by Lee Hayton
Annie jammed her foot onto the brake, and the car swerved to a halt. Robert’s body was lying prone on the road. His back was a mess of blood with a burned, black hole in the center.
Annie fumbled for the door handle, shoved the door open, and ran to his side. Before she reached him, she could tell he was dead. His eyes were open, unresponsive. She fell to her knees beside him.
Where’s Frankie?
Frankie
When her shoulder muscle twisted in pain, close to dislocation, Frankie abandoned her attempt to undo the oversize button of her cargo pants pocket. She couldn’t move her arms into a position where her fingers had enough grip to work it free.
She’d already asked her nearest neighbor, Julie, to give it a go. Although Frankie could move into a position where the pocket was more easily accessed, the awkward angle of Julie’s bound wrists meant her hands had lost feeling long ago. Even though she tried, she couldn’t make them perform the delicate task of undoing a button.
Even when she relaxed, the pull of Frankie’s wrists bound together behind her put a strain on her shoulders and arms. The nerves constantly fired, the muscles reporting increasing distress. If she couldn’t do it soon, she’d never be able to work the pocket open and the scissors free.
A whimper came from the far corner, and Frankie peered into the darkness. With the overall silence in the cellar, the small sound might as well have been broadcast through a loudspeaker.
Frankie strained her eyes toward the noise, but the middle-aged woman lying on her side wasn’t the source of the cries. Her eyes were closed, and her chest rose and fell in a steady rhythm. Sound asleep. A snore, maybe. Whimpers? No.
Another woman—this one younger—moved toward the corner. “Hey,” she whispered. “Don’t cry. Everything’s okay.”
The whimpering continued. As it grew in volume, the young woman made frantic clucking noises, trying to get the initiator to stop. It wasn't until she moved forward that Frankie glimpsed the source of the cries.
A young boy.
He wore a SpongeBob SquarePants T-shirt, with mustard-yellow sweatpants below. Frankie wasn't good at guessing ages but presumed that he was only two or three.
The quiet whines he issued ignited a burn of empathy in her chest. Frankie felt like curling into a ball and crying like a baby herself.
“What’s a child doing down here?” Frankie whispered to Julie.
The woman turned, the whites of her eyes shining in the gloom. She shrugged at first then jerked her head toward another occupant, this one staring fixedly at the floor.
“Melly brought him. She found him strapped into an empty car and got him out. When she asked him where he lived, he couldn’t tell her, but he had a wristband for this place.” The neighbor shrugged and shook her head. “She thought she was doing the right thing bringing him here.”
Frankie squinted in the darkness, memorizing as much of Melly’s face and hair as she could see.
After a few moments, Frankie shuffled closer to the boy. His tousled blond curls and love of SpongeBob reminded her of Annie’s chatter about her son.
Strapped inside an empty car. Frankie remembered Robert pulling Annie back from a vehicle being consumed by flame, a bomb waiting to go off, with an empty car seat mounted inside.
On her knees, she crawled toward him. The floor was rough, and a splinter niggled at one side where it pierced deep into her flesh.
“Hey there, kiddo. What are you doing down here?” She leaned forward until her eyes were the same level as his. “I know a woman with a son about your age. His name is Mikey.”
The boy's head jerked up in response to the name, and his arms stretched out toward Frankie. Her elbows started to pull apart in an automatic response hug, then stopped short as the rope bindings prevented her motion.
Instead of open arms, Frankie leaned forward. The boy climbed up her body, wrapping his arms around her neck and his chubby legs as far around her waist as they could manage.
“Is your name Mikey?”
The boy nodded his head enthusiastically in the curve of Frankie's neck. Instinct made her snuggle him close, the same way she’d snuggled her teddy bear Harold as a child.
“Your mom Annie is a friend of mine,” Frankie whispered into his ear. “And do you want to know a secret?”
Again, the vigorous nodding, the soft hairs a sweet whisper against Frankie's throat.
“I’m going to get us out of here.”
