Nowhere to Run

By John Sliz

Two men are stranded in a remote area in Northern Ontario. Both are victims of kidnappers who yanked them from the streets of Toronto and forced them to parachute out of an airplane. One victim is able to send messages, but doesn’t know if anyone is reading them or not. He doesn’t realize it, but the masses are listening to his cries for help. Unfortunately for him, he also got the attention from some sinister people. Alerted to his location are the kidnappers, a Russian hit squad, an accidental detective and a hermit who only wants to be left alone.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Travelogue 219
• Release date: Dec 17, 2021
• ISBN: 9781927679999

John Sliz

Since 2006 John has had 37 books published by a number of different traditional publishers. Most of his books are on the engineers of World War II, but he has also written 4 novels and 4 travel books.

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Nowhere to Run

2013, 2016, 2021 © Travelogue 219

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form without the written permission of the publisher.

TL219-204 `Nowhere to Run’ by John Sliz Edition 2.1

Published by: Travelogue 219

Toronto, Canada

www.tl219.com

ISBN 978-1-927679-99-9

All characters in this novel are the product

of the author’s imagination and any resemblance

to anyone living or dead is purely coincidental.

As always, a big thank you to Laura who jokes (sort of) that there should be a support group for writer’s wives.

Also, thank you to Ted Coady, Philip Purdy and Ryan Singh for their technical advice and encouragement during the writing of Nobody Important.

V.I.P. is dedicated to the veterans that I have had the privilege of interviewing.

Part I:

Nobody Important

Corporate Slag

A single lamp illuminated the living room of the small apartment that overlooked Yonge Street just north of Eglinton Avenue, and its two inhabitants, one small and one very large, sat together on a sandy coloured couch. Eric Cooper, the large one, stared at a flat black object that sat in the palm of his hand - with room to spare. He was mystified by one of the apps on it. His wife, Tami, reminded him what it was by saying, You needed a new phone and I thought that I would add something special to it. He looked at her blankly and she added, It is strictly for tweeting.

He knew what it was and he gave her a look to tell her so. Yep.

Do you like it? She asked sheepishly. I set it all up already. It is ready to go.

What do I say? He asked. What do I tweet about?" He poked it, as one would poke a dead bug. He half expected it to crawl away.

Anything…everything…random thoughts; tell the world how much you love me. She smiled.

He raised an eyebrow and said wryly, This is your way of keeping track of me, isn’t it?

She laughed. Of course.

He grunted. Slowly, his oversized fingers traversed the small keyboard as he entered his first message and then read it to her: If anyone is reading this then they have far too much time on their hands.

She rolled her eyes and grinned. Well, that is a start. She got up from the couch and Eric watched her walk away. She was five-two and curvy in a good way. He loved the way her long dark brown hair bounced off her back as she walked. I have something else for you, she said as she walked towards the bedroom.

What? He said, but she was already out of earshot.

She returned carrying a small bag and dropped it onto his lap. It’s from my mum.

He knew that it was a pair of home-made socks, which were always welcomed. The only question was what colour they were and if they were really long. Sure enough he pulled out a pair of wool socks. They were forest green and really long. They almost reached his knees, and for a man that was six-seven, that was a long pair of socks.

Unfortunately she still hasn’t gotten the message about them being too long. The irony is that she still complains that she needs to use three balls of wool to make a pair for you. Then she started to go on and on that you are too damn tall.

He grinned. Oh boy. He held up a sock. I’ll wear these tomorrow and in the summer you can use one of them as a sleeping bag.

She shook her head. She is right you know.

Of course she is…um…what about this time?

You are too tall.

You are too short, mini mouse.

Maybe our children will be normal size. Nature has a way of balancing things out.

Right, he said uncomfortably. Where do you want to go for our summer vacation? They had just gotten back from Punta Canta in February. Not sure, she said. Maybe we should go camping as far north as we can get to.

I hate camping, he said, not bothering to hide his contempt.

No you don’t.

I spent the better part of my childhood in a tent somewhere shivering amongst the mosquitoes.

And you hated it? She asked sarcastically.

No, I loved it at the time, but those days are long past. I’m done with making fires and pitching tents. I want to travel to see the world, not a bunch of trees and rocks.

We can’t afford…

Yes we can.

She sighed and then started over again. We can’t afford an expensive trip to Europe. We are saving for a house.

