Dark Days

by Ryan Casey

  “I dunno exactly,” the man said. “But—”

  “The Cabins,” Claudia said.

  The man looked around again. “Claudia? I told you to stay inside.”

  But Claudia looked right at Martin. Twiddled with her jumper sleeve.

  “The Cabins?” Martin said. “Who told you that?”

  Claudia looked down at the ground.

  “Claudia?” Martin asked. “Who told you—”

  “The man. The one with the girl. That’s what he said. ‘We’re going to The Cabins.’”

  Martin stood there. Wind brushing against him. Dog perched by his side.

  The man looked back at him. Half-smiled. “Sorry we couldn’t be more help.”

  But Martin smiled back at him.

  Tightened his grip on his knife.

  “No,” he said. “You’ve been more help than you’ll ever know.”

  He turned away from the man. From the tents. From Claudia.

  And he looked over at the hills in the distance.

  He knew where Ella was.

  He was going to find her.

  And he was going to make the bastard who’d taken her from him regret the day he ever crossed him.

  Chapter Forty-One

  Ella lay back on the bed and tried to bring her racing heartbeat down.

  She had a way of doing it. A way Grandma taught her. Deep breath in, count to four. Hold it for seven, then breathe out for eight. Then repeat.

  Sometimes it worked. Sometimes it got rid of the nasty butterflies in her stomach, even if just for a little while.

  But today, it wasn’t working.

  It’d been that way since she’d woken up. She had no idea how she’d managed to fall asleep. Her dreams had been scary. She’d run as quickly as she could away from someone. But she was stuck in mud. And no matter how fast she ran, how far she tried to get away, he was always there. Waiting for her. Smiling with his gap-toothed face.

  It was morning. The room she was in was boarded up at the windows, but she could see light cracking through. She was cold all over. Shivering. No matter how much she tried to warm herself up, she just couldn’t.

  The room she was in looked familiar. It was just like the log cabin her mum and dad used to visit. She could see specks of mould on the roof. Smell damp in the air. Taste it, alongside the metallic blood on her lips.

  She remembered what her dad told her about these cabins. A builder wanted to create a more rural retreat opportunity for Lake District visitors. He built five of these cabins, scattered around Eskdale, which that woman called Cynthia inherited and rented out.

  So that meant one thing.

  This could be the cabin she’d stayed in. This could be the master bedroom her dad didn’t want to show her inside or even step inside when he was sober, mostly because of the memories.

  And if this was the cabin... maybe that would work to her advantage.

  Maybe he would find her.

  She tugged at the rope around her wrists. It was much tighter now, pinning her down to the bed. Part of her wondered if the rope around her wrists earlier was loose just to tease her. To make her feel like she was escaping; like she was getting away. Giving her hope, then snatching it from her, right when she just started to believe.

  She pulled those ropes so tight her wrists started to chafe. And then she stopped. Let out a breath through her blocked, snotty nose.

  There was no getting out of this.

  She needed help.

  She lay there and looked up at that chipped, cracked ceiling. She thought of Dad. When she was younger, she used to love him. Idolise him. And then things went downhill, and he disappeared from her life, just like that.

  She’d spent years hating him. Telling herself she wasn’t good enough. Blaming herself.

  And she hated him for ever making her feel that way about herself.

  But she’d got to know him again. She’d seen how much he was struggling, too. And she’d seen how much he was trying.

  She didn’t want to admit there were two sides to every story. She didn’t want to accept there was more to this than met the eye.

  But there was.

  And she couldn’t deny a simple truth.

  She wanted her dad.

  But he wasn’t here.

  Right when he wanted to be here for her again, he wasn’t.

  She lay there a while. Felt a warm tear roll down her face.

  And another truth dawned on her.

  She could lie here. Accept defeat.

  Or she could remember what her dad told her.

  The courage he tried to instil in her.

  You have to be strong enough, Ella. You have to stand up and fight. Because you never know when you might need to fight for yourself.

  She went to yank those ropes away when she heard footsteps at the foot of her bed.

  When she looked up, her stomach sank.

  The man stood at the edge of her bed. Hands in his grey tracksuit pockets. Smile on his face.

  And a glow in his eyes.

  “Did you sleep well?” he asked.

  Ella lay back against the bed. Stomach turning. She wanted to throw up. Wanted to cry out. But that gag still around her mouth stopped her doing anything.

  The man walked around the side of the bed. His heavy footsteps echoed against the creaky wooden floor, kicking up dust. He stopped right by the side of her. Put a cold hand on her cheeks.

  And then he yanked the duct tape from her face.

  She let out a yelp. Tasted blood. Her mouth tasted sour, but at least she could breathe better now.

  The man kept his hand on her face. Another hand in his pocket. “How rude of me not to introduce myself earlier. I’m Garrett. Garrett Whyte. I’m guessing you’ll be hungry.”

  Ella couldn’t stop her stomach churning with hunger. As much as she wanted to resist anything Garrett offered her, she salivated at the thought of food. A crispy bacon buttie smothered with tangy brown sauce. Juicy beans on the side.

