Quake

It oughtta be a easy, easy plan. The Weasel had called it "victimless thing". Except that the girl they 'napped was crying, always crying, bound to a bed in a decrepit house in Rio, near Rieti, Italy. Pino was starting to get gut-wrenched every time he looked at her.

When she had to use the shitter, Pino had to untie and carry her there. He pretended he wasn't looking while he had to be looking (the Weasel had been clear, as he liked to say, adamant, that bitch ain't doing you any favors, look away one sec and she'll smash something on your skull).

Victimless crime. They had snatched her in Viterbo from a well-to-do family with a little villa, then the Weasel had taken off to mud the waters, swearing he'd be in touch soon.

"You'll see, they'll pay up quick," he had said, "the father's a businessman, he'll get this is just another transaction." This had happened on August the 19th.

But now it was three AM, early morning of the 24th, and Pino couldn't sleep at all. The night was hot and clogged and that poor girl could only turn on the bed and sweat. Second year of high school. Pino had asked her if she wanted a change of clothes. The idea had scared her shitless, maybe she thought Pino wanted to touch her, but he didn't, really. The primal fear on her face reflected on him as well, like in a mirror, and he started to think it wasn't so victimless after all.

He had left her there to boil in her jeans.

Outside the small house an ugly silence, something that you wouldn't ever hear in Rome. Not even crickets. Clasping the kitchen table like a zoo monkey, Pino looked at the old house phone and wondered why the Weasel hadn't call yet.

Over the fridge, the long hand of the clock pointed to half past. Pino felt a shudder deep inside, a prelude to a full-blown panic, before it hit him that the whole damn place was panicking too, shuddering like cat thrown in the Tiber. Plaster began to rain from the leaky ceiling as the bones of the house creaked.

He cursed out loud. The walls were slouching, dishes and keys tumbling from the shelf in the entryway, all amid a symphony of groans and a deep, guttural rumbling that chilled his bones. He stumbled, clutching at the front door for dear life. Out out and away, in the street, he only had to get past the stairs. Took no more than a heartbeat.

But the girl was still tied to the bed. He turned back as the house was starting to cave in.

Way off in the distance, God was dishing out the same hard luck to saints and sinners alike.

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Loosely inspired by the 2016–2017 Central Italy earthquakes.