by Ian Dawson
Kyle looked around for an easy place to hide. He knew he had to be quiet so he slipped off his shoes and stuffed them in the pockets on the legs of his cargo short. He then covered the bikes again with the branches. With no time left, he scampered to his bike, picked it up and ran about ten feet down the sidewalk and stashed himself and his bike behind a blue post office box. He peeked his head around the metal box and waited.
Out of the woods emerged a thin older boy in sunglasses and a white polo shirt. He was still mumbling to himself as he tossed the branches aside and picked up Daniel’s bike. The older boy re-covered the other two bikes and lifted Daniel’s bike so it rested on his shoulder, then left the way he’d come.
Kyle waited, watching to make sure the older boy didn’t come back. After a moment, Kyle returned to the sidewalk and jogged over to where the older boy had entered the woods. He slipped on his shoes; inhaled, exhaled, and knew exactly what he had to do.
“I’m coming, Daniel,” Kyle said softly. “Help’s on the way.”
CHAPTER FORTY-THREE
James wasn’t a paranoid person. At least, he didn’t think he was. But for the last few minutes, he felt as if something – or someone – was following him. He was doing his best to shake the feeling; he tried to concentrate on other things like a way to persuade Austin to let the kid go. But it was no use. The feeling wouldn’t go away.
He stopped. Turned around 360-degrees, scanning the darkness the best he could. Wishing Austin had let him bring a flashlight, he removed his sunglasses but found it didn’t help much. The trees that lined the trail met overhead resulting in a darker area than the clearing provided. He remained still for a few more seconds, didn’t hear anything unusual, and started walking again.
The bike was starting to get heavy, the metal frame dug into his shoulder. He wanted to push it, but knew that the tire tracks would lead straight to Austin’s house. But what did James care? He just wanted this nightmare to be over.
Kyle never lost sight of the boy in the polo shirt. He had no desire to. This was the guy who had his best friend, and he would do whatever it took to get him back.
Kyle had left his bike in the ditch uncovered, but there had been no time to worry about that. He had to make sure he caught up to this guy fast, and at the same time make sure he didn’t reveal himself.
When the guy in the white polo stopped and looked around, Kyle dropped to the ground. He watched as the guy moved slowly in a circle, adjusted Daniel’s bike on his shoulder, then continued on. Kyle counted to ten and followed once more.
Up ahead, Kyle saw lights. He backed off only a little, and watched as the older boy put Daniel’s bike down and pushed it toward what appeared to be a lone house at the edge of the woods.
A chain-link fence surrounded the yard; the dirt landscape full of weeds and the distinct smell of dog poop. Lots of dog poop. Kyle continued to sneak forward following the same path the boy in sunglasses had used. As he neared the corner of the house, Kyle stopped and took a peek at the front of the place.
Only one of the lights on either side of the garage door was on. Kyle watched as the older boy paused and looked at the large truck in the driveway. He looked around, then pushed Daniel’s bike up to the front door of the house.
Kyle felt another wave of energy wash over him. Now he had to figure out how to rescue Daniel.
He had to get inside that house.
CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR
Austin was sprawled out on the couch watching TV when his Uncle Brock entered through the front door. Austin didn’t move. The light from the TV cast a haunting glow in his nephew’s eyes.
“I thought I told you to leave the porch light on,” Brock started in, breaking the silence. He flicked on the porch light. Brock had a massive beer gut that stretched his suspenders to the limit. His round, ruddy face was framed by a grizzled grey beard below and a black knit ski cap on his balding head.
“Whatever. You got from the driveway to the door. What’s the big deal?”
Uncle Brock walked over to the TV and switched it off. “Austin, you need to stop being so careless.”
“Like my mom?” Austin smiled and sat up. Brock switched on the lamp near the front door. His eyes had dark circles beneath them.
“I’m not in the mood to argue about that right now,” Uncle Brock said.
