Concrete Meltwater

Ed hit the ground hard. His right shoulder took the brunt of the impact, jarring the bone and snapping his teeth together. Mud splashed across his face. Cold. Gritty. He tasted rust and stale vodka.

"Get up!" Sam screamed.

She wasn't running. She was laughing. That high, cracked laugh she only did when she was six shots deep and looking for a fight. She stood ten feet away, her ripped denim jacket covered in brown spray, clutching a black canvas duffel bag to her chest like it was a baby.

Ed rolled onto his back. The sky above them was violently blue. The kind of bright, aggressive spring sky that hurt to look at. The sun glared off the wet concrete of the bridge overhead. Cars thumped across the joints. Thump-thump. Thump-thump. A steady, indifferent rhythm.

"Sam," Ed choked out. His stomach turned over. The alcohol sloshed inside him, a hot, sick wave. "Drop it."

"Fuck you, I found it."

"You didn't find it. You snatched it from that guy."

"He wasn't looking."

Ed pushed himself up onto his knees. The mud under the Osborne bridge was a special kind of nightmare. A mix of thawing riverbank, goose shit, and crushed glass. His jeans were soaked through instantly. The cold water shocked his system, cutting through the haze of the alcohol just enough to let the panic in.

"He's gonna kill us," Ed said, his voice cracking. He looked back up the embankment. The slope was steep, covered in dead, yellowed grass and bare Manitoba maples. At the top, the pedestrian path was empty. But Ed knew the guy was coming.

"He's a suit," Sam scoffed. She hoisted the bag higher. It looked heavy. "Probably got an iPad in here. Maybe some decent booze. Come on, get your ass up."

Ed staggered to his feet. His head pounded. A massive, thudding ache right behind his eyes. He wiped his face with the back of his hand, smearing the mud. The Assiniboine River rushed by to their left, high and fast and brown, carrying chunks of dirty ice and dead branches. The sound of the water was loud, fighting with the traffic noise above.

"Sam, seriously. Look at me." Ed stumbled toward her. His boots had no traction. He slid a few inches with every step. "That guy wasn't a suit. You saw his neck. He had ink all the way up. He dropped the bag behind the bench and walked away. It's a dead drop."

"A what?" Sam blinked at him. Her eyeliner was smeared down her cheeks. She looked twenty going on forty.

"A dead drop. Drugs. Money. I don't know. But you don't just take it."

"I just did."

Before Ed could argue, a spray of gravel rained down from the top of the embankment.

Ed froze.

Sam stopped smiling.

Footsteps. Heavy, fast, sliding down the wet dirt. Someone was descending the slope, tearing through the dead brush.

"Move," Ed whispered.

He grabbed Sam's arm and yanked her toward the deep shadows under the bridge. The structure was massive. Thick concrete pylons holding up the roadway, creating a cavernous, dark space filled with trash, abandoned shopping carts, and old fire pits.

The transition from the bright spring sun to the deep shade made Ed blind for a second. He dragged Sam behind a massive concrete pillar. The air here smelled heavily of piss and wet ash.

They pressed their backs against the rough concrete. Ed's chest heaved. He tried to breathe quietly, but his lungs burned. The vodka made his heart race too fast. He felt dizzy.

Footsteps hit the mud at the bottom of the embankment.

Squish. Crunch.

Ed clamped his hand over his mouth. He looked at Sam. She was staring at the bag in her hands, her eyes wide. The bravado was bleeding out of her, replaced by the slow, dawning realization of what she had just done.

"Hey," a voice called out.

It wasn't a yell. It was conversational. Calm. That made it so much worse.

"I know you're down here," the voice said. It echoed slightly under the concrete. "There's nowhere else to go. The river's right there."

Ed squeezed his eyes shut. His hands were shaking. He pressed his palms flat against his thighs to stop the tremors.

"You kids want to play games?" the man asked. The footsteps were moving closer. Slow. Deliberate. Squish. Squish. "That's fine. I like games. But let me tell you the rules. You give me the bag back, I only break one of your legs. Each. You keep it, and I drown you both in the meltwater."

Sam mouthed the word: Legs?

Ed shook his head frantically. He pointed deeper under the bridge. They needed to keep moving. If they could get out the other side, toward the Legislature grounds, there would be people. Normal people walking dogs. Cops maybe.

He nudged Sam. She nodded, her face pale.

They peeled off the pillar and started walking backward, deeper into the gloom. The ground here was uneven, littered with large rocks and chunks of broken concrete. Ed kept his eyes fixed on the sliver of light where the man was standing, a dark silhouette against the bright riverbank.