That sentence prompted the young woman nearest Frankie to laugh, scornful. “And how do you propose to do that?” Her whispered words carried a trace of venom as she leaned forward, her wide eyes scanning Frankie’s face.
Frankie smiled, her lips curling up so far her teeth were exposed. “Well, first I'm going to need Mikey's help. Do you think you're able to help me, Mikey?” She nudged her head along his.
The boy tilted his neck back, making eye contact with Frankie for the first time. Streaks of soot, dirt, and blood marred his otherwise blemish-free skin.
Unlike the rest of them, Mikey's hands were untied. Too small a threat to worry about.
“I've got something in my pocket, Mikey.” She nodded down toward her pants leg. “Down the side. Mikey, can you reach down and find a pocket?”
For a moment, Frankie thought he didn't understand. His clear blue eyes, seemingly too large for his small head, continued to gaze up at her. Then he bent to the side, unhooking one hand from her neck while leaving the other in place, and patted down the side of her trouser leg.
“That's it. Good boy,” Frankie said, before realizing it sounded like she was rewarding a small dog. “Now, can you feel a button?”
The boy’s fingers scuttled back and forth on her leg. When they happened upon the large plastic button securing her cargo pants pocket, he crowed with delight. The noise sounded so loud in the darkness that all the women turned as one to stare, wide-eyed, at the hatch to the upper floor. Frankie held her breath.
One Mississippi, two Mississippi, three Mississippi.
As the seconds mounted up, Frankie’s chest muscles relaxed. Without added prompting, Mikey unbuttoned her leg pocket and reached inside. He chortled as he withdrew the scissors—no doubt a plaything his mother forbade.
“Do you know how to use scissors, Mikey?”
His nod didn’t matter, convincing as it was. In lieu of other candidates, he got the job.
“In that case, I want you to stand in front of me and try to cut through these.” She angled her arms forward to show him the rope binding. “It might take a while, but don't give up, okay?”
The boy clambered down from her lap, the sharp scissors digging into the side of her leg at one point. Frankie tried not to wince or jerk away; this wouldn't work if Mikey became upset.
The way he maneuvered the scissors, it was evident the task would be a struggle. It took both hands to pull the finger holes apart enough to slide the rope between the blades. When Mikey first applied pressure, the scissors buckled in his hand, the blunt edge of the blade banging into the tender flesh of Frankie's inner elbow.
Although his lower lip wobbled, Mikey tried again. Again, instead of cutting into her bonds, the scissors tilted uselessly to the side.
“He doesn't have the strength, love,” a woman whispered beside her.
Mikey turned his big blue eyes toward her, but before he could take it to heart, Frankie insisted, “Of course he does. He’s a strong little man.”
With renewed vigor, Mikey attacked the bindings. Repeatedly, the blade twisted and buckled. But strands began fraying from the main rope, giving Frankie hope. He could take his time; it wasn’t as if she had other plans. Down here, there was nothing but fear and time.
When the rope binding finally gave, it was unremarkable. The scissors’ blades finally snipped together.
Using a combination of her arm strength and her numbing fingers, Frankie worked the remaining bindings loose until she could slip her wrists free. Her arm muscles wept as they were rel
eased from their unnatural pose.
She leaned forward and scooped the boy into a fierce hug. “Thank you so much, Mikey,” she said. “I'll tell your mom what a good job you did.”
When Frankie inserted the blades into the bindings of the woman next to her, the woman tried to swing her palsied arms away. “We'll get in trouble.”
“You're already in trouble,” Frankie said and carried on regardless.
The rope took her full strength to cut through, with the help of a sawing motion. It instilled in her greater respect for Mikey’s feat. He shadowed her around the room, a pleat of her cargo pants held firmly between his little fingers.
As each woman was freed, they, in turn, helped their fellow captives, even while they experienced the agony of feeling returning to long-numbed flesh.
When they reached the old woman who'd been sleeping earlier, she refused. She pressed her bindings into the corner, out of their easy reach.
“You saw what happened,” she said, staring in accusation at the assembled women. “I'm not having that happen to me just because this young girl fancies herself a heroine.”
