Shattered Highways

by Tara N Hathcock

  “What?” She was confused. She couldn’t play the fiddle. Playing an instrument took years of work and it’s not like it’s the kind of skill one could forget having. But she had played it. She didn’t really remember it, but there it was. She turned towards Logan, who was watching her with an almost sad look on his face.

  “What’s wrong?” she asked, jarred more by the look on his face than by the revelation of her stunning hidden talents.

  “Nothing,” he said after a long moment. He forcibly shook the mood off, trying to smile, but she could tell it was an effort. “Nothing at all. I just didn’t know you played.”

  “Well, is that really a surprise?” she asked, trying to ignore that it was a surprise to her too. “You’ve only known me for a couple of days.”

  “True, true,” he admitted. “Still, that’s the kind of thing you brag about. You know, Hi, I’m Quincy and I could be a concert violinist. Something like that.”

  “Ah,” she said, allowing him to fall back into their familiar pattern of banter. “I’ll keep that in mind for next time.” She gave him a smile, coaxing a small but sincere one from him in return.

  “Come on,” he said. “Let’s go get something for dinner and settle in for the fireworks.”

  “Dinner?” she asked. “You can’t be serious?” Was he? She was pretty sure he was.

  “What? We haven’t hit the taco stand yet,” he said. “It’s our thing.”

  Chapter 15

  Quincy

  It hit without warning, the pain slamming into the base of her skull and jolting her out of a shaky, shallow sleep. It was razor sharp and hot, searing itself behind her eyes and stealing her ability to think of anything beyond the pain. Her breath came in gasps as her fingers dug into the sheets beside her face. She curled her body as tightly as she could, knowing it wouldn’t help - it never did - but it was instinctive and the only thing she could do. Quincy didn’t know what caused these attacks but they came on hard and they came on fast. She much preferred the attacks that hit her when she was awake. She usually had a few, very few, seconds before the pain hit when she could feel it building. It wasn’t enough time to do anything but brace herself, but at least she could do that. When she was asleep, she had nothing. The attacks were always immediate and the shock of being jolted awake left her confused and even more disoriented.

  Quincy did her best to breath through the pain but it wasn’t easy. She shoved the heels of her hands into her eyes, trying to grind the pain away. A sudden, sharp spike left her gasping, the agony leaking out in short, pitiful bursts of air. Tears made their way silently down her cheeks, squeezing out around her clenched eyelids. There was nothing in that moment, these moments, but pain. She was completely vulnerable - that was the only coherent thought she could form. She was vulnerable and if they found her now, she would be helpless. It was a terrible feeling, that helplessness. She wasn’t a helpless person. She made sure of that. She planned. She plotted. She lived in a constant state of preparedness. Like a doomsday hoarder, she was constantly alert and vigilant. But this, she couldn’t control. She didn’t know what caused these attacks and she couldn’t treat them. They came when they came and they left her paralyzed and, later, exhausted.

  The waves of pain stretched on and on and Quincy wasn’t sure how much time had passed when her body finally started to relax. That was usually the first indication the pain was subsiding, and the rest quickly followed. Her thoughts started to clear, the roar that had sent spikes of pain through her head settling back to its usual angry buzz, and then quieting completely. If there was a plus to these attacks, it was the momentary silence that followed them. She was soaked in sweat but couldn’t muster the energy to roll herself out of bed. A hot shower would probably help. She could rinse off and let the heat and the steam soak into her tight, trembling muscles and soothe the soreness in her neck, not to mention chase the aching cold from her bones. But the silence and absence of pain was pulling at her, lulling her back towards sleep. She was weak and exhausted and completely unable to fight it. Why not sleep when she could? Post-migraine sleep was the best sleep she ever got. When she woke up in the morning, she would no doubt be sore and weak but for right now, she could appreciate the reprieve. Her last thought before being pulled completely under was that she’d better enjoy it while she could.

  Chapter 16

  “Murderers are not monsters, they’re men. And that’s the most frightening things about them.” Alice Sebold

  The shadows haunt. The dark hides our secrets. The girl feels safe here, in the dark. She believes it helps her, it hides her. It does not. It only hides the monsters in the shadows.

  She knows this. We know this. But still she trusts.

