by R. K. Weir
Another nudge in the back leads me past the mahogany reception desk and towards the door of a stairwell. I push it open and hesitate, darkness spilling out and into the dimly lit lobby. If I'm quick I can slam the door on him. But before I even begin angling my body to do so, he pushes me in with a chuckle.
"I hope you're fit, cause they like to party in the penthouse."
The door shuts behind us and I glance up at the abyss, barely able to see the stairs in front of me, let alone the ones above. Like looking into the night sky, except there are no stars to comfort me. It's impossible to tell how many flights of stairs there are, but judging how tall the building looks from outside, it's a safe assumption to say at least thirty. That amount of stairs partnered with the dark gives me ample time and opportunity to get myself out of this situation. I just need to think of how.
Throwing my foot out into the dark it connects with the first step and I soon find the railing beside it. With a sweaty palm firmly wrapped around the banister I begin my ascent, taking each step with slow and calculated movements. The gun is still pressed in my back but the man who holds it has ceased his talking, probably as focused on moving in the dark as I am. My pace is slower than it needs to be, but since he isn't complaining I assume he has no problem with the speed I've chosen for us.
Although I considered the darkness an advantage earlier, it's certainly proving itself a hindrance now. Barely able to see a foot in front of me, I struggle to think of how I can get away. I'm a fast enough runner. If I duck I might be able to dodge any random bullets he fires off. But in such an enclosed space as a stairwell and not being able to see where I'm going, I can only see that plan failing. Odds are a bullet will find me. Even if I manage to get away after that, I've no idea how to treat a bullet wound. With no medical supplies that practically equates to a death sentence. Then again, the current course of events seems to be leading down that route anyway.
No, I think. There has to be a way out of this. There's always a way out. I did not come this far just for an idiot with a gun to end it all. Once we get high enough maybe I can try and throw him down. But he's bigger than me, there's no chance of overpowering him. I could step back and try to make him stumble. If I push back hard enough he could slip and break his neck. But the gun is pressed firmly in the small of my back, and I know that he'll squeeze the trigger before he does anything else.
A sweat has broken out across my brow now. The darkness has not shifted, and it's still impossible to tell how many flights we have covered or how many we have left. I should have been counting. My breathing has become heavy, but I can hear his rasping grunts behind me. He's far more winded than I am. If hunger had not sapped the energy from my limbs I might have felt more confident in my speed and taken him on. Not now, I've already decided that any attempt at a fight can only end badly.
Although I discarded luck earlier, it's beginning to seem that it may be my only savior. Maybe, if I'm lucky, they'll be dumb enough to get high before they try anything with me. Dealing with an intoxicated person would be far easier. But then I think of Joey, and how he isn't exactly a testament to this idea. I wasn't there when he blew up the bus, but if an entire school full of people couldn't stop him – just one intoxicated person – then what hope do I have of stopping several?
Now I think back to my first encounter with Logan, how his Jeep had come out of nowhere and driven down the infected that was chasing me. I had labeled his good timing a miracle. Maybe that's what I need now. Not luck, a miracle. Of course the odds of a miracle finding me in a dark stairwell are slim, I'll have to keep thinking. Time is limited though. Muffled sounds of activity can now be heard just a floor above us. Laughing and the stomping of boots. I listen to the different tones and muffled voices. It's hard to differentiate them, but I'm sure the voices belong to at least four people.
All thoughts of escape have been overruled now by a rising panic. My heart beats thunderously in my chest and my hand clamps around the railing as if it is a lifeline. It's already been decided that making a move now would be a bad idea. So what can I do? See how things pan out and just wait for an opportunity? Not my most favored plan, but as my foot reaches level ground and I feel the railing of the stairs ending, it becomes my only plan.
