* * * * *
Colin glanced at the clock and silently cursed the time, but continued to push his mop across the kitchen floor. He cranked up the radio and kept a beat with the country song playing as he worked. His mother was going to kill him for staying later than usual to help with the cleaning, but his boss had a guy call in sick and needed help closing up the restaurant. Colin figured if he helped now, then maybe the next time Sal needed to hire another waiter, he'd promote Colin from bussing tables and give him a shot at the job. His mom might have to stay up past midnight to give him a ride home, but it was Friday, and she didn't have to work tomorrow. When Colin explained his position to her, she would understand. He probably should have just called, but the time he was released from work on the weekends was somewhat flexible anyway, and at the time Sal asked, Colin hadn't figured it would be long enough overtime that she would notice.
“Hey, kid”—Sal pushed through the swinging door and walked into the kitchen, trash bags in hand—“take the trash out for me, and then you can go ahead and call your ride. Okay?”
“You sure?” Colin asked. “I'm done mopping in here.” He ended by the side exit. After leaning the mop against the wall, he wiped his hands on his short-sleeve, white shirt. “I could do the front for you, if you want.”
“Nope. Marta, Sierra, and I will take care of the rest.” Sal mentioned his wife and one of the servers. “I appreciate you staying and helping out. Take home what you want of that bread”—he pointed in the direction of a shelf with a half dozen wrapped loaves sitting on it—“and throw the rest away.”
“Thanks. Got it.”
Sal disappeared into the body of the restaurant again, and Colin gathered up the rest of the trash in the kitchen, then loaded it onto a small pallet he could use to drag everything in one trip to the Dumpster tucked away around back. He grabbed the keys off a hook by the door, slipped them in the pocket of his waist apron, and pushed the door open with his back. Hauling the pallet outside, Colin let the door swing closed. He used the light at the back of the building and the lamplights from the street to guide him over the grimy, uneven concrete of the alleyway.
The stench of spoiling food had Colin wrinkling his nose and putting his back into the work, wanting to get this job done as quickly as possible. Geez, he hated doing the trash. It was his job at home too.
A noise from behind broke the silence, sounding like shoes skidding on the gravelly ground. Colin barely registered the skitter of nervousness race up his spine, and then he heard, “There he is,” the thudding of feet hitting the concrete, and then, “That's him. Get him!”
“Wha—” Colin turned and didn't get halfway around before a fist connected with his head, making him cry out with shooting pain as he rammed into the wall. Pain lanced through his skull, shoulder, and back where he hit the brick side of the building; his head snapped back with the momentum of the punch, cracking against the hard wall too.
Glass shattering cut across the night, and suddenly the side light disappeared, throwing the back of the restaurant into near darkness.
What the hell? Fear pushed his heart right up into his throat, but Colin didn't even get a chance to make a run for it or scream. In a shot, three guys in rubber Halloween masks, dark clothes, and gloves surrounded him, closing in fast. One of them yelled, “Fucking faggot!” and all three of them grabbed him at once and threw him to the ground, knocking the wind right out of him.
Colin landed on his tailbone, and a sharp pain ran up his back and radiated through his body, stunning him into momentary paralysis. Right on top of that, booted feet flew in his direction, kicking him all over, rocking through him with blow after blow. He tried to roll over, but one of the men dropped to his knees and held Colin down, whispering with a ruthless drawl Colin couldn't identify, “Don't think you're getting away, you fucking queer. Not till we're good and ready to let you.”
“Please…ahh!”
The man holding him down clipped him one in the head hard enough to whip his face around, and then he held Colin's cheek into the ground and punched him again, spreading pain into his jaw and down his neck. Blood filled Colin's mouth with the next crack, but he could hardly wheeze through it and regain his breath under the relentless beating from the other two. He coughed up blood, but his throat filled again.
God, it feels like I'm drowning.
One of the others kept kicking Colin in the hip and thigh over and over again, and soon the wetness of blood seeped through his tan work pants and spread down his leg. Blows to his stomach, arms, and legs kept coming at him from the third person, and Colin blinked up in horror at the twisted faces of the masks, characters from slasher films, looking down on him with dead eyes as they brutalized his body.
Another kick landed on his already agonized hip, and Colin tried to shout, but only a gurgle came out. A barrage of hate-filled names spewed from all three guys with such venom, Colin slipped into panic, certain he was going to die.
Oh, God, help me. He took another punishing punch to his ribs from the third assailant, and for a moment could not breathe.
Suddenly, the hands holding his shoulders, digging him into the concrete alleyway, released him. “Hold up. Hold up,” that first voice said.
