Board Thread:Writer's Workshop/@comment-33093888-20180424221738

Peter O'Hare left for work, grabbing his coffee thermos and briefcase off the counter on his way out the door. It was a long commute to get to his office building across town and the subway was notoriously late. So Pete had gotten into the habit of leaving much earlier than a punctual man should need to. He walked the seven blocks to the subway entrance, leading underground, scanned his card at the turnstiles, and boarded the train for the nearly hour long ride to his stop, which was another five blocks from there.

As he waved his card across the turnstile scanner, looking down as he passed through the bars he was stopped dead in his tracks by a significantly large man standing motionless in front of him, completely obstructing his access to the train. Pete hastily bumped into the man's chest and then looked up in surprise and discomfort to see him blankly staring back at him.

Though Pete immediately felt like scolding the man for his blatant disregard, he quickly changed his mind upon feeling the tension his unwavering daze brought on. Not to mention the overwhelming stench coming off the man, paired with a blatant lack of personal hygiene. His triple XL shirt was tattered along the collar and armpit areas, where a blob of yellowish stains had bled through any color the shirt may have once bore, literally dripping of sweat.

Pete tried to simply walk around the man, but was blocked when he lazily shuffled his obese body mass back and forth at each attempt from either side, constantly following Pete's sidesteps with his eyes. The man's dirty, over-sized shoes became more noticeable in Pete's attempt to avoid awkward eye contact from his discomforting stare.

"Excuse me..." Pete said in the most polite way he could urgently muster.

The man remained unmoved, absent of any acknowledgement to Pete's request.

"Sir, I have to get on that train before it leaves, if you could please get out of the way," he urged the man, twitching back and forth between his watch and the train doors ahead.

The man still showed no reaction to Pete's politeness and slowly leaned in, putting his mouth close up against Pete's ear to whisper. Hopeful that this would make the man go away, Pete tolerated it, antsy for anything that would motivate him to unclog the line of impatient people quickly gathering behind him.

The man's struggled breathing became much more noticeable as he heavily exhaled a warm carbon dioxide cloud onto the side of Pete's face, before he whispered:

"April.... thirteen...."

Pete raised his shoulder to block his ear from the man's groggy voice and rancid breath, feeling both confused and distraught by his words. He then searched his passive mind for another way to beg the man to let him through, but was beat to the punch when he suddenly slide out of the way, allowing Pete to rush over to the closing train doors without hesitation.

He sunk heavily into the first available seat with a stressful sigh and then peered out of the adjacent window, where a vision of the large man took center stage in its frame. He stood absentmindedly, as if his interaction with Pete had never existed, before turning to exit the turnstiles and walk up the stairs to the ground street. Pete watched the man in puzzlement, writing the experience off as a mentally disabled bum. Also wondering how the homeless population ever got so out of control in the inner-city. Before he finished his thought the train rocketed away from the terminal, erasing the man from further sight and from mind.

Pete carried on with a relatively normal day at work, spending the majority of it quietly at his desk, as he usually did. While the coworkers in Pete's neighboring cubicles would visit one another to make conversation and laugh at each others jokes, Pete kept to himself, adamant on completing the ever-growing pile of documents assigned to him each day. A task which all of his peers knew to be impossible as the interns made their daily rounds replenishing the stacks on each desk.

Pete had practically forgotten all about the uncomfortable incident from his morning commute as his loaded up his briefcase with a handful of documents to continue working on from his laptop at home. It wasn't until he stepping outside the threshold of the building's lobby that he was again obstructed. This time by someone much taller than himself, speed-walking his way over to Pete from around the alley.

As the man made his approach, Pete spoke a preemptive dialogue in the man's direction. "I'm sorry, sir, I don't have any change..." he said, waving his hand politely at the man in hopes of stopping him.

But the man didn't slow down at all, still rushing straight into Pete's trajectory, all the while staring at Pete, with a look of distress plastered onto his bony face.

Pete tried his best to disregard the man and continue his walk towards the subway station, but was instantly pestered by the man catching up to his pace and then walking beside him as he fumbled to step forward with a fixed gaze towards Pete.

Pete ignored the man, trying to hold back a cough brought on by the overwhelming smell of stale cigarettes that seemed to swarm off the man's clothes. And it came as no surprise when he took out a pack of marlboro reds and lit one up, blowing smoke in the air above Pete as he grinned at him with his brownish-yellow teeth.

