I manage a sound anyway. A muffled, ugly “Mmmp!”
Ozzy doesn’t hear it.
I kick again, frantic now.
The man swears and yanks me faster, toward the back of the building. Behind the store, the lights do not reach as far. Shadow swallows us. I try to dig my nails into his arm. He slams me into the side of a van.
My blood turns to ice.
No.
No no no.
The van door slides open. The dark inside looks like a mouth. The man shoves me in. I hit the floor hard, shoulder and hip screaming. The door slams shut with a metallic bang that echoes like a coffin lid. The air inside is stale, smells like rubber and old sweat.
My breath comes in sharp bursts. I scramble upright, hands shaking. My eyes adjust enough to see shapes. Two men. I’ve seen them before. I’ve beenherebefore. They’ve laughed while I cried before. This can’t be happening again. One of them crouches, grabbing my wrists. He yanks them behind my back and cinches something tight around them.
Zip ties. The plastic bites into my skin. I jerk, trying to pull away. He backhands me. Stars explode behind my eyes. My cheek burns. My ears ring. I taste blood. I blink fast, trying not to sob.
The van lurches forward. I try once more to fight. To do something. I kick and thrash, but it’s no use because the moment the van makes a hard turn, my head slams into the wall of the van.
My mind screams Ozzy’s name.
Ozzy.
Ozzy will come.
Ozzy will burn down the world.
But the reality hits right after. He didn’t see me. He was facing the road. He thinks I’m inside buying a drink or using the restroom. He thinks I’m safe.
The thought makes my chest crack open. Tears spill before I can stop them. I force my breathing to slow. If I hyperventilate, I will pass out. If I pass out, I lose control. Control is the only thing I have left.
The van bumps over potholes. The smell gets worse. My wrists throb. The men do not talk much. One of them hums like this is just a job. And I hate him for that.
I stare at the seam of the door, at the thin line of light. I try to memorize turns. Left. Right. The length of the stops. It doesn’t matter. I don’t know this area well enough.
Minutes stretch into something cruel. Then the van slows until it stops.
The door slides open. Cold air spills in. A warehouse.Thewarehouse. The one where Ozzy and I just were only thirty minutes ago.
They yank me out of the van.
My legs are weak, but I force them to work. They drag me through a side entrance. The inside is dim, lit by one row of overhead lights that flicker and buzz. Dust floats in the beams like slow snow. The sound of my shoes scuffing on concrete seems too loud.
My heartbeat is louder. We pass old pallets, abandoned machinery, trash bags stacked like bodies. My stomach twists.
There’s a man in the center of the warehouse. He’s tied to a chair, his head hanging forward. His shirt’s stained dark at the collar. His face is bruised. One eye swollen shut. His mouth split. He’s barely breathing.
My chest seizes. The men shove me down onto my knees beside him. My knees hit concrete hard, pain shooting up my legs. They grab my arms and pull me upright again, tying me to another chair. Rope this time. Rough and scratchy. It bites at my wrists, already irritated from the zip ties.
One of them yanks my chin up. “Sit still.”
I glare at him with every ounce of defiance I can find.
He laughs, then steps back.
The other man looks at the beaten stranger like he is a piece of furniture. “Don’t talk.”