Eric stared at the floor and Tami knew that he wasn’t particularly happy with how the conversation was going. Don’t worry, we’ll make it someday.

When?

Once we’ve bought a house; before the kids.

I’m not thrilled about spending my vacation camping. Been there done that.

We’ll do something else then. We’ll drive somewhere…Florida or…

You just don’t want to fly isn’t it? Scared to?

Tami looked away and Eric knew that he was right. No, she said weakly.

Hey, I’m not particularly fond of it either. I spend the entire flight crammed into a seat that is too small for a midget. He looked at her and added, like you.

And you want to spend eight hours flying to Europe?

Not really, but it is a means to an end. At least it gets me to Europe.

Tami looked at Eric, sighed and then said, Okay, no camping then. We’ll continue to look at options, agreed?

Agreed.

* * * * *

Monday morning, the furthest point away from the weekend and Eric was going through the motions of a dull day. His desk was in the middle of a sea of cubicles that made up one of many floors of the Coldwatershed Group Of Companies, headquartered in downtown Toronto. Outside it was a fairly sunny day, almost spring like. It was almost time to shed his duck down jacket and heavy fur lined boots.

At noon he took off his dress shoes and put on his boots. With his jacket and scarf in hand he headed for the stairs. If he wore them then he would have gotten sweaty and he would have frozen once he got outside. This was part of his daily routine at work, which was to spend his lunch out walking. He walked down the ten flights of stairs, walked around downtown for an hour and headed back up the stairs. The benefits were twofold. Not only did it give him the obvious physical benefits, it also cleared his mind of any work related stress. His only rule during these walks was not to think about work. He could think of anything but work. This was the ultimate in de-stressing.

At he exited the stairs, twenty feet from the front doors he felt the cold air. Now it was time to put on his jacket and he bundled himself up. He wrapped his scarf around his neck and zipped up his jacket.

Why do I do this? He thought as he pushed through the door and into the cold.

* * * * *

Towards the end of the day Eric was bored so he pulled his new toy out and stared at it. All day long he had struggled to write his second message that he knew Tami was waiting to read. He sighed as he looked up to see all the people milling about, pretending to work. One of them, a blonde twenty-something woman made eye contact with him and started his way. She stopped at his desk with her hands resting on the wall of the cubicle.

Hi Cathy, he said.

Her eyes widened. She asked, Is that what I think it is?

God knows the way your mind works so I can’t answer that question. He showed it to her.

She ignored his sarcasm. Cool. When did you get it?

Yesterday. Tami gave it to me. We’re two years married now.

You got married in March?

Yep.

That’s different.

It was cheaper.

Really?

No. We wanted something different. We got married in a curling rink. We stood in the house and our rings we slid down the ice on rocks.

Oh. She squinted at him. She never knew when he was being sarcastic or not, So what’s your space coordinates? Cathy reached into her pocket and pulled out her cell phone.

Eric glared at her but then realized what she meant. Eric P Cooper at dot dot dot something.

Cool! I’ll check it out. I know the website.

I only have one message up there so far.

I’m sure that you will write more.

I am not sure about that!

You will and I’ll be checking. As she was walking away she added over her shoulder, why don’t you write one of your infamous sayings?

After Cathy left, he shrugged. Why the hell not? Then he typed in, Message two: work is not supposed to be fun. That is why they have to pay us to be here.

He had just sent it when he heard his boss coming. It wasn’t difficult to differentiate the light quick footsteps of someone in a panic from the rest of the people who work here. He turned it off and slipped it into his boot against his wool sock a split second before Darla showed her face at his desk.

Eric, she said as she scanned for a cell phone. She had warned him a number of times that if she caught him on it one more time she would take it away from him. He knew that she was bluffing, but he didn’t want to give her any reason to bitch at him; as if she needed a reason. There have been times that she had chewed him – or one his colleagues - out for no reason at all other than she needed to pass the corporate crap downward.  Her boss was a tyrant and was constantly pushing her to push her department. It was clear that she was in a panic again and proved it by getting right to the point. Eric, before you go I need a printout of the Coxswell job.

Full-size?

Half will do, she said, turned and rushed off somewhere else.

Right, he grunted.

He turned to his computer and within seconds had sent a batch plot of one hundred and twenty-four drawings to the plotter. He got up and walked to the print room, almost forgetting that he had the small device in his boot. It kind of fit nicely in there, he thought. It certainly was small enough. I’ll get it later.

