Intense 2

by Hebert, Cambria

  I unlocked the chipping brown front door and walked through the living room into the kitchen. The large window over the sink flooded the room with sunlight that filtered through the trees in the back yard. I set down my dinner and headed down the hallway, unbuttoning my cammies as I went.

  I peeled off the blouse and tossed it across my bed and then bent down to unlace my boots. Once those were off, I undid my boot band that held my pants in place over my boots and tossed those onto the growing pile of clothes on my mattress.

  My belt and trousers were next, along with my army green T-shirt. When I was down to nothing but my boxer briefs, I went into the adjoining bath and turned on the shower. The water pressure in here sucked. But at least there was water.

  Bathing with baby wipes was worse.

  I peeled off the boxers and kicked them away, stepping under the lukewarm spray and pulling the curtain shut.

  I stood under the water a long time, hoping it would wash away my day. But my brain wasn’t going to be controlled, and it went to places I really didn’t want to go.

  After finishing up, I tossed on a ratty pair of jeans, a white T-shirt, and a long-sleeved thermal tee.

  I sat at the kitchen counter and ate my southern dinner, the picture hanging on my fridge taunting me as I ate.

  Finally, I dropped the leg I’d been working on and wiped the grease coating my fingers on a napkin. I pushed away from the stool and stalked over to stand in front of the picture, crossing my arms over my chest as if I were accepting some unspoken challenge.

  The faces in that photo stared back at me, reminding me of better days, of days when I didn’t carry around thick scars that no one could see.

  Prior was grinning into the camera, a helmet strapped under his chin. A rifle was slung over his shoulder and war paint smeared his baby face. We used to laugh and tell him that he only wore the paint so women wouldn’t think he was twelve.

  To the left of Prior stood Gidding. A solid house of a man, with dark skin and a wide white smile. When he wasn’t working, he was lifting weights. When he wasn’t lifting weights, he was flirting it up with any pair of female legs he could find.

  They were both dressed in cammies and boots, with covers perched over their regulation haircuts. They were good men. They didn’t deserve what happened to them.

  My eyes wandered over the sole survivor in that photo.

  Broad shoulders, narrow waist, extremely short, dark hair. The smile he wore was almost an urban legend, because it was a sight that wasn’t often seen now.

  He was the least likely of the trio to survive any kind of attack. He was the least likely of the trio to actually be caught in a dangerous situation.

  Yet he had been.

  And he was the only one who survived.

  I almost didn’t recognize that man in the picture, but it was hard to forget a face you looked at every day in the mirror. I looked a lot different now than I did then. Not so much in features, but in appearance. I was no longer young and motivated. I no longer carried an air of youth and innocence.

  Now I was just edgy and rough. Scarred and hardened.

  I gave a weary sigh.

  I spent my days trying to forget. Yet I hung a reminder right on the fridge that I was forced to look at every single day.

  No more.

  I couldn’t continue to beat myself up over the fact I was still alive.

  I snatched the photo off the fridge and carried it to the trash can in the corner of the room. I stood over it a long time, staring down at the faces of my friends who were no longer alive.

  Without tossing the picture away, I pivoted from the can and slid open a drawer. It was the kind of drawer that seemed to collect every odd and end in this house. MacGyver would have a field day with this thing.

  I shoved the picture into the back, burying it underneath the rest of my accumulated junk that was too valuable to throw away. Then I slammed the drawer and returned to my chicken.

  My eyes strayed to where the picture used to hang, my gut tightening in preparation for what it was going to see. Only the space was empty.

  My gut released.

  Putting that picture away wasn’t going to fix my problems, but it was a start.

  5

  Honor

  I lay there a long time, not daring to move, afraid to breathe too deeply. The earth was damp here, the moisture seeping into my clothes and making me uncomfortably cold. The sun was shining. Why was I so cold?

  Because I was in a hole.

  Because I was kidnapped and thrown down some sort of manmade pit. I began to wonder how he dug such a hole, how long it took and if he only used a shovel. How did he get out when he finished digging?

  Was I going to get out?

  A little whimper escaped my throat and it seemed to snap me back to reality. He was gone; it was clear he would be gone a while. My fingers, now freezing cold and super stiff, ached from clutching my possession.

  The one I stole.

  I lifted my arm, holding it up. It was an iPhone. A little smile played over my lips. He’d been so busy worrying I would puke on him that he didn’t notice my little pickpocket scheme. I wondered how long until he realized it was missing, how much longer after that it would take him to check back here.

  My time was limited. I had to act fast.

  I pressed the circular button at the bottom of the screen and the phone lit up. It was the afternoon. By now, I would have been showered, dressed in a comfy pair of yoga pants and an oversized sweater, with a cup of coffee steaming at my elbow while I typed away at the kitchen table.

  I pushed away the images of my cozy, serene house. I pushed away the panic budding inside me. I was going to get out of this. And once I did, I would have new material to write about.

  The screensaver on the phone was generic and plain. A simple blue background that made me roll my eyes. Did he have no creativity at all? I swallowed thickly. Obviously he had some creativity because I was lying in a hole that had to be over thirty feet deep.

