by Rick R. Reed
Tomorrow. Monday. He should just call them up and tell them he’d quit. He could manage for a while on his savings.
But why was he thinking of this now? All he wanted to do was rest.
But the more he sat still, the more the thoughts and worries intruded, making him sick. Finally, he stood, heading toward the back of his truck. He groped in his pocket for keys.
As he opened the topper, Dwight said, “I have to end this all soon.”
And his aunt Adele’s cry, almost lost by the wind whistling in through a crack in the side window of the garage, agreed.
*
Movement. Miranda felt movement and stirred. Somehow, she had fallen asleep. Lost consciousness was more like it. All she could recall were flames and heat. The dream was probably brought on by the heat she felt, trapped here in this cramped space with Avery.
Even though it was December, sweat covered her face, trickling through her scalp and making her clothes cling to her. She wished she had enough freedom of movement to at least take off her coat.
But with Avery pushed in behind her and the cold steel of the truck in front of her, there was no room to even move her arms, to change them from their crossed position in front of her.
Her back ached, especially the lower part.
Avery pressed himself into her, whimpering through the duct tape.
Shut up, Avery, Miranda thought. He made her aches worse with his whimpers and desperate movements.
Miranda’s mind went blank, feelings became numb as she listened to the topper door opening and the man bustling about outside.
She tightened herself up inside as she felt his hands gripping her ankles, undoing the rope that bound her to Avery. The man grabbed her by the ankles and pulled her out into the cold air of the garage. “Keep quiet,” he said, ripping the duct tape from her mouth in one painful motion.
The air made her gasp. She sucked it in and it seemed as clean as a country spring, even though it was probably filled with exhaust fumes. She breathed in, filling her lungs and exhaling slowly, over and over, the simple pleasure of fresh air filling her with joy.
Then she looked up at the guy. He was grinning down at her.
And she got scared.
He looked insane. His pale irises seemed to have swallowed his pupils. His face was red, and dark stubble had sprung up, making him look like the homeless guys who hung out in uptown’s back alleys. There was a wound on his forehead that was black and crusty with dried blood.
And his grin was predatory, something out of a nightmare. Miranda averted her eyes and tried to breathe slowly, waiting for what was to happen next.
She cringed when she felt him touch her arm. “C’mon,” he said, “time to get comfy.” He untied her wrists and helped her to get out of the truck and stand upright. Pain shot through her back. She bit her lip to hold back any sound.
“Coming along or do I have to carry you?”
Miranda didn’t care how cramped and sore her back and muscles were, she’d manage to walk by herself. She definitely did not want him close enough to her to carry. Latching on to the truck, she began to follow the guy.
The room spun around her, her legs stiff and numb.
Why was this happening to her?
The man moved ahead of her. “Come along, then, young lady. Remember, no sound.”
Miranda took a step forward and the floor moved like ocean waves. Her knees buckled and she fell, arms outstretched to catch her. As she went down, she heard a sickening snap in her wrist. White-hot pain bolted up her arm and she stifled a scream.
“You kids,” the man said, sounding exasperated. She looked up to see him staring down at her, his hands thrown up in dismay. “Can’t do anything for yourselves.” He grabbed her by the back of the neck of her coat. Getting a good handful that included her shirt collar as well, he dragged her across the garage floor.
Miranda could barely breathe as the fabric closed tight around her throat. But she knew instinctively that to struggle or complain would only make things worse. So she tried to breathe and to ignore the sickening pain in her wrist.
She collapsed when he dropped her, the back of her head coming down hard on the concrete. He opened a door and said, “Voila! The basement.”
Basement: a simple word for a simple place. Miranda, though, had never heard a word become so grim. Before she could think any further, she was picked up once more by the back of her coat, swung and pitched down a flight of wooden stairs. Everything went topsy-turvy as she tumbled down the stairs, hitting them with bone-jarring intensity. She couldn’t hold back and screamed before she hit bottom.
It wasn’t long before he’d run down behind her. She grunted as he issued a savage kick to her stomach. “I told you,” he said, in a voice that seemed much too calm for the situation, “to keep quiet. Do you know how to do that?”
Miranda found the breath to get out, “Yes,” before she turned away from him. She stuffed a knuckle into her mouth and bit until she tasted blood.
*
In the truck, Avery wondered what had happened to Miranda…and what would happen to him when the man was through with her and came for him. Part of him hoped that the man would take a long time doing whatever it was he was doing to her and another part of him was screaming to get out of the narrow confines of the back of the truck.
When at last Avery heard the footsteps coming closer and closer, he tensed and pushed himself back into the corner. Imprisonment was better.
The topper lid came up and Avery turned away from the opening.
“C’mon, boy, I’m not so bad. Turn your head over here and look at me. I’m sure you’ve seen worse.” Avery slowly turned his head, his eyes slitted to protect him from the sudden light. The man was smiling down at him. Avery opened his eyes wider. The man untied him, ripped the duct tape from his mouth. “Can you sit up, son?”
For some reason, Avery felt like crying. He didn’t want to think about it; wanted only to shove the tears down inside himself.
