The first thought to cross her mind was: 'you have got to be kidding me'. The second: 'I don't think that bucket is all the way empty.'
She squirmed in the confined space, trying to get her sodden boot out of the bucket. All she managed to do, though, was dump its contains all over the floor and knock the corresponding mop on top of herself. She gave up on that and fumbled for the handle of the door instead, only to find it was locked from the outside.
Brilliant.
Next thing she tried was kicking open the door with her bucket-shod foot. This yielded no useful results either. There was nothing about this sort of thing in the job description.
"Just bring a good book and a pack of Red Bull, you'll be fine. This place pretty well looks after itself," the old night guard had said when he had passed on the keys. And she had believed him. Who would want to break into a place like this anyways? Rows and rows of dusty vaults, most empty and the few that weren't only stuffed with old men's junk.
Well apparently somebody, because somebody had bashed her over the head and locked her in the closet.
Supporting her back against the wall, Nora braced both her feet against the door and pushed. The old lock gave with a crack and the door flew open; down Nora went like a reverse jack-in-the-box, right into the puddle of water she had created. There was a crash as every bit of supplies in the closet fell on top of her.
She thrashed free of the mess and dashed down the hall towards the vaults, making an awful racket all the way--courtesy of the bucket still clinging to her foot. She gave a furious kick, sending the thing flying into the wall with a clatter, and kept running.
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