Rick Mofina - They Disappeared

Cole froze. He felt weight on his left shoulder, tiny claws suddenly dug through his shirt as a rat rose from the water. Cole stifled a scream. He couldn’t make a sound because flashlight beams lit the water, probing the junk around him. If he yelled they would hear him.

The rat moved closer to Cole’s head, poking its nose in his ear.

Cole couldn’t bear it. He swatted the rat away, the splash triggered voices of reaction above. The flashlight beams raked wildly over the water until they locked on to a furry back moving on the surface away from Cole.

The water plinked as bolts whizzed-splashed near the rat.

The men were trying to hit it.

Laughter from above and the light beams vanished as the men left the pit to resume searching other areas of the factory.

They didn’t see me.

Embracing a measure of relief, Cole took a few breaths.

He had to get to the ladder on the other side.

But I can’t, the big rat is there waiting to eat my face. He wanted to give up, cry out to the creeps. Take me back to my mom-I can’t do this!

But his mother’s words, telling him to get help, still echoed in his head, driving him to be brave, to face his fear. Yes, but the rat was fearless, big and getting bigger.

A monster.

I can’t, I can’t go over there, oh, help me….

“Cole, stop this now! You have to listen to me, son, and you’ll be fine!”

His dad’s voice suddenly came back to him from so many years ago when they were at his dad’s friend’s cabin at the lake in North Dakota. They’d gone up for a weekend of fishing. Cole was about six or seven and had gone off alone, stepping into a little rowboat tied to the dock. He was looking at the fish swimming around it, not knowing that the rowboat had come untied and he’d drifted. He didn’t know how to use the oars, panicked and cried for help.

“Listen to me, Cole!”

His dad’s voice boomed from the dock, over the quiet laughter of the other men urging him to go get him in another boat. But Cole’s dad had decided to use that terrifying moment in Cole’s life to teach Cole how to survive on his own.

“Push down on the oar handles… Now, push the oars away from you… Now, lower them into the water! Now, pull them hard to you!”

Cole’s first efforts failed. The coordination was hard; his dad and the men at the dock were getting smaller as Cole drifted farther away.

“I can’t do this! I can’t.”

“Yes, you can! Listen to me! Stay calm, think this through and you’ll be fine, son!”

Cole struggled, sobbed, but his dad would not let him quit and eventually Cole made it back, stronger than when he’d left, for he’d mastered the skill of rowing a boat and in the process had defeated a fear. Cole loved and respected his dad for teaching him how to survive.

His father’s words guided him now.

Stay calm, think this through and you’ll be fine.

Cole reached deep into himself for every molecule of strength and courage he had left.

All right, I’m going to do this-one, two, three.

Cole let go of the metal bar and began swimming toward the ladder. If you come at me, rat, I’ll punch the crap out of you. Cole used breaststrokes, traveling without splashing. His heart skipped when his leg brushed against something alive. Then his hand touched something furry, telling him instantly: there’s more than one rat in here.

He felt a tugging at his sneaker, a gnawing. He retaliated with a kick, and swam faster until he grabbed the rungs. His feet found the rungs under the water and felt lighter as he hefted himself from the water.

Rung, handgrip, footstep lift-his rhythm was swift, sure and steady.

Cole thought of nothing but his immediate goal.

Get to the top.

Rung, handgrip, footstep lift.

When he lifted his head to check his progress, one side of the rung he’d grasped broke free from the wall. The other side remained precariously anchored with Cole dangling on it as it swung like a hinged door, carrying Cole out from the wall.

Cole’s breathing stopped.

In the strong light he saw the bottom of the pit and dozens of rats swirling in the water. Cole kicked against the wall and swung back toward the ladder just as his damaged rung gave way and fell into the water below, making a splash.

He managed to secure himself on the rungs, and after a minute to catch his breath he hurried to the surface.

I did it. I did it, Dad. I climbed out. Okay, okay, I have to get help .

Adrenaline pumping, Cole moved faster now. In the daylight he found the stairs to the main floor and threaded his way through pallets stacked with old machinery, motors and abandoned equipment. He could hear men throughout the factory as they searched. He found the wall, stayed close to it, looking for a door, a window, any way to escape.

As he neared a corner he found a sheet of aged plywood partially bolted to small section of the wall that had decayed. The plywood was loosened by time and Cole pulled it out to see how the wall had cracked, crumbled to the point of creating a jagged gap about a foot wide.

Cole glimpsed a grassless patch of earth, gravel, a chain-link fence.

He wedged himself behind the plywood, then twisted and angled himself through the gap and…

Freedom.

He was standing in the sun at the side of the building, a few feet from a ten-foot fence topped with coiled razor wire. Cole moved along the building, his heart racing, knowing he was seconds from finding a way to the street and help.

As he rounded the corner he ran directly into the arms of a man waiting by the loading bay of the rear shipping entrance.

“Please call police! My mom and me were- mfph! ”

Cole stopped when pain shot through him and he’d recognized that the man, Bulat Tatayev, had seized his wrist and moved quickly to take him back inside. Bulat yelled out to his men before lowering himself to Cole.

He stared into his eyes, saying nothing until the men arrived.

New York City

Jeff had slipped away from the FBI.

Outside, he hurried along Forty-fifth Street until he was a safe distance from his hotel and stepped into the lobby of the Roosevelt where he used his phone to open Cassidy’s list of restaurants, cafes and coffee shops.

His knees nearly buckled and he sat in a wingback chair.

There had to be more than a thousand, no, two, no, more. It went on and on as the listings of every restaurant and coffee shop blossomed on his phone’s tiny screen.

He could scroll for an eternity.

Then he realized he could manipulate the list to display only those that started with L and resembled Lasa or Laksa . He exhaled. That brought the number way down to under a dozen for the five boroughs. After a few tries he was able to map the list on his phone, in order to make the most effective search of the listings.

As he started off his cell phone rang.

“Mr. Griffin, this is Agent Miller at the hotel. Sir, what is your location?”

“I’m outside at the moment. I needed some air.”

“Sir, we request that you return to your room, now.”

“I can’t do that, Agent Miller. I have some things to take care of.”

“Mr. Griffin, we respectfully request-”

Jeff ended the call and picked up his pace. The TV news report echoed in his mind. His fears were mounting; he sensed that he was running out of time as he arrived at the first candidate. The Cafe Lastanya was in the low twenties on East Forty-first Street. It had a small front with four tinted-glass panels. It was crowded. He made his way past the sandwich and pastry cases to the coffee area and studied the take-out cups. The logo bore no resemblance to the discarded cups he’d seen in the van.