Black Water

by S. D. Rudd

  The Leviathan. Why was it here? What was it?

  Fear threatened to snatch his good judgment as he played with thoughts of convulsing until his chains ripped up the floorboards, deciding that it would be a mistake. He noticed the shackles growing tighter around his wrists, his fingers tingling from lack of blood flow. A flood of epic proportions slammed into his lungs. Streams of boiling acid poured into his stomach and he knew what was happening.

  It was coming. Towards a helpless, panic-stricken victim.

  Cuffs grew tighter. His veins pulsed violently. His hands…gone. Feeling. Gone. Sulfur. The stench that choked his lungs. Burning them as the decaying odor entered his nostrils. The snort was next door now. Alan blinked rapidly and switched his vision to normal. Now it was almost pitch black. The last thing he wanted to see was whatever was trying to kill him. He closed his eyes one last time, fearing that the next pain he would feel was whatever the Leviathan would use to take Alan’s life. Meditating.

  Tall trees, green grass, fresh air. Meditation: sandy beach, inspiring landscape…Monica. Suddenly, his cuffs loosened up. Blood began to flow through his fingertips, reviving them. Hope surged through his chest. Meditation: Monica’s silky black hair that hung well below her shoulders. Mediation: The way she smiles at him when he tells a funny joke. With every pleasant thought the chains seemed to loosen all the more. Before long they hung loose enough to slightly dangle beneath his wrists and Alan knew he was on to something. What if the shackles responded to…

  There was a presence in the room!

  He felt it. Literally! Something rigid and heavy brushed over his ankles and Alan wrenched them in. The Creature. The Leviathan, as Camille had called it, touched him. All pleasant thoughts fled, his focus had depleted and the hairs on his body lengthened.

  Don’t act all scared now, Alan. It’s nothing.

  But it was something and he knew it. The stench tripled in aroma. The floor creaked right in front of him. It was here. He wondered if there was a creature stalking Monica. He imagined her running, screaming, falling and being mauled and then something strange happened inside him. His limbs stilled, his heart steadied and a fire coursed through his veins. Thermal heat sensory images of the beast filled his mind and he felt it.

  Defiance. An overwhelming urge to protect. If Monica was to survive he had to stay alive and find her. Fear left his body. Rage replaced it. He would find her. Kill them. All of them. This thing too. He centered his mind around these thoughts and flipped open his eyes, determination in his eyes blazing…the creature was gone. Just like that! Gone. Alan’s head spun toward the doorframe. Across to the boarded up window. Straight ahead where the desk sat in silence. There was nothing out of the ordinary.

  If he didn’t know better he would think the noises, the awful smell, the brushes of a large scaly creature…were imagined.

  “No way,” he said to himself.

  He studied the wide iron cuffs chaining him to the floor, turning his wrists from side to side. For the first time he realized how free his wrists were. Never had they been so comfortable. Were they actually…loosening up?

  “Impossible,” he said. “That…that would make them…”

  “Alive,” someone finished for him.

  Alan’s head shot over to the doorway, feeling calm and hopeful. It was Camille. She stood inside the doorframe, awestruck.

  “Or at least responsive,” she said. A look of admiration washed over her face. “How did you do that?”

  Not sure himself, “I thought maybe you could tell me.”

  “Soon you will find that I don’t know as much as you think. Otherwise, would I still be a captive in this house?”

  “But you do know more than I. At least tell me what this place is about. How I got here. Where…” He stopped himself. Subjects involving another woman would have to remain at a minimum for now.

  “What I know, I’d be glad to share with you. What I don’t know, perhaps we can find out together.”

  That wasn’t his plan but Alan would go along with it. For now. “Any chance you’re gonna tell me where the key is to these chains so I can at least move to and fro as you do?”

  “I keep telling you, you don’t understand this place yet. You roaming around without the knowledge is dangerous.”

  “How can I learn it if I’m immobilized?”

