by Jette Harris
Rhodes refused to return Heather to the others. She begged and attempted to negotiate, but he was unrelenting. He would not allow her to leave the room until she could stand and move around without growing light-headed. No matter how well she lied, Rhodes could tell. He studied her eyes, poked her, prodded her, and generally stressed her out.
“Isn’t messing with people supposed to spike blood pressure?” she cried, exasperated.
“Not if you’re running on half a tank.” He pushed her back down on the edge of the bed.
“What does it matter if I go into shock?” she muttered. “You seem to care a lot for something you’re going to kill within the next ten days.”
“Nine,” he corrected her. “Nine days. And my terms, remember. You will die when I kill you, and I’m not done with you yet. Not by a long shot.”
Groaning, Heather fell back onto the bed.
“I know exactly what you need,” he said. “Another fuck.”
Heather shot upright, pressing her robe against her thighs. Her head spun. She expected him to push her back down, but was surprised to hear the door open and close. Holding her breath, she listened to a faraway door open then close. “Damn,” she muttered. The Camera Room door opened, then closed.
“Please don’t do this,” she whispered as Rhodes returned to fetch her. “This is not going to help; I do not want this.”
“You don’t want any of this.” He took her arm and pulled her slowly to her feet. “That doesn’t stop it from happening.”
Heather did not resist as he guided her to the Camera Room. She lowered her head. Her face burned. This is what you deserve. This is punishment for what you did. You were weak; You could have fought harder instead of just giving in. She was certain as he led her into the room whoever was waiting for her would be able to see her guilt on her face.
When Rhodes opened the door, she found Z staring at her. His expression was slack-jawed, full of wonder. Her heart throbbed. She was sure Rhodes could hear it from where he stood at her shoulder. She fought to keep her face from betraying her relief—and elation.
“You’re OK.” Z took a few steps toward her.
“OK is a relative term,” she replied, trying to sound casual. Rhodes released her, and she allowed Z to pull her away.
“Heather claims she is going to become boring,” Rhodes informed him. “What do you think? Do you think she could bore you?”
“No, never,” Z replied. He turned her to face him. He stroked her cheek. She tried to avoid his gaze, but could not. His green eyes were flecked with gold in the fading light. “Do you remember,” he whispered, raising her bandaged wrists to his lips and kissing them, “what I told you downstairs?”
Heather shook her head. She didn’t remember ever being downstairs with Z. Stroking her hair, he pulled her close.
“I said that I would get us out of here, and I would make you forget any of this ever happened.” He took her face in his hands. “Not necessarily in that order,” he added, smirking. He kissed her then, and neither of them noticed Rhodes had taken a seat in the corner.
57
They made love, they talked, they told jokes, they ignored Rhodes as if he never existed. Heather buried her face in his chest and cried until she drifted off. They slept, waking with the sun shining in their eyes. When they woke, they were alone.
Heather pushed herself up on an elbow, inching higher. The room did not spin. She heaved a sigh of relief. Z pulled her back into his arms.
“Do you think he’s jealous?”
“God, I hope so.” Nothing would have made her happier than a little sliver of revenge.
“When we get out,” he told her, rolling her onto her back and climbing between her legs, “I’m going to take you out. Properly. With dinner and a movie.”
She snorted. “No, I’ll cook,” she said. “I’ll introduce you to my grandpa.”
“Will you drive me to the hospital afterwards?”
Not waiting for an answer, he ducked between her legs. Heather’s laughter didn’t last long. After a moment, her fingers were threaded into his hair and she was gasping for breath.
When Heather released his head and fell limp, Z leaned up, wiping his mouth. He raised his hand to lick it, but stopped. That was Rhodes’s thing, not his. He wiped it on the bed instead. Turning to go to the bathroom, he froze. Rhodes had reclaimed his chair. He was sucking something glistening from his fingers.
“How long have you been there?” Z sat back down on the edge of the bed. He felt Heather sit up behind him.
“Long enough to make a few messes.”
