Colossus

by Jette Harris

  “When you two decide you’d rather eat than sniff, let me know.” Rhodes continued toward the stairs. “I’ll be in the dining room.”

  “There’s a dining room?” Her hunger had dulled everything but her sense of smell and salivating mouth.

  Heather had stopped sniffing. She followed Rhodes with suspicious eyes as he descended into the library. The muscles in the back of Monica’s neck tensed as she realized Heather was attempting to come up with an escape plan. Monica’s stomach growled.

  “Heather, I’m starving.” She had said these words several times in her life, but only now were they true.

  With a decisive sigh, Heather leaned back up. She took Monica’s hand and followed Rhodes downstairs. The clinking of plates led Monica into a richly furnished dining room. Rhodes was setting a silver platter covered with a large linen napkin in the middle of the table. At the near end of the table lay three plates, one at the head with two on either side. Monica had to swallow to keep from drooling. She couldn’t identify the savory-sweet smell, or the yellow-gold heap of food on the plate, but she wanted it so much, it made her throat hurt.

  “What is it?”

  “Honey roast,” Rhodes replied.

  “Honey roasted what?” Heather appeared at her side. Monica hadn’t even realized she had released her hand.

  “Just honey roast, Just Heather.” He did not look up at her as he set out napkins and spoons. “Was the front door locked?”

  “Yes.”

  “Were you able to find the back door?”

  “No.”

  “It took me a while to find it, too.” He clapped his hands together, looking over his settings. “Moné-sha, you’re here.” He pointed to the plate on the left-hand side of the head. “And Just Heather, here.” He gestured to his right. He, of course, claimed the head.

  Monica passed around the back of Rhodes’s chair. A brass-framed mirror dominated the opposite wall. Her reflection distracted her from her hunger: Her hair was a flyaway mess. Hickeys mottled her neck and there were dark bruises around her mouth. Her fingers found her lips, then raked through her hair in an attempt to tame it.

  “Nobody cares about your rat’s nest, Moné-sha. Sit down.”

  Tears sprang to her eyes. Sniffling them back, she obeyed.

  “It doesn’t look that bad,” Heather rasped.

  “Thanks,” Monica sighed. She reached for her spoon, then hesitated. Heather had hers poised to dig into the roast, but when Monica pulled her hand back, she paused. They turned their eyes to Rhodes. He stared at Heather until she placed the spoon back onto the table. He continued to stare until she slid her hands into her lap. When he turned to Monica, she jerked her hands off the table.

  “You may eat,” he said.

  Monica had a difficult time tearing into the meat with just a spoon, but she made do. It was greasy and slightly gamey, but well-seasoned. She was half-way done when she noticed Heather wasn’t eating anymore. Her spoon lay forgotten on the edge of her plate. Her eyes were fixed on the napkin covering the silver platter.

  “What’s wrong?” Rhodes asked, an edge of amusement to his voice. “Full already?”

  “I’m fine,” Heather mumbled. Her eyes darted to Monica, then back down at the table.

  Realizing something was wrong with the food, Monica slowly lowered her spoon as well. She inspected the remaining meat on her plate. It can’t be human, she thought with relief; The bones were about the size of a small game bird.

  “What kind of meat is this?” She hoped she sounded innocuous.

  “I thought you’d never ask.” Rhodes pitched forward, jerking the napkin from the platter.

  Heather had already closed her eyes, but Monica found herself staring into the unmoving black eyes of a wild rabbit. No, not a rabbit—a rabbit’s head. There were two of them, one facing Monica, one facing Heather. Blood had pooled in the platter, matting the fur around their necks.

  Monica’s throat twisted shut. She tried to breathe, but couldn’t. Heather called her name. Pushing herself up, Monica followed the furniture hand-over-hand until she stumbled out of the dining room.

  ****

  Heather jumped to her feet. She closed her eyes as she heard Monica gag, then hurl, followed by the thick, wet sound of vomit hitting the floor.

  “Sit back down,” Rhodes ordered, grabbing her wrist.