  * * *

  Quincy

  Sunday morning came late by Quincy’s standards. She had managed to fall asleep almost immediately after the migraine disappeared and didn’t wake up until 6:00, which left her feeling almost decadent as she yawned and stretched her arms and legs. There was a bit of chill in the apartment because she hadn’t turned on the heat the night before but the weather forecast was calling for a bright, clear day with a slight breeze which should warm things up nicely. Her eyes and neck ached from the migraine last night and already she could feel the familiar throbbing in her head, the flow of thoughts threatening to avalanche, her body aching to hit the pavement and clear it all away but it was so nice not to move and she didn’t think she had the reserves to push herself to run. She knew she should after only getting in a partial run yesterday but these headaches always left her feeling so wrung out. Running would only make it worse. So instead, she started running through her agenda for the day. She had nothing pressing, which was standard for her, but since it was Sunday she also had no school and no work, which was less standard. Weekends always seemed to loom before her, an endless expanse of countless hours to fill and very little with which to do so. The festival yesterday had helped pass the time, what now? She had neglected her security protocols recently and her one day of normalcy hadn’t helped. She should probably use today to catch up. She wished she could blame her lapse in judgement on Logan, but if she were being honest, she knew she had started to let things slide weeks ago. It had been months since she’d last spotted a tail and, true or not, she was starting to feel safe. But it wasn’t real. It was just a false sense of security and she knew it. She wasn’t usually so quick to jump into a friendship, or whatever was going on with Logan, and she knew she needed to put a stop to it. Or at least take a step back to recover her equilibrium. He might be interesting and he might be a breath of fresh air in her otherwise mundane, routine existence, but he was also a safety risk and she couldn’t allow that. Today would be the first step back in the right direction.

  Every time she moved to a new place and established a new identity, she learned the town and mapped out numerous escape plans that could be enacted on a moment’s notice. Her primary escape plan, if and when she needed it, was the train station on the outskirts of town. In today’s climate, trains were one of the last options most people considered, which made them one of her first. It had been awhile since she ran through the logistics of this particular plan and she didn’t like being out-of-date. She liked to practice her escapes to get her timing down and keep on top of any possible hang ups that could get in the way, construction and detours being two of the biggest issues, and it had been too long since she’d checked either of those. The train station was exactly 10 miles from her apartment, which was runnable if the need arose, but it was quicker and more efficient to take a bus from a stop near the college. So she finally rolled herself out of bed and headed to the kitchen to jump start her coffee pot. She had finally finished Pride and Prejudice last night so while the coffee perked, she sat at her small kitchen counter with her newest book - War and Peace was her light reading at the moment. She had read it before, of course, but it never hurt to brush up on the classics. She would have to stop by PaddyO’s on her way back, maybe kill a couple of h
ours curled up under one of their book piles with an atlas and scout another emergency location. Then she’d grab an ice cream from the soda fountain and walk back to the apartment. That sounded like a pretty good day.

  Her walk to the bus stop took 20 minutes since it was just outside the far end of campus and when she got to the stop, she double checked the bus times to make sure her last check-in was still accurate. Then she settled onto the seat and waited exactly eight minutes for the number five bus to pull up. As she dropped into a seat near the back and closest to the emergency exit, she frowned. 28 minutes to catch the bus was a long time to wait when she needed out now. She might need to consider changing her primary escape route. Maybe option four, buying a bike, would be better? Although there were numerous issues with that, too. One of which was having the bike with her when she needed it. She could ride it to school and work but if she were spotted at either of those places, she might not have the time or ability to go out the entrance she was parked by. She supposed she could buy several bikes and park them at convenient locations, like school, the library, and on one of the squares downtown? She really didn’t want to spend enough money to do something that would, with 100% certainty, result in multiple losses when she had to leave. Bikes weren’t cheap and they didn’t come in a bubble - you needed helmets and chains and locks to go with them. And reflectors, in case one was needed after sundown. Plus, the chance of theft when you left a bike parked in the same place was high. She definitely couldn’t afford to depend on a bike that wasn’t there when she needed it.

  The bus pulled into the train station and she sighed, knowing she had been spinning again. It happened so easily. She shot a glance at her watch to confirm the time - five minutes. The dependability of this route made her feel a little easier about how long it took. Total time of 33 minutes from the moment she left the apartment to the train station. Could the time really be improved significantly with a bicycle? Maybe she could borrow one from a neighbor and test it. But then she would have to talk to a neighbor. And borrowing something made a larger impression in someone’s mind than a quick “hello” on your way past. She shook her head and attempted to focus. She would worry about that later. Right now, she needed to focus on the plan in front of her.

  She took her time as she got off the bus, checking as nonchalantly as possible for security cameras and vantage points that could be used against her. The bus stopped at a turnstile approximately 12 feet from the train depot door, a big glass number that opened and closed on motion sensors. Glass was less than ideal when it came to cover but it was thick, bullet-resistant if she were guessing, so that was something. There was a security camera above the doors pointing out toward the drop-off zone that would get anyone entering from that point. There was also another camera right inside the doors that caught the main thoroughfare of the station, all the major traffic points, and one located outside of the main exit, scanning people going. The three cameras covered the vast majority of the station but they did have one big weakness - they were stationary. The main ingress and egress points were covered but someone aware of the cameras’ positions could move through the station using the blind spots created by their lack of movement. It wasn’t a lot of space but Quincy had visited the station several times and had developed a pattern that should keep her off the cameras most of the time, and when it didn’t, she was able to at least keep her face hidden.

