Return From Darkness, 2/7
Terry Odell (tlco777@JUNO.COM)
Mon, 29 Oct 2001 14:03:32 -0500
Return From Darkness
Part 2/7
By T. L. Odell
Disclaimers in Part 0
Duncan and Tessa had been gone two days. Richie had
made a few sales he knew would impress Duncan. He was
just getting ready to close for the weekend when the door
chimes jangled. A glimpse of flaming red hair caught his
eye. He looked up to see Kathleen standing inside the
doorway, dressed in brown leggings and a very tight green
sweater.
"Well, hello there," he said, his pulse already quickening. He
lowered the pitch of his voice. "I've been thinking about
you."
"Same here. I thought maybe we could grab a bite and see
what transpires."
"I'm all for transpiring. Let me lock up, change my clothes
and we'll be out of here. Did you drive over?"
"Yes. My car's out front. I'll met you there."
"Okay. Ten minutes max."
Richie double checked the locks on the apartment and the
shop and joined Kathleen at her car. "Any ideas about
where to eat?" He tossed his jacket in the back of the green
Chevy and climbed in beside her.
"I know a great place outside of town. It's a bit of a drive, but
worth it."
"Drive on."
The stars were just beginning to sparkle against the
darkening sky as Kathleen turned off the main highway and
onto a country road. "Isn't this beautiful, Richie? Just look
at the moon." She reached over and put her hand on his
thigh.
"I don't think I've ever been out this way," he said, sidling a
little closer to Kathleen. "How much farther? I'm getting
hungry."
"Not much longer. Ten, maybe twenty minutes."
"I can wait that long." He moved closer to her, running his
hands through the mane of her hair.
"Richie - not now. I have to watch this road, or I might miss
the turnoff. We'll have plenty of time for that later." She
smiled at him, licking her lips in a way that made Richie
almost want to skip dinner.
They navigated a narrow dirt road and arrived at what looked
like an old farmhouse set back in a stand of maple trees.
Kathleen stopped in a clearing amidst the trees, turned off
the ignition and got out of the car. "We're here. Come on."
"Are you sure they're open? There's only one other car
here, and there aren't many lights on. And there's no sign-."
A deep voice resounded from the direction of the house.
"Welcome, Richie Ryan. I've been expecting you." Richie
swiveled to see a tall, bony man descending from the porch
of the house. Dressed in jeans, boots and a plaid shirt, and
a silver-buckled belt complete with a holstered Colt .45, he
lacked only the Stetson to be the stereotypical cowboy. The
look in his eyes was pure malice.
Richie's heart pounded. "I'm guessing you're not the maitre
'd," he said. He turned to Kathleen. "I suppose this means
that dinner's off, right?"
"Got it in one, kid," she said. "For you, anyway." She strode
up to the stranger and slid her arm around his waist. She
looked cold and hard. Richie wondered how he had thought
her beautiful.
Richie faced the cowboy. "Hey, I don't know what I've done
to piss you off, but I'm sure we can talk about it."
"Your very existence pisses me off, kid. People like you
shouldn't be allowed to live while the rest of us have to get
old and die. But while you are alive, why not have some fun
and make a little money, too?"
Richie stood, poised, as the cowboy approached. This was
no Immortal challenge. This was the kind of fighting he
knew from his days before meeting Duncan. He hadn't been
very good at it then, but he was ready to see if all the training
with Mac and Charlie DeSalvo would pay off. It might have,
too, had the man not pulled out the gun and shot him.
***
Richie woke with a start as air inflated his lungs and his
heart began pumping blood through his body once again.
He lay still, shivering, until the agony of coming back to life
passed. He couldn't imagine this ever getting easy. Once
his head began to clear, he turned his attention to his
surroundings. Blackness engulfed him. Only his confidence
that Immortals didn't suddenly go blind kept panic at bay.
The air smelled damp and musty, as if he were in an old
basement. Not until he automatically wrapped his arms
around himself to ward off the chill did it dawn on him that he
was naked.
