Choke Point

A bloodied woman drags herself down the hostel’s corridor, a laptop pushed on the carpet ahead of her. As she passes the stairwell door, it rattles. An insignificant vibration to anyone but Grace. The door’s movement indicates another door in the stairway has opened and closed, the airtight vacuum of the space responding to a slight change in pressure.

It might be anyone. Could be a guest leaving at ground level. But Grace’s internal alarm has sounded: it’s the cop. He’s come back for her, the flicker of recognition having blossomed into full suspicion. He takes the stairs knowing the elevator signals his arrival.

She’s no match for him; her only hope, flight. She pulls at the rough, industrial carpet, moving for the elevator. Only as she looks back toward the stairway door does she see the blood smear trailing her, pointing like an arrow.

A plan takes shape, the pieces all there. He last saw her down the hall in front of a different room. The blood arrow points to the elevator. She has to stand, no matter the pain. She claws her way up the concrete-block wall, her wounded leg throbbing and feeling like deadweight. She hops to her door, pain screaming through her. Feeling faint, she manages to get it open and drag her way through just as the stairway door opens, casting light across the hall. She eases the door shut. Locks it, and turns the deadbolt. Looks to the top bunk and the hung ceiling where Knox spliced into the co-ax.

Footfalls speed past her door. She hears a person slapping the elevator call button.

She slips the laptop between the mattress and the bunk bed’s plywood. Snatches her phone from the bed, texts 7-6-7 as she simultaneously climbs the back of the bunk, the pain so intense she can’t stop tears from running.

She looks up at the panels in the ceiling.

She hits SEND.