“Little booooooy,” the man said, a taunting and creepy call. Definitely him-Thomas couldn’t forget that voice. “Little girrrrrrrrl. Come out come out make a sound make a sound. I want your noses.”
“Nothin’ in here,” a woman spat. “Nothin’ but an old table.”
The creak of wood scraping against the floor sliced through the air, then ended abruptly.
“Maybe they’re hiding their noses under it,” the man responded. “Maybe they’re still attached to their sweet little pretty faces.”
Thomas shrank back against Brenda when he heard a hand or shoe scruff along the floor just outside the entrance to their little hiding place. Just a foot or two away.
“Nothin’ down there!” the woman said again.
Thomas heard her move away. He realized that his whole body had tensed into a pack of taut wires; he forced himself to relax, still careful to control his breathing.
More shuffling of feet. Then a haunting set of whispers, as if the trio had met in the middle of the room to strategize. Were their minds still sound enough to do such a thing? Thomas wondered. He strained to hear, to catch any words, but the harsh puffs of speech remained indecipherable.
“No!” one of them shouted. A man, but Thomas couldn’t tell if it was the man. “No! No no no no no no no no.” The words quieted into a murmured stutter.
The woman cut him off with her own chant. “Yes yes yes yes yes yes yes yes.”
“Shut up!” the leader said. Definitely the leader. “Shut up shut up shut up!”
Thomas felt cold inside, though sweat was beading on his skin. He didn’t know if this exchange had any meaning whatsoever or was just more evidence of madness.
“I’m leaving,” the woman said, her words broken by a sob. She sounded like a child left out of a game.
“Me too, me too.” This from the other man.
“Shut up shut up shut up shut up!” the leader yelled, this time much louder. “Go away go away go away!”
The sudden repetition of words creeped Thomas out. Like some control over language had snapped in their brains.
Brenda was squeezing his hand so hard it hurt. Her breath was cool against the sweat on his neck.
Shuffles of feet and swishing of clothes outside. Were they leaving?
The sounds decreased sharply in volume when they entered the hallway, tunnel, whatever. The other Cranks in their party seemed to have left already. Soon it became silent all over again. Thomas only heard the faint sounds of his and Brenda’s breath.
They waited in the darkness, lying flat on the hard ground, facing the small doorway, pressed together, sweating. The silence stretched out, turned back into the buzz of absent sound. Thomas kept listening, knowing they had to be absolutely sure. As much as he wanted to leave that little compartment, as uncomfortable as it was, they had to wait.
Several minutes passed. Several more. Nothing but silence and darkness.
“I think they’re gone,” Brenda finally whispered. She flicked on her flashlight.
“Hello, noses!” a hideous voice yelled from the room.
Then a bloody hand reached through the doorway and grabbed Thomas by the shirt.
CHAPTER 33
Thomas shrieked, started swatting at the scarred and bruised hand. His eyes were still adjusting to the brightness of Brenda’s flashlight; he squinted to see the firm grip the man had on his shirt. The Crank pulled, slamming Thomas’s body against the wall. His face smashed into the hard concrete and a burst of pain exploded around his nose. He felt blood trickling down.
The man pushed him back a few inches, then pulled him forward again. Pushed and pulled again. And again, slamming Thomas’s face into the wall each time. Thomas couldn’t believe the strength of the Crank-it seemed impossible based on how he looked. Weak and horribly injured.
Brenda had her knife out, was trying to crawl over him, get in position to slash at the hand.
“Careful!” Thomas yelled. That knife was awfully close. He grabbed the man’s wrist and wriggled it back and forth, trying to loosen that iron grip. Nothing worked, and the man kept pulling and pushing, battering Thomas’s body as he hit the wall.
Brenda screamed and went for it. She swept across Thomas and her blade flashed as she drove it right into the Crank’s forearm. The man let out a demonic wail and let go of Thomas’s shirt. His hand disappeared through the doorway, leaving a trail of blood on the floor. His shrieks of pain continued, loud with trailing echoes.
“We can’t let him get away!” Brenda yelled. “Hurry, get out there!”
Thomas, hurting all over, knew she was right and was already squirming to get his body in position. If the man reached the other Cranks, they’d all come back. They might have heard the commotion and already be turning around.
Thomas finally got his arms and head through the opening; then it became easier. He used the wall for leverage and pushed himself the rest of the way out, his eyes glued to the Crank, waiting for another attack. The man was only a few feet away, cradling his wounded arm against his chest. Their eyes met, and the Crank snarled like a wounded animal, bit at the air.
Thomas started to stand up but his head banged into the bottom of the table. “Shuck!” he yelled, then scrambled out from under the old slab of wood. Brenda was right on his heels, and soon they were both standing over the Crank, who lay on the ground in a fetal position, whimpering. Blood dripped from his wound onto the floor, already forming a small puddle.
Brenda held her flashlight in one hand, the knife in the other, its point aimed at the Crank. “Should’ve gone with your psycho friends, old man. Should’ve known better than to mess with us.”
Instead of responding, the man suddenly spun on his shoulder, kicking his good leg out with shocking speed and strength. He hit Brenda first, sent her crashing into Thomas, and they both crumpled to the floor. Thomas heard the knife and flashlight clatter across the cement. Shadows danced on the walls.
The Crank staggered to his feet, ran for the knife, which had come to rest by the door to the hallway. Thomas pushed himself up and dove forward, crashing into the backs of the man’s knees and tackling him to the ground. The man spun, swinging an elbow as he did so. It connected with Thomas’s jaw; he felt another explosion of pain as he fell, his hand naturally flying up to his face.
Then Brenda was there. She jumped on the Crank, hit him in the face twice, stunning him, by the looks of it. She took advantage of the brief moment and somehow yanked the man around again so that he lay on his stomach, flat on the floor. She grabbed his arms and pinned them behind him, pushing up in a way that looked incredibly painful. The Crank wrenched and thrashed, but Brenda had him pinned with her legs as well. He started screaming, a horrific, piercing wail of pure terror.
“We have to kill him!” she yelled over it.
Thomas had gotten to his knees and was looking on in a stupor of inaction. “What?” he asked, drugged with exhaustion, too stunned to process her words.
“Get the knife! We have to kill him!”
The Crank kept screaming, a sound that made Thomas want to run as far away as possible. It was unnatural. Inhuman.
“Thomas!” Brenda yelled.
Thomas crawled over to the knife, picked it up, looked at the crimson goo on its sharp blade. He turned back to Brenda.
“Hurry!” she said, her eyes lit with anger. Something told him that her anger was no longer just for the Crank-she was mad at him for taking so long.