The Zero Game

Staring dead ahead and sprinting across the terra-cotta pavers, I clench my teeth, step up on the concrete parapet, and launch myself into the air. When I first met Matthew in college, he told me he was tall enough to hurdle the hood of a Volkswagen Beetle. Let’s hope the same is true for me.

As I clear the six-foot canyon, I hit the roof of the adjacent building on the heels of my feet and skid forward until I fall back on my ass-bone. A hot lightning bolt of electricity shoots up my spine. Unlike the patio, the roof over here is tar – it burns as I hit. The impact alone kicks a miniwhirlwind of rooftop dust into my lungs, but there’s no time to stop. I look back across to the other building. Hangdog is racing at me, about to match my jump.

Scrambling to my feet, I look around for a doorway or stairwell. Nothing in sight. On the opposite ledge, the metal tendrils of a fire escape creep over the parapet like the legs of a spider. Making a mad dash for it, I hop over the ledge, slide down the rusted ladder, and collide with a clang as I hit the top landing of the fire escape. Holding the railing and circling downward, I leap down the stairs half a flight at a time. By the time I’m on the second floor, I hear a loud scratch and feel the whole fire escape vibrate. Up above, the man hits the top landing. He glares down through the grating. I’ve got a three-floor head start.

With a kick, I unhinge the metal ladder, sending it sliding down toward the sidewalk in the alley. Following right behind it, I shuffle down, my shoes smacking against the concrete. On my left is a dead end. On my right, across the street, is Bullfeathers, one of Capitol Hill’s oldest bars. They should be in the heart of happy hour – the perfect time to get lost in a crowd.

As I race into the street, a horn screams, and a silver Lexus screeches to a stop, almost plowing into me. At Bullfeathers, I spot Dan Dutko – easily the town’s nicest lobbyist – holding open the door for his entire party.

“Hey, Harris, saw your boss on TV – you’re cleaning him up real nice,” he calls out with a laugh.

I force a strained grin and elbow my way in front of the group, almost knocking over a woman with dark hair.

“Can I help you?” the hostess asks as I stumble inside.

“Where’re the bathrooms?” I blurt. “It’s an emergency.”

“B-Back and to the right,” she says. I’m clearly creeping her out.

Without slowing down, I rush past the bar, toward the back. But I never make a right toward the bathrooms. Instead, I run straight through the swinging doors of the kitchen, squeeze past the chef at the fryer, duck past a waiter balancing a serving tray full of hamburgers, and leap up the few steps in the very back. With a shove, I ram into the back door and burst outside into the restaurant’s back alley. I’ve eaten here once a week for over a decade. I know where the bathrooms are. But if I’m lucky, when the man bursts into the restaurant and asks the hostess where I went, she’ll send him back and to the right. Stuck in the rest rooms.

I jog backward up the alley, my gaze locked on Bullfeathers’s back door. Dead silent. Even he’s not good enough t-

The door swings open, and the man bounds outside.

We both freeze. Shaking his head at my predictability, he readjusts his windbreaker. Listening carefully, I notice the jingling of keys on my left. Diagonally behind me, a twenty-year-old kid with a pair of headphones is opening the back door to his apartment building.

Hangdog leaps toward me. I leap toward Headphones.

“’Scuse me, kid – sorry,” I say, cutting in front of him. As I slide into the building, I grab his keys from the lock and take them inside with me.

“Jackass!” the kid calls out.

Nodding another apology, I slam the thick metal door shut. He’s outside with Hangdog. I’m alone in the building. I already hear him pounding his shoulder against the door. Like before, this isn’t gonna last.

Behind me, the gray industrial stairwell can take me up or down. From the view at the banister, up leads to the main lobby and the rest of the building. Down goes down one flight and dead-ends at a bike rack. Logic says to go up. It’s the clear way out. More important, every instinct in my gut tells me to go up. Which is exactly why I go down. Screw logic. Whoever this psychopath is, he’s been in my head long enough.

Descending toward the dead end, I find two empty mop buckets and seven bikes, one with training wheels and rainbow streamers on the handlebars. I’m not MacGyver. Nothing I can use as a weapon. Hopping over the metal grating of the bike rack, I curl down into a tight ball and glance up toward the banister. From this angle, I’m as hidden as I get.

Up above, the door crashes into the concrete wall, and he enters the stairwell.

He’s at the foot of the stairs, making his decision. No time to check both – for both of us, every second counts.