Unleash Me: Vol. 3

by Christina Ross

  “Not according to the folks who hired me. Now look—I’m getting tired of your mouth. Just sit there and shut up. It was quiet in here a moment ago. Almost relaxing.” He drew on his cigarette and blew a hale of smoke at me again. “Let’s keep it that way until they decide what’s to be done with you.”

  “And what is that?”

  “Nothing good.”

  “But what have I done?”

  “That’s for you to ask them. Not me. Like I said, I’m just the hired help.”

  “You’re more than that.”

  “Sorry. No.”

  “What did I smell in that van?”

  He grinned at that. “You tell me—what do you think you smelled, Lisa?”

  “Something rotting. Something that smelled like death.”

  “You mean, like dead Esther?”

  I closed my eyes. It was a person. They’d killed someone….

  I tried to keep my voice steady. “Who is Esther?”

  “The last person they got rid of.”

  “Are you telling me that there was a dead woman in the van when I got inside?”

  “That’s right. That’s exactly what I’m telling you. Here’s something more for you to vomit on. When you were knocked unconscious? When I slammed that board against the side of your head? When you were out of it and dreaming that all of this was just a nightmare? That’s when we dumped dead Esther’s body in the Hudson before we came here with you.”

  It was too much—I wanted to wretch—but he was talking, and as long as he was talking, I knew that the only way I could protect myself was to gather as much information about my situation as possible. So I removed myself from how sick and how frightened I felt, and instead pushed forward as calmly as I could. “How many people have they killed?”

  “Look around you. Look at the crucifixes. I’ve told you that each one represents a life. Nobody leaves here alive.”

  “Are you saying that I won’t?”

  He shrugged. “You’re different. You’re their first celebrity. Because of that, you’re special to them. You can give them the kind of press they want. I don’t know how far they’ll go with you—not that I give a shit. But who knows? They could use you to make a larger point for their cause. I heard talk of that. I also heard that they’ll just kill you when they get what they want from you. We’ll see. So, you know, good luck.”

  “What do they want?”

  He didn’t answer.

  “What did Esther do to deserve death?”

  “No idea. Obviously, she did something that pissed them off. Probably something that they thought offended God. Or them. Or both. Who knows? I’m not involved in their discussions. I don’t belong to their church—if you even want to call it that. And I don’t know what drives them. I told you—I’m a hired man. And a trusted one. If they want Esther and all the others dumped in the Hudson or wherever, I can do that for them. That’s part of what I offer—I know where to dump the dead, I know how to keep people like you in line, and I know how to keep my mouth shut about all of it because that’s what I do. It’s a living. And a damned good one. If I do each hit well, I collect my check, and then I wait for the next one to bury, which likely will be you.”

  “Why me?”

  “You know why.”

  “I have an idea why.”

  “From what I’ve heard, you’re here because you’ve written some blasphemous book or something.”

  “Blasphemous? What have I written that’s blasphemous?”

  “A book.”

  “Who considers my book blasphemous? I write about zombies, for God’s sake. How is that blasphemous?”

  He leaned forward in his chair. “Don’t you get it yet?” he said. “Are you even listening to me? You’re dealing with a religious sect—and worse for you, one that has money. There are hundreds of people who belong to their church, but you’ll only see the elders while you’re here. The others never reveal themselves. Ever. They only provide the money the church needs to carry out its orders.”

  “From whom do these orders come?”

  “God.”

  “God wouldn’t want this.”

  “Their God does. Take it up with them.”

  “Look, if you’ll help me—”

  “Lady, I have a good gig here. It’s been going on for years. You can never match what they’ll pay me over my lifetime.”

  “You’re wrong. I can. What’s your number? You must have a figure in mind. What do you need to get me out of this?”

  “One hundred million.”

  “Seriously?”

  “That’s my price.”

  “That’s ridiculous.”

  “Then fuck it. We’ll see what happens to you.”

  “Why are you being so unreasonable?”

  “Because you don’t have what it takes to let me help you get out of here. Worse for you, I don’t want to give up my job. I’m rich because of these people. I’m not giving it up for anyone. It’s not going to happen. After all these years, I know that what I’m doing is reasonably safe and I sure as hell know that it’s financially lucrative.”

  What more could I say to him now—he was unmoving. But maybe not forever. I needed to shut up and strategize. I needed to think of a way out of here.

  “Is there a bathroom down here?” I asked.

  “Why?”

  “Because I feel as if I’m going to be sick.”

  “Then puke in your lap.”

  “Do you really want that odor in here?”

  He looked hard at me when I said that, but he didn’t answer, which I considered a good sign. A bargaining sign.

  “Is there a bathroom down here or not?”

  “If you need to puke or take a shit, then I’ll consider letting you use it—if I’m feeling it. If I’m not, you can do both right here.”

  “Fine,” I said. “Your call.”

  “Do you need to use it or not?”

  I wasn’t ready to explore the basement just yet. My head hadn’t stopped pounding. I was still checking out the room, still seeking a world’s worth of courage and the right thing to grab from the workbench.