The door opens to a small hallway, with a faint glow seeping out from underneath a door up ahead. The voices are louder now, so loud that I can make out what they're saying. They toss jokes and insults at each other, laughing about some man they had sold earlier. Sold? What does that mean? Sold him to who? It doesn't make sense to me, but at least they're not joking about having him killed. The voices all belong to men, if there are any women, they're staying quiet. But something tells me not to expect any women.
"I can't wait to see the look on their faces," the man behind me says, reaching out and opening the door for me. I hesitate as long as I can before he pushes me over the threshold. Silence takes the room as every head swivels in our direction.
There are no women, only men with beards as wild as their appearances. For a moment there is nothing but blank expressions until, slowly, grins begin to spread. Some even go as far as to laugh and call out. Only one of them does not smile, a man no older than myself with orange hair and freckles to match. In the dark room, dimly lit by scattered candles, it almost looks like he is frowning. I tear my attention away from him and focus instead on the candles. Why have they lit candles? It's early morning outside but they've chosen to draw the curtains and seal out any glimmer of natural light. It's an odd choice but maybe I can use them to my advantage. If one were to tip over it would create a big enough distraction for me to go unnoticed, at least for a minute or two. That's all I need.
I'm pushed further into the room and the first thing to hit me is the smell. Like alcohol distilled into urine and vomit. I try not to make a face but it's difficult when the stench is so overpowering. It's probably had ample time to fester by now.
"Alright boys! Settle down! Settle down!" the man at my back calls. "Let's see what Peter thinks of her."
This does little to silence their barrage of snickers and cat-calls as I am marched through the room. One is civilized enough to inform us that Peter is on the balcony. I hope there aren't any others with him. I've counted nine in this room alone – not including Peter – and all are of varying sizes. Two who look like they've never seen a meal and three who look like they've seen too many. The rest are of an average build but they would all be able to knock me down like a hollowed bowling pin. Even the skinny ones have more size than me. Fighting isn't an option.
With the gun still poised against my back he leads me to the drawn curtains, out of reach from any candle. Wrenching the drapes aside sunlight floods the room. Out of the dark it's easier to see what a mess they've made. The penthouse might have been lavish once but with the presence of these vermin it has deteriorated into nothing more than a grimy nest. Strange, considering they cleaned the lobby. Unless they were trying to make the hotel look uninhabited so as to lure in unsuspecting prey more easily. I'm interrupted from pondering further when the balcony door slides open and I'm nudged through it.
The fresh air is welcome and we're so high up that a breeze even comes along with it. I'm glad when I find only one man on the balcony. He stands with his back towards us, his hands gripping the railing. We're higher up than I expected, with a perfect view of the clogged highway and dead landscape. For a minute I worry that he brought me up here only to throw me over the edge, but I reassure myself with the fact that there were no bodies on the pavement outside. The man with the gun grabs my arm to still me.
"Peter," he says, "look what I've found!"
Peter doesn't turn around straight away. He stands for a minute longer as if struggling to pull himself away from the view. When he does, he does so slowly.
"That was a short trip—" surprise catches him when he sees me, quickly fading into an expression more sinister. "What's this?" he asks, gray eyes prowling the length of my body.
; "Found her trying to steal our Jeep!" the man beside me grunts. Peter doesn't acknowledge him. He remains staring at me, his lips spreading into a smile, stretching the three scars that run diagonally across his face. Like a wolf had raked its claws down his flesh, or maybe even a person. He doesn't have a beard like the other men inside, but a messy mop of brown hair sits on his head.
"And what does the thief have to say for herself?" Peter asks.
He's probably already decided what he's going to do with me. If I can change his mind though, the time to do it is now. I just have to decide what card to play. Confident and cocky? Crying and terrified? Charming and humorous? It's easy to interpret the smile on his face and I decide it would probably be best to make myself look as unattractive as possible.
"I have blisters the size of golf balls, can you really blame me for wanting to get off my feet?" It'll probably have little effect on a group of men so deprived, but it's a better effort than none. Peter doesn't seem fazed.
