Cutting It Close

The milkshake she’d drunk for breakfast sat like a rock at the bottom of her stomach. People around her were fidgety and nervous. But all she could think about was the damn milkshake. She knew it hadn’t tasted right, but she had been out of options.

She didn’t need to check her wristwatch to know they were cutting it too close. This was the last metro train out of the capital, and it arrived at the Dark Twin Station only twenty minutes before the evening sirens wailed. It was filled with government employees and daily wage workers. And the metro always arrived on time, – except for today.

She would never admit to being superstitious. But today she felt the full weight of bad luck resting on her chest. First days were supposed to be auspicious, but hers had been nothing but crap. She woke up panicky, burnt her favorite blouse on the iron, couldn’t find the right one to replace it, almost forgot to feed Mr Mittens, chipped her favorite mug on the corner of the sink, and barely escaped being pooped on by a pigeon. Everything that could go wrong, had. Almost everything.

Five years ago, she watched as they set up sirens on the roof of her college, and on the roof of the tallest building in each city block. Five years ago, at exactly 1800 hours on a Monday, the sirens sounded for the first time. Those who remembered expected bombs to drop on their heads any minute. But nothing happened. And the sirens sounded again twelve hours later, and again twelve hours after that. The first week went by in curiosity. Nobody knew what the sirens conveyed, nobody understood why they went off.

On the second Monday, the siren sounded at 18:00 and then again on Tuesday morning at 6:00 and something had changed. Sons hadn’t come home, fathers had gone missing, vanished. The ones who didn’t lose someone didn’t believe it was happening. But when the sirens wailed on Tuesday evening and then on Monday morning, and their family was a head short, they didn’t know what to do except reel all the children in before the evening siren sounded on Wednesday.

The Raiders – that’s what they called the people who took away their children or their parents or their spouses. They would hear gunshots in the distance and thank their God(s) it wasn’t one of theirs. They would hear screams and check in on their daughters, safe at home in their beds. In the mornings, they would see a single shoe on the sidewalk, lonely and sprinkled with blood, and they would kick it into the bushes or into the gutter to save their children asking questions. And so, it became routine – don’t open your door until the siren wails, be home before it wails again.

People began sticking to the routine. They memorized Metro routes and times to save themselves from traffic. Those stuck in traffic abandoned their vehicles to make it home just in time. And The Raiders were left without prey, their blades thirsty, their trigger fingers itching. But not for long.

The ETA on the digital display read 17:52 – with only eight minutes to spare. It had taken her ten minutes to get to the station this morning, walking at top speed. She never thought she’d have to sprint home, but there was nothing she could do about her kitten heels now.

17:48 – People started moving closer to the doors. Two people were ahead of her and if they don’t move as soon as the train stopped, she’d have to plow her way through them.

17:49 – The person behind her is standing too close. She can feel his breath on her hair, feel him ready to push her out of the way if she doesn’t move fast enough.

17:50 – They’re pulling into the station. She feels some of the tension ebb away from the woman in front of her. But she feels it finding a new host, seeping into the marrow of her bones.

17:51 – The train is slowing down. She tucks her bag tightly into her armpit, using her elbow to keep it in place. She raises her heels, leans in on her toes, steadies her breathing, wills her body to fight for survival.

17:52 – the doors open and she’s running at top speed. She takes the stairs up to the exit two at a time and stops dead in her tracks. The man from the train rams into her, sending her to her knees.

A line of men stands in front of them, blocking the exit. The crowd from the train stands behind her, just as confused as her.

The sirens haven’t sounded yet is her only coherent thought.

The train-crowd could probably take them on, but they only had their empty lunch tins, their second-hand laptops, their failing wits. The Raiders had guns, machetes, even a couple of longbows. They stood there, facing each other – a pack of predators, a muster of prey.

The sirens haven’t sounded yet. Her heart thumped in her ears, the blood rushing through her body too quick, too violent. The sirens haven’t sounded yet.

The clock above the station gates glared at her; 17:58.

She took a step forward, felt hands pulling at her blouse, her arms. They wanted her back, wanted her to stay with them. Wanted her to shield as many as she could.

But… The sirens haven’t sounded yet.

17:59 – She took another step forward and another. No guns were raised, no arrows nocked. She walked faster, straight towards the line of Raiders, and then through it.

And then she ran, not home but to the first door she saw. She banged on it as violently as her heart thumped in her ears. She begged, she bargained, and she fell through it just as the sirens wailed and the gunshots sounded and the screaming began.

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