by Rick R. Reed
But then she remembered the man’s odd pale eyes, the way he constantly whispered to himself and the hatred, the rage in his voice as he did so.
Julie knew a false move could find them all dead: herself, the woman, and the little boy. She couldn’t do it.
“You’re moving awful slowly, for one so young,” the man whispered in a high singsong voice. “Move it,” he commanded.
Julie hurried to the door, then turned and looked at the man, waiting for his next move. He took out his keys and smiled at her. His teeth were even, white. They looked too perfect to be real. “I’ve fixed up a little place for you,” he said. “I think you’ll like it.”
He unlocked the door and pushed it open. Inside, even though it was midafternoon, the house was very dark. A rush of warm fetid air rushed out at Julie when the door opened.
She feared that once she went inside, she would never come out again.
“Go ahead, little lady. Go right on in.”
Julie stepped into the house, with the man following her. He closed the door and immediately the house felt too hot. It smelled bad: rotting garbage, something dead. She looked around the pale grey shadows and saw almost nothing.
She was in a kitchen. In the sink were piles and piles of dishes, stacked in grey water. An overflowing Rubbermaid wastebasket occupied one corner.
“Go on,” the guy said, “through that doorway.”
Julie went through an arch and into another room.
The room she stood in, what she’d call the front room, was practically empty, save for the curtains on the window, drawn, a tall stack of newspapers in one corner, and a beige corduroy recliner with a reading lamp behind it.
“Isn’t it lovely?” he asked her. “It’s the minimalist look, you know. Very haute couture.”
Julie had no idea what he was talking about. Then his hands were on her shoulders, kneading. She felt herself stiffen at his touch.
“Ease up, my little one. I’m just trying to relax you.”
Julie felt the tears well up in her eyes. “Are you gonna rape me?” she whispered, trying to hold back the tears.
The man’s laughter was shrill, high-pitched. It seemed to Julie to go on forever.
“Why you dreadful little creature! I have no interest in your rotting little cunt.” He slapped her face hard. Julie reeled from the force of the blow, almost losing her balance.
She grabbed on to a wall for support. The plaster was sharp, cutting into her cold, chapped hands.
“What do you want then?” Julie asked, barely able to find her voice. She stared with longing at the front door.
“Why…I thought you knew.” He came closer to her, staring into her own dark eyes with his pale ones, making her feel sick and uncomfortable, but unable to break from his gaze. “I only want to punish you, little darling. That’s all, just to punish you.” He stroked her face tenderly where he had slapped her. Julie’s skin crawled at his touch; his hands felt rough, as if the skin there were peeling away. “But not right away. That wouldn’t be efficient. That just wouldn’t be efficient. No, I want you to have some company first. Don’t worry, though, I have everything planned.” He giggled. “Right down to the last detail.”
The smile left his face suddenly. “You understand what I’m doing here, don’t you?”
Unable to say anything, Julie shook her head.
“I’m helping you.” He leaned close to her face and screamed, “Can’t you see that?”
She jumped back. Her knees were shaking. She didn’t know how much longer she could stand.
He took her hand, squeezing it so tight she was afraid the bones would break. “I think it’s time for you to go downstairs now, to the little place I’ve fixed up for you. I’m sure you’ll be most comfortable.”
Julie tried to swallow but couldn’t as she felt him pull her toward the door to what must be the basement. He stopped just in front of it. “It’s damp down there. And there are rats. And bugs.” He laughed once more, for a long time, shrill. “But those, my darling, are the least of your worries. When Death comes, and he will, I think you’ll make him very welcome.”
He opened the door.
* * *
Somewhere in those pale crazed eyes, Julie thought there had to be a person. Why, when she met him on the street, it seemed he was trying so hard to be like a kid, trying to get down to her level. Sure, it was weird, but at least maybe he had some sympathy. Maybe there was some common ground. A guy who might understand, someone with feelings. Surely, she thought, he wouldn’t hurt her.