"Wait'll you see what she had on her!" The man holsters his gun so that he can rip the bag from my back. Peter takes it and looks inside, his scarred face ripping open in surprise.
"There a party we ain't invited to?" He barks out a laugh, digging a hand into the bag and rustling through its contents. "What's a lil' gal like yourself doing with this kind of ammo?"
"Well, a lot of those pills are for my yeast infection," I say.
"Look at that, Rob! She's got a sense of humor!" Both men start laughing. I turn to look at the man that has brought me up here, glad I now know his name – Rob – so I can properly say goodbye when I drive a knife through his neck.
Keeping a straight face is harder than usual, with so many emotions running through me. But I manage, and that seems to sober them up a little.
"Alright look, darlin'," Peter says, dropping a hand on my shoulder. "I've got a room full of men back there and I'm sure you can imagine what they want to do with you." He pauses, as if waiting to see if this will crack my facade. It doesn't. "But you see I'm just not that type of guy. I don't agree with that sort of stuff."
The smallest cog of relief begins to whir, setting in motion a calming effect as he drops his hand from my shoulder and steps back to peer out over the balcony.
"But unfortunately you tried to steal from us, and my men are gonna wanna see you punished for that." He turns back to look at me, "and I'm much more inclined to give them what they want, regardless of what I think."
It takes me a moment to actually register what he has said. When it does, I feel my mask crack, allowing all the pent up fear to weigh at the corners of my mouth. Peter smiles wickedly, as if my frown – not the drugs or anything else – is what he wanted all along. He lets the smirk sit on his face for a while longer before turning to Rob.
"Take Jacob and her to one of the rooms downstairs, get her cleaned up."
Like a dog, Rob's hand is around my arm instantly, so quick to obey his master. His loyalty pays off. Before we reach the glass door Peter has called for us to wait. Digging into the rucksack he produces several packets that he throws at Rob.
"Have some fun while you're down there," he says.
Rewarded with a treat for his efforts, Rob becomes overly animated and shoves me back into the dank room with more force than is necessary. I keep my stare focused ahead as I move towards the front door, ignoring the hungry leer of the wolves. Rob calls out to Jacob and tells him to gather up the supplies. I can only imagine what this must mean.
As we reach the front door the red-headed man trails along with us, holding a bag. He must be Jacob. At a closer distance, I realize that it wasn't my imagination. He is frowning. Whether his face is permanently set that way or he disagrees with what is happening, I can't tell. The front door shuts behind us and once again I find the gun in my back. Wading through the darkness and towards the stairwell, cheers and applause can just be heard as Peter reveals the drugs to them. Good. That will keep them preoccupied and I will only have to deal with these two. The odds are still not in my favor, but I choose not to think about this. One slip-up. One mistake. That's all I need. They will have to make one eventually.
We descend the flight of stairs in silence. The two men do not fumble around in the dark like I do. They must have grown accustomed to it. Maybe that's why they keep the curtains drawn, so they don't have to keep readjusting. As we enter the hallway, we walk for a while longer, passing many doors. We take a turn down an even longer corridor. At the end I can just make out a tarp, or maybe a rug, strung up and hanging on the wall. The faintest light slips out around its corners and I wonder if they've bothered covering every window. My heart is pounding now, and every beat is felt in my ears. I struggle to calm myself down. I need to keep my wits about me if I want to get out of this. Eventually we stop outside a door.
The room is as dark as the hallway and I can just see enough to make out the shapes of furniture. Jacob begins setting out candles, lighting them one by one while Rob steers me towards the bed and sits me down. He takes the bag from Jacob and pulls something out of it. It's still too dark for me to see. Only once he begins tying it around my wrists do I realize it's a length of wire. He ties my hands behind my back and then moves to tie my feet. A cold sweat has taken me, and I'm beginning to think that a miracle may be my only hope now.
Rob stands back and admires his handiwork, his face shadowed and ugly by the flickering yellow light of the candles.
"I'm gonna go take a piss," he says. "Jacob, you start cleaning her up."