  “Your immobilization is your learning.”

  He did not like her vague answers but he had to keep his cool.

  “Besides, there is very little I can do with that thing prowling the hallways. Not all of us can be the chosen one; not all of us have the ability to free ourselves from bondage.” Then she added, “as you do.”

  “You said there was no one else in this house but us.”

  “In this house.”

  He shot her a double take. “You mean, there are other prisons like this?”

  She nodded.

  “With people in them?”

  “But we won’t trouble ourselves with them,” she said. “They’re already lost.”

  His heart sank and he fought to keep up appearances. Monica. Monica Brookes. Was she in one of these houses? And if so, was it too late?

  ELEVEN

  AFTER TALKING TO Camille for hours, it seemed, most of what she presented to him was more confusing than not knowing them at all. She kept mentioning “this place” during various stages of the conversation as if speaking of flesh and bones. Throughout her words Alan got the strange feeling that, although Camille wanted to be free, the house, as she put it, held a stronghold on her.

  The part of her that wanted to leave wasn’t strong enough to overcome the part of her that was drawn to it. A hint at liking the place despite the terror that lived inside was noted by him. When she spoke of the house and of the creature her eyes lit up with astonishment, yet Alan detected fear in her voice. Her fingers trembled while she spoke of them, she paused once in a while to listen for movement and at one point he was sure he heard a quavering in Camille’s voice when she mentioned the creature’s name.

  How horrifying, how sadistic the animal. Their kidnappers. The old estate. Could someone possibly find some beauty to behold in all of this? Disturbing him even more than these were the mysteries surroundingCamille. This aura of innocence wrapped around a tone of deceit. Something about the woman was not right; something told him she was dangerous. Very dangerous. It would not surprise Alan if she was behind the kidnapping, although she denied it several times by claiming to be a victim herself. Or if she knew where Monica was being held and who had taken her, Camille’s task being to pump Alan for information. But why?

  And what was this fascination or this jealousy over Monica? A woman she had neither seen nor met. He was never sure but whatever it was could not have been to his advantage. Alan settled once more with the idea of not mentioning Monica any further. She was a woman for whom Camille had harbored too much interest and that didn’t sit right. There had to be a way to get her to talk. See what she knows. But he saw no way of engaging in the conversation without appearing too interested in the subject. One thing he learned.

  Never let an enemy know what was in his heart.

  They would then understand how to manipulate him.

  Listening to Camille explain everything in vivid detail, Alan did pick up a few things. For instance, this place, this house, was in fact a prison. These were not her words. Her exact words were “a place where only enlightened minds dwell. Once we have learned everything we will be able to go out into the real world.” Like they were fetuses that needed to be kept inside the mother’s womb until their birthday. This all sounded like occult, brainwashed, psychobabble spewing out of the mouth of one of the newest converts who was too ignorant and bubbling over with zeal to recognize its underling madness.

  Alan struggled to understand what enlightenment there was to attain in such a tomblike place. Why were the windows boarded up? What possessed whomever to bring their subjects here, to this un-sanitized splinter factory? And
where were the lights? He constantly examined his chains as she hit on this area. Shackled to the floor. Terrible creature with a foul odor roaming the halls. A crazy woman telling him he was to be envied for being an advocate of such repression. He was no advocate. This was a prison.

  And she was the Warden. Or belonged in a Ward.

  At any rate, she was going nowhere he wanted to go conversationally. It was more like a Jehovah’s witness trying to convince him that his Christian beliefs were off. Severely. He was neither, but that’s what if felt like. It wasn’t until she mentioned, on a sidebar, the way she subscribes to being “free” from this place—which was to embrace his chains—that he even spoke at all. With a snide remark.

  “You can’t expect me to believe this crap,” he said.

  Silence. Maybe of offense. But he pressed on.

