Jinx

A shaft of early morning light drilled through a gap in the damaged ceiling of the old shop, growing in intensity with each passing minute. The hazy illumination afforded her a cursory examination of her surroundings. Machines of unknown purpose stood stoically in the middle of the space, unfazed by the passage of time. Workbenches lined two adjacent walls, meeting at the corner. Tools, trash and other debris littered their surfaces and the oil stained floor. A layer of dust coated everything. She heard, more than saw, a small creature skittering away in the direction of a darkened corner. It was otherwise vacant. It would do.

The rollup door she had managed to lift just enough to slip under had emitted piercing metallic shrieks. She was concerned about the attention it might draw, but the only other entrance was solid and locked from the inside. Worst case she would have advanced warning of anyone coming for her.

She needed sleep. Jinx traveled mostly under cover of darkness, sleeping during the brightest hours of the day. It was the only way to avoid being seen, which was almost never a good thing.

She took cover under a dusty, disintegrating canvas tarp, setting aside her backpack as she lay on the unyielding concrete floor. Despite the discomfort, exhaustion tugged at her eyelids. She clutched the locket on her throat and drifted to sleep, where reality was supplanted by a vivid dreamscape. Her father and the cabin in Tennessee where they had survived these past 10 years. Where she had learned to read, sew, cook, fish, hunt, and fight. And yes, to kill when necessary.

Memories of her mother had faded with time, but her slumbering mind reconstructed them from the tiny photo Jinx wore around her neck. Her mom hadn’t joined them as promised, but in these recurring dreams she was present with them, folding Jinx into her arms, telling her that she would always love her.

Jinx was just shy of seven years old when the world began to fall apart. She was nearing seventeen when her father died.

He had fallen ill, but of what? Was it the virus? Something else? She would never know, but assumed she wouldn’t be here had it been the virus.

Her father had recounted the story of the world’s demise many times over. The virus had been under control, until it no longer was. It had mutated, and mutated again, until it was unstoppable. Her mother, Margaret Hinkle, had been a cardiologist at Chicago Hospital. One of many waging an unwinnable war, she had finally seen the writing on the wall. Her panicked phone call had warned them to escape to their bug out location in Tennessee. She had promised to be right behind them on the earliest flight she could catch.

Jinx and her father had made the trip in his truck. They’d neither seen nor heard from Maggie since. Her father would have gone back for her, but for the danger to their young daughter. With the virus eventually claiming more souls than it spared, air travel had ground to a halt; fuel refining and distribution had stalled; the nightmarish cascade of cause and effect had brought the world to its knees. Finally, the lights had gone out.

Ten years later as her father lay dying, he had removed the chain from around his neck, placed it in her hands and closed her fingers around it. Jinx knew it well. Its heart-shaped locket opened to reveal a picture of her mother. The back was inscribed simply: Jon’s. Her mother possessed its mate: Jon’s photo enclosed and Maggie’s etched into the back.

And then with a whispered “I love you Jinxie”, he was gone. Jenna Hinkle was alone.

Two months later, to her own astonishment, she had arrived in Chicago in search of her mother. She told herself the horrors she had witnessed along the way had been worth the risk. She had to know—had to know if her mother was still alive.

The sandpaper-like canvas abraded the skin of her cheek as it was drawn aside. Suddenly awake, fueled by adrenalin, she flailed and scuttled backward against the wall.

“What have we here?” The voice was husky, menacing, male. He towered over her. How had he snuck up on her? In the dim light, she could see he was tall, muscled and wore an expression of hostility tempered slightly by curiosity. His left hand still held a corner of the tarp; his right gripped the hilt of a gleaming steel combat knife.

“I don’t want any trouble. I just needed a place to sleep. Please don’t hurt me,” she stammered in the most innocent, non-threatening tone she could muster.

“What the hell are you doing here? All the girls your age are claimed. Are you an escapee? Who’s are you?” he demanded.

“I’m not from around here. I’m looking for my mom!”

“Not from around here? Nobody in their right mind enters the Disciples’ Kingdom without permission!” he growled in response. “What’s your name?”

“Jinx.”

His expression registered surprise. His gaze flicked to the locket. “Open it!” he barked. She fumbled with the clasp until the locket sprang open, revealing the photo of her mother.

His eyes narrowed as he drew closer to inspect. “Yep, that’s Maggie Thatcher all right. Much younger, but definitely her. She runs the gang at the hospital. She put the word out years ago that if you or her husband ever made your way here, you'd better make it safely to her. Said this locket would confirm your identity.”

“Thatcher? Gang?”

“Yeah. Thatcher after the British hardliner from a few decades ago, and gang because everyone around here is in one gang or another. Gotta be if you wanna survive. Ain’t no lone rangers anymore. Shit, ain't much left of anyone anymore.”

With a hungry leer, he looked her over from head to toe. Her skin crawled; it wasn’t the first time she’d experienced the unwelcome attention of a man.