The man accompanied Pete for the next several blocks, chain-smoking cigarette after cigarette at his side. Pete could feel the invading touch of judging eyes around him, desperately trying to shake off the man by moving as fast as he could through the mess of people crowding around them. Pete was always a passive man, finding things easier if he kept to himself, trying to avoid any confrontation he could, as he currently was by walking at a near-running pace. But it was of no use, with the man staying diligently at his side, smiling the entire time.

Pete could now see the subway entrance ahead decided to address the man directly, hoping to prevent him from following him down into the compressed sub station, where his nicotine stench would surely be far more prevalent amidst the dense air below.

Pete stopped and turned to face the man directly. ''"Can I help you with something?" ''Speaking in a mixture of both friendly and irritated tones.

The man's smile grew wider as the butt of his cigarette met his lips in a glowing red tuft of smoke, considerately exhaled away from Pete's face. Pete stood impatiently, letting out a sigh of urgency after glancing at his watch. The man then leaned his upper torso forward, hinging at his waist. His arms crooked into a tea pot formation to hold his cigarette away from Pete's face. He spoke in a devilishly raspy voice, drawing out each word:

"Four seven three... Saint..." he began, before pulling up his arm to take another drag. The smoke enveloped around them as he continued, "Elizabeth..."

Then with a playful nod, the man dropped his cigarette to the ground, stomped on it until black ash colored the pavement, and then calmly walked off in the direction back to where they both just came from.

Pete didn't know what to think, lost in the confusion and discomfort that swelled across his body, inviting the kind of sting your muscles get from the passing of a recent rush of adrenaline. It was clear now that this was something more than the dysfunctional homeless, negligent to ask for a handout upfront. No, this was something else, Pete thought, feeling the wavy rise of goosebumps on his skin as he concluded.

The rest of the trip home was spent in wonder, theorizing what these men were trying to tell him, and more importantly, what for. Pete now felt the imprisoning fear that at any moment he would be approached again by someone possibly more unpleasant than the last. His introverted mind ached from all the different situations he imagined himself trapped into, causing him to shrink into himself, with his briefcase gripped tightly against his chest until he reached his apartment.

The following morning, Pete left his home for work once more, coffee and briefcase in hand, nervous that his travel would be muddied by the unwelcome presence of yet another man with a short message for him. Pete both feared and anticipated it as an inevitability. It wasn't until he'd reached his desk and set down his briefcase that he felt an unexpected relief, loosening his shirt collar to unwind from the stress.

He began his work, processing each document in order as he always did, but couldn't shake the worry from his mind. Pete's severe social anxiety crippled him in ways that made some of even the simplest tasks into chores to avoid human contact. So a few brief moments with evidently mentally unstable homeless men was more than enough to push Pete over the edge of his comfort zone.

Sometime around the middle of the work day, Pete stepped into one of the bathroom stalls and sat down. Since his desk provided a clear view of the restroom door, he always tried to time his bathroom breaks at opportune moments when none of the other employees were inside. Another one of the ways he managed to avoid human contact.

In the exact moment Pete sat down, the door creaked open, with the sound of shuffled footsteps leading into the bathroom. They dragged across the restroom floor, passing the sink, and then the urinals, and finally towards the line of stalls. Pete listened as the sound slowly grew closer, echoing around the tiled walls of the nearly empty restroom.

He held his breath as a pair of dirty sneakers came into view from the space below the stall door. The shuffling continued until eventually reaching the front of Pete's stall. The sound then stopped as the pair of sneakers turned to face Pete, aiming the sneaker toes in Pete's direction from just beyond the stall door.

Everything was quiet for a moment, until a ferocious set of knocks pounding against the stall door erupted, startling Pete and causing him to jump. The door rattled at the hinge as the pounding went on for an unnecessary length of time, forcing Pete to raise his voice above it to be heard saying "Occupied!" in an out of breath gasp.

The pounding stopped instantly. Then a voice rose from the other side of the stall. A voice that matched its sneakers and sounding equally as filthy as they looked.

"Six..." it said in sync with an additional pound at the door. "Nineteen..." it continued, with Pete flinching uncontrollably at each hit, ''"Twenty... one..." ''it finished, ending with one final hard pound against the door.

Pete said nothing in response, returning to hold his breath, praying that the man would leave without acknowledgement. Which he did, turning away and shuffling back down the corridor of stalls, and then swaying the creaky restroom door open. The door fell shut and then the room was silent again.

Pete only left the restroom once he was confident that the man had gone. He peered passed the threshold of the door, not sure of what exactly he was even looking for, and then paced back towards his desk, ducking his head down to hide the ghostly expression stuck to his face.

