When C.J.'s hand cleared the glass, Chris lowered him to the ground. Chris tried to raise the window but it still resisted. He applied more force and the window jumped a little. He stepped back and shook his arms a little. Placing his hands on the frame once again, he tried to push upward on both sides, forcing himself to keep each side moving equally. The window stopped two inches from the top and refused to go any further. “All right, that's going to have to work. Let's try to fit C.J. through, and he can open the front door.”
“Okay,” Mike agreed, stepping forward. They lifted C.J. by an armpit and a leg each, being cautious of his wounded arm, and placed his legs precariously through the window with his stomach facing down. They slowly moved forward, allowing his body to slide through, until he was waist deep inside the cabin. At that point, they rested his stomach on the window sill, and they released the grip on his legs, which swung downward and hit the wall.
“Try placing your feet on the ground now,” Chris said. He heard C.J.'s sneakers chirp as they scuffed against the hardwood floor. A smile flashed across C.J.'s face.
“I'm in!” he said. They let him go, and C.J. lowered himself the rest of the way into the cabin. They walked around to the front of the cabin and waited at the door. The night remained silent while they waited for the click of the lock disengaging. After a minute, Chris became impatient, and broke the silence.
“C.J., what happened? Are you going to unlock the door?”
“Maybe it's too dark in there and he couldn't find it?” Mike proposed. “I'll go around and look through the window again.” Mike's shoes crunched dead leaves and rustled the grass as he walked back around the house. “Uh, Chris, you're going to want to come see this.”
Chris sighed and walked to join Mike. “What is i—” He swallowed hard and sighed after following Mike's gaze. The interior of the house had filled with people, each sporting the tell-tale red eyes of the Loborians. Nobody, save for themselves, knew why their eyes were red, but it was common knowledge that they were and that they were to be feared. They were ruthless in practicing their beliefs, which were commonly accepted as some mix of Satan worshiping and portal mythology. This was definitely not a situation Chris wanted to be in. His heart raced anxiously in his chest and his palms began to sweat.
C.J. stood in the middle of the dark room with his back toward the window. The Loborians were lined up on the other side. One of the red-eyed men gripped C.J. tightly by a bunched up section of his t-shirt, and had what appeared to be a kitchen knife biting into his throat.
For the love of everything, Chris worried. This can't be happening. He couldn't see the terror in C.J.'s eyes, but he knew that it had to be there. If his son wasn't crying yet, then he surely had to be on the verge.
“Please,” Chris said, extending his hand. “Don't hurt my son. We'll do whatever you want, but please, don't hurt him.”
“Come inside,” the one holding C.J. said. Even from the side of the house Mike and Chris could hear the disengagement of the lock on the front door. They walked back around together, and Chris turned the door handle. It complied without argument. He opened the door slowly, revealing the room more thoroughly. He noted that both men and women filled the ranks, along with people of all skin colors. Apparently, the Loborians held no discrimination of any sort. He quickly counted the occupants of the room and found there to be at least ten, potentially more wherever they had been waiting, such as in a basement or another room.
Chris raised his hands subconsciously. Mike sensed the movement and looked over. He decided it wasn't a bad idea and did the same. They stepped across the threshold and into the small cabin.
“Close the door behind you,” the leader said. Mike turned and slowly closed the door. “Now lock it.” Mike turned the lock until it clicked in acknowledgment. “Why did you come here?”
“It's just a misunderstanding,” Chris said, demonstrating his sincerity with every apologetic expression he could think of. “We had no idea this cabin was occupied, and we were just looking for a place to stay.”
“A ... misunderstanding,” the leader repeated.
“Exactly,” Chris nodded. “We'll just head out and leave you to your business. We didn't mean to cause any disruption, and we apologize.” Please God, Chris thought, just let us get out of here. Everything that Chris had heard of these people was bad; they cut up their victims as sacrifices to the sentinels and ate their flesh. He had no idea why they were in the park and didn't want to know. He just wanted to leave; he didn't want to even be in this damn situation.
“Grab them,” the leader said. “Tie them up.”
