Free Clock Work by Jameson Scott Blythe

 
    1.
     
    Heart pounding inside her chest, feet pounding against the floor, Parker ran down one dark aisle and turned onto another. She was in the warehouse behind the shop. She was going to die because she'd left her iPad at work.
    Or rather, she was going to die because she'd gone back for it.
    Should have just left it here and gotten it in the morning and gone one night without checking Facebook or playing Angry Birds.
    I could have read a book.
    Watched a movie.
    Taken a bath.
    Instead, she was running for her life.
    After locking up for the night, Parker had met a friend for a drink. As she left the pub, she realized her iPad wasn't in her bag. The last place she'd had it was on her workbench, back at the shop. There was a moment where she considered going home, leaving it there till morning, but she'd shaken off that idea and walked back.
    The shop had been closed for almost two hours. She let herself in with her copy of the key.
    Three men were waiting inside. Each wore blue coveralls and a Halloween mask—scaled skin, pointed ears, fanged teeth. Very realistic, at least from a short distance. Parker hadn't let them get too close. One moved to block the front door, the others closed in on her, and Parker bolted for the only available avenue of escape—the door that led to the warehouse.
    As far as escape routes went, the warehouse was a good option. Like a much larger version of the shop that preceded it, the cavernous building was a near-maze of randomly placed shelves and aisles, with every available inch of storage space packed with junk—some of it worthless, some of it priceless, none of it organized.
    Parker reached the end of an aisle and paused, catching her breath, thankful for the morning runs she'd made a habit these past months. She'd put some distance between herself and the masked men. No one had followed her into the warehouse. She wondered—and hoped—that they would just leave, forget about her and whatever they had come here looking for.
    What could they be looking for?
    The shop was so disorganized it wouldn't surprise her if there was some priceless artifact unknowingly buried amid the horde.
    A door opened and light from the shop spilled through the aisles. Parker stepped into the shadows. The door was held open for a moment before slamming closed, snuffing out the light. She listened, but heard nothing. No footsteps, no breathing. She wanted to pull out her phone and dial 9-1-1, but the glowing screen and the sound of the call would broadcast her location.
    Slowly and stealthily, she moved between the scaffold-like shelves, deeper into the warehouse. Tiny, dim bulbs in the ceiling above gave just enough illumination that it wasn't pitch black. Her head turned constantly, eyes and ears straining for any clue to her pursuers' locations, but finding none.
    Minutes ticked by. She found the far wall and followed it. She knew there was an exit back here somewhere, could probably have found it easily if the lights were on, but the vast and cluttered room was unfamiliar in the dark.
    At least the creeps in here with me haven't found the light switch.
    Up ahead, something caught her eye. A thin sliver of light. She stared at it a moment before her mind recognized what it was—light from outside, slipping under a door.
    Very faintly, a few feet above the sliver, she could make out two words printed in the shadows: FIRE EXIT.
    She had found a way out.
    Parker looked around, seeing that she was alone, but sensing that she was not. The darkness was getting to her. Everywhere, she could feel eyes on her skin. Calm and steady, she walked toward the exit.
    When she was six paces from the door, the dim lights above went bright. She raised her hand to shield her eyes. Through her fingers she saw that one of the masked men was crouched down next to the exit.
    He lunged.
    Parker kicked, her foot stomping his gut, knocking him back down. A pair of strong arms seized her from behind. She fought. One of her arms