Hunted (Riley Cray)

by A. J. Colby

  “Shh. You’ll wake her up,” he answered, dragging my chair back around to face the stairs, though I couldn’t get the image of the skinned were out of my mind.

  “Let me go, Johnson. Let me go and no one has to know about Cheryl or the wolf. I won’t tell anyone,” I pleaded, unnerved by the hysterical edge to my voice and the wet heat of tears sliding down my face. I didn’t like him to see me so weak and afraid, but there was no repressing the terror that roiled in my gut like a thousand snakes twisting and turning over one another.

  “Let you go?” he asked in a hollow voice, blinking several times, and then turning to look at me, his eyes clear and bright as if he had just awakened from a dream. “Oh no, I can’t do that. Someone has to pay.”

  “Has to pay? What the hell did I ever do to you?”

  “You didn’t have the good grace to die when that mangy dog Reed tore you open. Everything would be so much better if you had just died.”

  The doctor’s had considered it a miracle that I survived the attack, the rate of virus transference so rare, and the severity of my injuries so great. Johnson however, appeared to see my survival as some twisted cosmic oversight. There was nothing I could say in the face of such unbridled hatred that would change his opinions. So I did the only thing I could – I let my smart mouth run free.

  “Aw come on, Johnson, we’re not all that bad. After all, once you go were you never go back. Even Cheryl knew that,” I said with a crooked, leering smile.

  “Don’t you dare say her name!” he bellowed, his hands shaking with rage at his sides.

  “Who? Cheryl? Your dead wife that you crammed in the freezer because she liked wolf dick more than yours? That Cheryl?”

  “I said, don’t say her name. Your filthy mouth doesn’t get to sully her name,” he snarled, spittle flying from his lips.

  “But you’re the one who chopped her into pieces. Your logic is a little skewed, Harry.”

  “Stop talking,” he muttered, his gaze once again shifting to unfocused mania.

  “I mean, I’ve never killed anyone. How many people have you killed?” I rambled on, ignoring him.

  “Don’t you ever stop talking?”

  “Not really. I tend to babble when I’m about to be turned into sushi. It’s a nervous habit. But then, I guess we all have our faults, eh Harry? I babble, you skin weres. Looks like we’re both a little flawed.”

  “Shut up. Shut up, shut up, shut up!” he chanted, pressing his hands over his ears and squeezing his eyes shut.

  I was pretty sure that if I pushed him anymore he would crack and either crumple into a broken ball and weep, or gut me like a fish and mount my head on the wall next to the poor unfortunate were who’d been unlucky enough to sleep his wife.

  I hope she was worth it, buddy.

  “I won’t ever shut up, you sick bastard. While I’m still breathing I will make you regret ever laying a finger on me,” I said, the calm iciness of my voice surprising even me.

  I was beyond sadness now, beyond anger and frustration, beyond fear. I hovered somewhere in the realm of pure blistering fury that reduced the world to crystalline purity. I don’t think I’d ever experienced such clarity as I did in that moment, strapped to the chair in Johnson’s grimy basement unsure of whether I would ever see the light of day again.

  Well, I’ll be damned if I go down without a fight. No matter what, I’ll always come out swinging.

  Evidently, so would Johnson. A single swift blow to the side of my head cut through my brief moment of insight, plunging me into darkness. Before I fully sank down into unconsciousness I was able to utter a single grating “Bastard.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  TRYING TO OPEN my eyes, I found my right eye swollen shut, and my vision blurred in the other. I tried to reach up and explore the swollen state of my eye, but instead found my hands strapped to the arms of a chair with zip ties that bit into my skin viciously. Then I remembered Johnson’s ham-hock fist arcing towards me and my inability to evade the punch.

  At this rate he wasn’t going to have to torture me, a few more blows to my skull and I was likely to die from a hematoma. The dizzying thumping in my head added credence to the thought, while the white spots dancing on the edge of my vision gave me pause.

  I’d had plenty of time to envision my untimely demise over the past few days, but not even in my wildest imaginings had I thought I would go down like this. It seemed cruel somehow, to have suffered through so much only to die from internal bleeding in a dark, dank basement, never having had the chance to say goodbye to the few people in my life who actually meant something.