When he sat back down in his cubicle he noticed something that he hadn't before; his calendar, and more importantly the date displayed on it. The date was April 12th. Making tomorrow April 13th, which struck Pete with curiosity towards the first stranger's message from back down in the subway station.

He replayed it in his head:

April...

Thirteen...

Pete was sure that whatever the man was trying to tell him was a date.

Tomorrow's date.

The realization only made Pete feel more confused than before, now visibly struggling to keep still as he fidgeted with at his desk, wondering what they could possible be trying to tell him. He still couldn't make sense of the other two messages, nor did he understand what any of it meant.

The sheer thought was tormenting to a man like Peter O'Hare, who preferred to keep to himself at all times, secluded in his work, never exiting the safety of his shell. Thinking of whatever these men must've wanted from Pete frightening him.

What if I don't do what they want me to do? He thought. Or what if I do something wrong and they get mad?

His worrying seemed to endlessly cycle in his head, actively over-analyzing the situation as he knew himself to do.

Pete sat shriveling at his desk for the remainder of the day, eagerly waiting for the time to run out on the small display of his wrist watch. The pile of documents stacking up to the ceiling as his focus escaped him. He glared at it with stress, realizing that the fear of the men's interference and possibly intention was now preventing him from doing his job. Over-thinking it or not, Pete could no longer function in his routine day to day life, which only stressed him out more.

Once it was finally time to clock out, Pete shoveled a mound of the documents into his briefcase and flew out of the office.

Heading for the subway entrance, Pete knew very well that there was still a lot of time for him to be stopped between now and whatever was supposed to happen tomorrow on April 13th. His eyes scanned the crowd of people littering the sidewalk, looking for any sign of someone who's eyes met with his. Every homeless man perched on a street corner with an empty cup in his hand or a strip of beggar's cardboard was suspect. Anyone who looked even remotely as disheveled and dirty made Pete uncomfortable at the mere sight. He zig-zagged through the streets, dodging anyone who fit his perception, until eventually boarding the subway train.

Pete sat in the furthest section of the train, hopeful that no one could see him all the way in the back. He slouched down as low as he could get, butting up against the seat in front of his, hiding from potentially everyone on board. Pete preferred to be hidden from view whenever possible, it was the only way he felt comfort.

The train sped noisily through the stretch of underground tunnels, with flickers of darkness speckling the subway cart. Pete's view of the corridor, filtered by a crowd of passengers, reached clear over to the opposite end. He fixed his sight on the sliding door into the next cart up, watching as the light that illuminated it blinked in and out of absolute darkness.

There's no telling how long Pete sat focusing on the end of the cart, his mind spacing out, but eventually someone appeared in his line of sight that grabbed his attention. It was a man looking through the window of the next cart door up. From where he sat, Pete could only make out the details of a lengthy greying beard and an old hat, made crooked by obvious years of weathering.

Pete wasn't sure how he knew, but he could tell that this man who stood a fair distance away, separated by a line of people, was looking directly at him. Sure it could just be his own social anxiety, he thought. But in light of recent events, he didn't want to rule out the possibility of being followed.

The cart door slid open, revealing it to be an elderly man, walking with a cane, duct taped near the bottom. He squeezed his way through the crowd, never turning his eyes off Pete. He moved through each person with ease, being cleared an open path, presumably by the sound of his cane tapping on the ground in front of him. Pete tried to sink further into the seat's drop, but couldn't disappear from the man's sight. Watching as he locked his glossy, lazy eyes against his.

The man eventually reached the back of the cart, where Pete sat hunched into the corner, pretending not to notice the man by turning his attention to the window. The man turned to face his back to Pete and began to lower himself onto the seat next to his, shaking his cane as he trusted it with all of his weight to assist him down.

Pete didn't turn to look at the man, but he could smell the rotten odor that comes from never brushing your teeth or washing your clothes. The man's dirty old hat alone could've easily been more than enough to let off the rancid stench. In his peripheral vision he could see the man's hands consistently shaking over his cane, and although he couldn't fully see it, he could tell that the man was focused on him.

Though he couldn't understand what exactly caused him to do it, Pete reluctantly turned his head towards the man, his head still ducked low beneath the seats. Then as soon as their eyes connected, the man spoke:

"Ninth..." he said, aerating the smell of gingivitis Pete's way.