The doorknob rattled. Uncle Brock looked at Austin who shrugged his shoulders. His uncle unlocked the door to James who walked in carrying a bike.
“Does your mom know you’re here this late?”
“Yeah,” James replied.
“Nice sunglasses,” Uncle Brock said sarcastically. It was always a mystery to him why the kid wore dark shades even at night. “Whose bike is that?”
“Found it,” James replied.
“Yeah, if found is code for stole, then I’m sure you found it.” Uncle Brock let out a groan and stretched. One of the clips on the front of his suspenders could no longer take the tension and popped off the waistline of his jeans.
“I’m going to bed,” Uncle Brock said. He started toward the hallway.
Austin jumped to his feet. “Uncle, wait!” he said excitedly.
“What is it, Austin?” Uncle Brock asked wearily. He yawned as he returned from the hall.
“I have a surprise for you.”
“What? You’ve decided to become a doctor? Lawyer? Shoe salesman?” Uncle Brock asked, followed by a small laugh.
“No. Follow me and I’ll show you. It’s in the backyard.”
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
Kyle crouched in the shadow of the big truck in the driveway. The older boy had taken Daniel’s bike inside. Kyle moved toward the darkness afforded by the dead light bulb and felt along the edge of the fence closest to the house. His fingers came across a thin string. He pulled it down carefully, heard the latch on the opposite side click open.
He pulled the gate toward him enough to let him in and slipped into the backyard. Kyle knew he was in enemy territory now. He didn’t know how many there were, but he hoped they didn’t find out he was here.
In the blue of the moonlight he spotted a shed in the back corner of the backyard. Junk, debris, and dead leaves were scattered across the ground. He could smell dog poop.
He looked at the backside of the house. There was a door a few feet away from where he stood. From where it was positioned on the house, Kyle assumed it led to the garage. He moved toward the door and in the moonlight saw a large doggie-door at the bottom. When he got close enough, he lifted the rubber flap with caution and listened. All he could hear was silence, so he laid flat on the ground and poked his head inside.
The opening was big enough for him to lift his head up to see the back of an old couch with a gaping hole on the right side. To his left was a painted-over window. On the floor was what appeared to be a trap door. A rickety garage door opener with a loose chain was bolted to the bare wood beams overhead. Kyle slid back outside.
Certain that Daniel was somewhere in the house, Kyle took a deep breath and reached for the doorknob. As he began to turn it he heard a noise and froze.
It sounded like a low rumbling. No. More like a growl. Kyle felt himself break out in a sweat. He could hear his heart pounding. He slowly turned around on his hands and knees and came face-to-face with a very large and angry Rottweiler. The dog’s head looked bigger than Megan’s dad’s.
“Now I know why the doggie-door’s so big,” Kyle said in a low voice. He knew the situation could go any number of ways, most of them very bad for him. The muscled Rottweiler’s mouth was covered in foam. Great. Rabies!
The dog stood its ground, the continuous low growl churning in its throat. Kyle had to do something. What did he have in his backpack? With extreme caution, Kyle slid his backpack from his shoulders onto the ground in front of him and unzipped the large compartment.
The growl stopped. Ky
le could hear the dog start to sniff loudly; it licked its chops in anticipation. Kyle reached inside and pulled out four corn dogs. The dog’s eyes widened, saliva dripped from its jowls.
Kyle chucked one corn dog across the yard. The dog charged after it. He threw another in the opposite direction, the third toward the side of the house. The fourth he kept for later. Kyle could hear the snap of the thin wooden stick as the Rottweiler finished the first corn dog. Kyle sighed in relief. Glad that wasn’t my arm.
Kyle turned back to the door, reached up and turned the knob. Unlocked. He twisted and pulled with care, making sure not to make a sound. He crawled inside.
Kyle went to grab the inside doorknob, turned it, and closed the door. He was now in the lion’s den. For a brief moment, he wished he had stayed outside with the Rottweiler.