Shit, Chris thought. The room turned into a flurry of movement, and Chris soon found himself forced down onto a wooden chair. Two men held him as a woman secured his wrists to the chair's arms, and his ankles to the front legs. They pressed down forcibly, though Chris never resisted. To his right he found that Mike was held secured in similar fashion; the leader still held the knife to C.J.'s throat.
Chris subtly tried to move his hands, testing the strength of his bonds, but found no play. The same went for his legs. A terrifying image of the leader slitting C.J.'s throat flashed into his mind, and he saw a dark red river form across the neck while C.J.'s face still registered the surprise. Chris tried to force the image from his mind, but it remained imprinted nonetheless, and he subdued a shiver. Panic filled his body and he decided that pleading was worth another shot. “Please, you can do whatever you want with me, but please let my son go. He's just a boy; he's done nothing to you. Some of you must have had sons or daughters.”
The leader stared at Chris, listening but unmoving. The rest of the room had fallen back to their original positions, and their stillness was eerie. “Tie the boy up too,” the leader said, shoving C.J. to the floor. Several congregates retrieved another chair and placed it in front of the leader, across from Chris and Mike. The men performed the same tie-down ritual that Chris and Mike had endured to C.J. A wave of temporary relief washed through Chris; at least the knife was no longer at his throat. Appreciate the small things, he thought.
“What are your names?” the leader asked.
“Chris, and the boy is my son C.J.”
“Mike.”
The leader smiled. “Welcome Mike, Chris, and C.J. You are about to participate in a wonderful journey of self-discovery. You will find out who you are: your strengths, your weaknesses, and your limits,” the leader said. He paced in front of them, waving the knife for emphasis. “You will have choices to make, and you will face the consequences of each choice that you make. There is much that can be lost and there is much that can be gained. Tonight, you will have the opportunity to decide your own fate.”
CHAPTER NINE
No chance of wiggling my hands free, Chris thought. They are tied too well. My legs are, too. There was no play in the rope; without play he couldn't work to free his numb limbs. By the look of frustration, Chris assumed Mike was in a similar predicament, and C.J. was probably too weak to pull free even if there was play in his bindings.
“My name is Sam,” the leader said. He waved the knife around the room, displaying the other occupants. ”These are my soldiers. Each of them is in charge of bringing about the future of civilization. I’ll allow you the honor of choosing which of your group would like to prove that you deserve to be here first.”
Mike sighed deeply, which Chris took in retrospect as acknowledgment of the gravity of the choice he was about to make, and then raised his head with a resolute expression. “I'll go first,” Mike said, lifting the fingers of his secured hand. The quick decision caught Chris off-guard, and he had to admire the man's bravery.
“Very well,” Sam said. His tone didn't seem to recognize the bravery that Chris had noticed. Mike may as well have said that he preferred Coke over Pepsi, given the air of the response. Sam pointed two fingers at one of the men in the corner, who promptly passed through a door to what appeared to be the basement, closing it behind himself, and clomped lo
udly down the wooden stairs.
Two men walked over to Mike and untied his bonds. Once the ropes were removed, they stepped back, leaving him sitting in the chair unrestrained. Mike rubbed each aching wrist and sat up alert. He didn’t know what he was supposed to do, if anything. If he was waiting for something, then he didn’t want to be caught off guard by it when it came. As the old boxing adage says, “It's the punch you don't see coming that knocks you out.”
The basement door reopened, and the man that had gone down returned, dragging another through the doorway by the collar of his button-up shirt. The dragged man's bruised face gave away the fact that he was clearly terrified. Blood-streaked duct tape covered his mouth, and his hands were bound behind his back. Snot bubbled from one nostril and his eyes were wide with fear. The pocket on his shirt was torn from one side, and it folded over itself into a triangle.
Chris wasn’t sure of what this man had gone through, but he hadn’t been treated with respect and compassion, that was for sure. The man’s thinning gray hair clung to his scalp with perspiration, some of which dripped from his temples.
