The Sky is Falling

Chapter Ten - Zach Baker

"I'm not ready for a handshake with death, no."

May Somethingth

"Elliott's dad?!" He's got a mean look on his face, even more mad than when Elliott and I accidentally wrecked his brand-new computer in junior high. Before I have time to process what's happening, he grabs me by the back of my shirt collar and drags me and throws me into the back of a black van parked on the curb.

"Stay here," he says.

Finally, freedom! But soon enough, the old guy from before gets into the driver's seat. Huh? He starts the car and adjusts the rearview mirror to get a good look at me. His nose appears to be broken, and he's got bruises and blood on his face, yet a mean, crooked smile is plastered across his lips. He shifts into gear and drives off.

When he stops the car a few minutes later, he swings the backdoor open and commands for me to get out, leaving no room for protest. I glance past him and my heart sinks. The warehouse. Back to square one.

With no choice, I drop out of the van. The old man's grip is firm on my arm, his fingers digging into my skin as he guides me forward, preventing any thoughts of escape.

We navigate through the phony warehouse and he makes me climb down the ladder. He drags me back to the hostage room. I catch a glimpse of a door I saw earlier, and I can see a light on in the window.

He shoves me in and I stumble back onto the dirty mattress.

"Welcome back," he sneers, the corners of his mouth twisting into a cruel smile. "You thought you could escape? You're not going anywhere. And you can kiss your food and water privileges goodbye."

"You're going to wish you hadn't tried to run," he growls, "No food, no light. Just the sound of your own fear."

"Enjoy your stay!" he jests with a ghastly laugh and slams the door shut behind him, the sound reverberating through the room.

I pull my knees to my chest, wrapping my arms tightly around them, holding on for dear life. I rock back and forth, desperate to find some semblance of control, but it feels like the ground is spinning beneath me. I can't breathe. The walls close in, a prison of my own making. My mind races with dark thoughts, each one more terrifying than the last. I start to hyperventilate, each inhale a desperate plea for calm that never comes. Tears begin to flow, hot and unrelenting, streaming down my face.

Has no one noticed I'm gone? Do they even care? Am I that easy to forget? The thought spirals through my mind, sharp and cruel. I can't rid the image of my friends and family moving on, living their lives as if I never mattered. The realization tightens the knot in my chest, and I cry harder, the sound muffled against my knees.

What if they never find my body? The darkness around me feels oppressive, heavy like a shroud, and I can almost hear the countdown of my fate ticking away. I'm not ready to die. I have so much life left to live—so many places I want to go, so many memories left to make. I'm not even an adult yet.

"I don't wanna die, I don't wanna die, I don't wanna die, I don't wanna die," I whisper like a broken record. Why me? What did I do to deserve this? I was the good kid and it got me nothing.

I can't die down here. I can't just be another face on a milk carton, another tragic story they talk about in hushed tones.

I think of graduation, just a few days away. How excited I was at the thought of walking across that stage, wearing a cap and gown, celebrating with my friends and family. I think of Elliott. I can almost see him—grinning with his same goofy grin from our first day of kindergarten when we clung to our backpacks, both terrified of the older kids.