“What do you mean?” Frankie asked. “What happened?”
Julie touched her on the shoulder. “Don't worry, love. It's not your problem.” Julie turned to the older woman and said, “You can let them scare you into staying compliant. I'm getting the fuck out of here.”
“And how do you intend to do that?” The older woman's lip curled on one side, exposing a sharp eyetooth. “Do you really think having your hands free gets you out of here?”
“No,” Frankie interjected. “But the gun in my pocket might help.”
She pulled out the Remington, gripping it in both hands to conceal the missing magazine.
The old woman’s eyes widened and looked up to Frankie. Then she turned to expose her bound wrists.
Chapter Ten
Annie
Annie fell to her knees beside Robert's prone body. Her hands shook as she reached out to turn him over as gently as she could. His dead eyes stared at the sky above; an open mouth gaped in wonder.
Elle put a hand on Annie's shoulder, jerking her around. “I'm sorry, but we have to go.” She stepped back, her hands twisting as she looked up and down the road. “Now,” she added, voice climbing the registers of panic.
Raewyn walked a few yards away, shielding her eyes from the sun with one hand as she scanned the horizon. “Elle’s right,” she said, walking back to stand beside Annie. “You can mourn later. We need to get out of here.”
“I'm not just leaving him.” Annie’s voice clogged with emotion as tears started to trickle down her cheeks. Although she’d only known Robert a few days, it felt like a lifetime.
“He's dead.” Elle gestured toward the car. “Unless you want to be too, we need to get a move on. If we don’t leave now, they’ll be back for us.”
“How can you just run away?” Annie sobbed. “These animals killed my friend, kidnapped another. I'm not just going to slink away and hide.”
Frankie will be so terrified. The thought gave Annie strength and dried her tears.
“Sometimes you must make a choice to live, no matter what.” Raewyn’s voice thickened, and she coughed to clear it. Annie frowned in concentration.
As Elle walked back toward the car, Raewyn stayed beside Annie. She reached out a hand to lay it gently on her shoulder.
When Elle was a step away from the vehicle, reaching her hand out for the door, Annie jangled the keys. “You'll find that a bit difficult without me,” she called out, getting to her feet. Taking a step closer, Annie locked her eyes with Raewyn’s. “I’m rescinding my earlier offer. You can stay out here on the street, or you can come with me and fight.”
“You don't understand what you’re getting into,” Elle yelled at her.
For the first time since Annie had seen Greg back out onto the street, heedless of Mikey's screams, she felt angry. The fear was still there, the bewilderment, but now they were accompanied by a deep rage.
“So tell me,” Annie yelled back. “Tell me enough so we can go back there and get the upper hand. I know whatever these men are doing isn’t going to stop if we don't stop it.” She looked from one woman to the other. “If you run away now, you're saying it's okay for this to happen, just so long as it doesn't happen to you.” She stepped back and curled her lip. “Well, that isn't the kind of world I'm willing to live in.”
Elle started off down the road, her feet stamping so hard they raised tiny puffs of dirt with each step. Raewyn looked at her friend, turned back to Annie.
Annie stepped forward and put her hand on Raewyn’s wrist. “Did you see Becca, back at the farmhouse?” Raewyn nodded her head. “Frankie’s a girl the same age. I can’t just leave her behind.”
When Raewyn glanced after Elle again, Annie whispered, “Please. Help us.”
Raewyn drew in a long, ragged breath. She closed her eyes, her eyebrows drawing together. “Okay,” she said, after a long pause. She stuck two fingers in her mouth to issue a whistle, drawing Elle’s attention back. Without waiting for her friend to rejoin them, she nodded. “We'll fight.”
Frankie
“Our best chance of overtaking them is if one comes down here alone,” Frankie said. The women had formed a loose semicircle around her. She was the center of attention once more. The leader.
Look how that turned out last time.
But she didn't have time for her inner voice. Prepared or not, they’d appointed her to the position. All she could do was try harder.