  “Why do you have to be such a dick!” She attempted to jerk out of his grasp. He took her hand and forced it back as far as it would go. She opened her mouth in a silent cry, then lunged forward, hitting him with her shoulder. He was knocked back into his chair.

  “You have no idea what you’ve just done!” she yelled.

  Rhodes snatched at her hair as she ran from the room, but the few stands tore away in his fingers. He bounded after her, although they had nowhere to go.

  “David!” Monica’s screams filled the house. She was standing at the front door, slapping her palm against the lead glass, rattling the ironwork riveted to the door. “Let me out!” she screamed. “I need to see my brother.” She banged on the glass again. “David!”

  Heather wrapped her arms around the hysterical girl. She attempted to pull her away from the door.

  “No!” Monica shoved her away. “I need my brother—I need to know they’re OK!” She slammed the side of her fist into the glass. It cracked into a spider web. Blood began to run down her forearm. Heather pulled her into a bear hug.

  “What the fuck are you going on about?” Rhodes had slid in the puddle of vomit. He wore a disgusted sneer as he attempted to kick it off his bare foot.

  “My brother…” Monica sobbed. Her legs buckled. Heather sank with her to the floor.

  “I haven’t touched your fucking brother. They’re all fi… They’re healthy.”

  Monica acknowledged this by sobbing harder, lowering her face to the floor.

  “They’re OK,” Heather whispered, stroking her hair. “David’s fine, Sterling’s fine; They’re all safe.”

  “Well, I wouldn’t say that,” Rhodes said with a smirk. He scraped his foot off on the single stair leading to the foyer.

  Heather scowled. “Don’t listen to him. He’s just fucking with you.”

  “Just fucking…” Rhodes repeated in a murmur, then louder, “Don’t listen to me?”

  He grabbed Monica by the arm and jerked her from Heather’s lap.

  “No!” Heather jumped up, but Rhodes shoved her. Her head hit the ironwork. Pain radiated around her skull. She groaned, certain the top of her ear had been severed. Reaching up, her fingers came away red. Her skin burned at the touch. She followed the natural curve of her ear, finding it intact.

  “Listen to me.” He shook Monica until she stopped struggling. “Your stepfather is smoking again. Sterling is stealing his cigarettes, and Xavier is playing doctor with the little Latina girl down the street.”

  Monica’s mouth flapped wordlessly. She shook her head. Rhodes replied by nodding, his mouth broadening into a shark-like grin that didn’t reach his eyes. She didn’t seem to notice or appreciate he had left out the two youngest. Her knees buckled again and he allowed her to fall. Heather struggled to reach her, but had trouble making her limbs move the way she wanted them to. She kept one hand over her ear to dull the pain.

  “And your grandfather is drinking again!” he yelled.

  “What do you expect?” Heather shot forward, tackling him. Her shoulder knocked the wind out of him and forced him back. Twisting, he used her momentum to throw her across the room. She slid across the floor, streaking through the puddle of vomit.

  “Oh, God,” she moaned, flicking it off her hands and gagging.

  “Dinner’s over.” He grabbed Monica by the back of the neck and dragged her until she found her feet. He took a fistful of Heather’s hair—if she ran this time, she would leave a good chunk of her scalp with him—and pulled them back to the White Room.

  33

  Heather sat with her back against the wall, listening to Monica
cry. She was doing her best to do so quietly, but it was loud in the silence. Heather had to stop herself from calling out to comfort her, to tell another story. No one asked why she had stopped telling them; Surely they all knew the answer.

  Memories of the dinner floated back to her in bits and pieces, but the details were hazy. Her face flushed, sending a rush of blood into her right ear, making it sting. She touched it tenderly, slowly applying pressure in hopes of dulling the pain through over-stimulation.

  “Stop touching it.”

  Rhodes’s voice made her jump. She dropped her hand to her knee. Refusing to acknowledge his presence any further, she stared up at the wall. Her pounding heart slowed gradually as she focused on finding the fine lines betraying the repairs he had made. They were barely perceptible; She had to squint to see them.

  The outer door opened and closed. Rhodes had grown bored with their silence.

