Run on Red

by Noelle W. Ihli

Shaking off the useless adrenaline rush, I sighed and reached down the front of my high-waisted denim cut-offs to open the slim traveler’s pouch where I’d tucked my cell phone.

High waisted shorts in 2006…?

My phone screen showed one service bar. I didn’t have any new messages, but I took the opportunity to text Tish the car’s license plate: 2C GR275. Just in case.

Already like her. She might live

“Ziggy,” which I now knew was short for “Zachariah,” was the supremely awkward humanities TA who stared at me during class. Laura and I had found his Facebook profile one night and learned, to our horror and delight, that he was a member of the Pen and Quill Society: a LARPing group on campus. Ziggy was a “mage”: which Laura and I had to Google. It meant he was some kind of magician.

“Laur,” I stumbled. “Is your door locked?”

THIS SHOULD HAVE BEEN YOUR FIRST THOUGHT

The driver was an older man with a short gray beard and bushy eyebrows. His mouth was turned down in a deep frown. Our eyes met for a fraction of a second, and he shook his head in disgust. Then, raising his middle finger, he was gone.

Sounds like a man

Her voice was thick and syrupy in my ears, like it came from underwater.

Ok this is like the 3rd time she's used this line

I snapped the phone shut. One of her pupils was significantly larger than the other. “Does your stomach hurt?” She frowned. “Yeah, a little.” “You definitely have a concussion,” I said as matter-of-factly as I could, not wanting her to worry. I could worry enough for both of us.

Uh. She definitely has more than that

“You told me you ran the mile in ten minutes the other day, right?”

Sooo… average pace?

I’d really never thought about what the people who didn’t make it onto Secrets to Survival might say if they could sit down in that interview seat. The people who starved, lost their grip, succumbed to the cold, or couldn’t fight off their attacker. The ones who didn’t make it out alive. What would they say? I’d always secretly thought they must be a little bit weaker, a little bit less committed to hanging onto life. A little less intelligent. A little less scrappy and savvy. A little less educated in the art of avoiding the bad things. But maybe the truth was even scarier than that. Maybe, sometimes, there was no way out.

Never, not once, had I heard a story where a barter like this paid off. It wasn’t a real promise. It was just insurance for the guy holding the gun—that you wouldn’t unexpectedly flip the script. Men like this said things like that to girls like us, knowing we’d been told our whole lives that if we listened carefully and followed the rules, we’d stay safe. It was a tempting thought. But ultimately, they did whatever they wanted with that gun.

Laura glanced over her shoulder. “That other guy—the one with the deeper voice. Kyle,” she rasped. “The one with the gun. He … he’s the guy who sold Tish the Volvo. I didn’t recognize his voice. But when he took his mask off and I saw his face …”

I should have hit him again. And on top of that, I’d been stupid enough to toss the tire iron into the weeds, as if its purpose were complete.

DUH

Laura was right. This time there was no question. I should run. Really run. I felt sure I could even scale the barbed wire if I really tried—and was willing to get cut up. I couldn’t do jack shit for either of us with my broken, stupid shoes, inside-out-disco-ball halter top, and rape whistle.

syrupy

Take a drink everytime she says "syrupy"

syrupy

ENOUGH ALREADY

Either Tony was a much better actor than I’d given him credit for, or a much worse person than we’d calculated.

My eyes landed on four badly taxidermied antelope heads, their faces distorted and lumpy, arranged above a stack of mugs, dishes, and loose silverware. The expression on their faces was almost comical. I didn’t know anything about taxidermy, but this looked like a DIY job.

Even with what she knew, Tish decided to keep the baby, a girl.

ok dummy