Still on his hands and knees, Kyle crawled forward through the garage. He could hear talking through the door that went into the house and no one seemed to be in the garage. He looked around and saw the trapdoor beside him had a padlock.
I wonder what’s in there. Like a flash it hit him between the eyes. Daniel! He crawled over, tried the lock, but it held fast. The hinges were new and solid, there was no way in without knowing the combination.
He leaned in close to the trapdoor. “Daniel? Daniel, are you in there?” Nothing.
He heard the voices from inside moving toward the door. Kyle looked around, trying to find a place to hide. With nowhere else to go and running out of options, Kyle crawled around to the side of the couch farthest from the door and prayed.
CHAPTER FORTY-SIX
Daniel could smell the faint odor of fertilizer in the gardening shed along with the stronger scent of wet wood. There was another smell he couldn’t identify. It was faint but pungent.
As he looked around the small room, he realized that his only escape was up. He had to get his arms up and over the tetherball pole in order to even have a chance at escaping. He tried to grip the pole; awkward but workable, he figured. Better than not doing anything at all.
He slid around and placed his feet against the back wall of the shed. He already knew that his bloody foot was going to only add to the challenge of making this work, but the fact that his legs were bound with duct tape would make it easier for him to keep his legs in one place.
With his hands gripping the tetherball pole beside his head, he slowly moved his hands up, followed by his feet in an attempt to walk his way up the wooden wall. Hands then feet. Hands then feet. He could feel the muscles in his arms and legs strain from the task, but he had a job to do and a little more pain wasn’t going to stop him.
He was halfway up the pole when he heard them: voices approaching from the house. He had no other choice but to get to the ground as fast as possible. If they saw him mid-climb, he was a dead man. Literally.
He closed his eyes and released his grip and bent his knees. His hip slammed down hard onto the wooden floor. As his feet landed, he heard something rattle beneath the carpet in the center of the shed.
He tasted blood. He had bit his tongue on impact. Great. That’s all I need. More bleeding. He heard voices outside in the yard, growing closer to the shed. He trained his eyes on the lock and waited.
CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN
Austin was energized in a way that he had never been before. He hurried across the backyard, the keys jingling in his hand as he jogged toward the shed. Uncle Brock and James followed.
“Austin,” his uncle sighed. “What’s this all about? I have to get to my other job in five hours and I need some sleep.”
“Trust me, uncle. This is much better than sleep.” Austin took out the key and unlocked the padlock. He pulled open the shed door and turned on the light.
He looked over at his uncle who seemed more interested in all of Austin’s stolen treasures piled up by the chain-link fence than what was now inside the shed. “Where did all this come from?” Uncle Brock asked. “And didn’t I tell you to clean up all this dog crap?”
Austin didn’t respond verbally. Instead, he grabbed his uncle by the arm and pulled him inside the shed. “Ta-da,” Austin said in a singsong voice and a flourish with his hand as he gestured toward the young boy zip-tied and duct taped on the shed’s floor.
Uncle Brock’s mouth dropped open. He spun around and looked at his nephew. “Austin? What the hell have you done? Who is this?”
“Some kid. Thought we’d have some fun with him.”
Uncle Brock looked as if he were searching for something to say. Austin could tell his uncle was in shock. The old man’s usually red face had drained of all color. “You...you have to let him go,” Uncle Brock said.
“No way! You know how much work it’s been capturing him and getting him here?”
“Austin, trust me, you do not want to ruin your life by getting involved with something this bad. You kidnapped someone’s kid! And you got your friend involved, and now me. Let him go.”
“No,” Austin said through gritted teeth. “He knows who we are and what we look like. If I let him go, he’ll figure out where we live and it’s all over for the three of us.”
“You know I’m on parole, Austin. I’m not going back to jail for something you and your idiot friend have done!”
Austin looked down at the kid; a pained and desperate look was in the boy’s eyes. “Fine. Then we’ll have to make sure no one ever ties us to his disappearance.”