This is not good. Think. Figure out where you are.
He rose to his feet, head down, hands on his thighs, until the
dizziness passed and he could stand upright. Slowly, he
began moving forward, arms outstretched in front of him,
inching his way across the floor. It felt like hard packed dirt,
its gritty residue sticking to the soles of his feet as he
stepped carefully through the darkness. His fingertips
grazed a flat surface, and he identified it as a concrete block
wall.
Okay, a wall. That's better. Now, let's see where it goes.
He turned to his right and walked forward, one hand on the
wall, counting his paces. At thirteen, he reached a corner.
Great. Thirteen. Glad he wasn't superstitious. He
continued. Ten paces the other way, and another corner.
No difference in the wall. He reached high and low, but
could discern nothing that indicated a door, window, or any
possible means of escape. At eight paces back along the
opposite wall, he reached another juncture. This one
appeared to be some sort of reversed alcove-a small
protuberance along the middle of the wall, about four feet
square.
He explored the final wall. He touched something wooden at
shoulder height. It angled up and he recognized it as a
staircase. No handrails, just bare wood steps with no risers
between them. Almost a ladder. Under the staircase he felt
a plastic bucket. It was empty. He wondered if his captors
had left it there intentionally, or if it had just been something
they had overlooked when they locked him in. Locked.
Wait. If there were stairs, they had to go somewhere. There
must be a door.
Richie crawled up the steps on hands and knees and felt
what had to be a door at the top. It was metal of some kind,
but there was no handle on his side.
Disheartened, he sat on the steps momentarily, then decided
that in his unclad state, the rough wood was asking for
trouble. He started to walk back and forth across the room
to determine if there was anything in the middle. About five
feet from the bottom of the steps he found a plastic picnic
cooler. He opened it and felt inside. There was a gallon jug,
heavy with some liquid. He opened it and tentatively sniffed
the contents. No odor.
What's the worse thing that could happen if you drink it? It's
not like it'll kill you. Not permanently.
He took a small sip. Water. He realized how thirsty he was,
but permitted himself only a few sips. He had no idea how
long the water had to last. He felt around in the cooler and
discovered some bread, two apples, and some of those
individually wrapped things Tessa called "plastic cheese."
He unwrapped one and ate it and took another two sips of
water. He'd save the apples for later.
Continuing his quest, he found a pile of scratchy blankets not
far from the cooler. Wrapping himself in one, and ignoring
the itching, he sat down on the remaining ones and hugged
his knees to his chest. He would get out of this.
Think, Richie. Think. They know you're an Immortal or they
wouldn't have shot you and dumped you somewhere with
food and water. If they know about Immortals, they must
know how to kill you. Maybe you're being held hostage? If
they're trying to hold you for ransom from Duncan, you'll
have a few days to stick this out. You can do that.
Richie dragged the cooler and blankets over to the niche
created by the outcropped wall. Home Sweet Home. He
made a nest out of the blankets and tried to get some sleep.
He was awakened by a blinding light stabbing his eyes.
Squinting and shielding his eyes against the glare, he looked
toward the stairs. His assessment of his surroundings had
been accurate; other than the blankets and cooler, the room
was indeed bare.
"Good. You're awake." Richie recognized Cowboy's voice.
"Put your hands on top of your head."
Remembering the gun, Richie complied, even though it
meant dropping the blanket. Cowboy kept a flashlight
trained on Richie's eyes. Despite the light in his eyes, Richie
could tell that there were two other men behind Cowboy.
One grabbed his wrists and strapped them together behind
his back with plastic restraints. "You gonna walk nice, or do
we knock you out to get you upstairs, kid?"
"I'll walk nice. I don't suppose you have any pants I can
borrow?" Richie recoiled from the sting of the slap one of
the men delivered to his mouth.
"You don't talk unless we tell you to. Got that?" said the
second man. Richie said nothing. "I said, you got that?" the
man said again.
