The Easy Way Out

47

Unaware that Rachel had been abducted, Blake hurtled through the airport concourse in the opposite direction from the parking garage, ignoring the taste of pain and digestive juices bubbling up from his gut. He chastised himself for foolishly ignoring her text. He could have bought himself more time to escape before she began hunting him down.

As he snaked through the airport concourse swollen with luggage-carrying passengers, he was overcome by the feeling that the world he was running through wanted nothing to do with him. The people he pushed past looked stiff, their faces hard. It was as though they were deliberately not looking at him. Like they'd be revolted by what they saw, the pitiful dumbfounded expression on his face admitting that he was beyond hope.

For a small airport with only one runway, the main concourse seemed endless. His right shoulder ached so he switched the duffel to his left hand and kept walking, pushing himself toward the exit. He sidestepped a woman backing up oblivious to those around her, dropping her suitcase on the floor, and unzipping.

He kept moving, eyes on his destination, the exits to the outdoor parking lots, where he could be free of the suffocating crowds, the buzzing chatter in his ears. The floor seemed to stretch a half mile right under his feet, like a bad dream when despite the furious effort, progress became impossible. A whiff of hot outdoor air and cigarette smoke caught his nose, an optimistic sign that he must be near the exit doors, those damned doors.

And then in silhouette, there she stood at the windows overlooking the runway, arms crossed, feet apart. His throat went dry. He couldn't see her face. Could she see his? But when she turned, hoisting her luggage, he knew it wasn't Rachel. Not by the face he couldn't see, but by her awkward, uncoordinated movements. Drawing closer he almost laughed aloud in relief. The woman had to be in her 40's, maybe almost his mother's age.

He passed beneath the sign pointing to outdoor parking, rumbled down the stairs and out through the doors, risking a glance back. He switched the cumbersome duffel back to his right hand and began making his diagonal journey across the asphalt, the air tasting like freedom. As the sticky South Carolina heat enveloped him, seeping through his clothes and into his flesh, he was relieved to discover that he'd somehow managed to run out of pavement. A lazy grin formed when he crossed the border between parking lot and landscaping, feeling each clump of sunbaked grass underfoot, desperately clinging to the earth as hard as cracked cement.

########

As the Lincoln raced down the two-lane road, Rachel doubled over, bawling and writhing hysterically as though she were infested with parasites. Crammed between Pat and Karas, the plastic zip-tie cut into her wrists.

"You missed the turn," Pat shouted at Gizmo in the front seat.

Her piercing wails bordered on convulsive screams.

Gizmo's furious eyes went to the rearview mirror. "Somebody shut that bitch up! I can't think."

She shrieked, her voice cracked and raw.

Karas threw a hard elbow into her ribs. "Shut the fuck up!"

"It's too late for that, little girl," said Pat in a tone that would have been comforting minus the sinister undertone.

Her pretty face was nearly unrecognizable, pale and blotchy, the veins in her neck and forehead engorged, hair matted to her face. She coughed, croaked, and sputtered, as though she was choking and gasping simultaneously.

Gizmo pounded the steering wheel with his fist. "I gotta drive like another seven miles to--"

"Turn around," Karas grumbled.

She snapped her head abruptly toward Pat, face contorted, and expelled a geyser of vomit.

SPLAAAAASH!

Vomit splattered Pat's face and the car window. Horrified, he hollered, "Stop the car! Stop the fuckin' car!"

Gizmo jammed the brakes.

Pat threw open the door, bursting out onto the gravel road shoulder, gagging and wiping his face with his sleeve.

Karas went for his weapon, but he was a moment too late. Rachel's brutal head butt to his temple turned his head. Her tethered hands snaked under his jacket, but he prevented her from gaining control of his pistol by locking his elbow against his ribcage.

She opened her jaws and struck like a cobra, clamping down hard, her teeth tearing into his cheek.

Karas screamed.

BANG! The gun went off point-blank against his abdomen. He howled, bending in half.

Rachel spit a mouthful of flesh at Pat, frozen, wide-eyed and dripping with puke.

"Get out!" she commanded Karas, her eyes filled with violence.

His moan gurgled in his throat, his complexion gone a creamy white.

She jammed Karas' gun against his temple. "Get out!"

He hooked his thick fingers over the door handle, shoved open the door, and flopped heavily out onto the street.

With the pistol at the back of Gizmo's head, she pulled the door closed. "Drive!" she shouted, her eyes wild, her lips and chin smeared with blood and vomit.

For a moment, the men were statues.

She swung the gun toward Pat, who raised his hands. "Close the door," she growled.

The pistol went back against Gizmo's skull as Pat slammed the door shut.

"Last time I'm saying this. Drive, motherfucker!"

The Lincoln squealed away leaving Pat in shock, standing at the side of the road, Karas crumpled and bleeding on the pavement.