On the way back from the print room, he bumped into his boss, who took the roll of drawings from him. Thanks, she said. Tomorrow we need to finish this project.

Really? He tried to hide the stress in his voice, but his tone revealed his inner thoughts, which were: another freaking deadline. Great. No rest for the wicked. Hard work around here is rewarded by more hard work.

She gave some line about the client needing it yesterday before adding, I’ll mark it up tonight and leave it on your chair.

Okay, he grunted again.

Cathy was coming the other way when she saw the look on his face and asked, What’s wrong?

Tomorrow sounds like it is going to suck as per usual. Anyhow, got to go.

Back at his cubicle, he grabbed his jacket and turned off his computer. All he could think about was going home and vegging in front of the TV.

At the elevator he saw one of the senior Vice Presidents waiting. It was Arnold P. Doppenbegger, who only stood at six foot five. The joke in the office was that Arnold didn’t like the fact that Eric was the tallest person in the office and he was only the second. Still, in an office filled with mostly women and Asians, they both appeared to be really tall. Also, because of this, Eric was often mistaken for Arnold. Both men were tall, Caucasian, on the thin side, with brown hair and in this office they both stood out, literally.

Any plans for tonight? Arnold asked.

Not much. The Leafs are playing, probably watch them lose.

He laughed. I’ve been watching them lose since 1967. With only a few weeks remaining a playoff spot is doubtful.

Sad, but true.

At the ground floor, both of them walked to the front door and as Eric opened the door, he heard Arnold say, Damn. I forgot my keys upstairs. Arnold turned around and headed back towards the elevators.

Well, goodnight, Eric said, but Arnold was already out of earshot.

Eric walked into the cold.

The space between the buildings formed a wind tunnel that Eric, the size that he was, found hard to walk against sometimes. There had been more than one occasion when he thought that he was going to have to catch a person or two as they tried to walk against the wind.

The architect should be shot for making such a wind tunnel, Eric thought.

A few more steps and the wind stopped. It was blocked by the concrete walls of the garage.

Eric often took a short cut through the VIP parking area and tonight was no exception. On his way, he passed a black van that was double parked and thought that it was odd. Usually any van around here belonged to a contractor and they all had their name displayed on the side. He thought that the two short men leaning against a BMW was even odder; especially since it was Arnold’s ride that their dirty jeans were contaminating. Both men looked out of place, resembling stereotypical hosers. Both wore jeans, a heavy jacket and had scruffy looking beards, which was odd because one of them was Asian. Well, partially. Eric thought that he looked like a mixture of Chinese and something he couldn’t place. Spanish maybe?

Excuse me, the Asian man said with a French accent. He held up a cigarette. Name is Marc. Got a light?

Sorry, don’t smoke. Eric said as he walked past them. Normally he would be a lot friendlier, but something was off about these two.

Oh, that’s not true Mr.  Doppenbegger.

Sorry, but I’m not…

Before he could finish, someone hit him over the head. Eric blacked out.

* * * * *

The next thing that Eric knew he was lying on his side, tied up, gagged and in a vehicle moving at highway speed. For what seemed like hours to him he bounced around in the back of the van. Occasionally, one of them would say, Are you okay Mr. Doppenbegger?

With a gag over his mouth he was unable to answer, not that they expected or even wanted him to. They were clearly playing with him and wanted him to know that they were in control.

Eric panicked in his mind and wished that he could contact Tami to tell her that he was going to be late; very late. He struggled to get loose, but couldn’t get his hands free.

Relax Mr. Doppenbegger, Marc said. It will all be over soon. We’ll be rich and you’ll be free.

The other short man spoke, Do you want a cheeseburger Mr. Doppenbegger?

Eric tried to say yes, but couldn’t speak.

That sounded like a no to me, Marc said inspiring the others to laugh. Then he added his own annoying laugh. It was loud and sounded fake.

Eric cursed them.

Oh Arnold, this is a nice cell phone.

Yep, it is, the driver said.

Marc opened the window and tossed it out. Oops. I dropped it. They all laughed.

Who are these representatives from the bottom of the gene pool? Eric asked himself rhetorically. They certainly aren’t the brightest matches in the box. Stay calm. How the hell do I get out of this?

He started to panic and negative