Dead Rat Walking

Chapter 2-3

A literal hop, skip, and jump off a loading bay later, Thurston landed in the darkened alley behind the Alsatius Building, among dumpsters and delivery trucks. The skyscraper rose in a dizzying, dazzling array of steel and wavy black reflective glass.

He skidded on a patch of ice but caught his balance and headed for a thread of light on the other end that would deposit him on the other side of the building. The alley was narrow and long, and it broke into an L halfway through. It should have been enough to bypass the crowds and give him a few hundred feet of cushion before ducking into the covered stairway that led up to the State/Lake L station.

A shadow darted in front of him, and he smiled.

Despite the fact that he was running away from people who hated his very existence, he was among friends now. Well, he considered them friends, but they would bite him and infect him with heaven knows what disease faster than he could blink. But if he had to pick between his enemies and wild rats, he’d choose the latter.

He could hear the protesters’ chanting even now, though muffled. His name. How they cursed his name. All over a misunderstanding. Some part of him wanted to charge them, curse them out, and tell them how the news reporter took him out of context, and how an edited video was wrecking his reputation. But they wouldn't listen to him. There was no convincing someone who was convinced you were the son of Satan himself.

He rounded the bend in the alley and made his way toward the bustling street ahead. Pedestrians and cars passed by in a hurry on their way to somewhere important. He flipped the collar on his pea coat, pulled his Chicago Cubs baseball cap down to his eyebrows, and dug a hand into his pocket as he flowed onto the sidewalk.

He tasted skin and wool, felt the warm slam of someone else's body. Static electricity danced across his cheek. He recoiled. Then—a whack against his skull, his back arching in pain, his foot slipping up from underneath him as he crashed into a brick wall.

A woman lay dazed next to him. She was dressed in a brown puffy coat, a wool beanie, and tall leather boots. Her red hair fell over her face, and she groaned as she tried to figure out what had just happened.

Thurston wiped his head and straightened his cap, shaking away stars. He pulled himself up and extended a hand. “Are you okay? I didn't see you.”

“That makes two of us.”

The woman looked at him with green eyes and cheeks full of freckles. One tooth grew crooked in the top of her mouth. She smiled sheepishly as she took his hand. She was probably half his age—maybe early twenties.

For a few seconds, they stared at each other, and her eyes widened at the sight of his, like she was gazing deep within him. She scanned his face, and her jaw hung a little, and he noticed her maroon lipstick.

“I guess it was my fault,” she said, wobbling as she took his hand. Her hand was warm and radiated furnace-like heat. The warmth suffused up Thurston’s arm. Then she broke her gaze and laughed.

“Are you sure you’re okay?” Thurston asked.

She smoothed out her coat and dismissed his question. She straightened her beanie.

She searched the sidewalk for something. Thurston spotted it a millisecond before she did—a white placard, face-down on the cement. Through the thin poster board, he made out the faint outline of his name.

A knot bloomed in his throat as someone called out.

“Hey, that’s him! It’s the rat man!”