  “We need to get out of here.” The words were so soft, she thought at first she had misheard, mistaking Z’s voice for Witt’s.

  She was corrected when Z replied: “It’s about damn time.”

  Witt was on board. Despite all of their attempts at planning an escape, they couldn’t bring themselves to consider leaving him behind. Heather wondered what grievous sin Rhodes could have done to change his mind—it could not have possibly been his atrocious behavior toward Monica. She would ask him when they were out and safe.

  The others were silent again. She realized what they were waiting on: She was the only one who could get out. Looking back up, the lines of the patch jumped out at her, as if she could always see them.

  “I have a plan,” she said.

  ****

  Heather should have kept them all together. She knew that now, gasping, desperate for air. Her face was so close to the floor, her breath fogged the hardwood. She couldn’t remember what possessed her to think Monica would be safer in the Bedroom, with Rhodes.

  In hindsight, they should have waited for the house to fall silent, to hope Rhodes had gone.

  It would have been safer to assume.

  Rhodes pulled his ankle out of her weak grip, raising the baton as he twisted around to look down at her. Heather closed her eyes and turned her face to the floor.

  ****

  Monica’s heart was already racing, but it began to pound harder when the outer door opened. She banged her hand against the wall as she sat up, as if accidentally, then held her breath as she waited. It worked. Rhodes opened her closet door and smiled down at her.

  Standing, Monica did her best to keep a straight face as she sighed. The silence was charged and pregnant as she stepped out of the pseudo-safety of her closet. Rhodes ran his hand around the back of her neck, his gentleness contrasting his purpose, and led her out of the room.

  ****

  “Aren’t you going to lie down?” Monica lay on the far side of the bed, practically hanging off the edge. She tugged at her loose robe, but didn’t cover her breasts.

  “In a minute.”

  Rhodes leaned over the open drawer of the bedside table, sifting through the contents of his bag of tricks: the Taser, his hunting knife, the telescoping baton, a scalpel, electrical wire that had been stripped in the middle, a few lengths of rope. He gripped the knife handle. He recalled the last time he had used it. Frowning, he let it drop back to the bottom of the bag. He wasn’t ready to use it again.

  Leaning on the table, he gazed at Monica. She stared back, her anxiety betrayed by the way her fingers worried the belt of her robe. Her other hand lay rigidly on her torso in mimicry of relaxation. Turning back to the drawer, he curled his fingers around the baton and pulled it out. With a flick of his wrist, it extended with a satisfying thnk! Monica was against the opposite wall before he could turn back to her.

  “Wh—What do you need that for?”

  Rhodes didn’t answer her. He spotted some dried blood at the tip, and rubbed it with his fingers. He failed to wipe it away, even after licking his thumb; Blood had already stained the metal.

  “You tell me.”

  Her body began to shudder with silent sobs. She pulled her robe close around her. She shook her head, her eyes darting between him and the Bedroom door.

  The door burst open. Bare feet thudded into the hall. Rhodes was ready.

  “No!” Monica screamed.

  But he was already swinging the baton.

  34

  Rhodes paced in front of them wordlessly, fuming like an agitated cat. Dried blood speckled around his nose. A line trickled from a busted eyebrow. Heather had trouble following him with her eyes. Her stomach lurched and twisted with pain whenever she moved her head. Z had regained consciousness, and Rhodes finally allowed him—after kicking him back down a few times—to struggle to his knees. Blood oozed down Z’s face from where the baton had caught him on the forehead. Monica lay on the floor between them, not injured, but curled up and sobbing with remorse. Rhodes had not seen it necessary to bind her wrists and ankles before dragging them back to the White Room, only Heather and Z.

  “Hob,” he spat. Heather and Z exchanged a confused glance. When Monica did not respond to the strange word, Rhodes grabbed her arm. “Get up,” he demanded. “Get up!”

  Heather lunged at his arm, teeth snapping. Rhodes knocked her back with a kick in the stomach as he yanked Monica to her feet. Gasping, Heather slumped over, leaning her forehead to the ground. She had spent much of the last half-hour in this position for the same reason.