  “I mean, you’re walking around here telling me that bondage is freedom and freedom is bondage…I don’t know what to think of you or this place. Last time I checked, you’re the one walking around this oversized, decaying rat hole, not me; you’re the one switching back and forth between leaving and staying. Reality and whatever world you’ve accepted as reality…” He exhaled a puff of frustrated air. “Personally, I don’t think you’re being honest with me. I think you know something is wrong with this house, this…unusual attraction to captivity. But you’re too confused or deceived to accept it.”

  He paused at her overwhelming offense, wondering if he had been too harsh.

  “Am I right?”

  No response.

  “Even a little?” he said, feeling remorse for having wounded Camille.

  She just stood there. He noticed her eyes tearing up and he froze in shock. Hurting her was not his intent. Not his intent at all.

  I went too far. This shack is robbing me of my charm.

  Tears rolled down her cheeks and just one of them torpedoed his heart.

  I have to get out here before I lose myself completely.

  Just when he was about to make amends, “I think you need to learn the etiquette necessary for speaking to a lady,” she said carefully through streaming tears and a quavering voice. Then she turned to leave.

  “Wait.” She walked out. “Camille!”

  Camille didn’t even grant him a parting glance.

  Alan swore as he kicked the wooden floor with his heel, settled into his previous position and rested his head against the cold wall. Just when cuffs chaining him to the floor tightened around his wrists.

  TWELVE

  NOISES.

  Alan heard noises. Scratching, dragging, hissing. Unnerving. He fought paranoia with everything in him but he couldn’t help but flinch at the slightest creak of the house settling. The wind picked up outside. It sang like a banshee, sending chills all over his body. Surely the scratching came from a nearby tree swaying in the wind, rubbing alongside the rotting wood.

  The dragging. Something overhead rubbed against the rooftop; something also moved by the wind. And the hissing. The hissing had to be the wind. He was sure of it. He hoped it was it. Until the clacking, creaking and the hesitation resurfaced. At first Alan chalked that up to the paranoia, his mind playing tricks on him, revealing to him elements that were not present with him in the house.

  Until he heard the combination a second time.

  Louder. A third time. Louder!

  Oh, no! This can’t be happening!

  It was coming for him. And it was moving faster than the last approach. He closed his eyes and focused on that little ball in the back of his head. A slight headache impacted his right temple and he released his focus. Heat sensors were not going to work this time. No matter how hard he focused. A snarl reached out for his chest and ripped a large chunk out. Immediately, his vitals went haywire.

  Heart. Racing. Head. Throbbing. Palms. Sweating. And the chains. Growing tighter and tighter once a new threshold of fear was breached. Fresh panic demolished his insides and he had not one iota of control. Not this time.

  Movement in the hallway! It was here. Around the corner. Playing cat and mouse. Ready to pounce on its helpless prey without a moment’s notice. Alan tasted bile in his mouth. His body shuddered. His mind felt distant but near at the same time. The cuffs…made his fingers pulsate. Threatening to burst at any moment. And he just noticed the length of the chains securing the iron cuffs to the wood floor had shortened. Like crazy!

  Blinking twice he switched to night vision and adjusted the white and light grey color schemes for optimal vision. Nothing inside of the room yet. Except for the monstrous snarl that bounced off the bare walls, from around the corner and into the room. His hands were numb now. His forearms. Numb. His biceps. Stinging. These chains were too tight and Alan didn’t think he could take anymore.

  That thing was in the hallway, hustling down toward the room! Something snapped inside of him. The same as before. His instincts. Not of rage…but of defiance. If he was going to be killed it would happen only against his lasting will. Alan, not knowing what else to do with all this useless bottled up energy, arched his head, opened his mouth, and released a war cry at the peak of his lungs that sounded puny in comparison to the Leviathan’s roar.

  Instantly, his chains lengthened, the cuffs loosened…and he saw infrared for a split second after opening his eyes. His thermal heat sensor had kicked in long enough to see that the creature was gone.

  Again.

  Alan felt overconfident.