  I was small, and thus I had an advantage. People didn’t take women my size seriously—especially this brute, who was more than twice my size. As far as he was concerned, I wasn’t a threat. He was, after all, the one who had the loaded gun.

  “I feel better now—the nausea comes and goes. But I might have to use the bathroom for other reasons later. I am human, after all.”

  “Then ask me when you do need to use it. Yes, there’s a bathroom down here, so don’t shit your pants worrying about it.” He laughed at his own joke. “Literally.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  An hour later, the door at the top of the stairs swung open, and somebody flipped a switch. In the blinding light that followed, part of the basement revealed itself to me. But not all of it. With my eyes still adjusting to the light, it was too bright to see much of anything.

  My gaze shot toward the top of the staircase, though it was hidden from me due to the partial brick wall that concealed it. But they were there. They were on the landing. Soon, they’d come down the stairs. And the very thought of the horrors of what they might do to me when they did reveal themselves cut through me like a knife. What did they want from me? Why was I here? How far would they go?

  Dead Esther.

  As much as I could, I stilled my fear. Giving myself over to it would get me nowhere. I was no fool. Whatever was coming my way couldn’t be good. And because of that, I had to think before it was too late.

  And so I did.

  At last, my eyes adjusted to the light. I could see the entire basement, and I soaked in my surroundings as quickly as I could.

  I saw that the workbench stretched beneath the stairs and ended at the edge of the far left window. Tools hung above it—more saws, axes, and hammers. Otherwise, the bench was bare. At the rear of the room was a white door. The bathroom? Maybe. He said there was one down here.
If there was one, that likely was it.

  Unless he was fucking with me.

  In that fleeting moment before a footstep descended upon the staircase, which creaked and moaned beneath the person’s weight, I saw more crucifixes scrawled upon the brick walls. And this time, thanks to the additional light, I could see that they had been painted with blood that had dripped over the bricks before congealing within the crevices.

  Each crucifix represents a life.

  But whose?

  Dead Esther’s for one.

  I felt my soul grow cold at the thought of just how many smeared crucifixes surrounded me, each one signaling a life lost. My heart began to quicken at the thought that my own blood might soon be painted upon these walls. Whoever Esther was, she died here. Others had died here. Dozens had died here.

  How did they die?

  Does it matter?

  What are they going to do to me?

  Dead Esther would know, but good luck getting it out of her now.

  They’re killing people down here.

  You’re next.

  How do I get out?

  You don’t.

  “Getting a good look?” the blond man asked.

  I didn’t answer him. Whoever was behind my abduction was coming down the stairs. My time was limited.

  A final glance around the basement confirmed a slop sink just beneath the half-window at the far end of the room and a stainless steel table to the left of it. On the table sat a host of gleaming surgical tools—two in particular made my throat constrict. The first was a hammer. The second was a surgical saw that was no larger than a handgun. Even at this distance, I could see that each was stained with blood and had been recently used.

  On dead Esther.

  I closed my eyes.

  They cut her into pieces. They smashed her bones. They’ll do the same to you.

  No, they won’t.

  You’re a fool. You’re not getting out of this. You’re going to die here. They’ll get what they want from you, and then they’ll divide you into pieces and throw you into the Hudson along with dead Esther. You think you’re special? Think again, girl. That’s how it’s going to end for you. Not with a serenade of babies and a wonderful husband to complete your life, but with an unspeakable death that will make headlines.

  I looked at the staircase and saw legs descending. Whoever was coming down the stairs was taking them one step at a time, likely because the staircase was as old as this basement and probably unstable. From what I could see, there were three people coming to meet me now. All men. Dark shoes. Black socks. Black pants. At that moment, I thought of Tank, whom I loved and was determined to see again, and I wondered what he would do in this situation.

  Remain cool. Answer all of their questions—but only to a point. Play dumb where necessary. Leave room for the sort of banter that will allow them to expose themselves. And then, if possible, use that information against them.

  But how?

  Figure it out.

  As they reached the foot of the stairs, the men came into my view. They were of varying ages but each wore an expensive-looking suit and carried with him a book clutched to his chest. I knew it was the Bible given the crucifixes that surrounded me, and that I’d already been told that I was dealing with a religious sect.

  The first man who loomed into view had sandy brown hair, a neatly trimmed beard, and eyes that immediately focused on mine—he was somewhere in his forties, and the expression on his face was as grim as it was hostile. The second man had a shaved head and looked slightly older—he also scrutinized me, and somehow, the heat of his stare was even more intense than the first man’s. He didn’t know me, but his hatred and disgust of me was absolute. I could feel it boiling between us.

  But why?

  The third man had a shock of white hair, but otherwise didn’t seem to be much older than the other two. He appeared to be in his late fifties, or maybe his early sixties—his face was too youthful for him to be much older than that. His skin was pale, his lips were set in a tight line, and his chin was marked with a cleft .

