A/N: I thought about it and thought it, and decided last minute that this story - much like Signal Fire - is worth the POV risk. Let's get personal.
How To Get Away With Mercy
Chloe
It always fucking happens like this – every night that you have to close with Jeremy is exactly the same. "Hey, uh, Chloe?" he always asks, his voice hesitant like this night might be the one night you finally step up and say no, "Do you think I could leave a few minutes early tonight?" He then proceeds to comment that it looks like you're both almost done cleaning up and makes up some new excuse about why he can't stick around for fifteen extra minutes until his shift is actually over. And as you swing the plastic bags into the dumpster behind the café you work for, you're beginning to think he's just afraid to take out the damn trash. You have been working at this same café, with him, for three out of the four years you have attended Barden, and it always fucking happens like this. But in two weeks, you're going to graduate Barden and move on to Med school, and you're tempted to set up a camera in the alley just to see, just one time, Jeremy take out the trash after you leave.
The last bag hits the pile, and you take a few steps back from the sickeningly sweet smell of rotting food and spray painted metal. It's nearly midnight, you have two finals in the morning, and you need some Advil stat before you reach a point where you hit snooze too many times and have to explain to your professors, again, why you never show up for their tests. It's because every night before some vital life moment, you're unlucky enough to get scheduled with Jeremy and have to virtually close the entire café on your own. Honestly, you don't even know why you have sympathy for him anymore; his sad eyes and perpetual pout are clearly just a made up scheme, because he knows he can take advantage of you. You sigh and wipe the sweat from your forehead, the night unusually scorching for mid-May. If you could have just said 'no' on at least one of all those nights you told herself you were going to finally say something…
In two weeks, it won't even matter.
You sigh again and brush your hands together in front of you as you turn to walk back around to the front of the building where your car is parked. The dark figure looming near the corner of the building jumpstarts your heart and nearly sends you crashing into a pile of empty boxes. "Shit. Jesus, Jeremy." You can't see his face, but you can just imagine the half-entertained glint he gets sometimes. "Look, if you came back to help, I'm done. Just go home." You frown at the silence, an eerie feeling creeping down to the base of your spine. "You're being weird…"
The figure doesn't budge from his place in the shadows – doesn't move at all, and, for a moment, you have to wonder if you're mistaking some sort of inanimate object for a human. It's definitely not a lamp post, that's for sure. Until he speaks. "It's a nice night." His voice is deep, raspy, and definitely not Jeremy's high-pitched squeal of a voice. "What's a pretty girl like you doin' out here by yourself? That's dangerous."
There is a sinking in your chest that dries out your throat and makes your heart feel like it's thudding somewhere deep in your stomach. You slip your hand into your pocket, curling your fingers around your phone. "I think I'll be okay," you sputter and sidestep toward the building on the other side of you – a large brick post office. Between the post office, the café, and the wooden fence that links them behind the dumpster, you're trapped on three sides – and then he is standing near the thin exit of the fourth.
"You sure about that?" He sidesteps with you, stepping out into the light under a street lamp. He's tall, lanky, white – the typical Pokémon Go club type at Barden – with crooked teeth and a nose that kind of resembles a beak. "Because I might be beggin' to differ." You wonder if you accidentally stood too close to a Pikachu, and he's just harassing you on his way to catch it. You've always had some bizzare fear about accidentally standing on a Pokémon... He smirks and your optimism smashes like glass.
You should have kept the trash bags. They were full of glass bottles, broken silverware, numerous items that would star as makeshift weapons. The small alley is empty aside from the discarded boxes and the dumpster. This part of Atlanta is clean – and you've always enjoyed that up until this very moment. You realize all too fearfully, sweat forming on your upper lip, your breath hitching in your throat, that you might have to run if he comes any closer. You swallow and crane your neck, trying to look out past the building for any sign of life, anyone who might hear you if you scream. But not only is this particular area clean, it's also dead at this time of night. Dead like you're about to be if you don't get out of here, your own voice inside your head brings you up to speed on the urgency of the situation. A reflection of light near his hand catches your attention, and the metal blade he's holding, confirms this isn't just some Pokémon Go player playing a stupid prank.
"I've been watchin' you for awhile now," he says, "After that lazy coworker of yours leaves. You are so fuckin' beautiful."
You're caught somewhere between trying to escape and trying to find some helpful logic to talk your way out. He takes a step toward you, making up your mind for you, and you bolt, yanking your phone from your pocket. The exit out is too narrow. In one swift move, his arm is out and he clotheslines you, hitting your neck so hard that it's unclear if he or the fall to the asphalt is what knocks the air completely out of your lungs. The back of your head hits the ground with a sickening smack and your phone shatters somewhere beside you. The world is a blur of pain and sparkling star-like lights as he digs his knee against your stomach and holds the tip of the knife against your jugular.