  The battery on the phone was at seventy percent, and I sent a small prayer of thanks that it wasn’t almost dead. I pressed the small green square that said PHONE and called up the keypad to dial for help.

  Quickly I punched in 9-1-1 and then held the phone to my ear with a shaking hand.

  Nothing happened.

  After a very long time, I pulled the phone away from my ear and stared at it. No signal.

  “Are you freaking kidding me!” I yelled. What the hell was the point of a cell phone if you couldn’t use it when you desperately needed to?

  “Oh, hell no,” I muttered and hit END.

  I sat up, my stiff, cold body screaming in pain. I ignored the intense ache in my ribs, ignored how it hurt to breathe. I ignored the way my cheek stung and my tongue felt thick. I pushed to my feet, using the dirt wall to steady myself, and then blinked at my surroundings.

  I looked down at the phone and went to the home screen, hoping there was a flashlight app. There was so I used it, shining it around the hole. It was maybe ten feet wide. The floor was uneven, all dirt, and the sides were the same. The sky seemed so far away when I looked up.

  My vision was blurred, and at first I thought tears were threatening again, but they weren’t. After several minutes of really taking stock of my body, I realized only one eye was blurry—because it was swelling shut. Likely from where he punched me.

  Well, on the bright side, I didn’t have to worry about the way I looked because no one could see me.

  A hysterical laugh bubbled out of my throat and I swallowed it, returning my attention to the hole. I studied the ground, the walls, everything. I wanted to know everything about this pit I now called home.

  As I was shining around the flashlight, something glinted in the side. I stepped closer, bending down to look. It was a necklace. A silver locket with a red stone set in the center. Around the stone was a beautiful engraved scroll design. I picked it up, brushing away some of the dirt caked on it. The m
etal was cold and I knew instinctively that it had been here a while.

  I also knew I hadn’t been the first woman to be thrown down here. I stared at the necklace a long time. I didn’t really see it, though. Every ache and pain in my body became more pronounced. My knees shook with the cold and my teeth began to chatter. I knew that I was likely going into shock and I told myself to calm down. The only way I was going to get out of this was with a clear head.

  I tucked the necklace in my jacket pocket, not willing to put it back in the dirt, and I prayed whatever poor woman had lost it here was somewhere at peace.

  I also made that woman a vow.

  Justice.

  Justice for what was done to her. Justice for her life, though way too short. I knew she was dead. He wouldn’t keep kidnapping if she wasn’t. I hoped her end was swift.

  I tried 9-1-1 again. I paced around the circle, trying to find a signal, waiting for just one call to go through.

  Finally, the dial tone came on and the phone rang in my ear. Excitement and hope flooded me, and I sagged in relief. Then the phone beeped. The ringing stopped. The dial tone went away. I looked at the screen.

  Dropped call.

  I sank down onto the ground. I was so utterly exhausted. My eyes felt like they had a ton of sand in them. I leaned against the dirt wall, tucking my legs beneath me, gathering myself close, trying to keep in my body heat.

  I would just rest for a minute and then I would try the phone again. The second I had even a smidge of a signal, I was going to get someone on the line. I was going to tell them what happened and they would come for me. I would be safe.

  Even as my eyes drooped, I tried the phone again. The call didn’t go through.

  I was still attempting the call when my body succumbed to my exhaustion and I fell into a troubled and painful sleep.

  6

  Nathan

  I needed a beer. There was no beer. And why was there no beer at this weekly poker game?

  Because the dude bringing it was late.

  I’m pretty sure that somewhere written in the guy code of life was a rule that stated, “He who brings the beer shows up on time.”

  Clearly this guy needed a class on guy code.

  “Where the hell is the beer?” Patton complained as he shuffled the deck for, like, the thirtieth time.

  “I say we dock him a hundred in chips when he gets here,” Braden said.

  “There’s liquor behind the bar,” Jinx, our host, said, getting up and going around the wooden bar against the wall. “Who wants a drink?”

  A couple of the guys yelled out their orders and a few more made jokes about leaving and going to Twin Peaks (it was like Hooters) for their drinks.

  I stayed quiet. I didn’t want liquor. I wanted beer. Beer was good for mellowing the mood, and for some reason I wasn’t feeling too mellow. I thought finally taking down that picture, finally resolving that it was time to move on, would give me a sense of peace.

  But I didn’t feel any peace.

  Instead, I felt kind of edgy, kind of keyed up. It was as if something was happening around me that I didn’t know about, yet I could feel the bad energy.

  Yeah, like I said, I seriously needed that beer.

  “Should we just start the game? Make him sit out the first hand?” Patton said, returning to the chair beside mine with what looked like Captain Morgan and Coke in his hand.

  “You driving?” I drawled, giving the glass a pointed stare. Yeah, I sounded like an old man, but he was one of mine. I wasn’t about to let one of mine screw up his life over a couple drinks.

  “I’m crashing on the couch,” he replied.

  I nodded and let the subject drop. I wasn’t a nag and I took him at his word. Besides, he knew I would come down on him if he got behind the wheel of his car. Marines were never really “off duty.” Marines were on call twenty-four seven.

  Acting like an ass wasn’t part of the job.

