No one ever said I was too fat to be a secret agent, but I know
they've thought it before. "You're rounding out a little,
Jordan," they say, or "you've really filled out since I saw
you last, Jordan"--"what do you do for your health?"
Now, as I squeeze my hips through the airport's ventilation shafts,
I'm tempted to agree with them.
Only tempted--I pause my wriggling to huff through my teeth into the
handkerchief tied around my face. I'm not winded; I'm trying not to
get dust under my hanky. Dust makes my nostrils berserk.
The last thing I need right now is a sneeze.
I
slide forward again, scraping my waist against the sharp metal
joints. Dear God, To Whom It May
Concern, just keep my pants from catching on something.
I can't think of anything much worse than jumping into combat without
pants.
Well,
that rat's nest up ahead is pretty terrifying. I extend my knife,
clutching my flashlight closer against my breast. I can feel my
heart-beat against my hand--that scene in 1984
gives me visions of rabid rats eating my face off. Right now I'm a
slow giant peg bound on all sides by tight metal squares; it's home
field advantage for the rodent.
Please
let there be no one home, please please--
No
such luck.
It hisses, crouched down stiff like a feline under its pile of junk.
Its naked tail stands straight out; it reeks of rotten meat and piss
from airport bathroom stalls. Red eyes and white teeth shimmer under
my flashlight.
"Shoo!" I hiss. I'm squirming like a beached whale to get
my flashlight-hand covering my face. I inch forward. He doesn't give
ground.
I slam the flashlight at him; he lunges for my wrist.
The knife squicks into his spine just behind his head. He doesn't
even thrash.
No comments:
Post a Comment