Cargo: an edge of your seat thriller

by J. C. Maçek III

  Oh…it was this small, glowing box. How did he make it stop, he wondered?

  Wakefulness was slow to come to him, but whatever it was that caused that ringing sound was certainly persistent. If it stopped for a few seconds it returned soon.

  It was called a ‘phone.’ He remembered that now. But how did he make it stop that noise? What stopped the ringing?

  At last, he realized he needed to touch it, so he did.

  Finally, he felt himself lock fully into a phase he could safely describe as ‘awake,’ and Anthony Peterson felt ridiculous for his confusion.

  “Hello?” he answered tiredly.

  No one was there.

  He felt angered for his sleep being interrupted, though that nightmare had been his worst yet. At least nightmares ended, though.

  “Hello?” he answered again, feeling spooked.

  Slowly, Peterson started to hear laughter. Quiet at first, then louder and louder to the point that it became maniacal, yet pained. Peterson pictured a psychotic clown coming for him with a knife.

  Was he still dreaming?

  Was ‘Sully’ calling him back?

  “He-he-he-he-hey-hey there!” the voice said.

  It took Peterson a few seconds to place the voice. It was familiar, but sounded different. Distorted. Odd.

  “Evan?” he finally said.

  “Yeah! How’s it goin’?” Evan sounded out of it. Inebriated. Crazy. “I just called…to tell you…that you…were the shittiest father ever!”

  Peterson responded tiredly, “Evan, have you been drinking?”

  In response, Evan just laughed again, that same mad clown laugh. Peterson could tell by the sound of the laugh that Evan was just that…drunk.

  Evan sighed heavily. “But ya know something?” He paused and then added as if speaking a great truth, “I was never much of a son, anyway.”

  “That’s not true!” Peterson responded with no thought whatsoever. Evan had been a wonderful boy once. The pride of his daddy’s life, and little Elena had been his little princess. He had failed them, not the other way around, and he knew that, deep down inside. “Actually, you were a great son,” Peterson said, trying to sound reassuring and loving. It was his chance to make nice with his firstborn. “It was my fault. I let you down. I didn’t teach you to be self-sufficient. I should have–”

  “Naaaaaaaaah!” Evan spat back, still seeming to relish the comedy of their situation. “My whole life has been like that. No responsibility. Spoiled, pampered, weak. Just this…rich…prick…living off his parents’ money. So much to say about that. I suppose…maybe I should be apologizing for being so shitty now.”

  Peterson heard his son shaking his head as if trying to agitate his brain into sobriety.

  “But…now…right now…what I wanted to do…was call…to say goodbye.”

  Peterson was concerned. “Goodbye?”

  Evan laughed again, then cut to silence, like a radio switching stations. “I did something…”

  “What?” Peterson demanded. His dry throat locked up. Was Evan in danger? Had the thought of losing all the money made him suicidal? Had he taken something? “Evan, what did you do?” Peterson pleaded.

  “Something…” Evan started, then shook his head again “…maybe I shouldn’t have done.”

  Peterson’s lower lip quivered as he listened to his sorrow-filled son. “Evan? What did you do?”

  “Iiiiiiiiiiiiiiii, um…I, uh…I called the cops.”

  Peterson’s concern turned to absolute terror. “Son, you, you didn’t! Please tell me you didn’t!”

  “I did, though,” he said, still sounding like he was on the edge of laughter. “I know you said I shouldn’t, since your friends might be listening.” Then, the humor left his voice, and he tried to sound reassuring. “Don’t worry, though. I didn’t give them your number or anything. I’m not sure they even believed me, even.”

  Peterson was shocked and distraught. It was like the dream Evan had come back to pull off another part of him. “Evan, I…I told you…if I called the police they would kill me.”

  “That’s the idea,” the drunken Evan replied sinisterly.

  Peterson recoiled in shock, but was speechless. It was as if a coin had flipped in Evan’s head and he had become someone else. Someone different from the son who had just called him.

  “After everything you’ve done to me over my entire shitty life… after all you did to Elena, and…for fuck’s sake, everything you did to my mother…you taking away my trust fund was the last…straw in a long line of indignities.”