"Excuse me. Does this mean I can talk now?" asked Richie.
This time he tasted blood from the slap.
Half dragged, half pushed, Richie ascended the stairs
surrounded by his captors. They shoved him onto a ladder-
back chair with a woven rush seat, yanking his arms over its
back. He started to complain about how the seat felt on his
naked buttocks, but decided he'd been slapped enough
already. They taped his ankles to the chair legs. He sat in
defiant silence and waited. He was in a spacious room with
heavy black curtains at the windows. His captors sat on an
oversized brown couch facing him; there were pole lamps at
either end of the couch, but other than that, the room was
empty. The terra cotta tile floor chilled his bare feet.
Cowboy sat in the middle with a beefy looking man with a
pock marked face and a crew cut on one side, and a slight,
almost frail looking man on the other. Brutus and the
Professor, Richie thought. Brutus spoke. "Where'd you find
this one? He seems kind of puny. For what I'm paying, I
should get top quality."
"We take what we can get," said Cowboy. "Besides, looks
can be deceiving. This isn't exactly the same as the hunting
ranch; we can't breed 'em like the big cats. But then, we can
use 'em a lot longer."
Richie's heart pounded, and he could feel the sweat begin to
drip into the chair's seat. He hoped it was just sweat. He'd
heard of hunting ranches where people paid big money to
hunt illegal game. He'd read "The Most Dangerous Game"
in high school. He'd thought it was pretty good at the time.
Right now, he couldn't remember who'd won. Had to be the
good guy. The bad guys never won in high school lit.
"I won the toss. I say knives first," Brutus said.
Knives? Knives were not good. He tried to keep the fear
from his face as Brutus got up and unsheathed something
that looked like what Captain Hook would wear in his sash.
A scimitar, that was it.
Great. Do you really care what it's called? It's sharp, that's
what it is.
"Are you sure you want to do this?" Richie asked. "What
have I done to you?"
"What did I tell you about talking without permission?"
Brutus used the hilt of his knife to smack Richie's head so
hard that the chair toppled over.
Dazed, Richie found himself being hoisted back to a sitting
position. He concentrated on the fireworks display in his
head and tried to ignore the knife. "Better than New Year's,
not as good as the Fourth of July," he said.
This time, the Professor slapped him across the face.
"I love them on the first day," said the Professor. "They're so
brave. How long before this one begs us to stop?"
"Shut up. All bets in private. No fair messing with the odds,"
said Cowboy.
"Sorry," said the Professor. He looked at his fingernails,
then gnawed on the side of his thumb.
Richie barely noticed the knife slice down his calf. It wasn't
until he felt the blood oozing down between his toes that the
pain began. Then Brutus went to work, slowly and
methodically. Kathleen came into the room from the kitchen,
a look of arousal on her face.
He didn't know how long he'd been there; the blood loss had
him drifting in and out of consciousness. He refused to give
them the satisfaction of begging them to stop, but he could
hear himself screaming with the pain.
Richie was barely aware of Cowboy calmly approaching with
Richie's own rapier in his hand. "Time's up," Richie heard
him say. A stabbing pain pierced Richie's chest and
everything went black.
Then, the awful sensation of coming back to life filled his
being again. Cowboy's voice sounded hollow, like a bad
phone connection from a tunnel. "Welcome back, kid.
Kathleen's put some fresh food in your cooler. I trust you
found the bucket under the stairs. We'll see you again."
Richie felt himself being dragged across the room. At the
top of the stairs, someone cut his bindings and kicked him
down into his prison. He groped his way to his corner,
wrapped himself in a blanket and paced, fighting the anger
and frustration that twisted his gut. Finally, he slept.
In the darkness, Richie lost all sense of day or night. Even
upstairs, the curtains obscured any evidence of time. He
had no idea if his captors brought him to the surface once a
day, three times a day, or skipped days at a time. During the
intervals between sessions, he slept. Dreams of being home
with Duncan and Tessa carried him away from his chamber
of horrors.
End of Part 2