“How?” Uncle Brock asked. “You don’t know cops like I do, kid. You may think you’re smarter and better than they are, but they always find you.”
“They’ll never find me,” Austin smiled at his uncle. He reached up and turned off the light, pushing Uncle Brock and James back outside. He put the padlock back on and put the key back in the front pocket of his jeans.
The three of them made their way back into the garage. Austin flopped down on the couch, pulled out a cigarette and placed it in his mouth. James stood nearby shifting his weight from one foot to the other. Austin was enjoying this incredibly awkward display from both James and Uncle Brock. He took a long drag from his cigarette before blowing the smoke out his nose.
Uncle Brock moved around to the front of the couch, stuck out his hand palm up, looked Austin in the eye and demanded: “Give me the key.”
“What?”
“Give me the key. I’m letting him go.”
“Screw you!”
“Austin. There are only two options left: let him go, or kill him. We’re letting him go. Give me the key.”
“I said no. He’s mine. I’ll do what I want with him.”
“Why don’t you tell that to the cops?” Uncle Brock turned and headed into the house.
James looked at Austin. Austin’s face turned red as if he had stopped breathing. He walked swiftly over to the workbench and grabbed a rusty hammer.
James watched in horror as Austin gripped the hammer in his hand, looked at it, looked over his shoulder at James, then turned his head back toward the open door that led into the house. James swallowed hard, not sure what was about to happen, but glad he wasn’t Austin’s uncle right now.
James heard the sounds of a struggle from inside the house. Austin yelling. His uncle yelling. Something being smashed, then clattering to the floor. A loud smack. Another. Then another. Then silence.
James stepped inside for a brief moment. Did he want to see what had happened? A part of him prayed that Uncle Brock had gotten the hammer away from Austin and had killed him, saving everyone else in the process.
But he wasn’t that lucky.
Austin returned from down the hall and into the kitchen with the now bloodied hammer. There was blood spatter on his face, which also included a devious smirk beneath his vibrant blue eyes. “Uncle Brock doesn’t have to worry about going to jail again,” Austin said nonchalantly.
He walked past James, down the two steps that led int
o the garage, and tossed the hammer onto the couch, blood smearing the fabric.
“I think we have some more chicken,” Austin said as he returned inside to the kitchen. “Want some?”
James couldn’t believe what he was hearing. Austin had just killed his uncle in cold blood, and now he wanted to eat something? This guy really is a psychopath!
“I’m...” James began as he looked at Austin’s blood-splattered face. “I’m not that hungry.”
“Better eat now, ‘cause we’ve got a long night ahead of us. Trust me. You’re gonna need your energy.” Austin turned the burner under the kettle back on, then turned to the sink and washed the blood off his face.
James stared at the burner coil as it heated up beneath the kettle. There was no way out of this.
Unless you were dead.
CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT
As he heard the lock click shut, Daniel could feel his mouth filling with blood from the bite wound on his tongue. He didn’t want to swallow it, fearing it would make him sick.
He leaned his face toward his zip-tied hands and got a fingertip grip on the edge of the duct tape that enclosed his mouth. He began the peeling process, not caring if it hurt, knowing what his end goal was once it was off.
After a couple minutes the duct tape was down around his neck. He was grateful he didn’t have longer hair.
Daniel spit out a mouthful of blood. He couldn’t believe how much blood had oozed into his mouth from what felt like a tiny, fleshy cut on his tongue.
I’m sure glad I’m not a vampire. I could never get used to the taste of blood. Eccch!
Certain they would not be back for a while after the argument he had witnessed, Daniel decided to try his luck with his wall-walking once more. Same set up, just more pain than last time thanks to his hip and lip.
Hands then feet. Hands then feet. Up the pole and wall he went. He could feel the grip from the duct-taped foot start to give almost three-quarters of the way up. He pressed it harder against the wall, determined to get up and over on the second try.