  She saw him lifting his hand from his pocket, and she half expected a creamy chocolate bar or something like that.

  But when she saw what it was, she froze even more.

  Garrett stood there. Knife in hand.

  Smile on his face.

  “I’ve not quite decided what I’m going to do with you yet,” he said. “But I will. And the best way you can ensure it’ll be as painless as possible is if you just co-operate. Okay?”

  He rested the knife on her neck. The cold metal made her shiver. He kept it there a few seconds. Grin widening.

  And then he pulled the knife away and walked away from her.

  “Rest up, my dear. We’ve got a long few days ahead of us.”

  He walked over to the door. Stepped outside it. Looked back and smiled.

  Then he slammed the door shut.

  Ella lay there.

  Heart racing.

  Sweat dripping down her head.

  Tears rolling down her face.

  Stay strong, Ella. You’ve got this. Stay strong...

  But no matter how much she told herself she was strong, no matter how much she tried to keep her shit together, she couldn’t escape the simple truth.

  She was trapped.

  She was trapped with a psychopath.

  And there was nobody coming to help her.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  Martin raced towards the log cabins as quickly as he could.

  The afternoon was growing dark. Thick grey clouds gathered overhead, specks of rain lashing down from above. All around, Martin saw the open hills. He saw the cabins perched on them, miles between each of them.

  And he knew he was maybe clutching at straws. He knew maybe Claudia, the girl in the tent, had got this wrong. Maybe she’d overheard that kidnapper mention a cabin, but not The Cabins.

  But no. That was just doubt talking.

  He’d heard what she’d said.

  And it added up.

  All of it added up.

&n
bsp; The man had brought Ella here.

  They were in one of these cabins.

  Cabins just like the one he’d rented for the weekend.

  He raced along the muddy ground. Rain fell heavier, soaking him to the bone. Dog ran alongside him, wagging his tail like this was all just some kind of game.

  To him, he supposed it was. It was a nice run in the countryside.

  Martin envied the life of a dog right now. A life without worries. A life without any kind of responsibility.

  He ran further along this muddy hill. In the distance, he saw a log cabin. One of Cynthia’s. The same design as the one he stayed in. He’d tried three already, with no luck. Searched every single one of them top to bottom, with no hope.

  Maybe he’d overtaken the man and Ella. Hell, maybe he was already too late. Maybe he’d run out of time.

  But no. He couldn’t think that way. He couldn’t start speculating.

  He just had to keep on running. Keep on going.

  Keep on hoping he was right about his instincts.

  His legs ached. His ribs were sore. His breathing felt laboured. The beating he’d taken had really taken it out of him.

  But he couldn’t let that stop him.

  As long as he could run, he’d keep on going. Keep on searching.

  He ran through the rain until he reached the front of the cabin and planted his hands on his knees.

  The cabin looked empty. No lights—which went without saying. But there was just that sense. That sense that nobody was here. That sense that this place wasn’t occupied.

  He walked up to the front door. Opened it. Stepped inside.

  Crowbar in hand.

  The living area was much like the one in the cabin he’d stayed in. Open plan, with kitchen cabinets lining the left side of the room. A dusty old television in the corner. The smell of something dead hanging in the air.

  “Ella?” he called.

  He searched the downstairs. Then he walked up the creaky stairs. Checked the bathroom. Then the bedrooms.

  No luck.

  He went back outside. Stood in the lashing rain. Dog sat there, tilting his head.

  “It’s no use, lad,” he said. “She’s not here.”

  Dog lowered his head, like he understood, and sulked off alongside Martin.

  He walked down the side of the hill. Four cabins checked. Only one left.

  And the realisation of which one it was—the only one left—felt too convenient. Too real.

  Like things were coming full circle.

  ’Cause the only log cabin left was his.

  The furthest damned one away. Typical.

  He walked through the rain. Mud splashed up on his jeans. He looked at this vast, empty landscape, and he thought how lonely it was here. How disconnected it felt from the rest of the country, which was going through whatever crises of its own.

  He’d see that world. He’d get a glimpse of it. There was no denying that. More people would leave the cities and make for the countryside. Maybe he’d even have to visit the city at some stage.

  But for now, a part of it still didn’t seem real.

  A part of it didn’t seem permanent.

  He walked into the distance for miles, only thinking of his daughter, only thinking of how he’d never give up on her, when he saw it.

  At the top of the hill, he saw the log cabin.

  The log cabin he’d stayed at.

  His Land Rover right in front of it.

  The log cabin he and Sarah had stayed at so many times prior.

  And there was something about this cabin.

  Something that caught his eye. Something that captured his attention more than any of the others.

  In the living area of the cabin, Martin saw movement.

  He tightened his grip on his crowbar as rain lashed down from above.

  And then he walked up the slope, towards that cabin.

  It was time to get his daughter back.

  It was time to make her captor pay.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  Ella listened to the rain hammering against the roof of the log cabin, and she knew she needed to get out of here.