The man was tall. Broad shoulders. He wasn't rushing. He was just looking around.

Sam took a step and her boot hit a glass bottle.

Clink.

It wasn't loud, but under the echoing bridge, it sounded like a gunshot.

The silhouette snapped its head toward them.

"There you are," the man said.

He charged.

"Run!" Ed screamed.

He shoved Sam forward. They abandoned stealth and just bolted. The ground was treacherous. Ed tripped over a piece of rebar sticking out of the dirt, tearing his jeans and scraping his shin. He didn't feel the pain, just a hot flash of adrenaline. He scrambled back up, his hands covered in wet filth.

Sam was ahead of him, clutching the bag. She was surprisingly fast for someone who had polished off a mickey of vodka an hour ago. But she was clumsy. She kept bumping into the concrete walls, bouncing off them, using them to keep her balance.

Behind them, the man was fast. He didn't slip. He didn't stumble.

Ed glanced over his shoulder. The guy was wearing a dark gray trench coat, but his boots were heavy-duty. Work boots. He was closing the distance.

"Drop the bag!" Ed yelled at Sam.

"No!" she yelled back.

They reached the mid-point of the bridge. It was darkest here. The ceiling sloped down, forcing them to duck. Pigeons scattered, wings flapping loudly, disturbed from their roosts. The noise of the cars overhead was deafening here, a constant, vibrating roar.

Ed felt a hand grab the back of his jacket.

The force jerked him backward. His feet left the ground. He flew back and hit a concrete pillar back-first. The air exploded out of his lungs. He collapsed into the mud, gasping, unable to draw breath.

The man stood over him.

Up close, the guy looked worn out. He had a graying beard, deep lines around his eyes, and a jagged scar across his jaw. But his eyes were dead. Just flat, dark and tired.

"Where's the girl?" the man asked. He didn't sound angry. He sounded bored.

Ed couldn't speak. He just wheezed, his hands clutching his chest.

The man sighed and kicked Ed in the ribs.

It wasn't a wind-up kick. Just a casual, brutal flick of the boot. White hot pain shot through Ed's side. He curled into a ball, letting out a pathetic, high-pitched whine.

"I'm not gonna ask again," the man said. He reached down and grabbed Ed by the hair, hauling him up.

Ed screamed. The roots felt like they were ripping out of his scalp. His face was inches from the man's coat. It smelled like cheap cigarettes and damp wool.

"Hey, asshole!"

The man turned his head.

Sam was standing twenty feet away. She had a rock in her free hand. A big one.

"Let him go!" she yelled.

The man actually smiled. "Or what? You're gonna throw a rock at me? You can barely stand straight, sweetheart."

Sam threw the rock.

She was drunk. Her aim was garbage. The rock sailed wide by three feet, hitting the concrete wall with a loud crack and bouncing away.

The man laughed. "Good arm."

Ed used the distraction. He drove his knee straight up.

He missed the groin, hitting the man's thigh instead. But it was enough. The man grunted and loosened his grip. Ed tore himself away, leaving a tuft of hair in the man's fist.

Ed hit the ground, scrambled on all fours like an animal, and then pushed up into a sprint.

"Go, go, go!" Ed screamed at Sam.

She didn't need to be told twice. She turned and ran.

They burst out from under the bridge on the other side. The sudden sunlight was blinding. Ed squinted, tears streaming down his face. The wind hit them off the river, cold and sharp.

They were on a narrow strip of muddy bank. To their left, the freezing, rushing Assiniboine. To their right, a steep, brush-covered slope leading up to the street level.

"Up!" Ed gasped, pointing at the slope.

Sam scrambled up the dirt. She used her free hand to grab at roots and dead weeds. Ed was right behind her, shoving her upward. His ribs screamed with every movement. The mud was slick. They kept sliding back down a foot for every two feet they gained.

"He's coming!" Ed yelled, looking back.

The man walked out from the shadows of the bridge. He didn't run. He just looked at them scrambling up the dirt, wiped some mud off his coat, and started climbing after them. He moved efficiently, finding the solid footholds they had missed.

"Sam, he's right behind us!"

"I can't!" she cried. Her boots spun in the mud.

Ed grabbed the back of her jacket and hauled. They crested the top of the slope, tumbling over the edge onto the paved pedestrian path.

They lay there for a second, gasping. The sun beat down on them. A woman jogging in bright pink Lululemon leggings stopped, stared at them in horror, and quickly jogged the other way.

"Come on," Ed wheezed.