"If you yell," he growls, his breath like rotten meat, "You fuckin' die. If you're quiet, maybe you won't."
You squeeze your eyes shut, your arms falling limply to your sides as the point of the blade pokes you like a needle. You press your lips together to suppress both a sob and a sudden wave of nausea, and hot tears gather in the corners of your eyelids. This is just a nightmare, and you just want to succumb to a dreamless sleep. His free hand finds the buttons of your jeans, and you subconsciously arch your back to knock him off, a muffled squeak escaping you as both his knee and the knife dig further into your body. Your vocal cords turn the sound into a choked cry, and you clap your hand over your own mouth in a fit of panic – unable to tell if the moisture behind your head is blood or just tears running back into your hair. Your head feels numb. Why does it feel numb? "Please, don't do this," you beg, the words silent against your palm, "I'll give you money." If he knows you're speaking, your words mean nothing to him.
He pops open the button of your jeans and fumbles with the zipper then traces the tips of his fingers along the edge of your panties, and you can taste bile in the back of her mouth. His hands are rough and calloused, and he manages to get the tips of his fingers beneath the elastic, about to yank down your underwear and jeans together, when a loud crack echoes through the air and stops him. He collapses forward, directly on top of you, dead weight.
"Fuck," a female voice whispers, frantic.
"Why the hell would you shoot?" another woman hisses, "I told you to wait. Do not help her."
"What if she's hurt?" the first asks, "Look, we can at least get her phone and call her an ambulance?"
"You want to call 911 after you just killed a hit?" the seconds responds with a quiet scoff, "That's smart."
"We can't just leave her here like that," the first says.
"Yes," the second replies, "We can."
The stars in the sky are moving in slow, fluid circles, like they're floating around in a calm, currentless lake. You place your palms flat against the man's chest and roll him onto his side, barely aware of your own body's movements. You're floating too – side to side as the world rocks on its axis, trying to slide you out of gravity's firm hold and throw you off. You push yourself up with your elbows, someone's blood, your blood?, maybe it's his, pooling around you, and stare blurrily past the two people in front of you. You can feel pebbles beneath your hands, the ground sticky and remarkably warm.
"See, she's fine." It's unclear who each voice belongs to anymore. They both seem to blur together into one person. "She's not fine; look at her. Hey, can you stand?"
There are footsteps, then someone grabs you beneath the arm and hoists you upward - or possibly pushes Earth downward. "Are you okay?"
It occurs to you that the person is talking to you and that somehow you're on her feet again. There's another urge to run. Their grip on you is loose and you slips out of it without any effort, stumbling a few steps until it's the post office wall supporting you instead. Pain shoots through your skull and ties your stomach into an untangleable knot. You groan, lean your forehead against one of the bricks, and throw up.
"Shit. I told you she wasn't okay. I think she's bleeding."
"That's his blood."
"On the back of her head?"
"She was on the ground!"
"Hey, we have to leave. What are we doing with her? Should we kill her?"
"Didn't you just want to help her?"
The words just barely process and your stomach heaves again, nothing numb anymore, a brutal reminder of a seven hour shift with no break for lunch. You slowly lift the back of your hand to your mouth and nose, holding it there as the nausea fades to a more tolerable range. The world switches directions on you. You take a few more steps, confused about which direction you're trying to go in, and the person grabs your arm again, tighter this time. There is a divide between your brain telling you that you need to pull away and run and your body's ability to follow through with the action. Your internal compass hits some sort of magnetic pole.
There are headlights in the distance, coming your direction.
"Who the fuck is that?"
The car pulls up in front of the café and the lights turn off. "Hey!" A man yells as his car door opens. "Hey, uh, you still here? I think I forgot my Nintendo!"
The squeal-like voice registers in your mind and you lifts your head, some of the fog in your mind drifting away. It's Jeremy. Jeremy. Shit, it's Jeremy. Adrenaline hits you like a lightning bolt. You open your mouth to call his name, but a cold, clammy hand clamps down over your lips, successfully drowning out your voice. The person covering your mouth pulls you roughly back against them , their free arm wrapping tightly around your torso to prevent you from trying to run. You can feel every inch of their front against your back. They're smaller than you are, but too strong to break free from. You nearly trip as they drag you across the alley and press you up against the wall of the café.
Jeremy bangs on the door of the café. "Ah, shit," he mumbles. His door opens and closes again, and the lights turn back on.
No! You sob into the person's hand, tears overflowing down the entirety of your cheeks, soaking your face. You shake your head and try to scream as his car pulls away.
"She's definitely bleeding."
"Well, what do you want to do? Throw her out at the nearest hospital?"
"Too risky. Dude, there are security cameras at hospitals."
"Why can't we leave her? She hasn't seen us."
