After: The Shock

by Scott Nicholson

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

   

  Two of The Captain’s goons shoved Rachel into a dark room and slammed the door.

  They weren’t gentle about it, either, and she burned her elbow on the carpeting. She guessed she was in a bedroom, although there was no gray square that would suggest a window. She crawled forward cautiously, feeling in front of her with an outstretched hand.

  She met something spongy and drew back, horrified that it might be a corpse.

  “Took you long enough,” DeVontay said.

  She sat up on her knees, peering in the direction of his voice but unable to see him. “Hey, you’re the one playing hero. Are you okay?”

  “Yeah. They roughed me up a little, but I think they’re just playing. Got some kind of skinhead thing going on, from what I can tell.”

  “Their leader, The Captain—”

  “Captain? What the hell? You think this is a Batman movie or something?”

  “I had to nickname him,” she said. “Psychologically, that makes him less of a threat. A kind of gallows humor.”

  “Yeah, well, gallows humor is all well and good until the noose tightens. Speaking of which, why don’t you untie me?”

  She scooted forward until she found the thick wooden bedpost and fumbled around the thick lump of knots against his skin. “These are like the ones they used on me. Might take me a minute to get them loose.”

  “I ain’t going anywhere. Did they…hurt you?” he said in a low voice as she tugged.

  Rachel guessed from the pause that he meant, “Did they rape you?” but she brushed past it. “The Captain threw a Zaphead at me as some sort of screwed-up test. The guy’s a little brain-fried himself, I think.”

  “When I heard that gun go off—”

  One of her fingernails split to the quick as it snagged on a knot. “You’re not getting rid of me that easily. Not until we get you and Stephen to Mi’sippi.”

  “Where’s he at?”

  “I left him in a hiding place, but The Captain’s goons found him and turned him loose out there with the Zapheads. I guess these guys think everybody has to pass some sort of survival game to prove they are worthy.”

  “Shit. Is the boy okay?”

  “Put it this way. I haven’t heard him screaming yet.”

  Rachel didn’t want to think the worst. Faith required hope, and hope required action. Starting with these godforsaken knots. “I wish I could see,” she said. “Maybe I could find a tool.”

  “The lighter,” DeVontay said. “In my pocket.”

  “They didn’t search you?”

  “Nah. They don’t give a damn about me. I’m a one-eyed black jack.”

  That made no sense, but she didn’t question him. She felt along his hip until she found his belt, and then slipped her hand along the fabric of his pants. She found the hem of the pocket and hesitated.

  “Go on, girl,” he said. “Nothing in there will bite you.”

  “It’s just…”

  “I ain’t telling nobody if you ain’t.”

  That made her smile despite the gravity of the situation. She shoved her hand inside the opening, pushing past what felt like a rumpled wad of bills, some flexible, rubbery things she suspected were Slim Jims, and a keychain. Then her fingers stroked the cool, smooth curve of the Bic lighter and she fought it free, hooking the keychain as she went.

  With a flick of her thumb, the area immediately around her was illuminated with a dim orange glow. The flame was reflected in each of DeVontay’s eyes, brighter in the glass one. His lip bore a small, wet cut, and one cheek was swollen. She gently touched his wound and he flinched away.

  “I ain’t telling nobody if you ain’t,” she said, imitating his Philly-street accent.

  “I’m okay. Just get me loose and let’s get the hell out of here.”

  She waved the Bic around, revealing that the room was bare, with an unmade bed, a dusty dresser with the drawers open, and an open closet with a single suit jacket hanging in it. Clothes littered the floor, as if the room had been ransacked. Her impression of a windowless room was confirmed.

  “Doesn’t look like much in the way of hardware,” Rachel said. She jangled the keys. “Guess I’ll have to use these.”

  She held the light aloft with one hand as she dug into the knot with the longest key. The knot’s author must have been a Boy Scout, because his handiwork refused to come loose. She began sawing the serrated edge of the key across the strands, sending a snow of frayed nylon to the floor.

  “What are you doing with keys, anyway?” she asked him. Her fingers chafed to blood and her wrist ached from working the key, but she kept on.

  “Got doors to open.”

  She extinguished the lighter to let it cool. Its imprint was burned into Rachel’s retinas, fat sparks dancing in the sudden darkness.

  “Got any ideas on getting out of here?” she asked. The first strand of rope gave way and she unraveled the rest of the knot as he anxiously flexed his forearms.

  “Gun’s in my backpack, wherever that is,” DeVontay said. “After they jumped me, I went down for a while. I didn’t get a good layout of the house.”

  “That’s a privacy lock on the door. They can’t lock it from the outside.”

  “We could sneak out, yeah. But what if they’re still playing survival games? Could be a dozen Zapheads out in the hall.”

