Warehouse no. 4 by Caroline Taylor

Warehouse no. 4 by Caroline Taylor

After all these years, the place still smells of coffee. It’s nearly overwhelmed by the stench of urine, feces, and dead animal, but it’s there. And now I know where I am. My knees are scraped and bleeding from being dragged across the gravel and over the threshold of what used to be Java Joe’s Coffee Warehouse No. 4. I know the name from a slick little brochure I’d once read about the city’s old warehouse district and how the buildings should be restored and repurposed as lofts and restaurants and galleries. I’d also spent many a fun hour there as a child, exploring the abandoned warehouses with other kids when our parents thought we were in bible study. I remember seeing what remained of the faded brown sign that had been painted on the brick walls high up near the roof: J— –E’S —EE WHSE No. 4.

I can tell from the silence the building is deserted, except for various scurrying sounds that have to be rats. I can definitely smell coffee. Grounds—or more likely, beans. But I can’t see, nor can I yell for help with my whole face wrapped in duct tape. I inch forward over the splintery wood floor. If I can lose myself in the darkness, far from the door, maybe he won’t—

“Where you going?” says the gravelly voice I’ve come to dread.

I freeze.

“Shit, Jordan, you ain’t got nowhere left to go. Dontcha know that?” His foot slams into my shoulder, making me scream. He kicks me again, this time in the stomach. It makes me retch, and I can feel vomit going up my nose. I must be starting to turn blue because he rips the tape off my mouth, saying, “I ain’t finished wid you.” Then he squats down beside me. “You can yell all ya want, bitch. Ain’t nobody gonna hear ya. Go ahead.”

I don’t have enough breath to try it with today’s lunch still spilling onto the floor. Anyway, I know he’s right. This area is deserted at night. Daytime, too. Aside from those do-good preservationists who’d put out that brochure, hardly anybody knows that these derelict buildings are still standing.

The man cuts the duct tape off my ankles and jerks me to my feet. “I ain’t touchin’ you now, babe. You’re a stinkin’ mess. But don’t worry. We’re gonna have fun. Me more’n you, prolly. Oh yeah. We are gonna have some fun.” He shoves me, stumbling, across the floor.

“I’m not—”

The hand comes out of nowhere, slamming into the side of my head.

Mom is tickling my arms, trailing her fingers up to my neck. “This will cure your headache,” she croons. Then she starts licking my earlobe. I try to tell her it tickles, but I can’t seem to speak. O, right. Because I’d fainted. No. Somebody had—

I jerk awake, sending a curious rat skittering across the floor. “Get off! Get off!” Oh, God. Was that rat nibbling at my ear? I shudder, rolling from side to side, trying to ignore the stabbing pain in my head. Got to get out of this place.

“You have the wrong girl!” I yell, my voice echoing in the cavernous room. Got to move. Hide.

He’s retaped everything but my mouth. I run my hands over the floor around me. Nothing but splinters too small to cut through tape. I scoot backwards, hoping I’m headed deeper into the warehouse, wondering if it’s now daylight, whether the man is standing there, laughing at my feeble efforts. Then I back into something metal, one side of which has a sharp corner that’s partly rusted through. I rub my taped wrists against the ragged edges, feeling the rust flake off, thinking, this is going to take forever. And then, the tape gives way, sending tingles down into my numb hands, along with a few drops of blood from where I’ve scraped the skin on my wrists.

I rip the tape off my eyes, taking most of my eyebrows with it. Dark. But getting lighter. It must be early morning. Don’t sit there like a ninny. Move!

Next come my ankles. I scramble to my feet, nearly blacking out from the pain in my head. Concussion. Just what I need right now. Keeping as much as I can to the shadows, I pick my way carefully through rotting roof timbers—at least a good quarter of the roof has fallen through. The place is a minefield of nasty things like floor-to-ceiling cobwebs, used condoms, stacks of wood pallets, a stained and ruptured mattress, empty beer cans, rat feces, and a swivel desk chair that has long since lost its casters. As I pass by the windows, I try to see outside, but they’re so covered in grime, it’s impossible. I reach the door, only to discover it is locked. Should have known, girl. Wasted effort.

I’ll break a window then. Before I can find something that isn’t completely rotted through, I hear tires on gravel. Footsteps. The clink of keys as the door bangs open, and I hear him say, “Hey! Where you hidin’, girl? Ain’t no other way outta here, so might as well show yourself. Hell, I might even forgive ya for tryin’.”

I’m crouched behind a splintered door that’s off its hinges and leaning up against the wall. There are huge gaps where the wood planks have separated, but I’m pretty sure he doesn’t see me. Yet.

“Don’t worry, bitch. I’ll find ya, and then I’m gonna clean you up so’s we can get down to business.” He comes toward me, trips on a wooden pallet, and goes sprawling. I seize the chance to toss a chunk of concrete at the window near the door he came through. It falls short, but he’s heard it because he whirls around and stares at the pale washed out light bleeding through those grimy windows. Then he looks up at the rusted metal walkway that runs around the sides of the building right above the windows. Like I might be up there with the stairs all rotted out.

“C’mon, Jordan. You know it’s over. What’s the point of draggin’ things out? You shouldn’t a ratted me out. Even a ditz like you knows that shit don’t fly.” He makes his way to the corner where the mattress is lying, its stuffing spilling out of a hole some critter made. He’s muttering something I can’t hear while kicking the empty beer cans out of his way.