Z wrinkled his nose, trying not to gag. Heather ran her hands up his back and wrapped her arms around his chest. She glared at Rhodes as she kissed his shoulder.
“Moné-sha looked a bit like that the first time I paired her off with Witt,” Rhodes goaded.
Heather didn’t hear him. She was looking at Z’s back, where Rhodes had punished him for being defiant. The lacerations had healed and the scabs were beginning to peel. She ran her hand down the list, shocked to find the word BOLD at the bottom. Heather’s eyes met Rhodes’s. He set his face against revealing emotions, running his tongue one last time between his fingers.
Remembering their goal of making Rhodes jealous, Z turned and kissed her before going into the bathroom. As soon as the door was closed, Rhodes dropped his hand.
“You didn’t sound that enthusiastic with me.”
So many unrelenting insults came to mind, but Heather pursed her lips. “It’s not the same,” she replied instead.
“Does love make it different?” He stressed the word as if it were a pathetic concept. “Better?”
“Yes.”
“You’re just saying that.”
“The fact you didn’t already know that is sad.”
A shadow passed over his face. He looked taken aback, as if it were possible for her to offend him with such a statement. Her heart raced. Before he could retaliate, the bathroom door opened. Z resumed his place on the edge of the bed, facing Heather.
“Well,” Rhodes announced, standing, “it’s time for you two lovebirds to go back to your separate cages.”
Z closed his eyes and sighed. With a glance to make sure Rhodes was watching, Heather slid her fingers into Z’s hair and kissed him, then pulled on her robe and turned to follow Rhodes down the hall. As soon as Z fastened his robe, he grabbed her arm and pulled her back.
“Don’t worry about me,” he whispered, glancing at the window. “Just run.”
“What?” she hissed back.
Rhodes paused. “Are you being cu—”
Z spun and slammed Rhodes’s head into the doorframe. He collapsed without a sound. Z did not hesitate to make sure he was out: he ran across the room and flung himself against the window.
“No!” she shrieked.
Glass shattered around him. He hit the roof and was not able to stop himself before careening over the edge.
She ran to the window. Glass bit into her feet. She could see Z’s hands clinging to the gutter. Rhodes growled behind her, preventing any consideration of an alternate plan. She stepped out onto the roof and went to the edge. The ground was twenty-five feet below. She grabbed Z’s arm and helped him up.
The two ran until they found an overhang and jumped down. They were still fifteen feet above the ground, but there was no other choice but to jump. Z didn’t allow himself to hesitate and rolled as he hit the ground. Heather glanced back. Rhodes had his head out the window and turned to watch her follow Z.
A sharp pain shot up her ankle as she landed, but she staggered forward. Her head spun. Z grabbed her hand and pulled her along, running toward the woods. As the pain faded, she began to out-run him. She spared a glance behind them to find Rhodes jumping off the roof and giving chase. And he was fast. She didn’t have to imagine wolves for this run.
A chain-link fence stood just under the tree-line. If they were able to scale it quickly, it would be the difference between Rhodes
and freedom. They could hear his feet pounding behind them. He was closing the gap between himself and the teenagers at an alarming rate.
“Jump!”
She hit the fence high, at full speed. She scrambled to the top and swung her leg over. Stabbing pain shot through her thigh and her muscles seized. She hit the ground writhing, air knocked from her lungs. She leaned up to see Rhodes, tossing the Taser aside, jump onto Z as he scaled the fence. Grabbing his hair, Rhodes kicked off the fence, sending them both to the ground. Z didn’t have time to find his feet. Rhodes dragged his knife across the boy’s throat, flinging blood through the air. It splattered across Heather’s face. She stared as Z collapsed.
Rhodes, blood running from a gash on his forehead, breathing hard, staggered back a few steps and let the blade fall from his hands. He sank to his knees, staring at the boy with an indecipherable expression. He wiped his face with the back of a bloody hand.
