The Runaway

Noise. Hot. The floor is rocking. Screeching. Roaring. Dark. Smushed. I can’t move.

I can move, a little. My legs are stuck, but I can lift my chin. Blink. Turn my head. My jaw is tight. With effort, I can swallow.

I relax my tongue, letting it hang out of my mouth, trying to release my jaw. I can move my foot now. Whatever they gave me is wearing off.

I can see, now, too, I realize. A bit of light comes through tiny holes in the wall above me to each side. The enclosure is just a bit bigger than my body. I could stand with my head down, and could probably turn around with some maneuvering, once my full muscle control returns.

For now, I look around for resources and to get my bearings. There is a small plastic bowl with three or four swallows of water in the corner, but no food. I can smell meat and fried something from outside my enclosure, but whatever it is, it doesn’t seem anyone intends to share it with me.

The noise outside has not lessened – it is sometimes a low steady grinding, sometimes a roar, with that ear-splitting screech cutting through at random intervals. The floor is swaying and jerking beneath my cage, which occasionally slides to and fro, indicating that it is a separate structure from the main one. Something metallic rattles behind me when the floor’s movement becomes especially jittery. The sound is familiar, somehow, but I can’t quite place it.

I can move my legs now, and I can feel my shoulders and torso almost normally. I stand up slowly, testing my balance against the rocking of the floor. A little wobbly, but manageable. I start to turn. The floor lurches forward and I stagger, running my shoulder into the wall, but I manage to turn mostly around.

The fourth wall of my enclosure is a metal lattice with some kind of cloth behind it. I remember the enclosure now, but why was I in it? And how did it get here, wherever “here” was?

I turn around again to face the back of the cage. They’ve covered the main visual through the lattice, to hide my kidnapping and muffle my protests, but I could probably see a little through those small holes in the walls.

Strangers surround me outside my cage, some seated in a row on each side and some standing in front of the chairs. Behind each row of seats are tall windows with trees rushing past. So the movement makes sense now, but where are they taking me? And why?

I feel a tingly, achy pain in my lower abdomen. As soon as I become aware of it, the pain becomes sharper, though still sort of deadened, like the drug they gave me hadn’t worn off completely. Or maybe it was another drug? Why would it wear off everywhere except here? The pain is an obvious clue, but my mind is still clouded and slow. Of course. I investigate my stomach. Sure enough, I find a small patch of skin shaved clean with an incision at the center. Who did this to me? What did they do? These answers are important, but not as important as getting away.

Now that I’ve recognized my cage, I know that I am capable of escaping it. I’ve done it many times. I can escape quickly and silently.

But my cage is on a moving train that shows no signs of stopping. The strangers outside my enclosure have me surrounded on all sides, and I don’t know how many there are or their training. Once I break free, I put them all on alert. Plus, I’ve never escaped a moving train before, and I’m sure that the best time to learn is not after waking up from unknown drugs after an unknown procedure with an unknown number of enemies between me and the exit. I must be smart and strategic with my escape.

The front of the cage, where the metal lattice will provide my escape path, is facing the wall of the train. If my memory of the cage’s size is correct, though, it’s not pressed against the wall, and there will be just enough room for me to clear. That’s good, actually – it will draw less attention and buy me an extra few moments than if the lattice were facing out into the middle of the train. They must not expect that I am capable of escape.

Once I leave my cage, the nearest train door has more strangers between it and me than the other side, but several of them are children. Civilians, or decoys? Are my enemies undercover among the public? Perhaps this can work to my advantage – they will not want to cause a scene. Then again, I don’t wish to cause the children any harm, whether or not they’re knowingly in league with my captors, and I doubt very much that whoever kidnapped me will be mindful of their safety in a fight. Perhaps I am duty-bound to take the longer and more dangerous path.

There are no children between me and the other door. There are three men and four women dressed for walking or running, several more wearing nondescript clothing and a woman with a suitcase. A suitcase again perhaps indicates a civilian or a decoy, but also might contain sinister materials or tools of torture. All are potential enemies, and all are potential innocents, but at least none are children.

My shortest escape this direction keeps me within arm’s length of an enemy at all times with little evasive advantage. If I lengthen my path again, I can use the suitcase as a block and hope that is enough to make up for the additional seconds.

The cage is built from a strange material, chosen for its lightweight construction, except for the metal lattice on the front. Other cages are made entirely of the metal lattice, but this version prioritizes mobility over security, a feature I am about to use to my advantage.

I press gently upward on the roof, bending the shape of the cage. At the same time, I lean my weight slightly against the metal lattice, holding the latch in contact with the side of the keyhole. Once the latch is in position, I release the weight against the lattice and the latch clears soundlessly. Like a charm. Good girl.

The cloth over the lattice door holds it closed, but the lock is free. Dare I open it slowly, and keep the element of surprise as long as possible? Or do I make a break for freedom and deal with whatever is on the other side?

The choice is made for me. The cloth is caught in the latch. I can only free it with force. Here we go.

I hurl my body against the lattice door and burst through the cloth. The woman closest to me leaps to her feet, but she backs away and does not try to stop me. Civilian or poorly trained. Just in case, I veer away from her to keep her out of the fray.

Same of the woman with the suitcase – I assume she’s a noncombatant – but I need her case in their way, as a diversion, and out of easy reach, in case she’s not. I leap over the suitcase and kick it behind me.

A woman screams and another jumps onto her chair. Civilians. Two more block my path -- enemy combatants. A hand reaches for my neck. I dodge. A man advances on me and I fake left, then throw myself at his legs, tripping him and warning the others that I will not hesitate. But I am surrounded. The doors are blocked.

The woman dressed for a walk reaches for my head, but she doesn’t advance. She waits. She looks at me and waits. She is anticipating my next move.

No. She is speaking. She murmurs my name. She knows my name.

She still reaches for me but her elbow is bent, her palm turned toward the ceiling. Her posture is soft. Negotiating. Non-threatening.

“Hey, there, it’s ok. C’mon, c’mere, it’s ok. C’mon.” She speaks slowly and repetitively, even rhythmically. Is it a trap? Or is she really on my side?

She crouches down, hand still outstretched. With her other hand, she holds a brightly-colored strap and braces against the seat to manage the rocking of the train. She watches me with something strange in her eyes.

“Is she yours?” a voice from behind me asks.

“Yes,” says the woman, still crouched down, still reaching for me, “just picked her up. We’re on our way home.”

Home. Something in me flickers, something I’d forgotten.

“C’mere girl, it’s ok. You’re ok.” Her eyes never left me. She turns her hand and relaxes her fingers, then slowly, carefully, she reaches closer, closer, until her knuckles are just a few inches from my face. I watch her hand. It stays. I wait a little longer. Then I look to her eyes.

I remember her. Her eyes. Her scent. Her soft, soothing voice. She’d come to me twice before, once in the big yard, and once when I was in another cage, all metal lattice, and bigger. She’d reached her fingers through the lattice and let me sniff them, waited for me to come to her, and then spoken to me in that soft, loving voice, and promised to take me home.

I take a step toward her. She waits. She lets me come to her. The voice behind me says something I can’t make out, but she shakes her head and waits. Her eyes never leave me. Her hand is still. She wriggles her fingers in slow motion and her scent filled my nostrils. Home. She promised to take me home.

I step forward again and touch her hand with my nose. Still, she waits. Again, touch. Sniff. Touch. I stare at her. She waits. So I press my ear into her hand. She smiles and strokes my head. She moves her other hand toward my neck, still holding the brightly-colored strap, and stops scratching my ear for a moment, but it’s ok. I remember. She promised to take me home.