  Evan paused, seeming to take another drink. He heard the drinker’s hissing exhale and knew that Evan was hitting the hard stuff.

  “I figured with you and the… step… bitch… out of the way, everything would just inherit on back to me anyway.”

  Peterson trembled as he listened to these evil, uncaring words.

  “That’s way too much money to blow on ransoming a slutty little trophy wife and a dried up old man suffocating in a metal box.”

  Peterson was petrified and in disbelief. “Oh, Jesus! Oh, Jesus, Evan…you’ve killed me!”

  “Really?” Evan mocked, sounding like an expectant child hearing the best news of his life, mockingly wracked with emotion and tears of joy. “Oh…I hope so, Daddy!”

  And then, Peterson’s son hung up on him amid more wild laughter.

  17

  The Price: 7:37 AM

  Anthony Peterson pulled the phone to his face the second it started ringing. He prayed that it was Evan calling to tell him he had been joking and maybe even to apologize. But before he could even answer, his head rocked back again as electricity coursed through his body.

  He shook and his muscles contracted, the phone still pressed against his face.

  “Mr. Peterson, didn’t anyone ever tell you that rules aren’t made to be broken?” the kidnapper growled, angrily.

  Peterson just shook.

  “And this is, by the way, this excruciating torture you’re going through is far from the highest setting. We’ve been going easy on you up until now.” He laughed cruelly and proved his point by increasing the voltage. “You’re going to die, Mr. Peterson. You’re going to feel your brains boiling inside your head as you die, Mr. Peterson. Then when that’s done, your eyeballs are going to explode from their sockets and paint the walls like modern art…and then…your head is going to explode like a fucking volcano as you die, Mr. Peterson!”

  As the voltage intensified, the accompanied buzz increased to a deafening level. If the energy didn’t electrocute him, the sound would surely kill him. It felt like an earthquake. Blood leaked from the corners of his eyes and from his ears, but finally, with great pain, he managed the words “It…wasn’t…me!”

  With that, the voltage was suddenly cut, causing Peterson to fall to the floor, bloodied and breathless.

  The phone landed next to his head again.

  He felt drained of life. As if his blood had taken the last of his fluids and he was now a dry husk of a man or…perhaps…a raggedy man. A doll.

  “Yes, Mr. Peterson, it wasn’t you.”

  If he had breath, he would have sighed in relief at the knowledge that he had been spared for the time being. Instead he continued gasping for breath and staring at the phone.

  “Yes, your son called the police. We know. But don’t get your hopes up too high, Mr. Peterson. No one is coming to save you. The information your son gave to the police was sketchy at best.”

  “Then I…I…” he breathed hard and tried to catch a breath to speak with “I…didn’t…break…your rules… Ah.”

  “Regardless of who did, Mr. Peterson, the rules of the game have been broken. And you must, therefore, pay the penalty.”

  Peterson sat up and brought the phone to his bloodied ear, baffled at what the penalty might be, and angry at the unfairness of having to pay for a crime he didn’t commit. “Penalty? Penalty?” He was indignant. “What the fuck are you talking about? You’ve a
lready taken everything from me. What more could you possibly–”

  “Twenty million.”

  His heart sank. “Wha-what?”

  He hadn’t realized he had any further to sink, or that he had coveted a tiny bit of hope after his last call with Tom, but he sank further and felt his hopes dash.

  “The ransom has now doubled. Twenty million or you both die.”

  Peterson shook his head in disbelief. For once, Anthony Peterson told the whole truth. “It’s…it’s just not possible!”

  “Hmmm, you know, I’m staring at your wife’s sweet mouth right now wondering how good it feels. Maybe I’ll slit her throat while fucking her mouth. Live streamed.” The kidnapper laughed.

  “No, no! You can’t be serious! I barely scraped this together. There’s no way I could get twice that much, no matter how much time you gave me.”

  “No time extensions.”

  He looked up to the ceiling as if there was some overlord who might help him.

  “Then…then I can’t pay you. There’s just no way.”

