Survival Rout Read online

  "Well, what do you think?" he asks, breaking through the turmoil of my thoughts with a cheery grin. He nods at the drink in front of me. "Go on, drink up. I didn't make it too cold and your brain is too big to freeze anyway, babe."

  "Says you." I snort and take a long swig of the sour apple cocktail. Miyuki is already sipping at her own drink while she doodles a flower on her inner arm, an activity that keeps her attention away from Timothy while he leans on the bar. "It's good, yeah."

  My praise is automatic and instant; I don't want to hurt his feelings, after all. Yet I find myself frowning at my glass when the first quick gulp slams hard into my stomach. The drink isn't terrible, but the alcohol burns my throat and there's a bitter aftertaste under the sour flavor. Free is free, and I don't want to be ungrateful, but something feels wrong even as I take another careful sip.

  "It's a little strong, isn't it?" I observe, looking at Timothy with confusion. It's not like him to double the liquor in our drinks. We visit for a light buzz before bedtime rather than wanting to get smashed. If he's trying to treat us to something stronger, he ought to have asked first; he knows we have to drive home.

  He grins at my question, unconcerned. "Is it? I made it the same as usual. The juice is pretty sour, I know. I keep telling management we need to rim the glasses with sugar. Take another sip. I think you'll like it once you adjust to the taste."

  I don't want any more, but neither do I want to be rude. I gulp down another mouthful as quickly as I can, hoping the bitter aftertaste won't hit so hard if I don't let the drink linger on my tongue. Already I'm starting to feel light-headed; the room seems too hot and too close, and stirrings of nausea rise in my stomach.

  "Sorry, maybe it's me. I don't feel well." I push the half-finished drink away and try to offer him an apologetic smile but I can't seem to turn my head; my neck feels weak and my chin heavy. "I think I'm going to be sick," I add, hearing confused panic rising in a voice that sounds too distant to be mine.

  "Ani?" Miyuki's voice is hazy under the noise of the bar; a wavering sound that comes from far away. "Aniyah, are you okay?"

  I sway in my seat, my mouth opening to answer only to find I can't form the words. Timothy's voice comes from my left, moving around behind me as he leaves his post at the bar. "She's having a bad reaction to the alcohol," he says, his voice low and urgent. "Was her back hurting more than usual today? She probably took two hydrocodone pills instead of just one. We need to get her to the hospital, quickly."

  I'm trembling, the soft shaking of my limbs the only movement I can manage; I can't even frown at his words. He's wrong: I've taken only one painkiller today and that was this morning. I've been on opioids for years and I know when I can have a single glass of liquor. What's more, I've experienced complication side-effects before, and this hazy paralysis seizing my limbs and muddying my brain isn't right. If I'd taken alcohol too soon after my medication I'd feel drowsy and slow, but not frozen in place.

  "Aniyah, hang on; we'll get you to a doctor," Miyuki reassures me, placing her hand on my arm. There's something wrong with her grip and it takes me a minute to register she's shaking almost as hard as I am. She tries to stand and nearly falls, catching herself by sweeping her arm out and clinging to the bar for support. Her flailing knocks her notebook and pen to the floor, their clatter ringing in my ears.

  "Craig, help Emma, won't you?" Timothy says. His voice is too calm, a surreal contrast to my pounding heart. His hands are on me, yanking me to my feet. Out of the corner of my eye, I watch a burly man in his mid-thirties hop down from his nearby seat. I hadn't noticed him before—just another patron at the bar—but he seems perfectly at ease wrapping his meaty hands around Miyuki's arms in a tight grip. I expect her to protest and push him away, but her eyes are half-closed and she looks almost asleep.

  "Just a little tipsy," Timothy pronounces, shuffling me to the door. My legs are wooden, but somehow I manage to place one foot in front of the other.

  What's happening? My thoughts are thick and muddy, but I know something is very wrong. Timothy shouldn't be like this, all cool collectedness and calm orders, as though he'd expected us to become sick like this. And why are we sick? Was there something wrong with the drink, some ingredient gone bad or rotten? Why just us, when surely other patrons must have had the same cocktail before we arrived?