And all the while, she wasn’t believing her own thoughts. Not any of them.
You’re not going to get out of here alive, never. The only way is if you can free yourself.
And how in the hell do I do that? The man was twice her size. Even though he wore the Guns ‘n Roses T-shirt and the jeans, the look of a kid was gone.
Now he looked like a monster.
The rage inside him had seeped through and encased him in a web, changing his features, even his posture. His eyes, so pale they were almost yellow, seemed to hold the tiny black pupils in some kind of jelled suspension. His mouth was in a permanent grimace. How could she ever hope to get away?
And besides, he had a gun.
She looked at him, trying to force his eyes to hers. Thinking maybe there’d be some compassion. Maybe he’d care. She wished she could cry. It always seemed to make people feel sorry for her. All except Nana, who could always see right through her.
He smiled. “Don’t try giving me those big eyes, miss. I know all the tricks of the trade and they won’t work here. Not in my house.”
“I wasn’t tryin’ anything,” Julie whispered, then looked up at him once more. “Whatever you’re gonna do with me…please…just do it and get it over with.”
He laughed. Julie was chilled: his laughter was high-pitched and shrill. Usually, Julie could always be counted on to laugh. At almost anything. Even when she didn’t know what the joke was, the laugh was always infectious.
But not now. Now, the laugh made her shiver, bringing a coldness into the room. The laugh directed almost every impulse toward flight. But she knew running away wouldn’t get her very far.
Not much farther than the door behind her, in fact.
Julie bit her lip, closing down inside. It was how she felt when she went overboard and smoked too much. Kind of focused and kind of in a fog, both at the same time. Everything inside her went still. And in a way, she felt released. She no longer felt fear or panic; she felt nothing.
She was completely numb as she stared at him, not seeing, not thinking, not feeling.
“Don’t you know I’ve got a little ‘hospitality suite’ all prepared for you?” The man giggled again. “In fact, why don’t I show you there right now? We’ve wasted enough time already. Perhaps you’d like to rest.”
*
Dwight Morris stared at the quivering little snot-nosed thing in front of him. It looked totally frightened. Is this what it takes to finally scare these things? Christ, AIDS, crime, murder…they don’t care, they’re out there hustling every night…making life miserable for guys like me who are trying to raise a family and lead a decent life.
He had been preparing places for them since the night Marianne and Becky had left him. The night he had his little “run-in” with the kid who set him on fire.
Dwight snickered as he thought of the ingratitude of the kid who set him on fire. My God, who would have thought that he would have come to this? The rage rose up and choked him when he thought of it, and he couldn’t have that now.
He had to show his guest the light, the way.
And to this end he had given much thought. In fact, since the incident with the kid here last week, Dwight Morris had thought of little else.
There was the “punishment area,” designed simply but effectively. The old coal room in the basement of the house, so long empty, so long unused, had become a ve
ry efficient little area. Efficiency had always been his byword. It was simple to drill a hole in the beam of the ceiling and thread a piece of rope through that hole. Dwight then took a meat hook he had gotten for just this purpose from an industrial supply store in Berwyn, attached it to the rope he had threaded through the hole, and voila! he had a wonderful device for suspending his victims by their arms above the floor. A Coleman ice chest added the finishing touch: giving the things something to stand on while he bound them. A swift kick to the ice chest and, Dwight imagined their pain, his little friends would be left swinging, feeling as if their arms were about to be ripped from their sockets. Punishment would be swift and exacting. Perhaps, even at this juncture, some of them might begin to pray. Then and only then would the real pain begin…he had already picked out an old, weathered leather belt just for the purpose. How effectively the arrangement would work, Dwight knew, even though he hadn’t actually tested it yet. When he was through with them, they would be true Christian soldiers, truly remorseful for their perverse lives.
