Mel stretched her bare arms upward in a languid stretch, the damp ends of her pony tail lightly dragging over her pale skin. November was a cold month here, but it was a cold she was accustomed to, and it felt fantastic after the heat of the kitchen. She had just finished a rush hour, and there was still four hours left of her shift before she could go home.
It had never struck her until that moment just how dangerous it is to have the break area in a dark, secluded alley. The movement of a man nearby had caught her wandering eye -- not just a bum, but a man moving with a purpose.
She wiped her hands on the white apron she still wore and turned, meaning to go back into the kitchen, where she was certain the man wouldn't follow. Her cat was wake the neighbors if he had to go one more minute without food than was absolutely necessary -- and trips down to the police station, even as the victim, seemed to take forever. She, frankly, had better things to do. A low sound of surprise escaped her lips when she turned the knob, pulled, and nothing happened.
By then, arms were around her waist, lifting her away from the door. Her foot slammed heavily into the thick metal, hoping that the resounding thud would be heard on the other side. It seemed like a long-shot; employees who were locked out often had to walk around to the front of the family restaurant. The man behind her twisted, and she was surprised to see that the man she had originally sighted was still approaching. That meant that there were two.
The man had a syringe, she saw. Dread filled her instantly. For some reason, the prospect of what other ideas of fun these men could not fill her with half as much horror as the mere thought of the needle did. With a burst of fear-driven strength, her foot lifted and connected with the groin of the oncoming attacker.
Her satisfaction at seeing him double-over lasted only a moment; from beind her, she heard the other man growl, "Bitch!" There was a sharp pain to the side of her head, and she knew no more.