  The realization hits me along with the warm night air: Timothy put something in our drinks. I hear Craig behind me, pulling Miyuki along. Her feet drag loudly against the asphalt in her drugged stupor. The parking lot is empty of people—or, at least, I think it is; my vision blurs at the edges and I can't lift my head. Timothy guides us towards a black van with dark windows that I've never seen before.

  We're being kidnapped, is my last thought before the drugs steal my vision and I black out.

  Chapter 2

  Keoki

  I'm nursing my second beer and trying to decide whether to visit the men's room before or after I order another basket of cheese fries when she walks in. She's gorgeous; perfect brown satin skin and dark flashing eyes that deserve their own dedicated love song. Her hair is shorter than mine but otherwise identical: kinky curls flying in every direction. Maybe it's narcissistic to love what you see in the mirror, but I always say there's no arguing with good taste. She climbs her bar stool like she's scaling a mountain and in doing so claims my rapt attention. I love interesting people, and this girl moves like she has a story.

  Strange for her to come in so near to closing time. Is she someone's ride? I glance at the clock on my phone. It's getting late, but I don't want to leave without talking to the band. Until they finish for the night, I've got time on my hands and nothing to keep myself awake except people-watching. I could order coffee, but I'm trying not to turn nocturnal. I've gotten away with laxity over the summer holiday—hauling boxes and taking inventory down at the warehouse isn't so taxing that I have to be vigilant about keeping regular hours—but when fall classes start I'll need to go back to a normal sleep schedule. Still, I'm off work tomorrow and can sleep in to make up for tonight; Dad won't bug me before noon.

  I settle back with my beer and shoot off a quick text to let Dad know I'm still alive but I'll be home late. He's been cool about not hassling me, and I give him props for respecting my personal space. Really, getting to hang out with him again has been the best thing about moving down here to attend school in Texas. He was super enthusiastic about the suggestion that I live with him, and I know he's missed Makuahine and me, never once skipping a phone date and sending regular checks back home. I can't be angry at him anymore for leaving us; now that I'm older, I get that he had to travel where the work went.

  We could have gone with him when he retired from the Air Force to become a defense contractor, but Makuahine didn't have it in her to leave O'ahu. The younger, long-ago versions of Dad and Makuahine—just plain George and Kailani before they had the best son in the world—swore to stay together for better or worse, but Texas wasn't included in the deal. Now that I've lived here a couple of years, I can't say I blame her. I miss the beach, the weather, the people, the look and feel of home. The food is different, too, and as much as I like all the Tex-Mex, there are days when I would kill to taste a proper Spam musubi again. Maybe I can fly out over Christmas break for a few weeks.

  I take another swig of my beer and pray this song is the last of the night. I came out here to watch the band, specifically the bassist; he's a cute local boy, and a friend in the music department swore he was worth checking out. His technique is great—fast and artistic without being flashy—but there's only so much he can do to make up for the lead's flat vocals. I've been gritting my teeth, determined to hang on till closing time, because I want to talk to him about his playing style. I'm converting over to bass after several years on guitar, but still struggling with the switch from playing with a pick to just my fingers. Fingers give you a beefier tone and more control over the sound, but a pick is faster and I'm still attached to mine.

&nb
sp; My fingers stray to the worn leather cuff on my wrist, the soft material so close in color to my skin that the bracelet almost fades into me. On the inside of the cuff, nestled against my arm, is a tiny pouch that carries the brass pick Makuahine had engraved for me before I left Hawai'i, bearing my name and a proverb she'd found. Damn, I miss her. I definitely have to fly out there this year. Maybe I can surprise her with a visit. It'd be awesome to pitch up on our porch and lift her up in a swinging hug when she answers the door. Hell, maybe I could persuade Dad to come out with me; for all that they've been separated for years, they love each other too much to divorce. I think she'd like to see him. I know I'd like to see them together.

  A loud thumping noise on the stage grabs my attention. The band has finished and they're starting to break down their gear. The scrawny-looking drummer sorts out his kit from the shabby house equipment, and I wonder if it would be cool to offer my help. I'm strong enough to play roadie, but I might come off a little creepy; not everyone wants to be cornered by amateurs and groupies after a gig. Maybe I can just slip the bassist my number before he leaves and offer to buy him a beer sometime. I think that approach might be less pushy than "Hi, let me carry that amp for you" and snatching equipment out of their hands.