  She didn’t know what time it was. It felt like she’d been tied up here forever. She’d tried crying out a few times. Tried shouting at the top of her voice, straining her dry, sore throat.

  But nobody heard her. Nobody responded.

  She closed her burning eyes. She knew the man was still in here somewhere. Or at least she thought he was. Every time she convinced herself he wasn’t in here, that he’d gone outside or something, she heard creaking downstairs. Footsteps. Like he was tormenting her. Toying with her.

  She peered up at that cracked ceiling. Heard the rain hammering down on the roof. She thought about Dad out there. Wondered what he’d be doing. Whether he was fighting to find her. Or whether he’d given up already.

  She thought of the necklace she’d dropped. The one he’d given her when she was a little girl. She hoped he’d found that. Hoped he’d seen it and taken it as the sign it was.

  Same with the section of her shirt she’d ripped away.

  She’d tried her best to leave as many trails as she possibly could. Now she just had to hope he found her.

  Before it was too late.

  But there was still a lot she needed to do herself. She couldn’t just lie here and wait. She couldn’t just hope for the best. She’d fought her whole life. Fought when she was feeling sad. Fought when she was feeling down. This was just the next kind of fight. The next step.

  She looked at the rope around her wrists. They were tied to the bedposts. She’d tried breaking free of them already, but every time she got close to pulling them free, they just got tighter, suffocating the circulation in her hands.

  She didn’t want to risk it any more.

  But then what choice did she have, really?

  She pulled against that rope some more. It was all she could do. Even if it made it tighten. Even if it turned her hands cold, made them heavy and numb.

  She kept on pulling and went to loosen her grip when she heard something.

  The bedpost. The one her right hand was attached to.

  It creaked.

  Just a little. But enough.

  She pulled against it again. Maybe it was just a false alarm. Maybe it was just creaking a little.

  But no.

  When she pulled against it again, she heard it creak some more.

  Hope filled her body. Optimism built inside her. She knew it wasn’t exactly an escape route. She’d still have a lot of work to do if she managed to get her right hand free.

  But one hand free was better than none.

  It was an opportunity.

  It was a chance.

  She pulled against the bedpost again. Heard that creaking grow louder. She twisted around, tried to see what was happening, why it was making that noise.

  She saw it.

  The bedpost was loose.

  It was breaking free.

  She had a chance.

  She pulled even more. Bit down against her lip. It hurt her hand. Made it feel heavy, made it feel numb.

  But she had a chance now. She had to take that chance.

  She kept on shaking, trying to break free of the bedpost. Pulled against it. Yanked it, harder.

  The more she pulled against it, the more she could see it coming loose.

  She knew she shouldn’t get carried away, but she couldn’t help herself. She pictured breaking free of this bed. Sneaking outside. Running across the hills, away from this psycho, towards the cabin, towards Dad.

  She thought about reaching him. Him telling her he was going to be here for her. They were going to look after one another. They were going to survive this new world, however long it lasted.

  She smiled. A tear rolled down her face.

  She pulled at that bedpost once more.

  The bedpost snapped away.

  Her right hand was free.

  She lunged over
for the left rope right away. Loosened it with shaky hands, urgency growing. It felt like one of those dreams where she was running away from someone, and right at the end, they always caught up with her. They always found her.

  She pulled that left rope away from her wrists, and she turned around.

  She went to reach for her ankles when she froze.

  The man stood at the door.

  Knife in his hand.

  Rain hammering against the roof.

  Thunder rumbling somewhere overhead.

  He looked at her, and he smiled.

  “Someone’s been very disobedient,” he said.

  Then he closed the door, lifted his knife, and walked towards Ella.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Martin raced towards the log cabin, crowbar tight in his hand, Dog by his side.

  It was late afternoon. Rain lashed down from the stormy skies above. He was totally drenched to the bone. He felt cold. His body ached from the shit he’d had kicked out of him earlier. He could taste the metallic, coin-like tang of blood, right at the back of his throat. Ringing in his ears.

  But all he could focus on was that log cabin.

  His cabin.

  His Land Rover parked right before it just like he’d left it.

  The autumn trees with their orange and yellow leaves all around it.

  And that movement inside the lounge window.

  He ran as quickly as he could up the slippery, muddy slope. He kept stumbling to the ground, splattering himself with dirt. He wanted to call out. Wanted to shout at Ella, tell her he was close.

  But he didn’t want to jeopardise his position. He didn’t want anyone else to know he was coming.

  Especially not the psycho that kidnapped her.

  He struggled back to his feet. Climbed up the slippery hillside. The cabin grew closer and closer, and yet still not close enough. He tried to tell himself that he’d made it. He was here. That’s what mattered. That’s what counted.

  He was here now.

  That’s what mattered.

  He raced further up the side of the hill. He hadn’t seen any movement inside for a while now. He felt a sense of dread right in the pit of his stomach. What if he’d got this wrong? What if this wasn’t the guy who’d caught Ella at all? What if it was just someone who’d come across this cabin and decided to take it for themselves?