I’m growing colder by the second.
He jams the barrel of the gun into my kidney, forcing me on.
At some point, did I fall onto the radar of a psychopath who decided to learn everything about me before he murdered me? I often engage with strangers. Maybe we spoke briefly in that coffee shop near campus. Or on the El. Or over beers at my corner bar.
Does he have plans for Charlie and Daniela?
“Do you want to hear me beg?” I ask, my voice beginning to break. “Because I will. I’ll do anything you want.”
And the horrible thing is that it’s true. I would defile myself. Hurt someone else, do almost anything if he would only take me back to my neighborhood and let this night continue like it was supposed to—with me walking home to my family, bringing them the ice cream I’d promised.
“If what?” he asks. “If I let you go?”
“Yes.”
The sound of his laughter ricochets down the corridor. “I’d be afraid to see what-all you’d be willing to do to get yourself out of this.”
“Out of what, exactly?”
But he doesn’t answer.
I fall to my knees.
My light goes sliding across the floor.
“Please,” I beg. “You don’t have to do this.” I barely recognize my own voice. “You can just walk away. I don’t know why you want to hurt me, but just think about it for a minute. I—”
“Jason.”
“—love my family. I love my wife. I love—”
“Jason.”
“—my son.”
“Jason!”
“I will do anything.”
I’m shivering uncontrollably now—from cold, from fear.
He kicks me in the stomach, and as the breath explodes out of my lungs, I roll over onto my back. Crushing down on top of me, he shoves the barrel of the gun between my lips, into my mouth, all the way to the back of my throat until the taste of old oil and carbon residue is more than I can stomach.
Two seconds before I hurl the night’s wine and Scotch across the floor, he withdraws the gun.
Screams, “Get up!”
He grabs my arm, jerks me back onto my feet.
Pointing the gun in my face, he puts my flashlight back into my hands.
I stare into the mask, my light shining on the weapon.
It’s my first good look at the gun. I know next to nothing about firearms, only that it’s a handgun, has a hammer, a cylinder, and a giant hole at the end of the barrel that looks fully capable of delivering my death. The illumination of my flashlight lends a touch of copper to the point of the bullet aimed at my face. For some reason, I picture this man in a single-room apartment, loading rounds into the cylinder, preparing to do what he’s done.
I’m going to die here, maybe right now.
Every moment feels like it could be the end.
“Move,” he growls.
I start walking.
We arrive at a junction and turn down a different corridor, this one wider, taller, arched. The air is oppressive with moisture. I hear the distant drip…drip…drip of falling water. The walls are made of concrete, and instead of linoleum, the floor is blanketed with damp moss that grows thicker and wetter with each step.
The taste of the gun lingers in my mouth, laced with the acidic tang of bile.
Patches of my face are growing numb from the cold.
A small voice in my head is screaming at me to do something, try something, anything. Don’t just be led like a lamb to slaughter, one foot obediently following the other. Why make it so simple for him?
Easy.
Because I’m afraid.
So afraid I can barely walk upright.
And my thoughts are fractured and teeming.
I understand now why victims don’t fight back. I cannot imagine trying to overcome this man. Trying to run.
And here’s the most shameful truth: there’s a part of me that would rather just have it all be over, because the dead don’t feel fear or pain. Does this mean I’m a coward? Is that the final truth I have to face before I die?
No.
I have to do something.
We step out of the tunnel onto a metal surface that’s freezing against the soles of my feet. I grasp a rusted iron railing that encircles a platform. It’s colder here, and the sense of open space is unmistakable.
As if on a timer, a yellow moon creeps up on Lake Michigan, slowly rising.
Its light streams through the upper windows of an expansive room, and it’s bright enough in here for me to take in everything independently of the flashlight.
My stomach churns.
We’re standing on the high point of an open staircase that drops fifty feet.
It looks like an oil painting in here, the way the antique light falls on a row of dormant generators below and the latticework of I-beams overhead.
It’s as quiet as a cathedral.
“We’re going down,” he says. “Watch your step.”
We descend.
Two steps up from the second-to-highest landing, I spin with the flashlight death-gripped in my right hand, aiming for his head…
…and hitting nothing, the momentum carrying me right back to where I started and then some.
I’m off balance, falling.
I hit the landing hard, and the flashlight jars out of my hand and disappears over the edge.
A second later, I hear it explode on the floor forty feet below.
My captor stares down at me behind that expressionless mask, head cocked, gun pointed at my face.
Thumbing back the hammer, he steps toward me.
I groan as his knee drives into my sternum, pinning me to the landing.
The gun touches my head.
He says, “I have to admit, I’m proud you tried. It was pathetic. I saw it coming a mile away, but at least you went down swinging.”
I recoil against a sharp sting in the side of my neck.
“Don’t fight it,” he says.
“What did you give me?”
Before he can answer, something plows through my blood-brain barrier like an eighteen-wheeler. I feel impossibly heavy and weightless all at once, the world spinning and turning itself inside out.
And then, as fast as it hit me, it passes.
Another needle stabs into my leg.
As I cry out, he tosses both syringes over the edge. “Let’s go.”
“What did you give me?”
“Get up!”
I use the railing to pull myself up. My knee is bleeding from the fall. My head is still bleeding. I’m cold, dirty, and wet, my teeth chattering so hard it feels like they might break.
We go down, the flimsy steelwork trembling with our weight. At the bottom, we move off the last step and walk down a row of old generators.
From the floor, this room seems even more immense.
At the midpoint, he stops and shines his flashlight on a duffel bag nestled against one of the generators.
“New clothes. Hurry up.”
“New clothes? I don’t—”
“You don’t have to understand. You just have to get dressed.”
Through all the fear, I register a tremor of hope. Is he going to spare me? Why else would he be making me get dressed? Do I have a shot at surviving this?
“Who are you?” I ask.
“Hurry up. You don’t have much time left.”
I squat by the duffel bag.
“Clean yourself up first.”