But we mustn’t forget the “isolation suites.” Dwight conjured up a vision of his work: a series of six feet long by two feet wide plywood boxes, each with its own hinged top, each with its own predrilled holes that were perfect for restraints.
The boxes were like coffins.
*
Julie made her way down the rickety basement stairs. The walls she grasped for support were damp with mildew. The whole basement seemed damp; the odor rose up to assail her nostrils, almost making her taste the wet filth.
It was dark, and Julie’s eyes took time to adjust to the low level of light. But he continued to poke her in the small of her back, urging her downward. She wanted so much to turn to him, turn and beg for mercy.
But she already knew, knew with all the certainty her teenage mind could produce, that her pleading would only make him happier, more determined.
She stepped off the last stair onto the basement floor. Rows of shapes, rectangular, covered the floor before her. Their shadowy forms could be anything.
Boxes or coffins.
Julie’s mouth was dry. Her tongue felt fatter, coated with fuzz. Perspiration ran from her hairline down her face, in spite of the damp cold of the basement. Her heart pounded.
The man pushed her aside and walked ahead. He reached up and the room was flooded with naked light. A bare light bulb swung from a fixture in the ceiling, making shadows appear and disappear as the light moved.
“I don’t need the darkness anymore, but you do,” he said simply. At once, he was in front of her and she offered little protest as he wrapped the bandanna around her eyes.
She didn’t want to see what was coming anyway.
He took her hand and his skin, flaky and dry, made her cringe. “Right this way, little lady. Step right up.” He helped her lift her feet so that she was standing on a box of some sort. Just get it over with, her mind repeated over and over, a litany.
She was being undressed. The cold air reached out to dig its fingers into her flesh as it was exposed. She tried not to shiver.
She tried not to feel anything.
And now he was lifting her arms, pushing them together, and then wrapping clothesline, or rope, or something tight around her wrists. So tight, she could already feel the fabric digging into her wrists.
But she kept silent.
“My, aren’t we the brave, quiet little one?” Julie didn’t respond.
Her arms went now above her head and she could feel him tying the line to something above her. She tried to swallow, but there was hardly any spit.
When he kicked the box out from under her, Julie finally screamed. White-hot pain shot through her shoulders as she hung by her arms, suspended above the concrete floor. Kicking only increased the pain, making it shoot harder and faster through her. Already, flecks of silver were swimming in the blackness of her vision.
The pain burned.
He stuffed a rag in her mouth to end the screaming, then with a quick, precise movement pressed tape over the rag and her mouth.
“None of that,” he whispered, breathing heavier now, with exertion…or excitement.
The wind whistled as a whip, or belt, or whatever it was picked up momentum as it swung through the air. The whistling stopped only when the strap connected with Julie’s nude body, adding to the heat of her pain. Pain that cut into her: a white-hot knife on impact, then icy cold immediately after.
Pain she wouldn’t have thought possible. Until now.
The strap cracked and whistled as it came at her again and again. It was all Julie could hear, save for the man’s labored breathing and the small curses he made at her under his breath: “whore,” “bitch,” “slut.” And even more bizarre, the praying that started, the words coming out singly from the man’s labored breathing, but recognizable enough. He was saying the Act of Contrition.
At last, the world turned even blacker as unconsciousness came…mercifully.
And the pain ended…for the moment.
*
Dwight stood gasping, holding the belt to his side. His head pounded from the exertion, sharp pain shooting behind his eyes. It felt like he couldn’t draw in enough air. The girl slumped in front of him. Across her breasts, stomach, and thighs was a network of welts, some bleeding, all swelling up to stand out in relief, angry red, against her pale skin. He closed his eyes in an effort to calm down and rein in his breath. He remembered how, toward the end, the bits of flesh and blood had formed a pink haze around the girl’s body as he whipped her. “Bless her, Father, for she has sinned.”