He shuts the door of the bathroom behind him. Probably out of habit because I doubt he would have done it for the sake of decency. Jacob makes no move to start "cleaning" me. Instead he stands still, only moving when he hears the soft trickle of urine. He kneels down in front of me and I prepare to spit in his face when his frown deepens. His blue eyes even look like they're . . . worried? Why would they be worried? He throws a nervous glance over his shoulder at the bathroom door before looking back at me.
"I'm gonna help you get out of here. Okay?"
CHAPTER THREE
Stella
Doubt is the first thing that snares me. Why would he help me? Why would he risk it? Surely such an act would only lead to his own execution. His friends upstairs don't seem like the forgiving type, and I don't think they would react very kindly to a betrayal. Confronted with this, Jacob only shakes his head.
"Because I don't agree with what they're doing, and I've stood by letting it happen for long enough," he says. Despite the conviction ringing in his voice and burning in his eyes, I still find myself apprehensive.
But what trick could he possibly be playing? I'm already tied up on a bed, defenseless and scared out of my mind. I have nothing else. There's no logical reason for him to be lying. Nothing for him to gain. Nothing that I can think of anyway.
This reminds me of Logan, and how he saved me by running down the infected that was chasing me. I said that was a miracle. And if a miracle can come in the form of a yellow Jeep, then maybe it can come in the form of a red-headed man, too.
There's no time to question him further because we hear the stream of urine end and the bathroom door opens shortly after. Jacob pushes himself away from me in a flash and dives into his bag, pulling out a packet of baby wipes. I'm just able to catch a glimpse of the packaging before he tears into it. Ultra-Soft. I must be getting the spa special today. He rips a handful out and hands a wad over to Rob, who looks down at them as if he didn't think he'd actually have to do any work. With a scowl he takes them anyway. Jacob stands aside while Rob leans in, smearing a wipe across my cheek and bringing it back to reveal the streak of brown grime it has left.
"Fucking filthy," he spits.
Now would be the ideal time to hit him over the head with something heavy, but Jacob doesn't do anything, he just stands aside watching. Why isn't he doing anything? Sure, Rob is bigger than him, but with the element of surprise Jacob should have no trouble knocking him out cold. Unless his promise to help me was no
thing but a stint of bravery that has ebbed away now. But while the worry has left his eyes, the frown is still on his face and I can only take this as a good thing – because it's the only thing I have left to cling to.
This is when a thought hits me. Where's the gun? I look down at Rob's hands, both empty and occupied with pulling the leg of my jeans up.
"Jesus Christ you're hairy!" he says, letting the pant leg drop back down.
"I prefer the au natural look," I say.
He scowls and leans in to begin wiping my face again. But before he has a chance to touch me, I make a noise in the back of my throat and he has the good sense to pause at the sound. He doesn't pull away in time however, and a massive glob of spit finds itself in his right eye, dribbling down his cheek.
Stumbling back, he curses loudly, fat hands swiping at his face to get it all off of him. Vision impaired, now would be the perfect time to attack. Yet still, Jacob stands stiller than a statue, watching his accomplice but making no move to intervene. I want to shout, scream at him to do something, but I restrain myself because I know that will do no good. He's made no move to act and I can only assume – hope – that this is because he has his own plan.
Rob continues to shout expletives, more spit flying from his own mouth than what I managed to get on his face. Then he slaps me. My cheek burns with the hit and I can imagine the red mark it has probably left. But he isn't done with me. Grabbing my chin he forces me to look at him and the rage I have caused. His entire head has swollen red, like a ripe tomato, with throbbing veins tracing the sides of his temple and threatening to burst. If I had known that spitting on him would upset him this much, I would have done it sooner.
"You're gonna pay for that," he says, and I believe it. But his words cause me no fear. Threats are worthless at this point. There's nothing he can do or say that I haven't already thought of. My level of fear cannot climb any higher.