You realize through the disorientation that she's right. They're both wearing ski masks that cover their entire faces. You grab the hand over your mouth and try to pry it off, desperate both to speak and to breathe (your nose is stuffy from crying already, and your lungs are about to burst). It doesn't budge.
"Because she's hurt. What if we leave her and she dies here?"
"It's a bump on the head."
"She's bleeding. She threw up…"
"And your hand is on her mouth now. Gross."
"What if we take her and figure out what to do with her later?"
"That doesn't sound risky to you?"
"We can't keep standing here. Look, we can take her, and we can figure out how to kill her. Let's just not do it here next to this guy."
"So, you would rather kill her than leave here, because she might die if you do? That makes no sense!"
"Let's just take her and go. We will figure it out."
"Fine. But this is your problem to deal with."
You try to shake your head again as you're pushed out of the alleyway, the person behind you still pressed up against your back and covering your mouth. The world rocks back and forth and an imaginary baseball bat slams into your skull each time you move. They stick close to the walls of the buildings then slip down another alley and walk toward a blue Toyota Corolla with Florida plates. The taller woman opens the back door and the shorter one shoves you inside then shuts it behind you. You clambers toward the other side to get out, but the taller woman has already walked around to get in the driver's side.
"Nice try," she says as she climbs behind the wheel, "But you wouldn't have managed to get out anyway. The child locks are on."
You sit up in the middle seat and lean forward with your hands on her knees, trying to rope yourself under control and catch your breath. "Please let me go," you plead, barely able to formake words, as both women close their doors and buckle their seatbelts, "I won't tell anyone. I'll say I left work early and I have no idea what happened." You're still trying to process the last several minutes of your life; you really do have no idea what just happened.
"Hey, keep your gun on her," the woman in the driver's seat says, "I don't want her trying to attack me while I'm trying to drive."
"Right." The shorter woman pulls out her gun and turns to face you, her blue eyes the only feature visible from behind the mask.
You back away from the barrel with an unchecked yelp, pressing your back flat against the back of the seat.
"So, the plan is to kill her?" The driver asks.
"I guess..."
"Great." The woman driving pulls off her mask, brunette hair falling down over her shoulders. She turns the car mirror and looks at herself, fixing her hair.
"Well, now we have to kill her!" The other woman exclaims, "What the hell, dude?!"
"I can't see to drive with that thing on," she says, "And my lip gloss is smearing." She grabs a tube of lip gloss from the center console and applies it in the mirror. She caps it again then looks back at you as she puts it away and sighs. "She's getting blood all over. This will be the third car this month I need to dump." She shakes her head. "Pick up that towel on the ground. I can burn that, at least."
You look away from the barrel of the gun at an orange beach towel on the floor. Almost on autopilot, you do as you're told and slowly lean forward to pick it up, losing sight of what you're supposed to be doing with it as the car starts and another wave of nausea rushes through you.
"Put it on your head," the woman with the gun says, "Dude, you're really bleeding."
Are you? You slowly reach back and touch the back of your head with your fingers. It's warm and wet, and blood clings to your skin as you shakily lower your hand to look at it. Your heart skips several beats. You sob and squeeze your eyes shut, clutching the towel in your hands as your breaths turn into quick, desperate gasps for oxygen.
"Put pressure on it." The woman with the gun leans over the seat and grabs your hands, forcing you to place the towel behind your head and hold it there.
"Your girlfriend is going to kill you." The woman driving pulls out of the alley.
"You think?" The woman with the gun sits back down, pointing the weapon at your knee. "What's your name?" she asks. She bumps your knee with the barrel of the gun when you don't answer.
"Chloe," You mumble. You have finals to take in the morning. You're supposed to be going to Med school.
"Last name?"
"Beale." You swallow as the car turns but your stomach doesn't seem to go in the direction with it. "I'm going to throw up again."
"Do not throw up in here," the woman driving warns you, "Beca, if she throws up in here, I'm taking your car and you get to dump this one."
"How old are you?" The woman with the gun, Beca, asks.
"Twenty-one." You pull your feet onto the seat and bury your face in your legs. Not being able to see the gun provides a little comfort. "Just let me go. I swear to God, I won't tell. I promise."
"Dude, Stacie, come on…" Beca says, "She's terrified. What are we supposed to do?"
"This is not my problem," Stacie says, "Let Aubrey decide what to do with her."
Beca exhales a loud breath.
"Unless you wanna hide her; keep her as a side girl," Stacie suggests, "Are you two still fucked up over Tulsa?"
"Aubrey and I are fine," Beca speaks, venom suddenly dripping from her every word, "Tulsa wasn't her fault."
"Whatever you say," Stacie says, "But if you go back there and wipe all of that blood off of her, she looks like she might be really cute."
You pulls your legs in tighter, feeling even sicker. You tell yourself not to throw up, because if you throw up, they'll shoot you. It works.
"Okay, let's just hope Aubrey can figure this shit out," Beca says.