  I wonder if depression is a symptom of cranial bleeding.

  “Fuck this,” I muttered, shaking my head to clear some of the dizziness. “I’m not going down like this.”

  Swallowing against the lump in my throat, I huffed a lank string of hair out of my face to look over my surroundings once more, hoping against all odds that I’d spot something close at hand that I could use to escape. Unsurprisingly there was nothing there except the same dusty and useless crap as before. The only potentially useful items were spread out across the workbench, across the room.

  Eyeing the rusting tools longingly, I spied the shaft of a screwdriver, miraculously untouched by the passage of time and disuse. I was sure that if I could somehow get my hands on it, it would work as an effective weapon.

  And therein lies the problem, idiot. You’re tied to a chair. How exactly do you plan on getting around that little snag? my internal voice asked with no small amount of bitterness, the thoughts full of cynicism. Johnson will let me out, I answered, a plan beginning to formulate in the back of my mind. I just wasn’t sure which was more repulsive – the thought of my plan succeeding or failing.

  * * *

  As soon as I heard the door at the top of the stairs creak open I closed my eye and bowed my head until my chin touched my chest, feigning unconsciousness. The smell of booze was strong again, meaning Johnson would be sloppy. It would either work to my advantage or mean that I was royally screwed. I was hoping for the former.

  Keeping my head down, I slit my eye open just enough to watch Johnson’s drunken progress. Staggering down the creaking wooden steps he weaved across the room towards the work bench, sloshing whiskey across the floor from the bottle in his hand as he went. He’d lost his dress shirt since his last visit, leaving him in slacks and stained t-shirt, yellow pit stains spreading out from his underarms.

  Ew, gross.

  Even more disgusting was the prominent bulge in the front of his pants. Revulsion bubbled on the back of my tongue even as I thanked God for helping me with a way out. Fighting against the urge to gag, I swallowed the acid burning in my throat and continued to watch and wait.

  Setting the half-empty bottle of Jack Daniels on the workbench Johnson dug through the crap littered across its surface, tossing objects aside at random. All the while I kept my eye on the screwdriver I had spotted earlier, watching it get shuffled about amongst the junk. For several minutes he sifted through the random tools and trash, occasionally snatching something up, studying it for a second or two before discarding it. Whatever he was searching for continued to elude him.

  With a final grumble of “Goddammit” he whirled around, reaching out for the edge of the workbench to steady himself.

  “Oh well, little wolf, looks like we’re going to have get creative,” he said, advancing towards me in a drunken stumble.

  Continuing to feign unconsciousness I tracked the toes of his shoes across the dirty floor until they came to a stop in front of me. I felt as much as heard the wicked snick of the knife coming free from the sheath he’d strapped to his belt, the air full of the sharp oily tang of silver. It took every ounce of self-control I had to remain still and maintain the charade when all I wanted to do was recoil from the blade and cry out for help.

  A backhanded blow to my face erased my need to pretend unconsciousness. After a few moments the dancing motes of darkness di
sappeared from the edges of my vision, and when I finally pinned Johnson with a glare there was no need my fake the burning rage.

  “Asshole,” I snarled, spitting fresh blood at him. I bared my teeth in a bloody grin when he recoiled from the red spray that splattered across the front of his shirt.

  “You fucking bitch. You’re going to pay for that.”

  “Yeah, yeah. You’re all talk,” I replied, with a yawn.

  My yawn came to gasping halt as the wickedly sharp edge of the silver blade came into view, gleaming in the corner of my eye. The sight of it made my skin crawl with the need to get away, and for the first time I let Johnson see just how afraid I was as I thrashed in the chair, straining uselessly against the plastic ties holding me in place.

  Foiled by zip ties, how embarrassing. Maybe they’ll put that on my tombstone – ‘Here lies Riley Cray. She would have survived if it weren’t for those damn zip ties.’

