Song: I Was Here cover by Bri
***
The door squeaks when I open it and I cringe, hoping I didn't just blow my own cover. Nobody goes running, however, so I take that as a good sign.
One of the showers is running, which almost confirms that the Dasher, the runaway Hunted and gang leader, is here. Be tough, I gulp, telling myself, you can do this. I whip the knife out and pursue onward towards the running shower.
I try to think of something tough-sounding to say to announce my presence, but nothing decent comes to my mind. Ultimately, I end up shouting, "I know you're in here, Dasher! Come on out!"
I receive nothing in response but complete silence.
I didn't lose my entire family for silence. I didn't give up so much of my life for a lack of response. Anger rising up in me and my heart in my throat, I scream, "Come on out, you son of a bitch!" I wince at the sound of my own scream; not because it's loud, but because I sound like a whiny pre-teen who has his phone taken away by his parents.
I hear the telltale shuffling of feet on the tiled floor. Taking no time to give the perpetrator a chance to escape, and because I've been practicing this for a week, I raise my foot up and kick the door in. To my surprise, I'm successful on my first try.
The door swings open, and the unmistakable scream of a girl pierces the air. Her scream is so loud I cover my ears, forgetting to close my eyes until I see here bare feet in the bottom of the stall.
"Oh good God!" I shout, turning away. "I'm sorry!" I shout as she continues to scream, and she promptly slams the door shut.
"What the hell is your problem?" the girl yells. "Get out!"
"I-I need to talk to you," I shout. "I'm a, I'm a cop!"
This can't possibly be the Dasher! A girl? I was expecting some bulky, menacing dude, I think to myself. But what other explanation is there?
She pulls the door back open, now fully clothed to my relief. She's quite pretty; she has short brown hair, dark eyes, and a rather serious complextion. She folds her arms across her chest, raising an eyebrow at me.
"You. . . You're the Dasher?" I gape, pointing at her.
She raises both eyebrows. "You're in the ladies room?"
I feel my cheeks heat up with embarrassment. "I, uh, I was just looking for someone," I stutter, running a hand through my hair.
"Well, looks like you found someone," she scoffs, then something in her face softens. "Who were you looking for? Because whoever it was, it didn't sound good."
I bite my lip, trying to think of a reasonable explanation. "I'm looking for a criminal," I state, reminding myself that this may very well be the criminal that I am talking to.
The girl's eyes widen. "A criminal? Convicted of what?" she asks.
"Murder," I say, "but that's nothing too unusual these days, I suppose."
The girl nods once. "Well, I can assure you that I'm no such murderer," she says, shoving a black hoodie into her shower bag.
I stay silent for a moment as she hoists the bag up over her shoulder. "Is the black sedan in the parking lot yours?" I inquire, watching her face carefully.
Without missing a beat she says, "I walked here."
"In winter? In a dangerous city where literally no one walks outside?" I prod, watching closely as she fumbles through her bag for something.
"Mhm," she mumbles.
I press my lips into a line. "I don't believe that for one second. You're the only person here, and I tracked the murderer's car to this exact gym," I say, pointing my finger at her.
The girl looks back up, very obviously irritated. "And I don't believe that you're actually a cop. Anyway - if I did drive here in that car, what are you gonna do about it? Slice me to bits with your fancy knife?" she teases, nodding towards my knife.
Realizing I still have my knife out, I quickly stow it away. "No," I retort, "but you are going to have to come with me."
The girl takes a step back. "Why? I haven't done anything," she argues, almost pleadingly. "And besides, you're not even a police officer."
"Okay, fine, I'm technically not. But I have orders from the government to find and restrain or kill you. Lucky for you, I'm choosing to restrain," I state, deciding that even if she is the gang leader, there's no way I could bring myself to kill her without proof. "Don't make me change my mind," I say as I take the tracking device out of my pocket. I press the red button to pull up the hologram showing her car's location, as well as the message from the CIA as proof. "So I'm afraid you don't really have much of a choice," I add as I continue to hold the device out for her to see.
"Hmm," the girl mumbles.
Then, in the blink of an eye, her fist is in front of my face. I manage to catch her punch, twisting her arm outward and down. I drop the tracking device in the process, and it shatters upon hitting the floor. The girl cries out in pain as I wrench her arm, and she tumbles to the floor on her stomach. I manage to get over her and hold her down, until I realize I have nothing to restrain her hands.
In order to buy myself some time, I whip my gun out of my pocket and press it to the side of her neck. "Nice try, Dasher," I chortle. Lucky thing she's a terrible fighter, I think to myself.
Keeping the gun pressed firmly to her neck, I untie my left shoe and pull the lace out. I place my gun back in its holster in my pocket and press my right knee into her back as I hold both her wrists, tying them tightly together with my shoelace.
I pull her into a standing position and take my gun back out. "We're going to my car. Don't try anything funny, or I won't hesitate," I warn, knowing that I definitely sound far tougher than I actually am.
"But I haven't done anything wrong!" she protests desperately, and becomes visibly upset. "I would never kill anyone, I swear on my life!"
Saying nothing, I walk at a close distance behind her, keeping my gun pressed to her back and my arm hooked around hers. As we exit the bathroom I steal a peek at the front desk. Thankfully, the woman is gone. I usher the girl out the front door and to my car, opening up the passenger side door and forcing her inside.
I continue to keep my gun trained on her as I lock her door shut, hurrying around to the driver's side. I slide into my own seat and begin to boot up the autopilot until a thought hits me: they never said what to do with the Dasher once I found her. They just said they'd come to me.
The girl sniffles loudly beside me, her sassy demeanor she held up in the bathroom now falling to pieces. A part of me feels guilty, but I remind myself that she's probably killed thousands of people.
As I ponder over exactly where to take her, she says, "Please don't turn me in to the cops, they'll kill me," she pleads, her eyes glued to the dashboard of my car. Then, after a moment, she turns to look at me, begging me with her eyes with a desperation I've never seen in another human. "And I've never even hurt anyone," she adds.
I bite my lip, keeping my gun trained on her as I punch in my home address on the car's autopilot.
***