If I can convince him I’m not Jordan, will he let me go? Too risky. The guy just wants to have his notion of fun. And afterwards? I can’t picture him walking away.

“Okay,” he says, “have it your way.” He pulls a shiny object from his pocket. It’s about the size of a thumb dri—

Oh, shit. It’s a cigarette lighter. He flicks it twice and then leans down to ignite the mattress stuffing.

In a flash, I’m out from behind the door and running across the room. If I can make it outside, I can call for—

Ugh! I trip over the swivel chair and fall crashing to my knees.

“Well, shee-ut,” says the man. “I was gettin’ a little worried.”

He’s coming at me when I point at him, screaming “Your shirt! It’s on fire!”

Even though I’m lying, he stops, drops, and rolls like a good Boy Scout, and I’m up on my feet again. I shove the swivel chair in his way and run out the door, making a right toward the warehouse next door. If the gods of fate don’t intervene pretty soon, he will catch me. I’m yelling, but that also slows me down.

Then I notice the fire escape. Jumping as high as I can, I grab hold of the stair rails. He’s right beneath me and grabs one of my feet. I kick out with the other, and it connects to something soft. Now he’s yelling, his grip loosening enough for me to wrench my foot free. And then I’m crawling up to the top of the building and over the edge onto what’s left of the roof.

I can hear his footsteps as he climbs after me. I turn, but there’s a gaping hole in the middle where the roof has fallen in. A wisp of smoke rises up from the darkness. Underneath the acrid smell is the faint scent of roasted coffee beans. The edges around the hole in the roof look like they’re about to cave. No way am I going to try to reach the other side.

The metal steps clang as he draws closer. Something winks in the sunlight, and I see a pile of broken glass from what was once a skylight. I pick up the largest piece and turn to find him struggling to pull himself onto the roof.

I’m on him before he can gain purchase. I wave the pointed end of the glass shard in front of him. He’s still got both hands on the roof edge, but the weight of his body is making it hard for him to haul himself farther.

“Go away,” I say. My voice sounds way too high, like I’m a scaredy cat.

“Motherfuckin’ bitch.” He lurches over the edge and onto to his feet.

I dance out of reach. “You come any closer and I’ll cut you bad,” I say, waving the shard back and forth.

He stares at me, wiping the blood from his split lip.

“Turn around now and go back,” I tell him. “My name isn’t Jordan. You’ve made a big mistake.”

“Oh, right. When your pal Knuckles was the one what pointed you out?”

Stunned, I stumble backward, hoping I don’t wind up falling through the hole to my death. He has to be lying. Knuckles would never turn on me. Would he? “Who the hell is Knuckles?”

I can see the man still doesn’t believe me, so I wave the glass shard again. “You’re making a huge mistake, asshole.”

“Knuckles don’t screw up.” He’s trying to close the gap between us. “You’re a goddamn snitch, and now you’re gonna pay.” He lunges at me, but I’m too quick. Stepping aside, I slash his arm as he stumbles past me and falls to his knees at the edge of the gaping hole.

The smoke is thicker now and smells of wood burning. I’m tempted to shove him over the edge but before I can move, he sits up, cradling his bleeding arm. “Shoulda brought a gun.”

The surface beneath us begins to shift, emitting a loud groan that becomes an earsplitting crack as the hole widens behind him and he disappears, screaming, into the smoky maw. I scrabble backwards, reaching the fire escape just as the entire roof collapses.

Back on the ground, I brush myself off and take inventory. Possible concussion and cracked ribs, maybe internal injuries from getting kicked in the stomach. Bruises mostly everywhere, along with scraped and bleeding wrists and knees. I stink like a waste pond on a hog farm.

I am alive. And I wonder why I don’t feel anything about the man’s death. Could it be shock or traumatic brain injury? I didn’t kill him, after all, although he was certainly going to kill me. Warehouse No. 4 killed him, and I have just used up one of my nine lives.

There used to be a phone booth about three blocks south. I head there on wobbly legs, thinking, man, that was close. The booth is still there, but the equipment has been smashed to pieces. I keep walking, trying to decide what I should do first. Neurons misfiring in my addled brain tell me there’s something more urgent than seeking medical attention. Is there someone I need to warn? Or … Maybe not. Maybe I just need to disappear. Damn. I wish I still had my phone.

Once I’m back among the ordinary people of our fair city, their stares tell me all I need to know: I look like a drugged-out homeless person. At a McDonald’s, I use the bathroom to clean up as best I can, yearning for that long, hot shower I am owed. But coffee has to come first. I’ve been thinking about it ever since Warehouse No. 4. Approaching the line of people waiting to order egg McMuffins, I manage to lift a woman’s phone from her wide open handbag while she’s telling her screaming toddler he won’t get anything to eat if he doesn’t shut up.

The screen is unlocked, and I punch in my partner’s number. Both of us have been undercover with the neighborhood drug lords for six months. He doesn’t answer, so I leave a message. “Hi, Knuckles. It’s Jordan. I’m going to be a bit late. I’ve got to put out a couple of fires.” Starting with you.

* * * THE END * * * *
Copyright Caroline Taylor 2024