She looked at each of them in turn as she spoke, including everyone in the conversation. “If I take a man hostage, the others won’t be as keen to attack. Do you know what weapons they keep upstairs?”
Julie cleared her throat. “They have rifles, from the commune supply. We’d shoot rabbits when they threatened our crops.”
“I saw a shotgun,” Melly offered. “It was on the table last time I was up.”
“Knives,” another woman said. “Both from the kitchen and stuff they brought themselves.”
“What’s the layout upstairs?” She turned to Julie, who had lived here. The woman quickly scraped a map into the dirt floor. Immediately above them was a living room, which led into a dining area then onto the kitchen. In this open plan, the rooms flowed one into the next, providing no corners to hide behind.
Frankie felt the hopelessness wash over her. She hadn’t told them the gun wouldn’t fire—both because she didn’t want to dash their expectations and she didn’t trust some of them not to tell.
The cost of bluffing was paid for by her twitching muscles and her knotted stomach.
“What about the time?” she asked. “Do they have set routines?” Her voice was growing tired of whispering, amping up and down. Frankie coughed into her hand.
“None of us have a watch,” Julie said. “They took all our jewelry.”
The other women had apparently been treated with more suspicion than Frankie had. Or the men were getting careless. If it were the latter, that was one piece of good news to add to their arsenal.
“The gong.”
Frankie turned to see a small Filipino girl with an elven haircut. “What's that?”
“Before every meal,” the girl explained. “They have an old dinner gong or something. They ring it then eat. Ten minutes later, one of them comes down for his first go.”
Frankie raised her eyebrows. “And this happens every time?”
The women nodded, and Frankie felt a new burst of hope. The stairs down into the cellar were narrower than a regular staircase. Only one person could be on a step at any time. Her mind flashed up an image: one man dragging a bound woman upstairs by her hair, a grotesque parody of a cartoon caveman.
She split the group up and issued instructions, occasionally stopping to have them repeat them back, so she knew they’d understood. Not that her plan amounted to much: surprise, followed by luck.
The women spread out again, returning to th
eir previous positions, arms pulled behind their backs to hide the freedom of their hands. The older woman crouched back in the corner like a well-beaten dog.
Gun in hand, Frankie sat beside the stairs. When the gong sounded, she began to count down. When she judged five minutes had passed, her position altered—now crouched and ready to spring. As the time grew near, her pulse beat harder, her eyes focused more sharply, sounds became clearer. Scared that her frozen inaction would recur, Frankie bit hard into her inside cheek, using the pain to drive inertia away.
“He's coming.” It was the Filipino girl, Mae, who’d spoken. Mikey clung to Mae’s side like a monkey, an arrangement based solely on her slight size. Since Frankie had needed to deduct one person from combat to care for him, she had chosen the smallest. If she’d trusted the old woman more, Mikey would’ve been her cargo.
The door above Frankie opened, light glaring into the basement. After the dimness, it stung Frankie’s eyes, and tears cascaded down her cheeks. She fought the urge to close them—renewing the darkness would postpone them adjusting.
The boards of the stairs creaked beneath the weight of a man. As Frankie's eyes accustomed themselves to the light, she saw thick work boots, clotted with mud, poised on the step. Her hands tensed around the gun clasped in her right hand as she strategically positioned her palm to hide the lack of a magazine.
One step. Another.
The man stood three rungs from the bottom, his head turning in a slow circuit, scanning the assortment of women he thought were his to select.
Three steps. Four.
His body was now positioned in front of Frankie, one foot poised to step down onto the hard dirt floor.
“Attack!” Julie screamed.
The man tipped off balance as he jerked away from their group lunge forward. Springing to her feet, Frankie threw her shoulder into the back of the man's thigh, toppling him so easily she almost followed him to the ground before catching herself on tiptoes.
Recovering, she dropped her full weight on a knee on the back of the man's neck. The breath huffed out of him. Frankie grabbed a handful of the man's oily hair and dragged his head to the side, shoving the barrel of the gun into his face.