In a short burst of overwhelming frustration and confidence Pete snapped back at the man. "What do you want from me? There's nothing I can hel--"

But he was cut off when the man suddenly clenched his fists around his cane and then slapped his hand onto Pete's leg, squeezing as tight as he could, with his fingers digging into Pete's skin. Pete cringed in pain and attempted to throw the man's hand off, but was poked hard in his chest by a swing of his cane, stealing the air from his lungs.

Pete coughed in response as the man leaned in closely. He waited for the coughing to cease before he spoke.

"Story..." He spoke without any change in his tone, subsequently letting go of Pete's leg. He then began a slow rise up from the seat, depending on the cane to lift his rigid body.

"Hey!" Pete barked loudly at the man, but his outburst went ignored by the man, as well as by all the other passengers as well.

Out of desperation Pete grabbed the man by his coat tail to stop him from walking off. "You can't jus--"

But then Pete was again cut off by the man's abrupt cane swipe, smacking his hand off of his clutch, and diminishing Pete's small amount of confidence once more. Then through his glare of absolute hatred shot violently at Pete he said only one last thing:

"You'll go... or we'll follow"

Pete cowered at the man's aggressive stance above him, then watched as he swung back around and very slowly staggered off, clanking his cane in front of each step, until reaching the opposite end of the train cart and again crossing through the sliding door, disappearing from sight.

Pete trembled at his response, dwelling on the thought of being followed and pestered by these men any more. Especially given the fact that Pete's fear of social interaction never failed to stiffen his body into a frozen shell whenever the attention focused onto him.

For the remainder of the train ride Pete slunk in a wallow of disappointment and his inability to stand up for himself, brought on by a lifetime of passiveness and fear. He pitied himself for the way he's always been and the way he no longer wanted to be. Pete didn't want to feel weak anymore. He couldn't even recall a single moment in his entire life that he'd ever felt so pathetic.

Sleep did not come that night for Pete, rather spent tossing and turning at the decision he would have to make. He knew he could call the police and tell them about the situation in hopes that they would take it seriously, contrary to the fact that the homeless were often harassed by bratty teenagers, causing the police often defend the homeless population. He also knew that he could try and ignore the men and just hope they would eventually leave him alone, but he doubted it given the degree of persistence they'd been showing towards Pete. And lastly, he even considered the thought of actually trying to figure out whatever it is that they wanted. As idiotic as it felt, Pete didn't see many other options that could end in his favor.

Pete didn't realize it at the time, but his consideration towards following the messages was almost entirely due to his extreme lack of confidence in himself, which had made his life into the empty routine it was. Though he thought of it as a way to get the men to leave him alone, he really just wanted to prove to himself that he could do something out of his routine. He could do something unexpected. Something that would make him not feel pathetic for once.

Either way, whatever he decided to do, Pete knew most of all that he would need to decide by tomorrow, as tomorrow was April 13th.

The following morning, Pete followed his morning routine, reaching for his coffee and his briefcase on his way out the door, walking the series of blocks towards the subway entrance. But as he neared the subway steps, he saw a group of men loitering around it that caught his eye. They all looked dingy and dirty, and appeared to be waiting for someone. Pete could only imagine who they were waiting for and instantly turned to head back home. There may have been a time to be brave, he thought, but a confrontation with five angry looking men wasn't it.

He decided that he would just call in and try to get some more work done from his laptop at home. However, once he turned the corner to his apartment building, he saw the same sight again; a group of dirty looking men, lingering outside the rotating doors into his apartment. Pete could feel himself started to go into a panic attack, nervously gulping from his coffee thermos. Once he swallowed the mouthful of black coffee he looking ahead again to see that the group of men had now noticed his presence and were all staring directly at him. Several of them started a sped-up walk over to Pete, which panicked him even further.

Pete quickly flagged down a passing taxi and piled in, closing the door as the men jogged to a near running pace to reach him. Pete blurted out the fist thing he could think of, telling the driver the address of a street a few blocks over. The men shrank in the distance of the rear view mirror as Pete collected his thoughts.

It was obvious that they weren't going to just go away on their own, and Pete still doubted that the police would trust his story enough to really protect him. So he made up his mind, taking the only real option he felt he had left. He pulled a post-it note from his pocket that he had scribbled on the day before at his desk.

It read each sloppily written message in order for Pete to try and make sense of:  April Thirteen April 13th 4 - 7 - 3, Saint Elizabeth 6 - 19 - 21 9th Story While the taxi passed each intersection Pete looked up at the street signs to see how much longer he would have to decided and came to moment of realization. He looked back down to the second message, analyzing it deeper and then asked the driver, "Is there a St. Elizabeth Street somewhere around here?"