  Rhodes grabbed Monica’s face. “Hob your lip,” he growled. “Nobody wants to hear it. I don’t want to hear it. No more!” He shoved her into the closet. Heather flinched as he slammed the door.

  “Moné-sha doesn’t have the balls, and Witt doesn’t have the will…” Witt, who had been peering out from his open closet, ducked back inside. “…So, which one of you planned this?”

  “I did,” Heather and Z said in unison. Rhodes bared his teeth. He glared from one to the other. They flinched as his hand flew up, but it was only to tug at the hair on the back of his head. After a moment of this, he darted forward, grabbing Heather’s face.

  “I will cut off your fucking head—”

  “Let her go!” Z fell over as he struggled toward them.

  “—and give your grandpa a new hood ornament for his pretty little Mustang if you lie to me.”

  Heather fell still. She reminded herself how to breathe. “It was me.”

  “Heather, stop,” Z begged.

  Rhodes searched her eyes.

  “It was me,” she said. “You know it.”

  “How did you get out?”

  “The latch didn’t catch when you closed my door.”

  “Don’t believe her; It was me!” Z’s pleas continued to fall on deaf ears.

  “Bullshit!” Rhodes yelled. “This was planned!”

  “How long do you think I need?” She trembled, praying he would interpret this as rage rather than the fear he could see through her lie. Hoping she would not need it again, she had tucked the sill sweep back into its hiding place.

  Rhodes squeezed her jaw until it threatened to split at the chin, then shoved her away. Unable to catch herself, she fell back. Her head hit the wall, dislodging a piece of plaster on the edge of the giant hole they had torn through the drywall. She slid onto her side, almost knocking heads with Z. Their eyes met, silently reassuring one another.

  Rhodes’s eyes darted from Heather to Z, catching this tender exchange. His foot swung out. Heather, believing it was aimed for her, ducked. It found its intended target, striking Z in the face with a sickening crunch!

  “Unngh…” Blood flooded from Z’s nose.

  “No!” Heather cried.

  Rhodes pulled the boy onto his back and sat on him. Z groaned as his bound wrists were crushed under the weight of both bodies. Heather tried to throw herself upon Rhodes, but he pinned her down with a hand on her throat.

  Z attempted to raise his head, coughing as he choked on the blood running down the back
of his throat. Rhodes placed a hand over Z’s mouth, forcing his head back to the floor. He bucked and writhed as he began to drown in his own blood. Rhodes sat motionless, holding them both down.

  “No!” Heather screamed louder, her eyes wide. She struggled to push herself up, choking herself against his hand. She fought the rope binding her wrists until it burned her skin. “Please, let him go,” she begged. “Please, Avery—Avery! Do it to me! Do it to me…”

  She fell still under his hand, tears streaming down her face. Z’s movements became weaker. Rhodes wasn’t paying attention to him; His eyes were fixed on the crying girl.

  “I did it,” she sobbed. “It was me. Kill me. Leave him alone.”

  Rhodes abandoned the boy. As soon as Z was free, he rolled onto his side and heaved a shocking amount of blood onto the white carpet. Heather tensed as Rhodes knelt by her side, but forced herself to relax, making an offering of herself. He wiped the tears from her face and pointed at the person-sized hole in the wall.

  “I should kill you for this. I’ve killed others for less,” he whispered. Heather nodded, closing her eyes. “But I don’t think I will. I need you to keep Z in line.” He smoothed down her mussed hair. “And I know how to keep you in line.”

  35

  Usually when Rhodes came to the door, he was just wearing jeans, some blue-and-white striped pajama pants, or an ironically fluffy, blue terrycloth robe. Sometimes he would come naked. When he did, he was the stuff of nightmares.

  Heather was confused when he opened the door to her closet the day after their escape attempt, and he was fully dressed in jeans and a faded Dark Side of the Moon t-shirt. He still looked scruffy: His hair was a mess, his eyes puffy, he had not shaved.

  “Hello, sweetheart.” He tilted his head so he could look her in the eye from where she lay. “It’s time for a field trip.”