The Wolf Affliction

I pumped my legs harder, gravel biting through my sneakers, not daring to look behind me. I could feel Harry closing in. Weaving between the boxcars, I heard him curse, the scrape of gravel telling me he’d nearly lost his footing.

Changing direction, I choked back a sob when I saw the chain-link fence, a faded PRIVATE sign glaring at me. With no other option, I hurled myself at the fence, my sneakers slipping into the gaps in the mesh as I scrambled for the top rail. I swung one leg over, then the other, and dropped to the ground. Glancing around, I spotted a nearby train—its boxcar already rumbling into motion.

The boxcar was just out of reach when the sound of a gunshot echoed, and a bullet whizzed past, grazing my ear. Fear added a burst of speed, and my hand latched onto the side of the door. With superhuman effort, I hoisted my leg up and rolled inside, gasping for breath. I sprawled on the wooden floor, my backpack wedged uncomfortably beneath me.

My heart pounded in my ears as I sat up to take in my surroundings. The boxcar was half full, stacked with pallets. I touched my ear and winced, fingers bloody. I stared at the blood, rubbing it between my fingers before wiping them on my jeans. Christ! I could be dead now. Nausea roiled through me.

Crawling to the open door, I cautiously peered out. Relief washed over me—no sign of Harry. Surely, he wouldn’t follow. This seemed to be a cargo train. It wasn’t going very fast, but it was faster than he could run.

I took off my backpack, anxiously hoping the train wouldn’t stop anytime soon. The last thing I needed was him coming after me. Harry Lipton lived three houses down and was a notorious creep, but I had never thought he was a murderer.

Since my dad had died, I’d had the strangest feeling I was being watched—could that have been Harry?

This morning, I’d walked to the pharmacy to pick up my pills, something I needed to do every three months without fail. As I’d approached my house, a new supply of pills in hand, I’d caught sight of Harry at my front door. I’d frozen in fear.

He was knocking—using a gun.

My breath had caught loudly in my throat, and he’d turned at the sound. That was when I began to run.

Why was he targeting me? I knew he dabbled in petty crime—Dad had pointed him out years ago and warned me to keep away from him—but carrying a gun in broad daylight? Had he snapped and taken things to the next level?

And why me? I had always been careful to have nothing to do with him. On Dad’s advice, I avoided him like the plague. There was something in his eyes I didn’t like, something that suggested he wasn’t quite sane, that he liked violence.

My trip to the pharmacy had likely saved my life.

I was meticulous when it came to taking my medication. I had run out only once since my symptoms had begun, and I never wanted a repeat of that experience. When my father was alive, he’d always made sure we had our pills. Suffering from the same affliction, he had known how debilitating it could be.

I might be fleeing from a crazy guy with a gun, but at least I had ninety days before I needed a refill.

I was still in a daze as I slumped against the wall of the boxcar, feeling its vibrations in my bones.

Why would Harry Lipton want me dead?

Once I got off this train, I would call the police and report him. I wouldn’t be able to go home until he was caught. If need be, I’d find some kind of job and a new place to live until it was safe to go back.

Home. The dingy little house my father had left me was probably beyond renovation and should just be torn down. Still, I owned it and didn’t have to pay rent, which would have posed a serious problem since I’d been out of a job for a few months. By the looks of things, I wouldn’t be going back there for a while.

My already crappy life had just gotten crappier.

My father used to say that regret always comes too late. I could validate that. Although what I needed to regret in this situation, I didn’t know, exactly. It wasn’t as if I’d done anything to provoke our local lowlife.

Pulling the backpack toward me, I dug inside, hoping there was some water in the bottle I hadn’t bothered throwing out. I hauled it out and shook it. A few mouthfuls, but better than nothing. I took two tiny sips, easing my parched throat. It was warm but wet.

I had less than fifty dollars in my purse but a few hundred in my account, my savings dwindling rapidly without an income. It wasn’t like I’d had that much to begin with, and I’d been surprised when I found just over seven hundred dollars stashed in my father’s cupboard after he passed away. Dad hadn’t exactly been rolling in it, either.

I could still hardly believe Dad was dead.

I had woken up one morning six months ago to find him fast asleep on the sofa. I had covered him with a blanket, and that was when I’d noticed he was ice cold and not breathing.

I missed him desperately; he’d always been so upbeat, no matter what happened—the one person who was constantly there for me. At least his death had been peaceful. I hoped that one day, I would go the same way, quietly and without pain.

Harry Lipton wouldn’t have dared to come after me if Dad were still alive.

Dad was the rock in my life. I’d never known my mother, and neither had my father, except for the one-night stand he’d had with her.

I lay down, using the backpack as a pillow. The vibrations and clickety-clack of the train numbed my overactive brain. I positioned myself so I could watch the scenery go by, and before long I felt myself falling asleep.

The train jolted to a halt, jarring me awake. I slung my backpack over my shoulder and peered out. It seemed like we were at a siding, the end of the line. I was about to hop off when I heard voices. Quickly, I hid myself against the aluminum side of the train.

Other than catching a ride, I hadn’t done anything wrong. Maybe I could just blend in with the crowd? The trouble was, my quick glance out suggested there wasn’t going to be a crowd. The station looked deserted.

Choosing the side that was closest to an open field, I jumped down. I crept along the boxcar, half crouched, until I came to the coupling. I took a quick peek. Seeing no one, I ducked to the next boxcar.

Just one more, and I’d be out in the open. Surely, nobody would be keeping watch over the back of the train.

“Hey,” a voice called out behind me.

Fuck!

Different scenarios ran through my head in a split second. They’d catch me and charge me with stowing away, or whatever it was called when you snuck onto a train. They’d fine me thousands of dollars. I’d have to sell the house to keep out of prison.

Running away seemed like my best option.

I straightened up and bolted, running across the tracks toward a tiny ticketing office. I’d no sooner cleared the tracks when I was yanked against a hard body by a thick arm that tightened around my midriff. A harsh voice laughed as I struggled to break free.

Fuck. I was out of the frying pan and into the fire.