He was dragged across the floor by his upper arm to where Sam stood and thrown to the floor. The man rolled on his side and looked up at Sam with trepidation.
Sam met the man's gaze for several seconds, then raised his eyes back to Mike. “This will be your challenge. We retrieved this pleasant fellow from a nearby city the other day, and he has been waiting for the opportunity to begin his own challenge. So you've had very fortunate timing.”
Sam signaled once more and followers walked over to the man on the floor. They cut the duct tape from his hands and pulled the piece from his mouth in a loud rip. “Please,” the man begged, “what do you want from me?” He pulled himself up to his knees. “I have a family. I have two teenage daughters.” Tears welled in his eyes and fell freely as he hung his head.
“Shh, Shh,” coaxed Sam, moving to stand between the man and Mike. “Here is how this works. One of you will pass the challenge. One of you will not. There can be only one winner. I leave it for you both to decide.” He tilted the knife in his hand, loosened his fingers, and allowed it to fall to the floor. It clattered loudly and came to rest.
The man on the floor looked over to Mike, who remained sitting on the chair. “No,” Mike told him, hoping to convince him not to move for the knife. The man scrambled across the hardwood floor and grabbed the knife with both hands around the handle. He raised it, trembling, and the knife’s tip drew invisible designs in the air.
“I'm sorry,” he said, tears still in his eyes, and refused to make eye contact with Mike. “I have a family, I have to do this.” He charged forward and swung the blade wildly; Mike rolled nimbly off of the chair and took up a defensive position behind it.
“No you don't, man. Just relax a minute and let’s talk about this,” Mike said, gripping the chair by its wooden top. He leaned it back, raising the front legs an inch.
“Oh, I should have mentioned. If there isn’t a clear victor in the next two minutes, we will kill you both,” Sam said, matter-of-factly.
C.J. and Chris watched as the men circled each other, Mike defending his position with the chair and the other man occasionally swiping with the knife. The man’s face no longer held a look of sadness, it had taken on a feral expression, and his perspiration had renewed its vigor. Sweat dripped from his temples, and the armpits of his button-up shirt were dark with moisture. It was clear from Mike's demeanor that he didn't want to be forced into an engagement; it also seemed as if he preferred they both die at the hands of the Loborians.
“Fifteen seconds,” Sam called, visibly bored. The knife-wielding man’s face became all the more concerned, and he lunged at Mike with the knife leading the charge. In one smooth motion, Mike raised the chair and swung it like a baseball bat. It caught the charging man directly across the face, chair legs first. His body redirected in flight toward a nearby wall, and his nose caved in as it met a desk pushed against it. The man's body immediately relaxed, dropping the knife, and he crumpled to the floor. Given the way the man's nose was bunched up and bent to the side of his face, Chris knew it had to be horribly broken.
Chris looked to Mike, who stood panting from the exertion of the swing. The expression on his face seemed to say 'what could I do?' Chris shrugged in acknowledgment that there hadn't really been a choice.
One of the red-eyed women walked to the man's body and checked his pulse. “He's dead,” she declared. She picked up the knife from the floor and walked it over to Sam. He gripped it by the handle, and allowed it to dangle loosely at his side.
“We have our first winner, congratulations. Now tie him back up.” Several of those nearest to Sam grabbed Mike roughly. They wrenched the chair from his hands and placed it back on the floor. They forced him down on the seat and reapplied the rope to his wrists and ankles. “Now, it's time for your challenge,” he dangled the knife toward Chris. “This will actually be a combination challenge, for you and this young man.” He emphasized the phrase young man by pointing to C.J. with the tip of the knife. “Undo their restraints.”
The ropes were removed from both Chris and C.J. Chris evaluated his options and came to the bleak resolution that he didn’t really have any. Running wasn’t a possibility, they’d easily be caught. There was also too many of them to fight. There was nothing to do but try to go along until an opportunity presented itself.
Sam walked over and stood face to face with Chris. When they were so close it became apparent that Sam was several inches shorter than Chris, and Sam leaned his head back to peer upward into Chris's eyes. The silence remained unbroken, save for the sound of them taking turns breathing the same air.
