Previous 03 The Meeting
J.E. Nickerson
The streetlights were sparse, casting long, bruised shadows that stretched across the sidewalk before snapping back. Ana kept her eyes fixed on the pavement, her gaze locked on the point where her heels struck the concrete.
She had heard the rhythm behind her for three blocks. It wasn’t the erratic shuffle of a late-night wanderer; it was consistent. Measured. Every time she adjusted her pace, the steps matched hers.
She didn’t look back. Her hand slid into the pocket of her jacket where the small bottle of mace laid. Its presence didn’t stop her heart from beating faster. Her pulse kicked up.
She turned a corner, the hem of her jacket brushed against her waist. The relentless pounding of her soles on the concrete did not carry her fast enough. Sweat beaded on her forehead, chilling in the wind. Under her jacket, her stomach cooled as the tank top clung to her skin. The sweat ran into her eyes, forcing her to blink it away. She forced her expression to remain neutral—just keep moving, don’t look back. You slow down, he’ll catch you. The thought pushed her on.
If she could just reach the main boulevard, the crowds, the noise—
She took a sharp right, her breath hitching as her lungs began to burn. She felt her angle twist, not so much it threw her balance, but enough to make the bones protest with a dull pain. She winced but kept moving. The footsteps behind her didn’t falter. They remained constant, a dull, unrelenting thud. She rusted the urge to look over her shoulder. Then she stole a quick glance, her head snapping to the side then back to the road. A dark figure appeared in her vision before her head whipped back to face the road.
Panic broke through her focus. She surged forward, her stride lengthening into a desperate, uncoordinated gait her feet struggled to keep her upright. Her pulse roared in her ears, drowning out the ambient city hum. Through the pounding of her feet, she still heard it: the same steady, measured pace. He wasn’t running. But nothing stopped him.
Ana spotted the mouth of an alley—a shortcut, a path, anything. Her hair fell in a clump in front of her face, dipping into her mouth. The salty taste of sweat from the strands filled her mouth. She brushed them away and spit. She lunged into the darkness, her shoes skidding on an ice slick. Her balance shifted. She reached out and caught herself as her body lost balance. The ground came up hard. Her palms burned as she caught herself.
She cursed, the wind emptied out of her lungs. She took slick asphalt. She pushed her self up, forcing her legs to straighten. Her hands reached for the bricks around her. She ignored the scratches and blood that seeped from her skin. The bricks scratched the rest of her skin, leaving red streaks on their face.
Ana whimpered as she followed the wall along the alley. Her legs hitched as she limped down the alley. Her footsteps echoed as she drug her left foot. Pain flared through the bone, hot. Sharp. She reached a chain-link fence. Her fingers wrapped around the links as she searched for an exit.
Come on, there has to be a way out— her fingers met only solid, unyielding metal. She spun around struggling to keep weight off her left ankle, her chest heaved, her vision narrowed to the entrance. a silhouette slowly moved into the mouth of the alley, backlit against the late afternoon sun.
Ana’s breath came harder. She sucked in breaths that didn’t fill her lungs. She turned and limped down the alley, glancing over her shoulder as she moved. The silhouette didn’t rush. The man didn’t break his stride. He slowly moved into the alley, then stopped, a still, dark pillar blocking the only way out.
Quiet Pressure Thrillers
Step into the world of Quiet Pressure Thrillers — where every choice has consequences, and no one walks away unchanged. For Mature Audiences Only. Enter the series at https://wearewisethinkers.com/welcome-to-the-world-of-quiet-pressure-thrillers/
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