The crate shook—Lester giving it a kick. Then Sara heard him walk out of the room.
Sara moved fast, getting to her knees, swinging a leg over the side, and then stopping.
She looked back down at Joe’s torso, pale and scarred. She couldn’t leave him like this. There didn’t seem to be any of Joe left in this body. The funny, outgoing man she once called her brother-in-law was now a pathetic, sub-human creature.
“I’m sorry, Joe,” she whispered.
The utility knife parted his neck with a whisper, and Sara hopped out as the blood began to gush.
Sara ran to the hallway, focusing on the task ahead rather than dwelling on what she’d just done. Seeing Lester disappear around a corner, Sara went the other way, down the long corridor, which dead-ended at a door. A large, iron door, with a slot in the center and a bar across it.
“Here comes Lester, and Lester is angry.”
Sara looked through the slot, seeing an antechamber with another door, also with a slot. She didn’t like the looks of it, but she heard Lester’s footsteps echoing closer and had no place else to go.
She removed the bar and went inside, closing the door gently behind her. On the floor were two empty plates and glasses. Sara approached the second door cautiously, placing an ear against it.
There was nothing to hear.
Sara bent down, putting her face close to the slot, trying to peer inside. She could make out a room, awash in dim, flickering light. There was also a smell. A sickly sweet, coppery smell.
“NOOOOOOOOOOO!”
Lester must have discovered Joe. Sara had no options left. She opened the second door and went inside.
The lighting effect was from candles, set up all around the room. But rather than evoke a peaceful, church-like setting, it was more akin to a medieval dudgeon. The stone walls looked damp, and the floor was covered with brown stains that made Sara’s shoes stick.
She looked around. There was a large bureau, an umbrella stand, a workbench, and a table and chair with salt and pepper shakers and a roll of paper towels. There was also a bed, and for a bad moment it looked like there was someone in it.
No; it was just pillows and shadows. But beneath the bed might make a good place to hide. With the low light in here, it would be tough to see under it.
Sara also wondered if she could hide in the bureau, which seemed big enough, when she noticed another door in the corner of the room.
A bathroom? A closet?
The door was wooden, slightly ajar. Sara didn’t want to see what was behind it but knew she had no real choice.
She was heading for the door when she heard a squeaking sound.
It’s coming from the bureau.
She paused, moving closer.
The bureau rattled.
That’s when Sara realized it wasn’t a bureau at all. It was something else. Something horrible.
And someone was inside.
After only a few minutes, Martin tired of Captain Prendick’s screams. The gridiron was as he’d remembered; hands-off and boring. There was nothing for him to do but watch, and Prendick was face-down so he couldn’t even see the man’s expressions.
Martin said a goodbye that probably wasn’t even heard, then took off. He was anxious to get started on Sara. Gun cocked and eyes scanning the trees for ferals, he headed back to the prison.
Tom hurt. His finger felt like it was being crushed, burned, and sawed-off, all at the same time. Then that freakazoid Lester poked him over and over with that frickin’ nail, and each one was worse than a bullet wound combined with a snake bite, which was a guess on Tom’s part because he’d never actually been shot or bitten. But they hurt like frickin’ hell.
To make the whole thing even worse, he was thirsty, he was forced to watch Tyrone and that skank Cindy hold hands and make lovey eyes at each other, and he still had a little piece of Meadow stuck in his teeth that he couldn’t get out.
Tom wondered, obliquely, when someone was going to come and rescue him. Every time he’d ever gotten into trouble, there was always somebody there to bail him out. No matter how often he screwed up, it always could have been worse.
But this situation didn’t seem like it could get any worse. Plus, none of this was even his fault, except for going a little hyper with the gun, and getting that stringy thing wedged between his back molars. But Tom didn’t blame himself for the actual eating; sure, it wasn’t his food, but how was he supposed to know it was a person? Tom did, however, wish he’d taken smaller bites and chewed more carefully, because every time he touched that stringy bit with his tongue he felt like ralphing again.
“Tom. Tom, you awake, dog?”
Tom ignored Tyrone. If that guy minded his own damn business, Tom would have still had the gun, and he wouldn’t be in this frickin’ cell.
“Tom, man, I see something on the floor, near your cell. A few feet in front of your door.”
Tom refused to look. Screw that guy, and his skank.
“Tommy boy, I think it’s a key.”
Now Tom looked. Sure enough, sitting on the concrete like a brown dog turd, was one of those rusty old skeleton keys.
“Can you reach it?”
“I got handcuffs on, brainiac. How’m I supposed to reach it?”
“Try your legs, man.”
Tom decided to try his legs. The bars were close together, but he was thin, and he forced his right foot through the gap. Then he scooted closer. His knee was a little too big. He pushed hard, but it wouldn’t go in.
“Try turning on an angle, Tom.”
“No duh.”
Tom turned on an angle, bending his knee slightly, and it slipped between the bars. He inching closer, trying to touch the key with his toe.
“Careful, Tom.”
“I know what I’m doing, Tyrone.”
Tom shifted again, reaching a bit more, and accidentally kicked the key a few inches further.
“Shut up,” he said, even though Tyrone hadn’t said anything.
Tom laid down on his back, shimmying closer to the bars, pushing his thigh through almost up to his crotch. He felt around with his heel, listening for the tinkling sound of metal.
Then the lights came on.
“Tommy. Someone’s coming.”
Tom heard the tinkle, felt the bump under his foot.
“I found it.”
Footsteps echoes closer. Tom didn’t dare to look. He tried to focus all of his attention on getting that key.
“Just forget it, man,” Tyrone ordered. “Get your leg back in.”
But Tom wasn’t going to forget it. No frickin’ way. His concentration was razor sharp, rock solid. He carefully bent his leg, dragging the key closer, and closer, tuning out the oncoming footsteps, tuning out Tyrone’s pleas to quit.
See? I can focus when I have to.
“Hello, Tom. What is this?”
Frick. Martin.
Martin grabbed Tom’s ankle and lifted it up, revealing the key.
“Whoa. Someone made a mistake here. If you guys had gotten this, you would have probably all escaped.”
Martin crouched down, picking up the key and pocketing it. Then he yanked Tom’s leg. The action was sudden and violent, bouncing Tom’s groin against the iron bar. The pain was like a gong being rung; a sudden strike, building up, and then resonating, lingering.
Tom howled, doubling over. Martin leaned forward and frowned, feigning concern.
“I sense a bit of distress, Tom.”
He jerked Tom’s leg once again, repeating the move.
“Would you like to talk about how you’re feeling?” Martin asked. “You know I’m here for you.”
It hurt so bad Tom couldn’t even inhale. His vision was peppered by swirling red and gold specks.
“Leave him alone,” Tyrone said.