  A piercing wail of agony exploded out of my throat as he pressed the flat of the blade to the bare flesh of my right wrist. My skin instantly began to welt and throb beneath the silver. I knew that continued exposure would lead to blistering, burns and scarring, but in that moment I couldn’t think of anything beyond the pain of the silver blade pressed to my skin.

  The flood of relief that tore through me when he took the knife away was dizzying and left me drawing in ragged breaths. Looking down at my hand where it gripped the arm of the chair I saw several inches in either direction of my wrist covered in dark red streaks. It took longer than I care to admit to realize that the zip tie had been cut. My relief was short lived as another shrill scream erupted from my raw throat, the pain of the silver against my skin shooting up my left arm.

  The agony blazing through my body felt like it lasted hours, days, searing along every nerve. It was unlike anything I had ever felt before, and I understood all too well the wolf’s visceral need to get away from silver.

  An eternity later he pulled the blade away, and when I was finally able to will my muscles into cooperation I looked down to see that my left arm was similarly marked, and devoid of bindings. My arms were unbound, and yet I wasn’t sure that I possessed the strength to do anything with my newfound freedom.

  The denim of my jeans stopped my legs from suffering the same fate as my arms, but my skin crawled and twitched at the close proximity of the silver nonetheless as he cut the zip ties securing my ankles.

  Free. I was free. Now was my chance to escape. My muscles contracted, preparing to propel me into motion, but as I leapt up from the chair the hilt of the knife slammed into my temple. My vision blackened for a terrifying, heart pounding second as the blow knocked me back down into the chair with enough force to make the legs scrape across the floor.

  “You’re not going anywhere, bitch,” he snarled, exhaling sour whiskey breath in my face. “We’re going to have some fun.” I seriously doubted that whatever he had in mind would be fun.

  Grabbing me by the hair, he pulled me up out of the chair, using his convenient handle to propel me across the room. I would have spun and backhanded him across the face if it wasn’t for the persistent press of the knife’s tip against my side, pricking me through my shirt.

  “I hope you rot in hell for this.”

  “You first,” he growled in reply, driving me forward into the edge of the workbench hard enough to drive the air from my lungs, leaving me gasping like a fish. Keeping the knife pressed against my side he let go of my hair.

  “Unbutton your jeans.”

  “What?” I asked in a rasping voice high with the beginnings of hysterical laughter. “You’ve got to be kidding.”

  “Does this feel like I’m kidding?” he asked, pressing the bulge in his pants against my ass. It felt considerably bigger than it had looked, and my blood ran cold with dread. His demands were in line with the crazy plan I had concocted to try and bait him with the chance to fuck a were, but now that he was all too eager to do so, I had no desire to follow through.

  “No, that feels like you’re a fucking sicko.”

  “I’m a sicko?” he asked. “No, I figure it’s just time I found out what all the fuss is about. My wife couldn’t keep her hands off that wolf’s prick, and Holbrook can’t seem to get enough of you. Now, unbutton your jeans,” he demanded again, pressing the tip of the knife against my side hard enough to send a thin trickle of blood down towards my hip, and make me cry out.

  My tears were hot as they rolled down my bruised and swollen cheeks, they stung the split in my lip before dripping down to the grimy surface of the workbench. With trembling hands I fumbled at the button of my jeans, and then through the wateriness of my vision I spied the screwdriver, right there in front of me, no more than a hand’s span away.

  “No,” I whispered.

  “What?”

  “I said no, you fucking pig!” I shouted, driving an elbow back into his gut. His sour breath was hot against my cheek as he let out a sharp breath and took a step backwards, scouring the knife across the flesh over my ribs. My shout turned into a scream but I couldn’t let the pain slow me down, not while I had such a small window of opportunity. Using what little energy I had left, I snatched up the screwdriver with one hand and the forgotten whiskey bottle with the other.

  Letting out a wordless battle cry I spun in place and swung the bottle awkwardly with my left hand. It connected with his skull with a satisfying meaty thump, staggering him backwards, the knife tumbling from his hand to clatter on the floor. Letting the bottle slip from my fingers it fell to the floor and shattered, spilling smoky smelling whiskey in a wide pool. I wasn’t sure I’d ever be able to stomach the smell of whiskey again.

