Page 35 of Don't Cross the Blue Line
I run to the main entrance. Locked. Glass doors rattling in wind like the rails of one of those rickety roller coasters. Beyond them, it’s all white. Not snow. A Game of Thrones–worthy WALL. Winter is coming.
I try the emergency exit by the food court. I slam my shoulder into the metal bar. It doesn’t budge. Ice is crusted along every seal. I guess that’s to be expected by a blizzard in March. It’s more ice than snow.
Up next: the side entrance near Laced Up. Chained from the outside.
I stand in the corridor. Yes, I’m breathing hard. Next thing to appear will be White Walkers. Or zombies.
Okay. Think. I’m a thriller writer. I have put fictional characters in exactly this scenario. I can handle a mall.
I know this building—I mapped it out just this afternoon. There are six exits, all locked. But the service corridors are still accessible. As for my survival supplies—there’s a hardware store (which is a crazy thing to put in a mall, I know, but thank goodness for the hockey dads out there keeping it alive), an array of helpful specialty shops, and a furniture showroom. So if worse comes to worst, I can hunker down in there for the night.
I can handle this. I’m the protagonist, not the victim?—
I hear footsteps.
Coming from the rink corridor.
My initial reaction is relief. That it’s probably a security officer, doing final rounds…hours after the rink has shut down…on a Saturday night…in a blizzard. Okay, the more I think it through, the less friendly those footsteps sound. Especially when I recall Helen’s words and the unmanned security office I passed on my earlier tour.
So, I guess we’re going with zombies?
No. My thriller brain seizes control—shoves the panic into a closet, locks the door, assumes command. I duck behind the fountain. Back against stone. Breathing controlled. Four counts in, four counts out.
Weapons assessment. Laptop: no—contains career-best writing and incriminating evidence. Decorative rock on fountain rim: cemented to the architecture. A no-go. Camera bag with telephoto lens: two pounds of glass and metal. Functional flail if you commit.
I grip the strap. Slide to the fountain’s far edge. In my books, the protagonist never hides or waits. Waiting is passive. Passive gets you killed in chapter three.
The smart play—let the threat pass. If necessary, strike from behind.
I’ve written this scene before. Too many befores. I know the timing.
I’ve never once considered that my hands might shake on the strap despite five years of fictional confidence.
A flashlight beam swings through the murk—left, right, grazing the fountain rim above my head.
I flatten. The light moves on.
The footsteps pass my position. Back exposed.
That is definitely not a security guard. He’s wearing jeans, boots, and a flannel shirt. So a lumberjack zombie. Or a wildling from the other side of the wall…
He stops. Turns.
This is it, E.J.!
I summon every ounce of courage inside me, surge to my feet, and swing. My camera bag arcs through the dark, every ounce of adrenaline channeled into one rotational strike like I’m Arya Stark. I can’t help it. I now have White Walkers in my brain.
The bag connects, hitting ribs with a dense thud. A grunt follows.
Aaaand…what was I thinking? That little thud did exactly nothing. And now I’ve poked a bear.
My heart rate spikes, and I flail another shot.
He turns, and his hand catches the strap mid-swing.
The flashlight clatters and spins, throwing wild strobing arcs across the tiled floor. I yank back on the bag, but he’s got the strap clenched in his fist. And now we’re in a tug-of-war, both of us shouting over top of each other.
“WHAT THE?—”