The driver punched the street name into his GPS and then asked for the address. To which Pete responded with the numbers "473".

The driver entered them in, followed by the audible GPS confirmation of "Starting route to 4 7 3 St. Elizabeth Street".

Pete gulped at the fear what could be waiting for him at that address. But he also reminded himself that he didn't want to be disappointed in himself anymore.

As they traveled down each street the atmosphere faded from the bustling business intersections and fell into rundown buildings and boarded up houses, with tents and trash filed shopping carts littering the sidewalk. The ride became bumpier as the road ahead speckled with more and more potheads, paired by large dividing cracks on the sidewalk. The area more dense with people staggering aimlessly around the piles of boxes, sleeping bags, and propped open dumpsters. The driver even had to slow down due to a few people mumbling to themselves as they stumbled across the street, oblivious to the taxi driving towards them. Some people even lay in the gutter with strips of cloth tied tightly around their arms.

The taxi stopped and Pete stepped out to a curb reading a faded "473" from a sprayed-on template. The second Pete closed the door behind him the taxi took off, leaving him stranded in a sea of cardboard tents and wads of sleeping bag mattresses.

Pete walked up to a crumbling house displaying the address beside the barricaded door. He could feel the termite infestation rotting the wood beneath him as he stepped onto the hollow porch, getting a closer look at the front door, covered in heavy chains, blocking any chance of entering. The windows on either side also bore wooden planks drilled into the frames.

Pete was beginning to think that the messages were nothing more than an invested prank from a group of homeless psychopaths. The thought made Pete feel stupid for ever mustering up the pointless courage to investigate the location at all.

"Round the back" said a voice from the street. Pete turned to see a man huddled up to a trash can, attempting to light a match over it. "Yer lookin' fer the door 'round the back... in the alley"

Having come this far, Pete didn't bother questioning it and walked over around the side of the house, where he was met with a locked chain-link fence, topped with barbed wire. There was also a small lock tagged to the gate handle.

In confusion he pulled his post-it note out from his pocket and studied it once more. The following message, which was just a sequence of three numbers, seemed the obvious next step. So Pete approached the fence gate and to his surprise, found the lock to be a three digit combination lock. He turned each dial to match the numbers from his message and the lock clicked open.

Out of concern towards the growing crowd of homeless drawing in at the end of the alley, he re-fastened the lock behind him, preventing any of them from following him.

A short walk down the alley and Pete found a rusty steel door with the numbers "473" crudely painted across it. Though he trembled in fear, Pete pushed against the door and found it to be unlocked as it creaked open into a dark stairwell. His anxiety grew to a new level at the sight of the darkness inside, as well as the sight of the swarm of the homeless colony pressing themselves against the fence down the alleyway, all quietly watching Pete. He did his best try and forget they were there and push forward.

At this point the final message was obvious; he needed to go to the ninth floor, where he could resolve the issue of his frequent harassment... or so he hoped. He stepped over the tall threshold of the rusty door and began climbing each step, hearing the heavy door creaking behind him until it eventually clanked shut with an echoing slam, reverberating throughout the entire stairwell as the blocked light from the alleyway drastically darkened it.

Pete climbed each floor, glancing over at the doors that hung open at each level. Some were open to large empty warehouse-like spaces, with others open to cluttered storage-like spaces, littered from wall to wall with old clothes, shoes, backpacks, trash bags, blankets, etc., likely serving as a warm place to sleep during the cold months. Pete felt uncomfortable seeing the detailed glimpse of how the homeless live, making him suddenly value his apartment that much more.

Where at first Pete assumed this was some kind of drug den, he now suspected it to be an abandoned building that a homeless colony had taken up residence in. It would surely explain all the clothes and filled trash bags, assuming they'd transformed a big empty building into a squatter's storage facility. Though it still didn't help his understand why the messages would lead him here.

He continued climbing his way to the ninth floor, peering in at each floor on the way. He reached the eighth floor, where there were several metal containers, which a group of homeless had set on fire and huddled around in an effort to keep warm. They all stared straight back at Pete in his passing, awkwardly shuffling towards the stairwell platform as he climbed up to the floor above.

Once Pete finally reached the ninth floor he faced a white shower curtain, draped over the doorless entryway. He looked at it, flapping in the light breeze coming from a small window above, and then back down towards the group standing around the eighth floor looking up at him. They whispered to each other as Pete exchanged glances with them before turning his attention back towards the curtain.