  As each man moved toward me, all looked directly at me, but no one’s gaze was as cutting or as judgmental as the eldest man’s. He stopped in front of me and the other men parted to stand just behind him—to his left and to his right—creating a sort of V.

  “Lisa Ward?” the man said to me.

  I didn’t answer.

  “Speak your full name to me now, or assume your punishment.”

  “My name is Lisa Marie Ward.”

  “And you’re the Lisa Marie Ward who has sinned repeatedly against God?”

  “I don’t—”

  “Answer the question.”

  “We’ve all sinned against God.”

  He turned to the man with the blond hair and snapped his fingers. The young man stood, swung around his chair, and gave it to the man who stood in front of me. The white-haired man positioned the chair so it was directly in front of me. Then, he sat.

  “You’re right about that,” he said. “All of us are sinners, but some of us have repented. Some of us have done the difficult work of absolution. Some of us have cleansed our souls and given ourselves over to the word of God to make sure that His work is carried through. Now we exist on a higher plane.”

  I remained silent.

  “It was wise of you to give yourself up, you know. Think of what could have happened if you hadn’t. Tank might be dead now. At the very least, Jennifer certainly would be dead and roasting in hell—we did, after all, have her in our sights. So, you made the ultimate sacrifice for them by agreeing to come here. That was brave of you. And good of you. But now you’re probably wondering at what cost that decision comes.”

  I said nothing. Instead, I looked at the murderous expressions of the men behind him, and then I glanced to my right and noted that the man who had been seated beneath the bare bulb had his gun trained on my face.

  My heart started to beat faster. Was this it for me? Were they going to kill me? With no explanation as to why? I looked at the older man seated in front of me and stared at him. Did he expect a response from me? What in the hell was I supposed to say to him?

  Keep calm. Keep the conversation going. Buy time.

  Good luck with that.

  Try to manipulate what they say. Try to turn it in your favor.

  You’re about to become a crucifix.

  “May I ask why I’m here?” I said. “It appears as if I’ve sinned, for which I’m deeply sorry. I’d like to rectify that. I’d like to throw myself upon God’s mercy and make an effort to repair whatever wrongs I’ve done.”

  “Like your slander?” the man said.

  My what?

  I just looked at him, and as I did, he lifted an eyebrow at me. “But you don’t even know what I’m talking about, do you?”

  Actually, I did. I knew that it had to do with my books. Still, I just looked at him.

  “Only one person rises from the dead,” he said. “Just one person. Jesus Christ the Lord Almighty. But you and your sick books challenge that, don’t they? You think common people can just come back from the dead. You slander the Bible by calling them zombies, and in the process, you spit in the face of our Lord God. You tarnish what he did for all of us. That he died on the cross for us. Only one person rises—Him—yet you’re telling millions of people through your books that this isn’t true. You’re diminishing what he did for us, and we’re here to correct that. But before we do, I have one thing to deliver to you from God himself.”

  And with that, his eyes became bright, and his mouth twisted into something unimaginably horrible. Then, with one swift motion, he reared back his right hand and backhanded me so hard across my face that I felt some part of me break as I tumbled onto the dirt floor and slid into unconsciousness.

  CHAPTER NINE

  With a start, I woke to the sounds of shoes rustling upon the dirt floor and the beating sensation of water spraying against my hands, face, and hair. I turned away�
�recoiling from it—but the water only intensified as it rained down onto me.

  Somebody was speaking.

  “In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit,” I heard a man say, quickly followed by a chorus of other voices: “Amen.”

  “May God, who through water and the Holy Spirit has given us a new birth in Christ, be with you all.”

  As thick as my head was at that point, I recognized the voice. It was the man who had sat opposite me. The man with the white hair. The one who, for no reason, had reached out and slapped me so hard that I must have collapsed.

  Again, the others chanted: “And with your spirit.”

  How long had I been out? I wasn’t sure. I was lying on my side. My face was pressed firmly into the dirt. My right arm was crumpled weirdly beneath me. And there was blood in my mouth—I could taste it.

  But there was something else. Something hard.

  I worked my jaw back and forth. It ached and throbbed. Was it broken? It didn’t appear to be—I could still move it. But there was something in my mouth. Something between my tongue and my cheek. Something that felt like a small pebble. I lifted my head slightly, spit it out onto the dirt floor, and saw in horror that it was a tooth. Instinctively, my tongue flicked inside my mouth to find out which one was lost. It was my third molar. He’d knocked it free when he’d struck me…

  “The blessing of this water reminds us of Christ, the living water, and of the sacrament of Baptism, in which we were born of water and the Holy Spirit. Whenever, therefore, we are sprinkled with this holy water or use it in blessing ourselves upon entering the church or at home, we thank God for his priceless gift to us and we ask for his help to keep us faithful to the sacrament we have received in faith.”

  More water splashed against me.

  “O God, the Creator of all things, by water and the Holy Spirit, you have given the universe its beauty and fashioned us in your own image.”

  “Bless and purify your Church.”

  “O Christ the Lord, from your pierced side, you gave us your sacraments as fountains of salvation.”

  “Bless and purify your Church.”