  He heard an electric hum, and he automatically flinched at the sound. This time, the room didn’t electrify. Instead, he heard what sounded like a door opening. Was he being freed? Was this big, sick prank finally over?

  No. The sound came from the far end of the container. A small compartment did open, and a heavy object fell and rebounded off of the floor with a metallic clang. He could barely make out what it was in the dim light.

  “What’s that?” Peterson asked. There was only silence on the line. Not even laughter. “What is that?”

  “A little gift for you, Mr. Peterson. A gift delivered by remote control, so don’t get too excited. But it is a gift that might just save your life. Or, at least, your money.”

  Peterson walked slowly, tentatively over to where he heard the noise and then stopped. His eyes focused as he blinked the blood from them, and he saw a particularly nasty pair of pliers glimmering up at him.

  He recoiled in horror. “What the hell is this?” he asked, terrified.

  “Compromise, Mr. Peterson.”

  “Com-compromise?” he stammered in horror.

  “Call it, ha-ha, human trafficking, Mr. Peterson. Piecemeal human trafficking, if you will.”

  “I don’t–”

  “You’re selling your body, old man. A little at a time. Each body part costs a certain number of dollars. You remove one body part, we remove part of the ransom. It’s really quite a deal.”

  Peterson felt like he was going to piss his pants again. “You’ve got to be shitting me.”

  “No, I don’t think so.”

  “Go fuck yourself!”

  “Fuck myself? When your wife’s sweet mouth looks so inviting? Oh, we won’t stop with her mouth.” He laughed. “I want to hear her screaming as we–”

  “No, Christ, no, don’t touch her!”

  “Then, it’s time to make a payment, Mr. Peterson.”

  “I…I can’t.”

  “It’s really very simple, Mr. Peterson.” The kidnapper then patiently explained in a disturbingly normal voice, as if he were reciting the rules to a board game. “Each body part has its own monetary value. One toe, one million. One finger, two million. One foot, four million. One hand, five million. One arm, eight million. One leg, ten million. But let me clarify! You can only remove up to ten million in ransom. The original price. No discounts.”

  Peterson shook with rage, fear and dread. “You are fucking crazy!”

  The kidnapper paused again in that chilling way, leaving the metal coffin silent for the moment. When he finally spoke again, Peterson almost jumped.

  “Relax, Mr. Peterson. We don’t really expect you to sever a limb with a pair of pliers. Although…I admit that would be fun to watch.”

  Peterson’s head jerked around. Watch? Did they have this thing wired up with cameras too? He didn’t respond. He waited and…wondered.

  “I’ll tell you what, Mr. Peterson,” the kidnapper said with a mock-friendly tone. It was the same voice Peterson himself often used when sealing deals. It was the crooked salesman’s voice. “Since you’re such a valued customer, we’ll make it nice and easy for you. I’ll let you in on a special we’re running this hour only. It’s a one-for-one deal.”

  “One-for–”

  “One tooth? One million.”

  Anthony Peterson cringed. His teeth? That was the worst thought of them all. He couldn’t! The pain. And not his teeth. Not that. He considered it for a few seconds then morbidly remembered how much money he had spent on his teeth over the years. That bright smile he flashed to seal the deal each time had not come cheap.

  Then, his darkest side reminded him what a great deal he was actually getting. Surely he had not spent a million bucks a tooth over the years. Maybe the kidnapper was right. What a bargain this actually was.

  He couldn’t laugh. The very thought made him sicker. “I’m not doing it.”

  A quick, sharp jolt of electricity ran through the box, and he screamed both in pain and anticipation of more pain. “Have a seat, Mr. Peterson,” the kidnapper commanded. But Anthony Peterson was already on the floor.

  He had fallen heavily, and the phone, then the pliers fell and clanged next to him. After a moment, he sat up, cross-legged and looked at the pliers with dread.

  “Now, put me on speaker phone and set the phone down, face up so the case can accept the shock. You recognize the brand, I’m sure. Now you know why we chose it.” Peterson rolled his eyes. “I’ll bet you wish you were shockproof right about now.”

