pay any attention to us.
We continue down the street, then stop to check behind ourselves. Our pursuers are nowhere to be seen.
"Phew," Sarah gasps. "I really thought that was the end of us. My heart is about to explode. Where do we go now?"
I scan the street. The city is already awake and bustling.
"Where do we go?" she repeats.
"I don't know yet. But we need to get out of here, that's for sure."
The street further on is packed with people but here by the parking lot it's still deserted. We hurry away from the barrier.
Then I stop in my tracks.
Something's happening. Something intangible. It's as if the world has shifted ever so slightly, changing its angle to an infinitesimal degree. My jacket flaps around me as if billowed by a gust of wind. The thing is, there's no wind. What I feel is a touch. Something's touching me - not any particular body part but me as a whole.
I blink, feeling lost.
"You okay?" Sarah asks. "Hey, what's wrong?"
I wish I knew. Nothing's wrong, that's the whole problem. Still something has changed.
I reach into my pocket. My fingers close over a folded sheet of paper.
"What's up?" Sarah asks anxiously, staring at me.
I shake my head. "This wasn't in my pocket when we entered the station," I show her the paper. "And what's more, I don't think it was there a
minute ago."
"I don't understand."
"Welcome to the club. It's as if someone has just planted it on me."
"There's nobody here!"
"Exactly."
I unfold the paper. It looks like a page hastily torn out of an address book. There's a note written in blue ink in a neat, clear handwriting,
Meet you on the 6 a.m. Staten Island ferry. Don't go anywhere. Try not to get into trouble. This is the second time I'm trying to help you. If you don't show up, I won't do it again.
Sarah
This is the second time I'm trying to help you. If you don't show up, I won't do it again.
I keep rereading the brief note as we sit on the slippery plastic seats waiting for the ferry. Chris has dozed off. He's sitting hunched up next to me with his arms crossed on his chest while I'm staring at the cramped scrap of paper deciphering its hidden meanings.
Back at the station, the man's eyes were completely glazed over. Ditto for the guy I'd immobilized earlier. Does that mean that there're other people who can do what I can?
I glance at Chris. The cap's beak shades his handsome face. The loose jacket doesn't conceal his powerful shoulders. His kind of power is different from mine - and he isn't the only person who has it, either. He's just like one of those gorillas.
Really? What if he is one of them?
Is he part of their gang?
I shrug the thought away. He can't be. Chris is on my side, just as I am on his. We have no one else to help us. Nobody at all.
I heave a sigh as I stare at the water's surface behind the terminal's glass wall. The autumnal sky is pale and nondescript. At this early hour, there aren't many commuters going to Staten Island. The arriving ferry, however, is disgorging crowds of people with sleepy, puffy faces. The endless human flow hurries past us toward the escalators and further on, impatient to get to their office cubicles.
Finally, the departure gate opens. I shake Chris awake. He startles and throws his hands in the air in a most funny way, then stares at me. His cheek is striped crimson from the jacket's collar it rested upon.
"Wakey wakey," I say. "It's time."
Chris stretches. "Already?"
I sling the backpack onto one shoulder and walk toward the gate. I just can't relax when I'm too close to him. He makes me feel on edge. His magnetism infuriates me.