The Chase

Dorothy Bimford’s chubby hands wrangled with the fire escape release. Her power was not physical but in the stroke of a pen. In the distance she could hear the drilling at the office entrance door. This gave her some relief as it meant they hadn’t entered the office.
She shook the fire release as rigorously as she could. Her soft plump palms not use to such rigor. Her extensive chest compressed with each rapid heartbeat; restricting her breathing to short strained shallow gasps.
The fire release gives. Pausing momentarily, she massages her left chest bone, an attempt to ease a sharp pain. Her last asthma attack landed her in hospital for two days which was cut short as she had to get back to the business. The last thing she needed now was another one or worse still cardiac arrest.
The drilling ceases and replaced with a thunderous bang. As hastily as her three-hundred-pound frame would allow she entered the fire escape and as gingerly as possible closed the fire escape door behind her.
She rests her back against the cold unpainted concrete wall. A feeble attempt to catch her breath and try easing the pain cutting through her chest.
She was sure it was an inside job, how else would they get to cut the phone lines, cut the power and how else would her cell phone all of a sudden disappear.
Fumbling with the clasp of her Vera Wang hand bag she searched for her inhaler or an improvised weapon, whichever she could find first. A gold credit card and silver parker pen were the closest to weapons she had. She wipes away tears from her eyes on the recognition that she's a businesswoman and not McGyver.
Her bumbling left hand searching the hand bag elevated the inhaler. Her fears worsen by the sound of its thud off the concrete floor.
She lowers her head and rubs her double chin with her trembling left palm. She sees it lying there. Ten centimetres to the left of her right foot.
At five foot three she is morbidly obese. Bending over or getting on her bad knees was not an option. She feared if she did, she would not be able to get up again.
With little choice she warily commenced a cumbersome waddle down the stairwell. Each foot carefully planted on each step one by one. The pressure on her ankles traverses up though her shins, joints and back in the form of sharp pain. Her breathing continued to labour. Dressed in her red silk blouse and Kevwe Mowarin black business suit, she felt like she was wearing an oven.
She sweated profusely, readjusting her gold rimmed glasses with her right hand after each step as they slid down her sweaty nose. Her left hand gripped the hand rail.
On ascending the second flight of stairs. Dorothy stalled, huffing and puffing while removing her suit jacket. Her mouth felt dry like the Sahara. Her whole body ached. At age fifty three; years of sitting and working at least fourteen hours a day and neglecting physical exertion caught up with her some time ago.
The blood drained from her face on hearing the squealy sound of the fire door opening in the distance. Her bowels began rumbling, brought on by fear and increased adrenaline. It was not the time to have to use the bathroom.
Dorothy proceeded. Each step growing more painful. “I have your inhaler Dorothy”. The voice loud enough to echo down through the stairwell. Dorothy thought she recognised it. Bile filled up in her throat forcing her to stop to get physically sick. Dorothy trundles on, her jelly like legs trembled with every step.
The sound of sadistic laughter began to draw nearer and nearer. Dorothy’s gut begun to signal that she wouldn’t make it, her glasses hung loosely at the tip of her aquiline nose, she didn’t even have the energy to adjust them.
She glanced quickly at her right fist. She never threw a punch in her life; she didn’t know how and didn’t have the energy to put up a fight. She was a beaten ticket. The assailant now a few footsteps away.