  Brandishing my remaining weapon I took a step towards him, delighting in his reflexive step backwards. His beady eyes were bright with fear, and I liked it.

  I drove the screwdriver deep into his thigh, the handle vibrating in my hand as the tip skittered across bone, and it was a fight to keep the grin from my face when his squeal split the air. My makeshift weapon quickly became slick with blood, my fingers slipping on the chipped plastic handle as I tried to pull it out of his leg. When it wouldn’t budge I let go, and switched to raining blows down on his face with my bloody fists.

  I don’t remember stopping and stepping back, just the room slowly coming back into focus and staring down at my bloody hands, my knuckles split open but for some reason not hurting. Johnson lay on the ground unmoving, but still alive, sucking in wet, gasping breaths. My hands, covered in his blood and mine, vibrated with the desire to finish him off, but some small part of me held me back.

  No. Killing him would make us as bad him.

  “Fine,” I growled aloud, curling my hands into fists, reveling in the sticky feel of the blood oozing between my fingers. Rearing back, I delivered a kick to his balls. Staggering to the stairs, I clung to the banister as I hauled myself up one step at a time.

  Reaching the top of the steps, I slammed the door shut behind me, sliding the bolt into place. It barely looked strong enough to hold back a toddler, let alone a full grown man, but I figured it would slow him down if he found the strength to come after me. Turning around I sagged back against the warped wood of the door, and let my gaze drift over my surroundings. The house looked as derelict and abandoned as the basement had, filled with dust and random piles of garbage. A lamp with a naked bulb was the only illumination in the room, and the bright light caused white after images to cloud my vision.

  The sweat and cigarette smell I’d come to associate with Johnson lingered in the air, sour on the back of my tongue and adding fuel to the fire of anger still raging in my gut. A thought rose up from the dark recesses of my mind, urging me to go back down into the basement and finish him off, but I knew that if I did the woman who emerged wouldn’t be me anymore. Pushing the violent urge back down into the darkness I turned my attention back to the issue at hand.

  Raking my eyes over the jumble of water stained cardboard boxes, their contents spilled in hapha
zard piles across the filthy and torn carpet, I spotted a phone buried amongst the junk. Stumbling in my haste to reach the phone, I pulled myself across the floor on my hands and knees to cover the last few feet. My slick fingers were already punching the buttons for 911 as I lifted the receiver to my ear and was met with silence.

  Dead. The damn phone was dead.

  Throwing the receiver down, my bloody fingerprints smeared across the beige plastic, I sat down heavily, pressing the heels of my palms to my eyes to staunch the flow of tears that began to spill down my cheeks. I could feel my adrenaline quickly ebbing away, leaking out of me with each fat tear that fell from my eyes. I had to move, I had to get out of there, but I was so tired. All I wanted to do was lie down and go to sleep.

  You sleep, you die, I told myself, some small part of my brain still conscious enough to realize that staying there would mean the end.

  With limbs as heavy as lead I pushed myself up first to my hands and knees, and then to my feet. Swaying, I reached a hand out for the wall that was well out of range, and waited for the dizziness to abate, then moved towards the front door in a shuffling stagger.

  Weaving down the sidewalk, I stumbled out into the street, my feet fighting for purchase on the packed snow and ice. The tatters of my shirt flapped in the wind as I slipped and fell, my knees striking the pavement hard enough to jolt me into a moment of clarity. I was in an older neighborhood, many of the houses in various states of disrepair, some of them looking as though no one had lived there for a long time. I tried to cry for help, but my voice came out a strangled wheeze, my throat raw from screaming and my tongue still thick and heavy from the drugs Johnson had doped me with.

  Lurching to my feet I turned around, frantically looking for someone to help, or somewhere to hide. I knew he wouldn’t be out for long, and soon he’d be looking to finish what he started. Spinning around in the street, I saw approaching headlights bouncing across the slick asphalt a second before the car fishtailed and swung towards me. My brain screamed at me to run, but my body was slow to respond, and before I could react my legs were swept out from under me, throwing me back from the road.