“Well, son, what is it? Can you sit up or not?”
Avery rolled forward. “I think so.” He managed to get up to a sitting position, even though it hurt his back, made him bite his tongue with the pain. But he tried to hide the sharp muscle spasms and pulled himself up. He got to his knees.
“I have a little surprise for you.” The man smiled. “Your friend is waiting for you to join her”—the man made his eyes big and his voice deeper—”in the basement.” He then broke into laughter.
*
The man opened the door at the back of the garage. He paused for a moment and looked at Avery. He smiled, again. Avery wondered why this man felt compelled to smile so much.
“What’s all the smiling for?” Avery blurted out. He’d always been used to saying exactly what was on his mind, but this time he wished he hadn’t.
The smile disappeared. “Just glad to have you, son. That’s all. What’s your name again? Avery?”
His name on the man’s lips made Avery feel cold, almost violated. “You know my name.”
“Sure I do. Your friend. Little T, told me all about you.”
Avery’s stomach tied up in a knot. He’d always been a loner, thinking of himself first, but Little T was just a kid.
The two stared at each other for a moment, Avery’s mind racing to think of some way out of this. But Avery knew, even if he could manage to get away, his limbs were too cramped from being confined in the truck to be of much use for speed.
And speed had never been his strong suit, not even under the best of circumstances.
“Let’s go,” the man said.
“What do I call you? You have my name, shouldn’t I know yours?” Maybe if he could win the guy’s trust, he could con him into some avenue of escape.
The guy seemed taken aback by his question. “You can call me Mr. Morris. How’s that?”
“All right, Mr. Morris.” Avery managed to step outside himself, c
heck things out. He knew that Morris couldn’t see his fear, although he felt it eating up his insides, dissolving them with acid. The important thing, though, was that the person looking from the outside see only the image you project. “Now. What do you have to show me?” I don’t want to see. I want to go home.
Morris rubbed his hands together and the smile came back. “Oh, I have quite a little show for you. Right this way.” He opened the basement door wide and Avery peered in.
Darkness. All Avery could see were a few wooden steps descending into pitch. A smell rose up from the basement and it took a moment for Avery to recognize it: it was the smell of people: sweat, urine, excrement.
Even more than the darkness, the silence bothered him. Knowing that there were people down there and that they were being so quiet was what was really scary.
“Are they dead?” Avery asked.
“No one’s dead.” The man giggled. “At least not down there.” He then looked at Avery intently. “At least not yet.”
Avery’s legs no longer felt strong enough to support him. They felt like they were made of liquid.
Mr. Morris reached into the darkness, staring at Avery all the while, and switched on the light. Avery could now see that the stairs descended to a cinder-block wall below. He stared down, wondering what was beyond his range of vision, what lay in the room to the right of the staircase. The darkness couldn’t be penetrated by the light near the top of the stairs.
“You’re missing the first display, son.”
Morris’s voice brought him out of his reverie. “What?”
“The first display. On the wall, there to the left.”
Avery’s gaze moved slowly leftward and stopped at the wall. He stared and stared, his mouth at last dropping open in a scream he couldn’t quite articulate. Two pairs of hands, already greenish with decomposition, had been mounted with nails to shiny varnished pine boards. The tops of the hands were black, encrusted with dried blood. The fingers below were curling up in silent entreaty.
“Why do you want to show me this?” Avery could barely find his breath, wondering when it would be his hands, mounted like trophies, on this lunatic’s basement wall.
“I thought you’d be interested. There, on the left, that’s Carlos, an effeminate little queen, destined for nothing more than a life of bending over for men until he got some horrible disease…Believe me, he’s better off.”
“Carlos?” Avery’s mind was reeling.
“Yes, yes. You knew him? Then you know what I’m talking about. Flaming faggot defines him.” Morris drew in a deep breath. “Or should I say, defined? Positively past tense.”
Avery stared at him, his mouth open. The pretense of not being afraid was gone.
“Well, the one to your right will probably have a little more interest for you. Those glorious hands belong to your friend, I believe. An insolent guy much too old to be hanging around with the likes of you.”
Please don’t say it, please, please don’t say it. Avery’s eyes began to well up with tears; his face felt cold and slick with sweat. “It’s Randy, isn’t it?”
Morris looked pleased. “Why, yes. They said you were a bright boy and now I believe it.” He reached over and tapped Avery’s forehead. “Powers of deduction.”
Avery shook his head slowly. “Why? Why Randy?”
“Self-defense, kid, that’s all. He tried to hurt me.” Morris forced Avery to look at him with the intensity of his stare. “But there’s so much more. Come along.”
Morris began to descend the stairs, his body half turned so he could keep an eye on Avery.
When they got to the bottom, Avery waited for Morris to turn on the light. He peered into the grey darkness of the big open basement, seeing only shadowed shapes.
Morris switched the lights on.
The first thing Avery saw were the boxes…a long row of plywood boxes. Avery counted and saw that there were six. Three had lids on them and were padlocked. He shivered at the thought of who, or what, was inside them.