Z clutched at his throat, but it was slick with blood. It didn’t look real at all: Pigskin looked like that when cut open, or uncooked turkey; Humans were not supposed to look like that. Heather stared at him, trying to find the flaw in the effect. No one could survive that. No one. That must be the flaw. She realized she wasn’t breathing and forced herself to take a deep breath. Zachariah isn’t going to survive this, she realized. He’s going to die. Her breath returned in short, rasping gasps. The world rushed back to real speed.
“Noooo!” She found her voice in the middle of a mournful howl. Everything sounded hollow. “No—no—no…” She scrambled to his side and pulled his head into her lap. Z stopped trying to impede the blood flow. He reached up to touch her face. Before he could, she felt a burning in her scalp. Rhodes had risen to his feet and grabbed her hair. She expected him to cut her throat as well, but he was not that merciful.
“No, Zachariah!” She struggled despite the pain, trying to get back to Z. He stretched his hand, reaching for her.
Wrapping his arms around Heather’s waist, Rhodes hoisted her onto his shoulder and carried her back toward the house. Before she lost sight of him, Z’s hand fell and he lowered his head to the ground.
****
By the time Rhodes had gotten her into the house, Heather was hysterical, livid and unruly. She managed to roll off his shoulder and pound him with uncoordinated blows. She was crying furiously. He was unable to piece together any of the sounds coming out of her mouth. When he grabbed her wrists in an attempt to drag her, she bit him. He put her in a headlock and led her up the stairs.
Rhodes had always achieved a certain detachment with his victims—whether assumed or forced. He was capable of experiencing a wide range of emotions through them, and had: from panic to amusement to levity, and perhaps even a little grief when things did not go according to his plans. But it was always contained, internal, and not shared with or expressed to any of them. He had breached that over the past few days, and now he had only once before experienced this white-hot rage building in his chest, now directed toward this writhing girl.
They made him feel something else. He didn’t like it.
Dragging her back into the White Room, he grabbed her throat and flung her into her closet. She shrieked in rage. He was barely able to close the door before she hit it, hurling threats and obscenities.
“What happened?” The fear in Monica’s voice comforted him.
“What happened?” He turned to her door. “Your friends tried to abandon you, Moné-sha! They tried to leave you to die!” He opened her closet. She pressed herself against the wall, sobbing.
“Wha—What did you do to them?”
Rhodes brandished the bloody knife. “What?” he yelled. “What! Heather, tell her!” Heather, still hysterical, did not hear him. “Here!” He grabbed a fistful of Monica’s hair. She shrieked as he sliced through it, used it to wipe off the blade, then flung the clump to the ground. “He looks like that now!” he bellowed, pointing the knife at the bloody hairball.
“No!” Monica fell to her knees. “Not again!”
“Again and again!” he screamed. “That’s what will happen if either of you try to escape again!” He slammed Monica’s closet shut and turned to the convulsing door opposite. “You will watch each other die—slowly!”
“I’ll kill you first, you sick son of a bitch!” Heather screamed the first intelligible sentence since he pulled her away. Her voice was hoarse from strain.
“Yeah?” He yanked the door open and shoved her back. He held the knife out to her, leaned down, and stretched out his neck. “Do it,” he told her. “Right there.” He pointed with his middle finger to his carotid artery.
Heather was shocked into stillness. When she reached for the knife, he jerked it away. Putting a hand on her face, he shoved her back into the wall. Appeased, he slammed the door.
58
“Not going to cooperate, I see.”
It may have been a few hours. It may have been a day. Heather went between screaming, crying, and picking herself up off the floor after blacking out. But the moment the outer door opened, she was on her feet and ready. As Rhodes turned the knob of her closet door, she threw herself forward. He had braced himself for impact, but was still thrown against the door opposite. He shoved her back in and slammed the door before she could hit it again.
Rhodes leaned back against her door and groaned. He felt compelled to kill her, but part of him resisted so strongly, his stomach clenched at the thought of it.
“What could I possibly do about that?” he asked himself aloud. The banging against the door faltered. She knew what he was thinking.