They got up and ran toward the Legislature grounds. The path here was clear, lined with large elm trees. The massive, golden-boy topped building loomed in the distance, surrounded by green space that was currently a swamp of melting snow.

They cut across the grass. Their boots sank into the slush and mud, slowing them down.

Ed's chest was a drum. He felt the alcohol churning violently. He stopped by a large oak tree, bent over, and vomited.

It was hot and bitter. He heaved until his stomach was empty, spitting acid onto the roots of the tree.

"Ed, move!" Sam yanked his arm.

He wiped his mouth, gasping for air. He looked back. The man had reached the paved path. He was jogging now. Not a sprint, just a steady, relentless pace. Like a wolf tracking a wounded deer.

"The drain," Ed gasped, pointing toward the riverbank again. "Down there."

About fifty yards ahead, a large concrete storm drain emptied into the river. It was half-submerged, but the top half was dry. It was dark. A hole to hide in.

Sam didn't argue. They changed direction, stumbling back down toward the water.

The slope here was grassier, less mud. They slid down on their asses, tearing their clothes on hidden rocks. They hit the bottom near the water's edge.

The river was loud here. The water lapped aggressively against the concrete lip of the drain. The pipe was wide enough to crawl into, maybe four feet in diameter. It smelled like rotting leaves and stagnant water.

Ed went first. He splashed into the cold water at the mouth of the pipe, gasping as it soaked his boots and jeans. He crawled in, his hands sinking into thick, foul-smelling sludge.

Sam followed, dragging the bag.

They crawled deep into the pipe. The light from the entrance faded quickly. It was freezing inside. The concrete leached the heat right out of their bodies. They stopped about twenty feet in, where the pipe curved slightly, hiding them from the opening.

They huddled together in the dark. The water was ankle-deep.

Ed's teeth were chattering. He couldn't stop shaking. He hugged his knees to his chest. His ribs throbbed with a dull, sickening ache.

Sam was breathing hard next to him. In the gloom, he could barely see her face.

"We lost him," she whispered. Her voice trembled.

"Shut up," Ed hissed. "Voices echo in here. Keep quiet."

They sat in silence. The only sounds were the rushing of the river outside and their own ragged breathing.

Minutes passed.

Ed strained his ears. He listened for the crunch of boots on gravel. For a splash. Nothing. Just the water.

His heart rate started to slow down, just a fraction. The adrenaline was wearing off, leaving him exhausted and freezing. The hangover was starting to set in early. A brutal, crushing headache.

Sam shifted beside him. There was the sound of a heavy zipper opening.

"What are you doing?" Ed whispered angrily.

"I want to see what we almost died for," she whispered back.

Ed couldn't stop her. He was too tired. He just watched her shadow move as she dug into the bag.

She pulled something out. She clicked a button.

A small beam of light hit the curved concrete wall. A flashlight.

She shined it down into the bag.

Ed leaned over to look.

There was no iPad. There was no booze.

There were stacks of dark blue passports. Dozens of them, held together with thick rubber bands. Beside them were several small, cheap cell phones still in their plastic wrapping. And underneath that, a heavy, black metal object.

Ed stared at it. It took his drunk, slow brain a second to process the shape.

A handgun.

Not a cool movie gun. A blocky, ugly, functional piece of machinery.

Sam let out a low breath. "Holy shit."

"Put it away," Ed said. His voice sounded far away. The panic was rushing back in, cold and sharp. "Zip it up. We need to leave it here."

"Are you crazy?" Sam looked at him, her eyes wide in the flashlight beam. "Do you know what this is worth?"

"It's worth a bullet in the head, Sam!" Ed whisper-yelled. He grabbed her arm. "That guy isn't a drug dealer. He's worse. You stole passports. You stole a gun. They will hunt us down."

"They don't know who we are!"

"They saw our faces!"

"We're nobodies, Ed! We live in a tent behind the Fort Rouge yard! Nobody knows us!"

Ed let go of her arm. He rubbed his face. He was so cold. He couldn't feel his toes anymore. The water was seeping through his jeans, chilling him to the bone.

"We leave the bag," Ed said, his voice hard. "We crawl out. We run to Portage Avenue. We get on a bus. We go anywhere else."

Sam looked at the gun. She reached out and touched the metal.

"Don't," Ed pleaded.

She pulled her hand back. She looked up at him. She looked scared, finally. The alcohol had burned off, leaving just a terrified twenty-year-old girl in a wet, torn jacket.

"Okay," she whispered.

She reached for the zipper.

A splash echoed down the pipe.

Ed froze.

Sam clicked off the flashlight.

