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DARK CORRIDORS VOL. 3, No. 7 |
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NOIR |
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of BLOOD ALLEY  “Please,God,pleaseGod pleaseGodplease............” |
Walking home late, girl?
Then don't go down that alley!
By GINA GALLO
of TheColumnists.com
Even before the sound of footsteps, she panicked. The
expected feeling when walking alone down a dark street--a foolhardy
act under any circumstances. She should have known better....did
know better, but tonight it couldn’t be helped. There’d
been a mountain of work to finish, so she stayed longer than
she meant to, long after the office cleaning crew had come and
gone. She’d felt satisfaction when she finished, regret
as soon as she left the building. Christ, it was dark!
Three long blocks stretched between her and the subway. At this
time of night, it seemed a gauntlet of waiting predators. Although
she couldn’t see them, she knew they waited, lounging in
unlit doorways, lingering near the alley, ready for the next
victim. But damned if she’d be one of them.
A women’s safety class had been her first order of business
after moving to the city. Along with 20 other female urbanites,
she’d been instructed in the rituals of self-defense. Besides
the physical moves and postures, she’d learned to carry
a protective device to give her a greater edge. It was one of
those plastic lemons, a grocery store item filled with juice.
By refilling it with bleach, she had an effective weapon with
a six-foot squirting range--enough to blind an attacker.
Her hand closed around it now, holding it ready in her coat pocket.
Was that someone near the alley entrance? Squinting through the
murky dark, her heart slammed into triple-time. But there was
no one--just a heap of shadowed trash. Fear, relief, and a few
curses hissed out in one shaky breath. She’d never stay
late at the office--Wait! Footsteps behind her. So fast, she
didn’t have time to think or pull out her secret lemon.
The hand was around her mouth, the knife pressed at her throat.
“One sound, bitch, and you’re dead. Understand?”
Fear and bile clogged her throat, as sharp as the foul hot breath
of her attacker. It blasted over her in noxious waves as he pulled
her closer. She was going to die. He was going to slit her throat
and fling aside her lifeless body in the closest garbage heap.
Why else was he dragging her back behind those dumpsters? Squirming
wouldn’t help, not when a knife was poised near her jugular.
Kicking didn’t do much either except send her shoes flying.
Great. Now they’d find her dead, bloody and barefoot! She
was going to die.......
He was a big man, strong enough to lift her with one arm. Pressed
against the hardness of him, she was certain his frenzied grunts
were more anticipation than exertion. God, please don’t
let this happen. What was the first lesson of that self-defense
class?
“Don’t give in to panic.”
Hard not to panic when she was being dragged through a labyrinth
of steeping garbage. Her mind went blank, faded to black waves
of fear so consuming she felt paralyzed. Unable to process the
pain of her bloody feet dragged over what seemed like a mile
of cinders and broken glass. One arm was pinned, the other yanked
back hard enough to snap it. Broken, for sure, but the only thing
she could feel was terror. They were a long way from the mouth
of the alley, deep enough in this rank darkness to hide whatever
happened next.
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of waiting predators. |
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She could feel his heartbeat slamming in time with her own. Predator and prey in deadly synch, the last percussive rhythms before the kill. Would it help to scream? That had been one of the defensive tactics from that class, one of the most obvious, they’d said. What they hadn’t mentioned was how fear steals your voice, so much so that she couldn’t summon as much as a whimper. Not that it’d make a difference. She knew instinctively that pleading wouldn’t help now, or bargaining. His bloodlust was as obvious as the blade at her throat. The small amount of cash she had or her few pieces of jewelry wouldn’t sate that hunger.
They were at the end of the alley now. There were no lights, no witnesses other than the skittering rats who rustled through the trash. No way out. She squeezed her eyes shut, hoping for a quick death, or a quicker miracle. Maybe a prayer would be enough. At zero hour, it was the only thing that could save her. Terror, desperation and the thinnest shard of hope fused together in one sobbing litany:
“Please,God,pleaseGodpleaseGodplease............”
....and then she was thrust into the deliverance of darkness when he smashed her head against the wall.
Later, she’d wonder whether it was pain or delusion that gave the alley a rainbow hue.
For now it didn’t matter that the boy who stood before her seemed to be bathed in an aura of light. An angel? If so, he was an angel with a dirty face and a triumphant grin. Squinting through her swollen eye, she could just barely see him. Not much more than 10 years old, he still gripped the baseball bat that had felled her attacker. Obviously, he was the answer to her prayers--a good Samaritan with a Babe Ruth swing.
He stepped forward, gallantly extending his hand.
Grateful tears welled up as she struggled to reach toward her hero.
“Thank you,” she sobbed. “God bless you......”
“Yeah, right.”
The dirty-faced angel slipped off her wristwatch and snatched her bracelet and gold hoop earrings.
Incredulous, she watched as he pocketed the attacker’s knife before rifling through her purse. With a practiced hand, the boy emptied her wallet, removed her credit cards and tossed the rest aside.
“I don’t understand...”
“Sure you do, lady."
Pivoting for flight, her angel paused just long enough to display the ancient smirk in a child’s face.
“Out here it’s dog-eat-dog. Everybody’s gotta make a living.”
© 2002 by Gina Gallo. The Gina Gallo caricature is ©
2001 by Jim Hummel. The illustrations are from IMSI'S Master
Clips Collection, 1895 Francisco Blvd. E., San Rafael, CA, 94901-5506,
USA.
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