Becka Count
Ashville - March 4, 2011 8:20am
They were everywhere. They were behind her. They were moving in from the sides. She felt them closing in, the space between them and her shrinking. She didn’t look at them, didn’t make eye contact, not that it would have made a difference. Old habits die hard. Eyes forward, posture stiff and movements jerky, she jogged across the parking lot with a forced consistency to the former dentist’s office. Don’t look at them and maybe they won’t look at you. She repeated it over and over in her head, knowing it was a lie and that they were already shuffling on their way towards her. Almost there. Already she was scanning the face of the building. The concrete barrier that once housed flowers was an obvious start. A good lift and stable. There was also a window with a decorative frame, now worn down from the elements. Her eyes flicked around the window as she continued her approach, looking for foot holds beyond it. There was crown molding just under the decorative ledge, which was about half her height under the roof. Her eyes snapped back at the crown molding. She didn’t trust it to hold her weight. She zoned back, looking at the entire building again. Over the door was a solid covering made of wood and designed to look like a house roof, complete with shingles. That she trusted. She weighed the distance between it and the ledge above it. It would work. Getting to it from the window might be a trick though. Even if she stood at the edge of the frame, it would be a decent sized jump. She was at the flower bed.
Time was up.
Moving quickly, she hoisted herself up onto the flower garden and got a start on the window as the shuffling of feet crept closer behind her. Don’t think about them. She reached up as far as she could, ignoring the pain in her shoulder and armpit, and grabbed a hold of the top of the window frame. There was no way it would support her. Don’t think about it. She didn’t have time. They were coming closer. Don’t think about it. She focused on her task, and let muscle memory took over. She jammed a foot against the side of the frame, using the pressure and the top fo the frame to hoist herself up. She pushed off the top of the frame with her fingers and stretched them up above her head as the foot that wasn’t jammed against the side jerked up to rest on the top of the frame, followed immediately by her other one. Before losing balance became a threat, her fingers found the molding. Her toes gripped the top of the window frame and her fingers were clung to the molding, using it for balance. They were at the flower bed now, at least one, maybe two, pulling themselves over it. Don’t get distracted. A few more steps, and they would be able to pull her down by her ankle. Focus. She heard cracking wood and a sudden give, and that was the final word to any thought she had. She felt the wood begin to give under her feet again in what would have been the final split, and the world went into slow motion. She bent her knees out to the side for a heartbeat, then sprung away, arms stretched forward like superman. For a moment, she was flying, and the world was silent. The only thing that existed was the covering.
Then with a whoosh and an audible oof!, she was not. Her mind scrambled just enough to make her fingers grip the side of the shingled covering to prevent herself from sliding off as she reoriented herself. She felt as if the air had been sucked from her lungs and heard herself gasping, trying to reclaim it. An agonizingly long moment passed in which she was immobile and they were not, and finally her brain put itself back together. Sucking in another breath of air, she pulled her legs up over the edge and out of reach. Panting and holding a hand to her aching torso, she looked at the small crowd that had gathered around her. Not exactly a swarm, but nevertheless were more than she felt comfortable with. One of them was groping its hand along the semi-busted window frame. What, was it looking for any bits of flesh that may have fallen off of her? She rested her head back against the wall and sighed, getting her breath under control enough that she could start moving again.
A few slow breaths later and she stood up on her knees, despite her body’s protest. Her muscles were tired. She’d been on the move since just before dawn. She’d lost count of the number of buildings she had climbed, number of gaps and alleys she had jumped, the number of parking lots and streets she had crossed. Whatever the number, it was enough that she was tired. Her body was tired. Her mind was tired. She needed rest. A look out in the direction she had come told her otherwise. Slowly but surely, she had been gathering a fan club. Further out, beyond her immediate crowd at the dentist, was a scattered group of others coming, a couple of which she recognized as having picked up earlier in the day. A few seconds, and they would be with the fan club currently stretching their arms out below, trying to reach her. She looked back at the building and up at the roof. She took another breath, a final goodbye to her short rest, and stood up, reaching for the ledge that would allow her to reach the roof.
Apparently, she had overestimated her height. She jumped, and for a brief moment, her fingers skimmed the edge, and then it was gone.
Crap.
Okay.
Now what?
She jumped again, even inched as close to the edge of the covering as she dared and got “running” (one step) start, both with similar success. She looked back out at the parking lot. Her remaining fan club was arriving. Silently and with an air of resignation, she slid her back down the wall and sat.
Now nothing.
Or at least, nothing for now. She slid her pack off her back and checked inside for the pair of guns. One had a kick, the other she could shoot. Both were loud. She fished out the Colt and slid the backpack on again, sighing. For now, she would rest. They couldn’t reach her. It was as safe as any other spot, albeit slightly too close to the “not safe” line for comfort. Didn’t matter. She closed her eyes. She would rest, and when she was ready, she would shoot her way out. As if in answer to her thoughts, one of the ammo boxes in her pack shifted down slightly with a soft clicking rattle. Three years and she could count on one hand the times she’d had to use her own supply. Always before there was someone else. A group. A partner. Someone. She sighed again. The sound of the shots would draw others, she knew. She’d have to be quick. She'd need to find a place to run/jump for before she fired at all. She'd have to figure something out. For now, though, she could rest.
So she did.
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