Fiona Maazel - Woke Up Lonely

“Oh my God,” she said. “I have to get out of here.”

“Wait,” he said. Hissing almost. “Anne-Janet!” He got up and staggered in the direction of her voice.

“I am so sorry,” she said. “I’m a freak.”

“You are not. Just calm down.”

But she was already at the rebar grille, gripping the ribs until they gave, and out she went like the Incredible Hulk or one of those animals with the opposable thumbs escaping the zoo and running for its life.

She had not cried violently in years, but now the tears were coming so fast she could barely see where she was going. The house was much bigger than it had appeared from the outside — the multiple hallways and doors and rooms — and behind each, who knew, a guard in wait for the first hostage to escape. She wiped her face and ran.

The floors were tessellated and smooth underfoot, peel-back linoleum. The walls were bare and the lighting a spine of halogen bulbs recessed into the ceiling. So many ways to go, but when she heard footsteps and voices on her tail, she booked for the nearest door, which was locked. Same for each after that. Finally she just sprinted down the hall, thinking it had to go somewhere, which it did. A giant kitchen.

She made for the island, opened the sous-cabinet doors, and prayed there’d be room enough to hide among the pots, pans, colanders, lids, and dozen candy thermometers. She prayed in vain; the lights went on.

“What the hell?” said Vicki, reaching for the nearest blunt-force-trauma object, which was a steel spatula.

“Jesus crap,” said Charlotte. “You scared the Jesus crap out of me.” She was pressing her heart and fanning the air in front of her lips.

Anne-Janet was holding a Calphalon stockpot overhead. Her arms were trembling with the strain, so she bucked her head at Vicki’s spatula — an equine gesture, part nod, part rear — to propose détente. It worked. They laid down their arms.

Vicki sat up on the counter and brushed her feet against the drawers. She was wearing a rubber halter top latticed across the sides with chain mail that clipped up fishnet thigh-highs and matching thong. Charlotte went to a utility closet for a spool of duct tape. Anne-Janet backed into a corner and raised her fists. She’d seen enough martial arts on TV to know that if she chambered properly and kept her weight distributed, pulled back with one arm while releasing her jab, she was gonna get killed.

“What’s wrong with you?” Charlotte said. “I hardly think we’re the enemy.” She sat on the floor and began to wrap her boot, which was split at the toe like a duck’s bill.

“We’re just TCs,” Vicki said. “ Ex -TCs.” She reached for a roll of paper towels and tossed it at Anne-Janet.

“Traveling Companions,” Charlotte said. “You’ll know soon enough. We keep Thurlow company while he makes company for everyone else.” And even though she was annoyed about the ransom tape, she said these words admiringly.

Anne-Janet scanned in her head the dossiers of everyone living here. She was still weeping, but the towels helped. “So you two are the prostitutes? Because I have a bunch of you on file, a Swede and some others, but nothing about you two.”

“Oh fuck a duck,” Charlotte said. “You’re one of the spies? I thought you were the new TC.”

“No way,” Vicki said. “Like a TC would ever look like that. ”

Despite all, Anne-Janet was hurt.

Vicki jumped off the counter. Her ass had left a steam print on the marble. “Oh fun,” she said, and pointed to her thong, which had lost purchase, so that Anne-Janet could see her mons, bald but for a cross of pubic hair. “It’s supposed to be a capital T, ” Vicki said, and covered up. “But I get lazy. Funny, though, right? T for Thurlow, except it looks like Jesus on my cunt.”

Anne-Janet began to make for the door. “I think I’m going to go,” she said. “Except, should I be worried you guys saw me? Because I think we all know what I’m trying to do here.”

“Sweetie, look at you. You been through enough.” This from Charlotte, who was done with her boots and checking her watch.

“Plus,” said Vicki, “the whole house is under surveillance, so it’s pretty safe to assume someone besides me saw what just happened in your cell. So, you know, do what you feel.”

“Oh God,” Anne-Janet said, and slunk to the floor. She pressed her face into the roll of paper towels and began to wet through one sheet at a time. “Can you get me out of here? I can’t breathe in this place. I can’t deal.”

“Not exactly,” Vicki said. “But you can come with us. Charlotte’s got an appointment in the Sub.”

“A special procedure,” Charlotte said, and she beamed like summer sun. “I’ve been waiting for this for six months. Get my labia fixed. Snipped and tucked.”

Anne-Janet stared up at her but just could not summon the words.

“I’m happy for you,” Vicki said. “But just for the record, I think big lips are nice.”

Charlotte frowned. “They’re gross.” But then she laughed and said, “You know, at first, when I heard all the trouble outside, all I could think was that if the feds busted up the place before my vaginoplasty—! So I’ve been praying. And here we are.”

Vicki shrugged. “With your luck, I bet they storm the OR just when your pussy’s in a clamp.”

“Nice,” Charlotte said. And then, to Anne-Janet, “So you want to come?”

“Yes,” she said. “Only, to get this straight, it’s not in the house, right? We’ll have to leave?”

“Of course. This isn’t wire hangers in your poon or anything. It’s totally state-of-the-art. At the clinic.”

“The clinic.”

Charlotte and Vicki exchanged a look. Vicki said, “Now, wait just a minute. I thought you were an agent. Like with the government and all that. I know Thurlow is always saying you people are incompetent and don’t know anything, but come on. You’re messing with us, right? You can trust me, I’m in the know.”

Anne-Janet shrugged. Took a gamble. “There’s lots of clinics, I can’t keep track of everything the Helix does. But whatever,” she said, and she hugged the roll. “Lead the way. Just get me out of here.”

Charlotte said, “The Sub’s not Helix. No way. It’s just private enterprise down there.”

“Yee-haw capitalism,” Vicki said. “But I don’t have an extra set of gloves.” Charlotte didn’t either. “I bet there’s some by the hatch. If not, it’s no big deal. Just try not to hold the rope too tight.”

Anne-Janet followed them out of the kitchen, through a supply closet, to a mudroom staffed with hiking boots. Vicki traded her stilettos for Timberlands, and said, “Why is the black pair always out? I hate these camel ones. They don’t match at all.”

Anne-Janet looked her over. “I think maybe it’s just a clash of styles,” she ventured.

“Well, somebody’s been reading Glamour, ” said Charlotte.

Vicki snorted. She harried the slack in her fishnets and revolved the hasp lock about her neck so that it faced front. “All set,” she said. “Let’s rock.”

Vicki and Charlotte got on either end of an oval floor mat and pushed it aside to expose a door. There was some talk about the code, and when was the last Thurlow changed it because if you entered the wrong code more than twice, it would lock you out for good. They looked to Anne-Janet, who said Vicki had it right, and since they really wanted to believe she knew things, they gave it a go, and presto, the door clicked free. It was a long way down, and immediately Anne-Janet understood the wisdom of gloves as she abraded her hands on the rope ladder.

So these were the tunnels. She’d read about them. A tunnel scheme fanned out beneath the streets of Cincinnati, the plan grown from a precept that said anything can be accomplished with money. Contractors hired by the city to oversee municipal planning, and in whose yawning regard for the work little got done — these people could be bought. And so they were. Nothing blasts through limestone better than graft.