  Patton started dealing the cards, and I glanced at the door once more. I wasn’t what I would consider friends with the guy bringing the beer. Lex was more or less and acquaintance that I saw every Friday at our poker games. I knew him well enough that if I saw him out in town or at a restaurant, I would stop and say hi, maybe make a few cracks about poker or something. But he wasn’t someone I would go watch a game with either.

  I fished my cell out of my pocket and called up his name in my contacts. All of the regular poker players exchanged numbers a while back, in case of a location change or if something came up and someone couldn’t be there. It was common courtesy to let the others know because we usually held up the game until we were all around the table.

  Which made his tardiness that much more peculiar.

  “Anyone hear from Lex?” I asked. Maybe he wasn’t coming.

  No one spoke up; everyone shrugged. “It’s not like him to be late,” one of the guys said as he adjusted his chips into neat stacks.

  “Shit comes up,” Jinx said matter-of-factly, sitting down with a huge ass glass of some kind of liquor concoction.

  Bottom’s up, I told him silently. The faster he got hammered, the faster I would start winning. I hadn’t lied when I told Patton I was feeling lucky.

  I fully intended to walk away with full pockets tonight.

  I hit the message button and shot off a quick text to Lex.

  You’re late. U coming?

  Hopefully he would reply with a yes or no and we could get on with the game. And someone could make a damn beer run.

  How Jinx could have that bar and no beer was beyond me. ‘Course, last weekend we were all here watching football so I guess I kind of knew where the beer had gone.

  I dumped the phone in my lap and picked up my cards as the game began. I grabbed up a handful of peanuts and tossed them into my mouth, crunching away as I studied my cards. Not a completely worthless hand. I could work with this.

  A few minutes later, the basement door opened and Lex came into the room carrying two paper sacks, which he set on top of the bar. A series of “heys” and “what ups” sounded around the room.

  “Beer’s here!” Patton called and elbowed me.

  I grinned and laid my cards facedown on the table. “No peaking,” I told him.

  He snorted and started talking smack. “Please. Your mom could play a better hand than you.”

  I grinned because he was right.

  Lex was pulling out a case of Miller Light from the bag as I approached. “Thanks, man,” I said, reaching in to grab one.

  “Sorry I’m late. Traffic was a bitch and the liquor store was packed.”

  “No worries,” I said, popping the top and letting the beer flood my mouth. Ahhhhh.

  Lex grabbed a beer and chugged about half the can in one gulp. I eyed him. He seemed a little fidgety, not quite as steady as he usually was. He was usually more friendly, more prone to smile.

  “Everything okay?” I asked him.

  “Hmm?” he said, pulling the beer away from his lips. “Yeah, totally. Long day at work is all.”

  “I hear that,” I said and saluted him with my beer. “TGIF.”

  Lex grinned. “Deal me in!” he called, and then we both went over to the table to start the game.

  I completely forgot about the text I sent him…

  Until a few moments later when I got a reply.

  7

  Honor

  The sound of beeping woke me. I jerked awake, blinking against the dark as reality came crashing over me. I scrambled to my feet, looking up toward the top of the hole. The sun was no longer in the sky. It was dark. It was night. I was in the center of the woods.

  Even down in this hole, I could hear the wildlife singing in the night. I heard the rustling of leaves and wondered what was up there, praying it wasn’t him.

  The beeping sound cut through the darkness again, and I noticed how the screen on the phone illuminated the hole, casting a bluish tone over everything.

  It was a text.

  My knees
sagged in relief, and I felt my lower lip wobble. Finally, I would be able to get help. I glanced at the screen, hungry for contact with the outside world. There was no name for the person texting, only a number. The area code was one I didn’t recognize.

  You’re late. U coming?

  I had no idea what kind of person my kidnapper could be friends with, but right about now I’d take my chances with anyone.

  Please help me.

  The signal was still very low and it took the text forever to send. It took so long that I began to lose hope. I began to think it wouldn’t go through. But then the phone made a little whooshing sound and the message posted.

  It took even longer for the person to reply than it did for the message to send. I waited, clutching the phone, praying I would get an answer.

  What’s wrong? Shitty hand?

  I was kidnapped by the owner of this phone. Plz help me. Call 911.

  That’s a sick joke.

  I’m not jkin! I swear! I typed furiously. My stomach churned. What if this person thought I was just pulling a prank? What if they thought the man who owned this phone was being funny.

  I swiped an angry tear off my cheek and cleared out of the texting screen to pull up the keypad and dial 9-1-1. The phone rang.

  “9-1-1, what’s your emergency?” said a calm voice over the line.

  I gasped, so grateful it worked.

  “State your emergency.”

  “My name is Honor Calhoun. I’ve been kidnapped. I’m being held against my will.”

  “What is your location?”

  I’m sorry, but I was offended. She didn’t gasp in outrage. She didn’t ask me if I was okay. She was like a damn robot on the other end of the line, asking me to take some stupid survey about orange juice or vitamins.

  Hell-O! I wanted to scream. Do you have any idea what I’ve been through?

  But I didn’t. Instead, I replied, “I have no idea. I’m in the woods. In a hole in the ground.”