Rhodes opened the door to Monica’s closet. Her face was still red and puffy from crying, but she did not attack him. He pointed to the floor in front of him. “On your knees.”
Monica’s sobbing renewed, but she knelt on the floor a few inches in front of him. Heather stopped attacking her door, but he was not about to accept that as a surrender. Monica looked up at him, expecting him to assail her in some sexual fashion. Instead he pulled back his hand and slapped her, knocking her into the wall. She screamed and curled up on the floor.
“Back on your knees.” He pointed again. Knowing what to expect now, she cried harder as she resumed the position. He slapped her again, this time with the back of his hand. She took much longer to get back up.
“Stop!” Heather called. “This has nothing to do with her! Leave her alone!”
She didn’t sound ready to cooperate just yet. Grabbing Monica, he shoved her onto her back and straddled her. He slapped her repeatedly, making her shriek and yelp in pain.
“Stop it, please!” Heather yelled. “Avery, please! Please, stop!”
He paused when her voice assumed the begging tone of desperation. Monica flinched as he lowered his hand. He brushed the hair away from her face. A capillary had burst in her eye, and he had all but flattened her nose. Blood rushed down her face.
“Shhh… Look at me.” He adopted a comforting tone as he took her nose between his fingers. “Look at me… shhhh…” The moment their eyes met, he twisted her nose back into position. She screamed.
“Leave her alone!” Heather sobbed. “Please!” He heard a thud as she fell to her knees.
Rhodes lifted Monica into a sitting position. She swayed and had trouble focusing. “It had to be done,” he murmured, stroking her face. She nodded reluctantly, and Rhodes left her alone. He opened the door to Heather’s closet and found her kneeling in the middle of the floor, just as he had demanded of Monica. She looked up at him with red-rimmed eyes.
“Today, you are going to learn a new concept.” He pulled her to her feet. “You are going to learn submission. Now, open your mouth.” Heather obeyed. He lifted her chin and slipped two bloody fingers in. Pulling her jaw wider, he spit. Heather gagged, jerking her head away. She turned to spit it out, but Rhodes clapped a hand over her face. “Swallow it.”
Tears ran down her face, hot on his hand. She closed her eyes and obeyed. Right in front of his eyes, her fight,
her wit, everything he had admired about her disappeared.
“I’m so disappointed in you.” Grabbing her hand, he led her from the room.
59
By the time Rhodes had finished with Heather, the sheets were ruined with blood. The scabs had peeled off her back and the wounds had started to bleed. He didn’t concern himself with the blood, or her tears. He covered his hands in the stuff and wiped it all over her face. Seeing her helpless and in so much pain appeased the part of him that wanted to kill her.
After a few hours, his calm was restored. He allowed her to take a shower, and re-dressed her wounds. Heather was silent throughout the process, making no snide comments or sudden movements until he returned her to the White Room. She took one step in, then ducked back coughing. His hand shot out to catch her, but the smell hit him: the unmistakable smell of vomit. He grabbed Heather’s hair and forced her inside. She gagged, but had nothing to bring up.
“Monica?” she called.
“Shut up.” Rhodes pushed her into her closet and closed the door.
He took a deep breath, then pulled open Monica’s door. He didn’t want to admit he was nervous things had not gone according to plan. (Has anything this time, really? Have they ever?) He exhaled when Monica turned her hazel eyes up to him from where she was bent-double. In the corner there was a puddle of watery, oatmeal-colored vomit.
“I’m sorry!” She began to cry. “I couldn’t stop—I tried to wait, but—”
“Shhhh…” He slipped his hands under her arms and pulled her to her feet.
“You’re not angry?” Her eyes were wide, torn between surprise and suspicion.
“Why would I be angry?”
She shook her head. “We never know.”
“C’mon, let’s clean you up.” Putting an arm around her shoulder, he led her to the Camera Room. She stared, stunned, at where the window had once been as he steered her into the bathroom. Before he shut the door, he turned her to face him.
