'46, Chicago by Steve Monroe

Author:Steve Monroe
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 9781504012577
Publisher: Open Road Distribution

I caught the corner of the crate, scampered on top. The lid was covered in dust, it flew, caked to the blood and sweat on my face. I lay still, listened to them scream. Suddenly the forks appeared like an alien sticking its head out of a spaceship. They were spread across the lift, my feet must’ve knocked them loose. Held in place by pure physics, I could pop them off with one hand.

The forks moved forward, swiped at the air. The operator moved the tow motor too close to the crates, I felt them shake underneath me. The forks stabbed, swiped, stabbed again. I caught one near the back of the lift, popped it loose, jerked it free. “Son of a bitch,” yelled the operator.

I poked my head over the front of the crate, saw the men look at the forklift. Their attention held for a moment, I dropped the fork. It fell silently, landed square on one guy’s shoulder, ripped open another’s neck, clanged loudly on the floor. War paint more like wore paint—blood covered the group. Four left, including Johnson and the forklift operator. I scurried across the crate, on my knees, flung myself to a crate atop the next row, repeated the leap to the row behind.

“You’re dead!” screamed Johnson. “You are dead!”

Shots rang out as they searched for me. They couldn’t see me on top of the crate, had to guess where I’d gone. I heard the tow motor move forward, watched it smash into a row of crates; they toppled—domino style; the entire row fell. Rats scampered across the floor like soldiers searching for foxholes.

Four feet between rows, I leaped toward the back, caught the edge of a crate, pulled myself on top. Someone saw me, a shot rang out. Two men ran underneath the stack of crates where I hid, shot up the edge. I looked up, saw the clamps straining on both sides of the top; the front of the crate bulged, pregnant. I slid forward, pried my fingers under the edges of the clamps, popped them loose. I scrambled back and dove to the row behind me as the cover of the crate blew off, spit boxes and furniture on top of the two men. A credenza knocked one across the room; the other man’s arm peeked out from under a pile of boxes.

Just Johnson and the forklift operator: I scanned the rows, searched for the overhead door. Caught off balance—the forklift smashed into my stack, spilled me off the crate and onto the top of the stack behind me. I landed hard, nearly rolled off—the stack was only two crates high, and the forklift operator saw me land. The fork stabbed at me like a spear attacking fish. I rolled right; it tore into the top of the crate. Splinters flew: My head came up and I saw the window. Overseas crates peeked in through the window, piled high against the side of the building—my escape route mapped in a frenzy.

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