“Here’s the thing. I ain’t part of Maggie’s gang. I’m a Disciple. Whether we turn you over to her is gonna depend on how much she’s willing to pay. I can think of a dozen others who’ll pay top dollar for a pretty little thing like you. Get up, you’re coming with me!”

Shit! How had she gotten herself into this predicament? Well, it wasn’t the first time. Probably wouldn’t be the last. “I need my backpack,” she said, reaching for a shoulder strap as she rose to her feet.

“Hold up! Lemme see that thing.” He gestured toward the pack with his knife. Reluctantly she handed it over. “It’s what’s left of my food—protein bars I brought from home. That’s all,” she lied.

He unzipped the main compartment and glanced at its meager contents. Satisfied, he handed it back. “Don’t try anything foolish,” he warned. “If you’re lucky, your momma will pay our finders fee and you’ll be reunited. Don’t fuck it up!”

He grabbed her by the collar, sheathed the knife on his right hip, and pushed her toward the door, which to her surprise stood open. Her look of shock elicited a toothy grin from Carl, who fished a key from his pocket as he pushed her through and locked it from the outside.

She squinted as her eyes adjusted to the mid-day sun. Carl marched Jinx forward with his left arm. They trekked through the detritus of the once bustling city. Rusting, skeletal hulks of automobiles littered the street; bits of paper and trash rode the waves of a strong breeze. Although they encountered no-one, she felt the presence of hidden eyes upon her.

She counted the blocks: forty-one East, two North. They arrived at an old church on the left. Carl steered her toward the concrete steps leading up to a heavy wooden door and a sign welcoming them to the Church of the Good Shepherd. As they climbed he called out “Jimmy, it’s me!”.

He pushed through the door into the sanctuary. The red carpet was threadbare and dirty, the beige walls water-stained and moldy; rows of pews stood worn and decrepit. Organ pipes reached toward the ceiling, climbing the rear wall of the choir loft. From the balustrade protruded the barrel of a shotgun, aimed directly at them.

“Jimmy’s a little jumpy. Not surprising given all the shit we’ve been through since the world went to hell.” They approached the front of the sanctuary, navigating the narrow center aisle between rows.

He gave a hand signal, sufficiently mollifying Jimmy, who lifted the barrel of the shotgun upward and rested it against his shoulder. He called down, “Who’s the girl?”

“Meet Jinx,” replied Carl. “I found her sleeping in my old machine shop on 59th.”

Jimmy’s eyes lit up at the sound of her name. “Thatcher’s daughter? No way!”

“One and the same,” confirmed Carl.

Jimmy set aside the shotgun and clambered down a stairway, exiting onto the podium. He joined them, standing directly in front of Jinx. He looked her over appreciatively and said, “So what’s the plan? We gonna just give her up or what?”

“We’re gonna get word to Maggie that her daughter is here, and we’ll offer to deliver her alive for the right price. Otherwise we auction her off to the highest bidder. That’s what.”

“Nice! Does the boss know about this?”

“No! This stays between you and me, Jimmy. We let the boss know and shit’s gonna get messy. He’s been itching to bring down that hospital gang. I’d rather we be the ones to profit from this happy accident.”

Jimmy thought for a moment before agreeing. “Okay, but let’s have a little fun with her first.” He reached a needy hand towards Jinx.

Jinx knew it was now or never. She could do this. Again. The narrow aisleway between pews had positioned her directly in front of Carl, who continued to grip her tightly by the collar. With quick, graceful finesse she reached back and wrapped the fingers of her right hand around the knife on his hip. Simultaneously, she threw her head back as hard as she could. She connected squarely with his chin. He howled and let go.

As he staggered backward, the blade slid easily from its sheath, and with a powerful forward thrust she buried it to the hilt in Jimmy’s midsection. He looked down in shocked disbelief as she wrenched it free and blood poured.

She used the backward momentum to pivot rightward, launching herself at Carl, who hadn’t yet recovered. She rode Carl to the ground. His head produced a dull thud against the floor, leaving him dazed. In a flash the blade was pressed firmly to his Adam’s apple.

“Don’t move,” she hissed. His eyes bulged and he gulped nervously. “Where's my mom? Where's the hospital? Tell me now!” Behind her she heard Jimmy’s frantic “Oh shit! Oh shit! Oh shit!”

Carl’s bravado fled; he pissed himself. Trembling, he managed to squeak pitifully, “Please don’t kill me. The hospital is on the other side of the park four blocks east of here. If you let me live, I’ll get you there safely. I promise you!”

Smiling with youthful innocence, in a sing-song voice she said “No thank you.” Placing her open left palm against the top of the blade, she threw her weight behind it, slicing deep into Carl’s neck. She pulled back and wiped each side of the blade clean on his shirt.

She stood, surveying the carnage. Jimmy lay in a fetal position, his “Oh shit!” mantra stuck on repeat. Carl, eyes wide in panic, struggled to draw breath. He clutched his neck. Raspy, wet sucking sounds accompanied his desperate attempt to staunch the flow of blood from between his fingers.

Jinx dropped her new knife into the side pocket of her backpack, alongside her father’s, and ran out the door toward the park.