He didn’t have to wonder long.
Morris said, “Let me introduce you to your roommates. First is Julie.” Dwight snickered and pointed to a box that was different from the rest; its top had been boarded over with two by fours. “She doesn’t say much. Then I believe you know War Zone and Little T.”
Avery wished the boxes weren’t so quiet.
“You’ll be next to Little T. And Miranda, when she’s completed her discipline, will be next to you.” Morris paused and then said, “The last box is reserved for a very special friend of mine.”
Avery managed to mumble the expected question, although he feared he already knew the answer. “Who’s that?”
“Why it’s Jimmy. Jimmy Fels. You have him to blame for this.” Anger crept into Morris’s voice. “All of you have him to blame for this mess. Don’t look to me. I’m a decent guy…” Morris finally waved his own words away angrily with his hand. “Let’s see what the rest of your surprise is.” Morris was breathing heavier now; he seemed to be having trouble getting control of himself. “C’mon,” he managed to say, “this way.” Avery followed him to a little room off the rest of the basement.
When they got inside the little room, the first thing Avery saw was Miranda. “My God, what are you trying to do to her? Rip her arms out of the socket?”
Morris waved Avery’s concern away with his hand. “Ah, she’ll be all right. Maybe a little sore…”
Avery couldn’t take it. He pounced on the guy, grabbing a big handful of his sweatshirt, his other hand a fist, doubled up and pulled back.
Morris pulled his gun out from his waistband. “We want to behave ourselves, don’t we?” He poked Avery in the stomach with the gun and Avery let go.
“Yes, sir,” he mumbled. “I just don’t like to see her like that.”
“We’ll get her down, okay? You can help me. But only when I say…and it isn’t time yet.”
Avery looked to Miranda once more. The sight of her almost made him lose his breath. She hung from a big hook mounted into a rafter in the ceiling. Her hands had been bound, wrists tied together. The cord that bound them extended up to what looked like a meat hook in the ceiling. Her ankles were tied together with a length of the same cord. She was naked, her toes dangling just inches from the concrete floor. Avery swallowed a dry ball in his throat as he stared at her: her skin was pale and shiny with sweat. Her ribs protruded. Her sad little breasts looked almost flat, pulled taut with her arms above her.
Avery felt cold as he looked at her face; it made him think of someone dead. Eyes staring vacantly ahead, the skin looking ashen, almost grey, with a thin sheen of sweat. Miranda’s mouth hung open; she breathed raggedly.
She turned slowly and Avery could see her shoulder blades protruding from her back.
The only blessing was that she seemed to have no awareness of what was going on around her. She had gone somewhere else and Avery was forced to wonder if she would ever come back.
“Let’s get her down now.” Avery looked at Morris. “Please.”
Morris stuck a forefinger in Avery’s face. “I said, when it’s time. Right now, it’s time for you to see the little place I have fixed up for you.”
Avery managed to take his eyes away from Miranda.
They moved out of the little room, Avery looking back at Miranda. Back in the basement proper, Dwight bowed and gestured toward the row of boxes, a big grin on his face.
Avery froze. I don’t want to go in that box. I don’t want to go in that box. The thought became a litany, repeating over and over until finally it spilled over to his lips.
Morris stayed calm. “You’ll go.” He took Avery’s arm with one hand and with the other leveled the gun at him. “Now wouldn’t you like to lie down here? Get all comfy? You must be tired.”
Avery stared down at last into the interior of the box. “Please don’t make me get in there,” he said to Morris. “I’ll do anything.”
<
br /> “Then get in the box, now.”
Avery didn’t care about the gun: he wasn’t going to get inside that damn box. He wasn’t going to lie silently here in this darkness, waiting for death.
He lunged at Morris, throwing all his weight and all the might he could muster into the tackle. So what if he got shot? At least it would be quicker and less painful.
Morris grunted and toppled over backward, Avery’s full weight upon him.
Morris pushed against him, hammering his hands into Avery’s chest. “Get off me, fat boy,” he grunted. “Get off me before I kill you.”
Avery wasn’t sure what he should do now that he had the upper hand.
There wasn’t time to wonder. Dwight had snaked his hand down to his waistband, grabbed the gun, and pulled his arm free. Awkwardly, he pointed the gun at Avery’s sweating face. He cocked it.
“I swear to God, kid, I’ll blow your face off with this.”
Avery reached out and tried to grab the gun from Morris’s hand. It went off.
The explosion ricocheted off the cinder-block basement walls, reverberating. Avery prayed someone outside heard it and would call the police.
Morris, though, used the distraction to pull away from Avery, managed to slide out from beneath his weight. He stood above him as Avery got to his feet, slowly. What now?
“Kid, that was really stupid.”
Avery closed his eyes, wishing he had the courage to do more, to take the bullet if that’s what getting out of this warranted.
But there was no courage in him, never had been. He looked at Morris, mute.
Morris gestured with the gun at the box. “Go on.”
Avery lifted one leg, then the other, and finally stood in the box. “It’s like a coffin,” he whispered at last.