Pete knew that whatever lay behind that curtain was the salvation that could lead to getting the peace and solitude he desperately craved. As well as the merit that bravery gave to anyone who was desperate to shake off a self-disappointing feeling. So he went in.

He stepped in to an empty room, divided all around by the type of curtain walls you'd see in a packed hospital dorm. Behind each curtain were the shadows of what looked like beds, along with various shapes that surrounded them. Pete could feel his palms beginning to sweat as he stood in the center of the open space, reminding himself what he came here for.

He slowly yet eagerly stepped towards the closest curtain wall, reaching his arm out to draw it back and see what was behind it, when from out of nowhere, a man appeared, greeting Pete with an introductory wave of his arm.

Pete let loose of the curtain he held in his hand and turned to face the man approaching him. The man was filthy from head to toe and didn't speak, just smiled at Pete in a forced manner, seeming as if he wasn't the type to smile often.

Pete remembered why he came here and wasted no time addressing the man. "I want to be left alone. What's it gonna take to make that happen?"

He hoped the man couldn't hear the trembling in his falsely-confident voice as he attempted to stand with with sternness. "Are you the one who brought me here? What do you want from me?"

The man continued to force a smile in his hobbled approach towards Pete, never uttering a single word. Pete then started to back away from the man.

In a look of shock, the man silently waved out both of his arms, suggesting that Pete calm down. But Pete's suspicions were growing by the second, forming an anxiety that swelled from the pit of his gut.

At this point he felt as if he'd proven to himself that he could be brave and looked for way to leave the situation. He looked over towards the door he came in through to find it now blocked by the group of people from the eighth floor, who were slowly stepping their way into the room. Pete became completely panicked and backed himself into one of the curtains as everyone approached him. The man's smile turned into a child-like laughter as his inviting hands twisted into a set of curled fingers, eager to grab a hold of Pete.

Pete looked in every direction for an escape, seeing only the mass of filthy people drawing towards him. In his panic, he ripped one of the curtains off its track and desperately hurled it towards them. What he saw behind the curtain shook him down to his core;

It was a body. A woman, missing both her legs and one of her arms, with her remaining arm dangling off the side of the table she was laid on. A small dresser stood next to the table with a slew of rusty surgical tools, primarily a hacksaw and a filleting knife, both covered in dried blood.

Pete screamed in fear and ran away through the series of curtained stations, until he came across a makeshift brick oven near the back of the large room. The fire was lit with what appeared to be an arm set in the center of the open flame. And next to the oven was a clutter of pots and pans, dirtied in an out of place sink.

Pete panicked even further and pulled back another curtain, revealing another table with cutting tools staged beside it. He grabbed the knife and held it up in front of himself defensively.

The group was closing in, backing Pete against a walk-in freezer, which he could only imagine what hung inside there, making him panic even more at the thought.

One of the men lunged at Pete as he slashed at his hand with the knife, cutting a streak of blood across his palm and sending him backwards. Then another attempted to grab him from the side, causing Pete to slash again, striking the man's torso.

"Back off!" He ordered the group, waving the tip of the knife all around them. " Get back !"

A desperate groan let out from across the room, followed by a loud crash, with an empty table now sliding away from a barely living body plopped onto the ground. It was a body that had fallen from one of the operating tables. Everyone turned to see what had happened, watching the half-dead body attempt to drag itself towards a hacksaw nearby. And in the moment's distraction, Pete bolted for the door, driving the knife into the gut of one of the men standing in his way as he shoved through.

The group chased after him as the man he'd stabbed dropped to the floor. Pete flew passed the doorway curtain and leaped down each set of stairs, closely followed by the loud stomping of footsteps on the stairs above. He ignored the sight of each floor as he flew passed them, only now realizing what the room full of clothes and shoes really was.

The realization only made him run faster, throwing open the rusty door and feeling the cool night air in the alley way push against his face as he continued running. The chain-link fence ahead was now clear of anyone, allowing Pete to hastily enter in the combination to escape. He turned dials to the 6-19-21 to unlock it, but was shocked when it didn't open. He tugged vigorously at the base of the lock as the sound of footsteps flooded the alleyway behind him.

Suddenly Pete was struck in the back by what felt like a rock. Then when he looked down, he saw that it was actually another lock, identical to the one that held the gate shut now. Pete swallowed the lump in his throat and shook the metal fence out of frustration.

He turned around as the footsteps drew nearer, to face the group of hungry looking people approaching him. Pete closed his eyes and smiled, knowing he would not die as a pathetic man. 