Darkness hit them like a physical blow.

Another splash. Closer.

Someone had stepped into the water at the mouth of the drain.

Ed stopped breathing. He pressed his back against the curved wall. He could feel the vibrations through the concrete.

Splash. Splash.

Slow, deliberate steps. Moving through the water.

"I know you're in here," the calm, bored voice echoed down the pipe. It sounded distorted, metallic, bouncing off the walls. "I saw the mud on the lip."

Ed grabbed Sam's hand. She was trembling violently.

"You have two choices," the voice said. The footsteps stopped. He was waiting just inside the entrance. "You bring the bag out right now. Or I come in there. If I come in there, I don't need the gun in the bag. I have my own."

The silence that followed was suffocating.

Ed's brain was screaming. Go out the other side. There has to be another side.

He tugged Sam's hand. He pointed deeper into the pipe. The darkness was absolute. They had no idea if the pipe ended in a grate, or a drop-off, or just got smaller until they got stuck.

But they couldn't go back.

They turned and started crawling. They tried to be quiet, but the water splashed with every movement of their hands and knees.

"Wrong choice," the voice echoed behind them.

The footsteps started again. Faster this time. Splashing loudly.

Ed crawled as fast as he could. The sludge beneath the water was thick, pulling at his boots. The smell was horrendous. Dead things. Motor oil. Silt.

He bumped his head hard against the ceiling. The pipe was getting smaller.

Panic flared in his chest, hot and tight. Claustrophobia hit him. He felt like the concrete was pressing down on him, crushing him.

"Keep going," he gasped to Sam, pushing her forward.

"I can't see!" she cried out.

"Just crawl!"

Behind them, a beam of light sliced through the darkness.

The man had a flashlight too.

The beam hit the curved walls, illuminating the dirty water and the slime-coated concrete. It swept back and forth, cutting through the gloom.

Ed looked over his shoulder. The light caught his face.

"Gotcha," the voice said.

A loud, deafening crack echoed through the pipe.

The sound was physical. It punched Ed in the ears, leaving a high-pitched ringing. Dust fell from the ceiling into the water.

A bullet hit the concrete wall three feet to Ed's left, showering him with sharp fragments.

He screamed.

Sam screamed.

They scrambled blindly forward, abandoning any attempt at stealth. They thrashed through the water, tearing their hands on the rough concrete.

"Light!" Sam yelled ahead of him.

Ed looked up. He could see a faint, gray rectangle in the distance. The other end of the pipe.

They crawled faster. The water grew shallower. The pipe sloped upward.

The light grew brighter. It was blocked by thick iron bars. A grate.

They reached it. Sam grabbed the bars and shook them.

Solid iron. Rusted, thick, immovable.

"No, no, no," Sam sobbed. She pulled at the bars frantically. "Help me!"

Ed shoved beside her. He grabbed the bars. They were cold and rough. He pulled with everything he had. His ribs screamed. The muscles in his back tore.

The grate didn't budge a millimeter.

They were trapped.

Beyond the grate, there was a steep concrete spillway leading up to a storm drain on a street level. Sunlight filtered down through a metal manhole cover above.

Ed let go of the bars. He slumped against the wall. His hands were bleeding.

The splashing behind them grew louder. The beam of light settled on them, blindingly bright.

Ed put his hand up to shield his eyes.

The man walked into the light. He was ten feet away. He stopped. He was holding a flashlight in his left hand, and a dull gray pistol in his right.

He looked at them trapped against the grate. He looked at the bag sitting in the mud between them.

He didn't look angry. He just looked tired.

"Slide it over," the man said.

Sam grabbed the bag. She clutched it to her chest.

"Sam, give it to him," Ed pleaded. His voice was a broken whisper.

"You said he'd kill us anyway," she whispered back.

"I don't know! Just give it to him!"

The man sighed. He lowered the flashlight slightly, keeping the gun pointed at Ed's chest.

"I'm not a patient man," the guy said. "Slide the bag."

Sam looked at the man. Then she looked at the bag.

She reached into the main compartment.

"Don't do it, kid," the man warned. His voice hardened.

Sam's hand came out holding the heavy black metal pistol she had found inside.

She didn't know how to hold it. Her finger wasn't even on the trigger. She just pointed it clumsily at the man.

Ed's heart stopped. Time slowed down. The ringing in his ears faded, replaced by the heavy thud of his own pulse.

The man looked at Sam holding the gun. He tilted his head slightly.

"Safety's on," the man said.

The shadow fell over them, blocking out the sun, and the man didn't say a word as he raised his hand.