His breath smelled horrible, like rotten cabbage marinated in skunk odor. Chris stopped breathing in through his nose, and forced himself to use only his mouth when he absolutely had to. He stared back down into the red eyes looking up at him, refusing to be the one who broke the gaze.
“If you make a movement to help your son, then I'm going to kill him while you watch. Only after you've seen the complete dismemberment of your son will I kill you,” Sam said. Chris couldn’t help but think that, by the look of things, it sure seemed like Sam would prefer that to happen.
“What are you going to do to him?” Chris asked.
Rather than answering Chris's question, Sam turned and lowered to one knee in front of C.J. ”I am going to cut you three times, in three different places. If you cry out in pain, I will immediately slit your throat. Do you understand?”
C.J. turned to look at his dad, terror and tears both plainly visible in his eyes. “Dad?”
Chris's body twitched with stress and frustration. Now that he was free from the ropes, he could barely restrain himself from jumping on the sadistic bastard. But what purpose would it serve? If he tried to do anything, the other Loborians would just murder them all. He returned his son's worried look and nodded. “You can do this C.J., just stay strong.” He forced himself to bear a false look of confidence and control. “Please son, do not make a sound.”
C.J. stared at Chris, his face contorted with dread. His gaze didn't deviate from Chris when Sam placed the knife against his upper thigh but his eyes widened all the more.
“Just keep looking at me, C.J. I'm here, just keep looking at me.”
The knife crawled slowly across C.J.'s leg, slicing through the jean material and biting into the flesh just below it. C.J.'s eyes screamed in terror and pain and his face paled, but he didn't allow the smallest sound escape from his mouth. Blood pooled and then oozed from the deep laceration. Chris's own eyes filled with tears and his heart knocked against his chest, but he remained unmoving. Every muscle in his body screamed to do something. “You son of a bitch,” Chris spat. “You chicken shit coward, torturing a little boy.”
“This boy is being given one of the greatest honors he could receive,” one of the red-eyed people said, as if he was stating the obvious. “Your son is being given the oppo
rtunity to prove his strength.”
“Stand up and turn around,” Sam said. He grabbed C.J. by the armpits and helped him reach his feet, and then forced him to turn away from Chris.
Chris hated that he could no longer see his son's face. At first he was worried that C.J. would no longer have something other than the pain to focus on, but then he noticed that Mike had drawn, and was attempting to keep, C.J.’s attention. Chris tried to help his son in the only way he felt he could at the moment, with verbal encouragement. “You're doing great C.J., just two more. Please keep being strong and this will all be over soon. I love you, son.” Chris kept every muscle strained, lest the nearly uncontrollable urge to do something take over, and he risked all of their lives. He forced himself to watch as Sam lifted the back of C.J.'s shirt to his shoulders, exposing his skin, and held it in place with his left hand.
Sam eyed the pale flesh of C.J.'s back, seemingly trying to find his preferred location to divide the skin. Finding a place he seemed content with, he laid the edge of the blade against the middle of C.J.'s back, which arched slightly at the touch of the knife. The skin indented and wrapped around the blade's edge. Sam applied pressure and the knife bit violently into the skin. He began the horizontal drag; Chris watched, his mind racing, while a ragged, bloody moat appeared on C.J.’s back.
Chris couldn’t decide whether he should try to get the knife from Sam, or if he should wait it out, and see if they let them leave after the third cut. Maybe they only killed people who didn’t pass their trials? Maybe they’d try to initiate them, and they’d have the opportunity to decline? So much was unknown about the Loborians, and he just wanted to grab C.J. and escape alive.
A waterfall of blood ran down C.J.'s back, and Chris knew that the new wound would need pressure applied to it soon. Not to mention the wound on his leg that he couldn't see. Sam gently turned C.J. back around, ignoring the tears. He hadn't even whimpered, Chris thought. I don't think I could have done that. “I'm so proud of you C.J.,” Chris said solemnly, struggling to keep his voice from trembling.
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