  He did not laugh or move. Another quick jolt hit him to remind him of who the boss was. He put the phone down as ordered and prepared to sit, roll over, play dead, and self-mutilate.

  He eyed the pliers in agonized hesitation, then slowly reached for them. Another jolt caused him to cry out.

  “Fuck! I’m doing it!”

  He reached quickly for the pliers, but handled them the way he would a viper, fumbling around with them until the jaws faced him. Slowly, he opened his mouth and inserted the pliers. They tasted bad, not that it mattered. They seemed like the cheap kind of tool. The kind they sold in cheap chain hardware stores. The kind that broke after a month or so. The kind made of metal that always stank because it was degrading right in front of you, much like the walls of this coffin only worse.

  Jesus, GOD, just get on with it. he thought. Get this over with.

  He clamped reeking talons around one of his backmost teeth and hesitated there, in that humbled position, breathing awkwardly, and hating the taste as he built up the courage to rip pieces of himself off of his body.

  He sealed his eyes shut to hold back the tears he knew were coming.

  And he was right.

  With a hideous crunch, his tooth came out at the root, and he screamed in pain. It was worse than any feeling he had ever had, even worse than the goddamn electric shocks. But the tooth didn’t come out clean. It was stuck there. He fought with it. What the hell was keeping it held on? He didn’t know, he just pulled and pulled as his mouth filled with blood that flowed down over his chin.

  He coughed wildly as he inhaled blood, and that violent cough dislodged the rest of the tooth. It snapped loose, excruciatingly, with a sickly wet crunching sound.

  He sagged down, holding the plier-bound tooth in one hand. He bled and trembled and felt like passing out.

  “Very good, Mr. Peterson,” the kidnapper mocked. “Why you’re a pro at this! I think you missed your calling as a dentist.”

  “Fuck you.”

  “Now, don’t you worry! Every tooth costs the same amount. Keep the ones in the front for aesthetics, the ones in the back for function. Make your choices wisely.” The kidnapper laughed again. “That’s one down, nine to go.”

  Peterson thought the bastard was enjoying this a little too much. Was the guy yanking his cock imagining Peterson’s suffering?

  He put the pliers back into his bloody maw and gripped another of his third mol
ars. He gagged at the pliers and the blood and hesitated for a moment, then closed his eyes and pulled again. He screamed in misery and fell to the floor. This one was easier to yank out, though it drained him of blood and energy even more.

  The tooth made a sickly sound as it bounced on the metal floor.

  Queasy, he lifted the pliers again, and they slipped in his fingers because of the blood. He had to stop to dry his hands before he tried again.

  Another tooth. This one was really stuck in there. He had gone for a bottom one this time. He found it was much more difficult to pull up than it had been to pull down. He thought of switching, but then reconsidered.

  How many teeth did a person have? Thirty something. Thirty-two? Or was it twenty-six? Maybe there were twenty-six letters of the alphabet and thirty-two teeth. Or did he have that backwards?

  It was a ridiculously stupid thing to think about, but it worked. It distracted him enough to finish the job without obsession. It still hurt severely, and he needed a moment to recover.

  He was going to bleed to death from his mouth, wasn’t he?

  No, no, no…he couldn’t think about it. He needed to focus on something else as he had done last time. The pain would be there.

  So, he focused on his wife. Each tooth, this pound of flesh, was for Susan. He was unimportant in this. He might as well really be the raggedy man with pieces of him coming off. He was not Anthony Peterson, even.

  And from that point, it was as if he was outside of his own body, connected only by a painful invisible thread from his forehead to the real world, watching some other poor bastard hunched over, crossed legged on the floor of some fucking goddam toy box, hurting himself for the amusement of the person he hated most in the world. Getting mind raped and destroyed by someone who redefined evil.

  Someone worse, even, than Anthony Peterson.

  He just watched as the poor bastard tore himself to pieces. He would help him if he could, but he was just a raggedy man in a box, was he not?

  Another piece of the prisoner was ripped away. He never realized how long it took to pull a tooth. This poor bastard was torturing himself for a long, long time.