  Satisfied with this plan, I slide my gaze back to the cutie at the bar. She's got a friend with her, a girl with a freckled nose and short black bangs spilling over sexy librarian glasses. Something the girlfriend said has made her smile, alighting her face with sunshine. I wonder if she's the type to enjoy adventurous holiday escapes and romantic walks on the beach. That'd be a good pick-up line, right? "Hey, I'm flying out to Hawai'i for Christmas and need a girl to take home to momma; do you know anyone who'd be interested?" I think I could probably pull it off with a proper application of confidence and a goofy grin to cushion the delivery.

  She'd laugh, I decide, watching the tiny smile that never leaves the edges of her lips. When her girlfriend looks down at her hands, her face troubled, my cutie reacts with a touch that is one hundred percent sweet sympathy. The belated thought hits me that they might be together, like, actual girlfriends and not just girls-who-are-friends. Not that it's any of my business, but it's a solid reason not to saunter over and throw down a pick-up line unless I get an indication it would be welcome. There's a fine boundary between confident and creepy, and I don't want to be a jerk.

  Tragically, no such invitation seems likely to be issued; all the while I've been enjoying the view from my table, neither of them has even looked my way. I blame the bartender for monopolizing their attention. He's had his eye on them since they walked in, working his way down to their end of the bar and then parking himself while trying to make a play for my crush. The girl with the librarian glasses studiously ignores him by doodling on her arm while he talks, and my crush hunches over her drink and glues her gaze to the counter to avoid making eye contact, hoping he'll take the hint and leave them alone.

  It's not until she pushes her drink away and balls her fist into her stomach that I realize she's actually sick, her pained body language more than just a manifestation of her desire to be rid of the bartender. My hands pat uselessly at my pockets but I don't have any antacids on me. I could offer to run down to the nearest gas station, but she might not want to take pills from a total stranger. She stares hard at the counter and I think she's about to hurl, but then the bartender helps her out of her chair. I figure he's going to guide her to the toilets while her girlfriend pays their tab so she can take her home.

  Then I see the girlfriend sway in her own seat, and I realize she's sick, too. She lurches woozily forward, knocking her notebook to the floor as her hand sweeps out to catch herself. Before I can hop up to help, a big burly dude is already out of his chair and steadying her. Which is nice of him—very Good Samaritan and exactly what I'd be doing myself if I were a little quicker on the draw—except the way he holds her bothers me. I stare at them and realize his hands don't hesitate like they should. He grips her as if he handles sick girls all day, instead of like a random dude helping out a stranger. Before I can process that thought, he and the bartender lockstep the girls out the door as fast as they can move.

  Where's the fire? I wonder, frowning at the door as it closes behind them. None of this makes any sense. Two girls become violently ill as soon as they get their drinks, and instead of helping them to the bathroom the bartender ejects them with the help of what seems to be an off-duty bouncer. Why? Were the girls underage? I could have sworn they were over twenty-one, but girls can do amazing things with makeup. I got pretty sick the first time I drank liquor, and if the bartender had been too busy flirting to check licenses, he'd want them off the premises as soon as he realized his mistake. Safer to bounce them than risk someone reporting him for serving minors and losing his license.

  Yet walking them outside just moves the problem to a new location. Neither of those girls looked anywhere near fit to drive. Maybe the bartender will call them a taxi, but he hasn't exactly struck me as the responsible type. I sigh and glance back at the band. They're almost finished loading up, carrying their gear out to the back parking lot rather than through the front. If I go chasing after those girls, I won't be able to catch the bassist and this whole night will have been a waste. But I don't want a drunk driver on my conscience. I toss a couple bills on the table and head out, swinging by the bar to scoop up the fallen notebook.

  The front lot is deserted this time of night, with not a soul to be seen and only a handful of parked cars. I'm confused when the heavy night air first hits me; I'd expected to hear retching and vomiting, or the high rapid babble of drunk conversation, yet the lot is silent. For a moment I think I'm too late, that they must have driven off; but if they've already gone, where are the bartender and bouncer? Then I hear faint sounds under the hum of the air conditioner units: soft scuffling noises and low voices trailing out from the side alley between the bar and the next building over.

