Emmy Laybourne - Savage Drift

The godforsaken trail continued outside, only wider. What had happened here?

I kept my head down and walked. Started running, actually. Get it over with.

The trail led to two cellar doors, set at an angle at the base of the house to the left of Rinée’s family. I had gone to the house on the right, gone clear through and was now entering the house on the other side.

I grabbed the handles and flung the doors open.

“Hello?” a voice called. “Hello?”

“Who are you?” I shouted. “What did you do?”

“Here,” I heard a voice say. “Please help me.”

Here is the vision that will haunt me for the rest of my life.

There’s a single utility lightbulb hanging from the ceiling and a wash of sunlight coming from behind me.

Stained wooden plank steps lead down into a basement with cement-block walls. Tools on a pegboard on one side. Shelves with Tupperware marked “Christmas” and “Crafting” are on the other. In the center of the floor are the bodies of two women, both stabbed and mutilated as only a madman could do, and behind them is the bald-headed man, kneeling and weeping.

“I’m so glad you’re here. You see, I think I killed these women,” he said. “I had… I had some kind of an episode and I murdered them.”

I tried to talk but no words came out. Mouth too dry.

“I think I killed these women!” he repeated.

“It wasn’t your fault,” I told him. “It was chemicals. Chemicals in the air.”

“I volunteered. Every Saturday. Reading to kids. Teaching them. Serving soup, cleaning up. I volunteered.”

I needed to leave. I needed to get away from this man, this dark hole of a basement. Away from the bodies. Every sinew, every cell of my body strained toward the doors behind me, begging me to leave.

“I drove a hybrid. I put solar panels on the roof.”

“I have to go,” I said.

“Please.” He got up on his knees. “Please help me.”

His voice was low and serious and sane.

“I need your help. Please. I can’t do it myself. I’ve tried.”

“Do what?” I asked him.

“I need you to kill me.”

I cursed and stepped back.

He rose on his knees and edged toward me, his hands clasped, begging.

The gun was so heavy in my hand.

“I can’t live with this. It would be a mercy. A mercy. Please.”

He cried and begged and I backed away.

I walked back to the car. I felt like I was moving through cement—or like I’d been filled with it. I felt like my heart was so leaden that I’d never feel light again.

“What did you find?” Astrid asked me. Her blue eyes were clear and full of concern.

And then, from next door, there came a muffled shot.

“I found the O man,” I told her.

I try to think. Where could Mario be? He hadn’t come home.

Had he tried to come back to the room and failed?

Had he knocked and we didn’t hear him?

First I run back to Excellence. He would have tried to get back to the room.

He would have been in pain from his arm and his ribs, if they had ended up cracked.

He’d have a terrible headache from being sedated and would be thirsty.

I sprint through the courtyard. Dawn is breaching the horizon now, bringing a peachy light to the courtyard.

I don’t care about being seen. I have to find Mario.

I burst into the lobby.

Still empty.

I push into the Men’s hall. People are up now, a few coming out of their rooms.

“Hey! Look who’s here,” says one of the lowlifes I had fought my way through.

I weave my way down the hall, looking in the rooms.

Someone puts a hand on my arm.

“Union is looking for you,” Patko says. “You’d better get out of here.”

I shrug him off.

“Has anyone seen Mario?” I yell. “The old guy who takes care of us?”

“Ain’t seen him,” says the maggoty one. “But I can take care of you good, rabbit.”

I push past him and head back to the front hall.

Not there.

Where would you go, Mario? Where would you go?

Maybe Plaza 900. Head for a crowd, try to find someone to help him. Try to get help from Cheryl, maybe. Or get a drink of water.

I make my way to Plaza 900.

“Hey!” a guard yells. “What the heck?”

“Sorry,” I yell, trying to sound meek. “My friend’s missing.” And I keep running.

The guard lurches to his feet, starting after me slowly, but gaining momentum as his bulk accelerates.

I hit the front doors to Plaza 900. Locked.

I pound on them.

A sob tears out of me.

Mario is injured and somewhere on campus and it is my fault.

The guard comes into my peripheral vision. “You’re not allowed to be out, miss. You’re gonna get in trouble.”

“Please,” I plead. “My friend is old and he got turned out of the clinic and I think maybe he’s in there.”

“Well, you’ll know when it opens, won’t you?” He grabs my arm and pushes me toward the Virtues. “Which one are you from?”

“Please,” I beg him. “He’s old and alone and hurt.”

I see a spark of conscience flash across his eyes.

“And he’s very kind. Please let me try to find him.”

“Aaugh, go on. I didn’t see ya,” he says, and turns his back on me.

I spin away from him and head around the other side of the building.

There have to be more doors going in.

I see two steel-gray doors. One of them is ajar.

A white truck is pulled up near the double doors.

A white-uniformed man brings out four flats of dinner rolls.

I nod to him, like I am somehow supposed to be there, and dodge inside.

“Hey, miss!” he calls.

And then I am in the giant kitchen. It smells like old Sloppy Joes and there are patches of grease on the counters and floor. The steel counters are cleaned off only in spots. Trash is on the floor in places and food, too. It looks like the kitchen staff are doing the best they can and failing. Like all of us.

Mario isn’t in the kitchen and he isn’t in the dining room. I am looking along the floor and in the corners.

I ignore the “heys” and questioning glances from the workers.

I can’t find Cheryl, but see another one of the ladies who liked Mario. What was her name? Josefina? No.

“Have you seen Mario?” I ask her. “The man I come in with—”

“No, m’ija , he missing?”

I nod.

She hugs me. Says something comforting in Spanish.

I tear myself away from her.

I have to find him.

Mariana, I remember. That was her name.

I go to the lobby of Plaza 900.