That was because her eyeballs were gone.
Sara wasn’t a religious person. She understood the social and psychological needs that religion sated. Apart from a few late night college gab fests with fellow psyche majors fueled by wine and pot, she’d managed to avoid having to justify her godless convictions.
But locked in the trunk, relieving the biggest horror of her past and waiting to experience one that would be even worse, Sara gave herself over to a higher power and prayed for death.
She prayed hard, with all she had, chanting the phrase over and over in her head until please God let me die became one long, endless word, ends running into beginnings running into ends.
She tried to help God along, hyperventilating to the point of dizziness, trying to suck up the last bit of oxygen in the trunk.
letmediepleasegodletmedieplease…
When that didn’t work, possibly because the trunk wasn’t air tight, Sara tried holding her breath, willing her body to give up, picturing her brain cells dying and bodily functions ceasing through the sheer force of determination.
That didn’t work either. Sara sobbed for a while, alternately being assaulted by terrifying memories of the past, self-hatred at her own naïveté for loving and trusting and being married to a monster, and the despair of what would happen to the rest of her kids, and the horror of the tortures yet to come. The darkness nipped away at her soul, the heat and cramps making the claustrophobia even worse than when Paulie Gunther Spence abducted her a lifetime ago. The feeling of helplessness was so encompassing, so powerful, she lost all sense of anything else.
The shift was gradual. The sobbing abated, mostly out of exhaustion. The darkness remained, but became a tiny bit more bearable. Anger snuck into the mix, jockeying for position against fear and guilt. It built slowly, and Sara embraced it, fed off of it, and added a fuel she didn’t have when she was eleven years old. Responsibility.
This wasn’t just her life on the line. There were children involved. Children she’d pledged to help and protect.
She couldn’t do either while stuck in a trunk.
Sara stretched out a crick in her neck, shifted her weight, and began to test her bonds. The rope was thin, nylon, the same type the ferals had used to string up Martin.
Should have let the bastard hang there.
She let the anger carry her forward, twisting her arms, trying to get some play in the rope to slip out. Her wrists became slick, first with sweat, then with blood, but the knots were simply too tight.
Then she remembered the nail clippers that she’d shoved into her back pocket while at the campsite. Were they still there, or had Martin taken them?
Sara shifted again, bending her knees to give her hands more room to work. Her fingers dug into her pocket and touched the small metal object.
Small, but packed full of hope.
They weren’t the best tool for the job, and Sara couldn’t see what she was doing, but she opened up the clippers and began to slowly nip away at the rope binding her left wrist.
It was slow going, and involved intense concentration. The clippers were slippery, and the repetitive motion made her fingers cramp and throb. But she kept at it, clipping a few nylons threads at a time, and after five minutes of exhausting work she was through the rope.
It freed her left arm, which was one of the greatest feelings Sara had ever experienced. But her right wrist was still tied to her legs, the multiple knots Martin had used still holding tight. Sara attacked the rope again, using her left hand. But it lacked the control, and strength, of her right, and after ten minutes she’d only gotten halfway through.
Self-doubt returned. Martin could come back any minute. He might even be in the room right now. Maybe he left her the nail clippers on purpose, seeing if she’d try to escape, waiting for her to come out. He’d fooled Sara for six years without her suspecting a thing. Clearly he was capable of anything.
The darkness pressed down on Sara, getting into her nose and mouth and ears, reminding her what was going to happen.
Keep cool. Stay focused. You can do this.
She doubled her effort, fighting the cramps, imagining the clippers were a tiny alligator, relentless, tenacious, biting, biting, biting—
I’m free.
Sara didn’t bother with her ankles. She turned onto her back, pressed her feet against the top of the trunk, and pushed like she was doing the mother of all leg-presses.
The trunk lid creaked, then popped open, drenching Sara in beautiful, magestic light.
She did a sit-up, looking around the room, nail clippers clenched in her hand to poke in Martin’s eye if he were anywhere close.
He wasn’t. The room was empty.
Sara pulled herself out of the trunk, rolling over the edge and closing the lid behind her. She inch-wormed over to the table with the tools. There, on the top, was the hunting knife.
She recoiled. Though Sara had never seen the knife Paulie Gunther Spence had used on Louise, the monster had described it in perfect detail. Martin had found a match for the one in Sara’s imagination. It was horrible looking, with a seven inch blade, and a serrated back that seemed capable of sawing through wood.
Even though it would have made a good weapon, Sara couldn’t bring herself to even touch it. Instead she took a utility knife—one with a retractable razor blade—and quickly freed her wrists and ankles.
Now to go get the kids.
Sara went to the door and carefully checked the hallway. Clear. Not knowing which way to go, she chose left, creeping alongside the wall, listening for any sounds.
One came from behind her. A toilet flush.
Sara hurried into the nearest room. It looked a lot like Martin’s, with a bed and a table piled high with gore-stained tools. Alongside the wall was a large wooden crate.
Footsteps, from the hall. Getting closer.
The table was too small to fit beneath. The bed had no dust ruffle and she’d be easily spotted. There weren’t any other doors.
That left the crate. Sara rushed to it, put a leg over the side, and climbed in, pressing her belly down onto a pile of hay.
The smell hit her first, reminding her of a dog kennel.
Then she realized there was something in the crate with her.
“Uuuuuuhhhhnnnn,” it said.
Sara clamped a hand over her mouth so she didn’t scream. It was only a foot away from her, buried beneath the filthy straw. The thing undulated, and Sara saw a glimpse of white skin.
“Uuuuuuuhhhhhnn.”
The footsteps came into the room. Sara heard them walk over to a dresser, heard the drawer open.
The thing wiggled. “Uhhhhhnnnnnn.”
“Lester will clean the crate soon,” said the man who belonged to the footsteps. “Lester promises.”
More hay fell away, and Sara stared at something that used to be human. The eyes were gone, the limbs were gone, the face horribly scarred and yet somehow…
Familiar.
“Uhhhhhhhhhnnn.”
The torso turned toward Sara, sniffing her, squirming closer, and Sara realized who she was looking at.
My god. It was Martin’s brother, Joe.
“Lester said he’ll change the bedding later. Be quiet, or Lester will get angry.”
Joe opened his mouth, getting ready to wail again. With a mixture of revulsion and sadness, Sara reached over and put her hand over his mouth to keep him quiet.
It didn’t keep Joe quiet. When Joe was touched, he screamed. Sara recoiled, pushing back against the side of the crate, trying to bury herself in the soiled straw as Lester’s footsteps drew closer.
“The Joe pet wants hay,” Lester said. “Lester will get some hay. Along with the stick.”