  Is someone fucking? It's a stupid thought, but the first thing that pops into my mind at the furtive noises; there's a muffled quality to the voices that doesn't sound at all like someone asking a sick girl if she's okay. I hesitate, running through a short list of scenarios, none of which are good. I'm the last person to ruin someone's fun but those girls are underage, drunk, sick, or some combination of the three, and that's not okay.

  I hug the building, stepping silently around to the side alley. I figure I'll duck my head around the corner and assess the situation before I make any noise; I don't want to startle anyone into a panic if the girls are in danger. When I reach the edge I peek around the side, my eyes straining to see in the dark. The alley is wider than I'd realized and tall buildings on either side cast the entire area into deep shadow. I can only just discern movement at the far end of the alley: two tall shapes huddled around a dark van.

  "—objections are noted, Craig. Just finish tying those knots."

  "I'm just saying I don't like surprises. Thought you called me out here for a beer, not for a public snatch from your own bar. You want me to tell them you're trying to get caught?"

  "You do and I'll break your fucking teeth. Do you know how long it took me to find her? I didn't pick this one for her looks. I spend a couple goddamn months being sure she's the right one, only for her to ghost on me. My options were to do it tonight or lose her forever, so less talk and more rope."

  Holy shit. I jerk my head back and flatten myself against the brick wall. I thought I'd been prepared for anything I might see, but my heart is pounding against my ribcage like it wants to get out. What's the plan here, genius? I'd been figuring some loud yelling would scare off the kind of guys who like to manhandle drunk girls. Worst case, I could throw a punch; it's been a few years since I hit anyone, but it's like riding a wave: it comes back when you need it. But I don't know what to do about ropes and vans.

  You hear stories on campus about kidnappers who prey on college girls. You never know if the stories are urban legends, but they tell girls t
o walk in pairs and carry pepper-spray. No one tells you what to do if you actually witness a kidnapping taking place. Should I go back inside and get help? I don't know if anyone will believe me, and I don't want to risk these guys driving off while I try to rouse the bar. I can't even see their license number from here, so I'd have nothing for the police to track if they got away.

  But I have my phone, I realize, hand flying to my pocket as I pray the battery isn't dead. It lights at my touch and I press it close to my ear, angled away from the alley so they won't see the glow. I've never dialed emergency services before, but of course I know the number and I punch it in as quickly as my fingers can move.

  "911, what is your emergency?"

  The woman's voice on the other end of the line is weirdly comforting in its normalcy, but my blood still pounds a staccato rhythm in my ears. My voice is so soft I can barely hear myself, and even then I fear I'm too loud. "Ma'am, there are girls being kidnapped."

  "What is your location?"

  It's such an obvious question, crisply asked with expectation of an immediate answer, but I'm thrown by it. Where the fuck am I? I don't remember the name of the bar. I'm not a regular, I only came for the band tonight, and my brain blanks in panic. "I-I don't know, it's a bar, I'm outside a bar—"

  "Can you see a street sign? An officer has been dispatched to the vicinity of your mobile."

  I can't think, I can't seem to breathe. I twist my head to view the nearest intersection, its forlorn lights blinking at the empty street, but I can't find a single sign. Half of the small streets around the campus edges are missing their signs; they get stolen to decorate dorm rooms and the city is slow to replace them. I feel fresh panic rising, but if there's a car coming maybe I can give them directions and have them retrace the route I took to get here. "It's not on the main road; I had to turn right off of—"

  My world explodes into pain and a throbbing red cloud obscures my vision. There are no conscious thoughts in my mind, no words or images, but other senses dutifully report in: I hear the clatter of my phone hitting the ground and the hard crunch of a shoe coming down on glass. The crunch is too close to my ears, the sound ought to come from lower down, but then my nerves relay the rough grit of the parking lot under my fingers and I slowly register that I'm kneeling on my hands. What the fuck was that? I've taken a punch before and recognize the pounding throb in my temples, but this was like being blindsided by a hammer.