  “We’d hear them banging into the walls.”

  “Maybe. And maybe that guy—the whatchamadude, The Captain—is waiting there with his gun.”

  “Well, it’s the only way out that I can see.” The severed rope untangled beneath her fingers and DeVontay wriggled his wrists to free himself. He shook his hands to restore the circulation as he glanced around the room. He grinned as his eyes settled on the closet.

  “You’re just not looking in the right place.”

  He stood, rubbing his palms together, and she followed him with the Bic. He shoved aside the lonely jacket and looked up at the ceiling. “Give me some light.”

  Rachel shoved the lighter toward him, thinking he’d lost his mind. Stephen was out there somewhere, at the mercy of those soulless killers, and all DeVontay wanted to do was play hide-and-seek?

  “Ha,” he said. “That little square is an access to the attic. I had a job blowing ceiling insulation one summer. Hottest damn work I ever did.”

  “Great. So, once we get up there, and then what? Wait for the world to end?”

  “Funny, ha ha. I gotta boost you up. No way can you lift me.”

  “You kidding? You’re only, what—two-twenty?”

  “Two-oh-five. I ain’t et that many Slim Jims.”

  He stooped and cupped his hands. Rachel hesitated, released the fuel lever on the lighter, and put her sneakered foot into his hands. Something thumped against the door.

  “Damn,” DeVontay said. “Hurry.”

  He propelled her upward and she put one hand against the wall to steady herself, patting for the ceiling with the other. She found the access and pushed, feeling it slide away with a skiff of abrasion. Rachel reached into the warmer air of the opening and found the ceiling joists, then dangled for just a moment, testing her weight.

  “Higher,” she whispered, and DeVontay tightened his arms and lifted her. She put one foot on the closet rod as she scrambled into the attic. The dust nearly made her sneeze, and the attic insulation caused her skin to itch almost immediately. She rolled around, careful to keep her weight on the sturdier ceiling joists, and flicked the lighter again.

  “How am I going to pull you up here?” she said.

  DeVontay looked up and shook his head. “You ain’t.”

  “I can’t leave you.”

  “You got to. Ain’t you ever seen a horror movie? The goody-goody white chick always survives.”

  “Don’t be an asshole.”

  “And don’t waste time here when Stephen’s in trouble.”

  She looked at him for a moment, pondering ways to help him up. But he was too heavy,
the closet rod too weak. “The dresser,” she said. “Move it over here and stand on it.”

  “Okay, but—”

  Something thumped against the door again, louder this time. DeVontay waved her toward escape. She killed the flame and saw the slatted ventilation windows on each gabled end of the house. The closest one was only twenty feet away. She crawled forward, bumping her head once and getting fiberglass insulation in the creases of her elbows and gaps of her fingers. When she reached the slats, she peered through them to the neighboring property.

  A Zaphead wobbled up the street, far enough away that he wasn’t a threat. He didn’t exhibit the excitement and agitation of a Zaphead intent on violence, which might mean Stephen had safely hidden somewhere.

  Or it could mean he’s already dead.

  The idea angered Rachel, and she flipped onto her butt and raised her legs, pointing the bottoms of her feet at the thin wooden slats. She kicked outward and several of the slats shattered. She kicked again and created a wider opening. Shoving splinters aside, she perched in the opening and surveyed the surrounding landscape.

  No movement. Even the Zaphead up the street had taken a turn somewhere and was lost in one of the neighborhood houses. From beneath her came the sound of a struggle, and DeVontay shouted something.

  His next word was clear through the access hatch: “Go!”

  Rachel climbed out enough to minimize the drop to the ground, which was about twelve feet. Not too bad by itself, but it wasn’t a good time for a twisted ankle.

  “Just my luck,” she said. “Roses.”

  The rose bushes extended in a border around the side of the house, meaning Rachel would have to jump outward several feet instead of merely dropping to the ground. She shoved the lighter in her pocket.

  Here goes nothing.

  Rachel resisted the urge to yell “Geronimo” as she flew through the air. She had the presence of mind to roll as she landed, taking the brunt of the force on her left leg before tumbling across the grass. Gathering her balance, bruised but otherwise uninjured, she glanced around to see if anyone had spotted her. She wasn’t sure whether to be more afraid of the Zapheads or The Captain and his minions.

  She sprinted as best she could with her aching legs, quickly reaching the concealment of the neighbor’s azalea thicket.

  Okay, you’re free. You can give up on DeVontay and Stephen and make a run for it. Your chances are better alone. They’re just deadweight anyway, right?

  She glanced heavenward, starting to ask for guidance, but realized prayers were never answered with a simple yes or no.

  God had granted her longer life for a reason. And that reason wasn’t just to keep on surviving.

  She had a mission.