  She walked this pattern now, making sure no new security measures had been added. It took her exactly three minutes to maneuver through the station, avoiding the cameras, and reach the ticket counter. So, 36 minutes. Of course, no matter how many times she practiced, there were too many variables to pin down an exact time. If she performed perfectly, her time was still dependent on what time of day she needed to catch the bus, how crowded it was, how many stops it needed to make on the way to the train station, how many people were milling around, and how many people were in front of her at the ticket counter. Her best guess was she could have her ticket in hand somewhere between 30 and 45 minutes. She preferred an exact timetable but there wasn’t much else she could do to narrow it down. She knew the plan, knew the route, and knew the variables. It was as solid as it was going to get.

  She strolled up to the departure board and checked all of the current destinations. Her primary plan was to buy a ticket on the first train out of town, regardless of destination, using her current name. There were usually trains coming and going every five minutes or so, which meant the train would ideally leave before her assailants had a chance to catch up with her. The first thing they would do would be to check the ticket counters to confirm her destination. Once they had that, they would be off in pursuit, leaving her free to buy another ticket under a different alias to anywhere else. It was a solid plan, she knew. Not foolproof maybe, but solid. The timing was close and the destinations hadn’t changed. Cameras were in the same positions as last time and the foot traffic was still heavy enough to provide some camouflage if needed. All things considered, Quincy felt pretty safe. She wasn’t going to need to change her primary escape plan after all. She would still spend some time running through her other options, just to make sure they were still valid too, but she didn’t feel the urgency to brush up on them that she’d felt about her train plan.

  Without any real plans for the rest of the day, she decided she might as well sit for a few minutes, maybe do some people watching. Mr. and Mrs. Boatright loved weird stories and a train station seemed like the perfect place to find them. She settled back on one of the benches outside the range of the cameras and looked around. Nothing particularly interesting caught her eye. There was an older lady on the bench directly across from her. She had a bag of yarn sitting on the seat next to her and was knitting what looked to be a large scarf. Or maybe a blanket. Either way, it looked like she had been there awhile. There was a young couple arguing with a ticket agent at the west counter. Quincy couldn’t hear what was going on but the couple seemed very upset. The man had his hand flat on the counter in front of him but was obviously working to keep it from clinching into a fist. He was big and burly, with dark hair and a beard that covered the entire lower half of his face. He towered over the petite red-headed woman with him, who tugged on his elbow, trying to pull him away from the counter. Her eyes were red and teary, and her half-hearted efforts weren’t even making a dent in his tantrum. As for the ticket agent, she wasn’t even blinking an eye. Despite the man’s significant height advantage, she was clearly unimpressed. Just another angry traveler, taking out his frustrations on someone who had no control over the situation. She looked like she’d heard it a million times before. Quincy continued to watch and marvel at the ticket agent’s ability to remain utterly unflappable in the face of pointless rage until something strange happened. In the middle of the man’s renewed diatribe, Quincy saw the ticket agent’s eyes shift to the left, furrow in confusion, and then her entire demeanor changed. Where she looked almost bored before, now she looked horrified. Quincy glanced reflexively over her shoulder, trying to find what had caused the sudden, extreme change. Her eyes locked with the glazed gaze of a woman standing behind her and she jerked away in shock.

  Chapter 17

  Quincy

  Blood. So much blood. It covered the walls. It covered the floor. And it covered the woman staggering from the north rest area hallway. She was grasping at her neck, which seemed to be where the blood was coming from. She had caught the attention of almost everyone in the depot now, having made it almost to the north ticket counter before collapsing against a wall. Her mouth was open but she wasn’t making a sound, other than the wet, gurgling noises of someone who wasn’t long for this world. No one had moved toward her, all too stunned and too afraid to do more than stare frozen in shock.

  The woman was pretty, if you could get past the blood smeared over her face and in her hair. She was wearing a trendy, inexpensive suit, probably from one of the department stores in the commercial district that catered to business women on a b
udget. Quincy knew these observations were random and completely inappropriate given the circumstances. But worries over random observations had been pushed to the very back of her mind by the ever-present buzzing in her head, once shoved and locked in a back corner of her mind, now flooding over the walls she had put up to keep it back, blocking out the noise of the station and the screams that were coming from some of the other passengers. Quincy started to move towards the woman without conscious thought. She felt like she was moving through a fog. Or maybe a dream, because she was suddenly in front of the woman, kneeling in one of the puddles of blood that were forming around the woman, leaking out from between her clasped fingers. The scene had a very surreal feel to it, kind of soft and misty around the edges, like the world was out of focus just outside the line of her periphery. Quincy wasn’t sure why, but she found herself reaching forward, tugging the woman’s hands from around her neck. Lacerated carotid, she thought to herself.

  To the still stunned crowd around her, she said, “I need something to hold pressure.”

  When no one immediately moved, she looked up. “A towel, shirt, blanket, something - anything!” she snapped.

  Her tone of voice must have finally broken through because the angry guy from the counter stepped forward, whipped his hoodie over his head, and handed it over without a word. He knelt hesitantly near her, ready to help if she needed anything else. Not so angry now, Quincy thought distantly. She spared a quick glance at his face, which was white as a sheet, and decided to cut him some slack. He was the only person in the entire station who had made any sort of move to help, so maybe he wasn’t as bad as he’d seemed from a distance.