*
She guessed the box she was in was made of plywood. It was hard to move now, with her hands and feet bound with rope. But when she rolled against the side of the box, it felt light, splintery, like the plywood Nana used once to build a doghouse for a puppy she had brought home. How long ago was that? It seemed like a dream now.
Her feet were bound and tied to the side of the box, so she couldn’t kick. Her arms were tied in front of her. He had then wrapped a length of the cord around her waist and over her wrists, binding them together so she couldn’t reach up and touch the dark, close top of the box. Sweat rolled from what seemed like every pore in her body. With each breath she took, she was afraid she’d use up the last of the air in this confined space.
She was naked and the floor beneath her was hard and splintered, with a faint smell of mildew. The base of her spine ached. Her arms and shoulders, for now, were numb…the muscular pain in them was dim, like some awful memory one was trying to keep out.
He had put some sort of lid over the top. She felt like she was in a coffin. The darkness was so complete, Julie felt she could touch it.
If only she could reach out with her hands.
Her hair was matted to her head with the heat generated inside the close space. Lines of sweat ran from her hairline across her forehead, into her ears. She learned fast not to move her head when the drops of sweat made their progress across her face; she risked stinging her eyes.
She cringed as something small and hard scurried over her thigh. Trying to kick was futile and she stopped breathing as the insect scurried between her legs, making its way now down toward her knees. Soon, the insect (whatever it was…Julie imagined antennae, pincers, hard, brown, little beetle bodies) was joined by another.
And another.
All busy, all hurrying to map out their territory on her warm, perspiring body. Soon, she felt as if her entire body was teeming with insects. She imagined herself in the blackness: a human form, writhing with masses upon masses of insects. She held her eyes closed tightly, not wanting to breathe or even think.
Not wanting to live.
But one thought kept coming back, over and over: What next?
Chapter 8
War Zone was missing.
*
Jimmy alternately bit his nails and chain-smoked, thinking about it, trying to look unconcerned, but wondering
how good of a job he was doing. God, had that guy got him? He looked around the room, wondering if War Zone was going through the same hell he had.
Wondering if he was going through worse. Because now the guy was mad, now maybe the fucker wanted the sweet taste of a little revenge.
Jimmy knew the feeling.
They all knew the feeling. Jimmy took in the peeling painted walls and his friends, all so oblivious. All unconcerned about War Zone’s whereabouts because, hell, they’d all disappeared for a while now and then.
No big deal.
Public Enemy blasted out of Avery’s box. Looking like a princess with her close-cropped red hair ringed by a rope of pearlescent beads, Miranda sat drawing in her sketch pad. Her legs were stretched out in front of her and she was wearing this long, billowing white dress. God knew where she got these clothes. Goodwill, Salvation Army, the occasional trick who wanted to buy her something “pretty” in return for letting him piss on her or something…who really knew? But she looked like a little kid. Her blue eyes rose up to meet his every so often and a whisper of a smile played about her lips, lighting up her freckled face. She looked even younger than Jimmy.
And yet Jimmy could remember finding Miranda only a couple weeks ago in an alley west of Broadway, lying in a puddle of her own puke. The smell of Mad Dog 20/20 enveloped her. Must have turned a trick, he thought at the time, trying to help her up. War Zone was missing.
And Avery, the oldest among them, sixteen, upright and pacing, drumming on every available surface as he listened to the angry music blaring from his box. Didn’t he realize War Zone might be in trouble? But then Avery wouldn’t have been one to care. No one here really understood why Avery was a part of the group. He thought only and always of himself. But then for Avery, that might have been just what he needed to do to survive. He couldn’t hustle. With a case of terminal acne, the dude would be waiting a long time for a date on the street. So he got by, doing what he could: stealing, knocking down old ladies for their purses, scamming if he could think up a scam…but whatever Avery got, be it food or money, he never shared. And woe to the person who tried to get in on a little of anything he managed to drag home. The only one who seemed to show any liking for him was Randy, and since it was Randy’s place, Avery stayed.
