Alone The Girl in the Box - By Robert J. Crane Page 0,11

feet of snow.

I sat on a bench behind the dormitory building. The Directorate campus was huge, dozens of buildings strung together by a web of interconnected paths that had been plowed and salted. After being shown to my room, I explored the closet and grabbed the heavy coat and gloves they had left and headed outside. After all, I had not spent any time outdoors in several years, and I took this, my first opportunity, to really look at and feel the snow.

I smiled as the wind swept over me, stinging my cheeks and chilling my nose. I felt the cold creeping between my toes in the thin boots I wore. The air was fresh; fresher than anything I could recall ever smelling, with just a hint of smoke from somewhere in the distance. I couldn’t hear anything but the blowing of the wind. It was enough to make me forget that I couldn’t go home and that even if I did, Mom wasn’t there.

A memory sparked to mind, of us downstairs. Our house was old, with a basement that had concrete block walls, and pipes hanging everywhere. Mom had turned the largest part of it into a workout room, with mats on the floor for practicing martial arts. She had weapons hanging on the wall, and every day we’d practice for a few hours. She was good; she taught me everything I know.

And now she’s gone.

I heard the footfalls behind me and turned. It was Oldie, Kurt Hannegan and his younger partner, Hottie. Zack, I remembered Ariadne calling him. They were both wearing their dark suits with black ties and looking solemn. In the light I could see them a little better. Kurt’s nose was swollen from where I had hit him. Looking at Zack reaffirmed my suspicion that he was not hard on the eyes, and had sandy blond hair and a tanned face.

I had already gotten a look at Kurt when he was coming at me in the house. Big around the midsection, the waistband of his pants sticking out to wrap around his outstretched belly, giving him the look of a penguin. His face bore the scars of a long-ago bout with acne, and the little hair that remained on top of his head was thin and combed over from the bushy brambles that wrapped the sides of his skull. If he could wear a fedora, his baldness might be passable.

They both lurked just out of arm’s reach. Zack looked at me and smiled, far more warmly than I deserved since a day ago I had hit him in the groin so hard I was surprised he was still walking. I felt a little tingle and looked away, straight at Kurt. Oldie glared, giving me a wary look you might reserve for a criminal offender.

“Nice to see you boys are up and walking,” I said with a sarcasm that I couldn’t get rid of, no matter how hard I tried. All right, I’ll admit it – I didn’t try very hard. But at least in Zack’s case, I felt bad about it.

Zack spoke first, looking back at Kurt, almost for reassurance. “Yeah, you pack a mean punch with that baton.” His eyes were brown, but I saw some humor in them. The forgiving sort? I pegged him for a sucker. One day out in the big, bad world and I could already spot them.

“Yeah, she’s a real champ in the dark with a baton,” Kurt shot back. “Step into the ring and lace up a pair of boxing gloves and we’ll see what kind of fighter she is.”

I smiled at him, a kind of dazzling, annoying, faux smile that probably set off his bullshit detector. He wasn’t a sucker. “It wouldn’t matter if it were drunken boxing, muay thai, kickboxing or just straight up, ‘Marquess of Queensbury rules’, because I could flatten your fat ass with any of those styles.” I turned my head away to hide my smile but listened for footsteps in case he took umbrage and tried to sucker punch me. Even if he did, I would have bet I could still beat his ass.

Kurt’s snort of indignation was drowned out by a chuckle and low whistle from Zack. The big man recovered. “I don’t beat up little girls.”

“You certainly don’t succeed at it, but you try – and when that doesn’t work out, you shoot at them until they take your gun away.” I turned back in time to watch his face