  “Come on!” he hollered into the now dead of air, a hard pant exasperating his lungs. “Come ooooooon!” Even the wind was silent in between his war cries, panting hard enough to collapse his chest cavities from the pressure.

  “Come and get meee!”

  When he heard nothing, triumph surging and adrenaline cooling, the reminisce of fear caught up to him and he convulsed without control accompanied by a heavy sob.

  “Come on!” he said on more time, bleary eyed, voice now quavering. Winded and hoarse, “I’m right here!” Losing his fire, “I’m right here,” he repeated feeling the full brunt of exhaustion.

  He broke down and cried and he didn’t stop his tears from flowing. The lump in his throat stole his voice. His stomach wove knots tight enough to cause massive discomfort. Mucus from his nostrils mixed in with the tears to form a growing puddle on the wood floor under his face.

  “Monica,” he said. He stole a deep breath. “Monica!” he howled. The sobbing became violent, to the point where he could cry no more. “Where are you?” he said in a soft defeated tone. He composed himself, taking a few deep breaths, before saying, “I’m coming to get you. I won’t let them harm you; I’m coming to…”

  “Are you ok?”

  Alan gasped and whirled toward the doorway. It was Camille. Genuine concern registered on her face.

  “I heard you from down the hall, in my room,” Camille said. “I came down here as soon as I could. It sounded like…it sounded like you were…were you?”

  He couldn’t control another sob but he did mask it with a phony wheeze that sounded like he had a cold. “I’m fine.”

  “You didn’t sound fine just…”

  “Then you’re just gonna have to trust me.”

  “Alan—”

  “I’m sorry about earlier.”

  Camille’s eyes blinked with surprise.

  Alan pressed on. “I never meant to hurt you…” a sniffle, “…it was completely out of character and, believe me, my mother taught me how to treat a lady and you are a fine one at that.”

  A coy expression formed across her face, making her appear more innocent and strangely beautiful. But she was still reserved.

  “These chains aren’t talking here,” he said, raising his wrists, jangling the chains, hoping to win her trust. “I really mean it.”

  A long smile broke. “I believe you,” she said. “And a real lady is not angry for long. I collect your apology and I extend like courtesy toward you.”

  “You didn’t do anything.”

  With a
sigh, “You were right…I wasn’t being honest with myself.” Camille’s eyes fell away from Alan’s. “Or with you,” she added.

  Alan repositioned himself until he was upright and as comfortable as the chains would allow him to become. Whatever she had to say he wanted to hear it well. Warm liquid rolled down the base of his wrists and pulled away from his skin underneath. He ignored it. But not Camille.

  “These chains,” she said. She walked over and knelt down in front of him.

  “They’re fine.”

  He and Camille caught each other’s eyes at the same time and Alan’s mind was suddenly captivated. She was awe inspiring. They gazed at each other a little too long before Camille tore away, grabbing both of his hands. She flipped them over, revealing fresh trails of blood leaking from underneath his wide cuffs. Her face twisted in a way that electrified Alan’s stomach. Who was this woman? Reminding himself that he loved Monica did everything but take his mind away from Camille.

  She is amazing…Monica. Gotta find her.

  “You’re bleeding,” she said with sweet lips.

  “They’re—”

  “Enough of that, now,” she demanded. Alan did not object. “I’ve seen enough testosterone in you to understand your male dominance. Alan the Mighty is not the kind who can be manipulated, I can respect that. You are a true man, a warrior, even.” He loved her reverence of him. “I know your strength; it moves me.” His dimples perked up, he felt it. “But you need an intuitive mind if you are to free yourself from this place.”

  He studied her as she tore a small piece from the base of her blouse. Then she pushed one cuff back to expose the source of the bleeding. Taking the piece of cloth she had just torn, Camille tore it in two, carefully folding both pieces of her blouse and then placing them to the side. She then tore off a much larger portion of her blouse and rolled it into a ball. Then she made eye contact.