Priceless Cargo - Part 1

Bored, cold sweat slithers its way down her neck and hits her shoulder. This run is taking too long and Tilda knows it. The sun is peeking up over Lake Michigan and she can feel the warmth of this June day start to roll in with those rays. Her Nikes are weathered and squish slightly as she continues on down the winding lakefront path, her golden locks glistening in the new sunshine. Chicago sleeps in the background, the skyline is breathtaking from this vantage point, but Tilda wants nothing to do with it, her muscular long legs press on. Her eyes are focused ahead; burning into the wall she hit a mile back that slowed her to a jog. She hates jogs, almost as much as she hates the desk she has to sit at day in and day out. Secretary work, it’s a living, but a rather dull one. Mr. Jonlevy, her boss, wasn’t too much of a prize either.
Most of the day he was closed off in his office, Tilda could only speculate. Insider trading, taking long naps, pornographic chat rooms, each day she came up with a new idea of what he was doing. The only one that never crossed her mind was doing actual work for Max Pell Systems. Of course she never knew what anyone really did at Max Pell, she was the only secretary and the only one without a true office with a window. Her desk sat out in the open, save for two poster board thin walls on her left flank and behind her, next to Jonlevy’s massive corner office. It seemed to Tilda that everyone had a window, an exotic view of Chicago, but her. All the calls she fielded never went further than her asking the person on the phone to “Hold one moment.” Mr. Jonlevy never left for a lunch break, or really left the office at all. In fact the only time he left his office was at 5 o’clock sharp every day, Monday through Friday. All of his meetings were held in his office, in came all the men in suits and they all left with manila folders. Tilda never had to make copies or grab supplies, it seemed as if Mr. Jonlevy never needed any assistance. Of course she’d never mention this out loud to anyone, for fear of this being realized and her being cut as part of a money saving scheme.
She’s in a full sprint now, arms pumping, legs striding for that extra inch. The jacket she chose this morning only had one pocket, enough to fit her apartment keycard and iPod, which are now smacking against her toned stomach. Stupid, I knew I should have bought that clip for it, she thinks to herself. Her cell phone lay on the dresser next to her bed; all that thing has ever been is a bother to her another way for anyone to annoy her at any second of the day. The morning was her time, the route may be exactly the same every day, but the speed, the energy, they all changed daily. The effort was what she was here for, some kind of exertion outside of taping fingers on keys. The waves of the lake slowly lap against the break walls as she continues to sprint. She pours everything she has into the next one hundred yards. Her hazel eyes, filled with determination, neglect to notice a thin band of metal about ankle high intersecting the path ahead of her. She gains on the wire, unsuspecting of it, until her leg tries to cross it and gets caught just above the top of her sock. Tilda falls, hands out face covered, into the concrete path. The daze of the fall is quickly realized as reality as the warm salty taste of blood gathers in her mouth. She tries to look down at her ankle. In the haze of her vision she can only see the lacerations and red. She tries to reach down to feel for damage, but a black gloved hand slips over her mouth. Tilda is in no state to fight, but still she struggles. The attempt at gaining freedom is to no avail. She is pulled into the bushes just off the path; a small pool of blood is all that remains of her.