Cass hugged Lucy again and sighed. “I think I need to go lie down,” she said and disappeared without another word into her bedroom.
Out in the hallway, Maxine tapped her fingers against the wall.
Lucy glared at her mother, but her mother ignored her with dogged tenacity.
They entered their own apartment and stopped short.
Ethan was sitting on the couch. His legs, real and artificial, were outstretched before him, and two crutches leaned against the coffee table. He was burying his head in his hands, and when they entered, he looked up, his eyes red.
He stood up, the prosthetic holding his weight, and he moved forward with a jerky, unsure movements. The fake leg was stiff, and he moved with the gait of Frankenstein’s monster as he came toward them. His mother’s and sister’s shock must have amused him, because his lips curled into a reserved smile.
Ethan took two more steps and Maxine moved toward him, her eyes filling with tears.
“Stop,” Ethan said, putting his hand out. She stopped. “I want to see Teddy,” he said.
Maxine sighed. “I don’t know if you can...Blair’s been keeping him pretty isolated.”
Grant noticed that Ethan’s shirt was covered in blood. Thick, blackening streaks spread across his white t-shirt. Ethan caught him staring at the stains, and before he could say anything, Ethan pulled the shirt off and held it in a ball in his hands. He didn’t toss it to the floor; he just stood there, holding the bloodied shirt tightly, and staring at his family, expressionless.
“You are looking good,” Maxine said. “There’s some color back in your cheeks.”
“Don’t,” Ethan replied.
“Ethan—”
He took another stilted step forward. “Stop, please. There are two things I want. I want to see Teddy and I want to get away from this place. Just tell me when we get to leave...tell me when we can get out of this hellhole.”
Chapter Thirteen
Sometimes the food was drugged. Sometimes it wasn’t. Sometimes Lou allowed Darla, Ainsley, and Dean to congregate upstairs, and sit on the old-fashioned furniture and listen to the perpetual static of a radio while Lyle spun the dial—hoping, waiting. Sometimes they talked fluidly of old times and memories, and sometimes Lou grilled them about what they knew and who they were going to see. Questions which they dutifully ignored.
The stun guns and Tasers were the Hales’ weapons of choice, and when the captives’ legs were untied or they were allowed to use the bathroom, they were never alone. It was degrading and humiliating, and with each day that passed, Darla grew angrier at the prospect of not seeing her son. Angry didn’t even begin to scratch the surface of her emotions. Her veins ran cold with rage. Nebraska was still so far away. Teddy felt intangible—like a concept and not a real person she needed to see. The drugs addled her brain, and made her forget her sense of urgency. It wasn’t that she hadn’t tried to escape or plot a way out of the basement. Every moment of every day became dedicated to convincing Lou that she was not a threat.
For the first time in her life, Darla was despondent and careless. The Hales only wanted information, and she refused on principle to trade that for her own release. If only she had something else of worth to offer them. She didn’t. And soon they would realize their energy was wasted, the kidnapping was in vain. Maybe they’d kill them. Maybe they were cannibals after all. It didn’t seem as farfetched as Darla once thought.
Lindsey had accompanied Darla to the toilet. She looked away as Darla peed into the tall green bucket next to the toilet. Lou had fashioned a plastic lid, complete with a tidy hole at the center. They emptied the bucket when it got full and the room reeked like urine and feces. Darla heard a fly buzz around her head and she swatted it away.
She had stopped talking to Lindsey. Stopped trying to convince her that she wasn’t the enemy. Lou was staunchly committed to the idea that his captives were Sweepers or knew when the Sweepers were coming. He would launch into wild-eyed rants; the fragility of his mental state was evident to everyone. Sometimes Cricket would stop him before he resorted to violence, and sometimes she would leave the room and let him deal with the prisoners with impunity.
Darla wiped herself and dropped the rationed toilet paper into the bucket. She lifted her dirty, unwashed pants and underwear and liberally applied a layer of hand-sanitizer. Then she nodded toward the door and waited. But Lindsey didn’t budge.
“I’ve been thinking—” Lindsey started, rubbing a hand over her neck. “Because it wasn’t supposed to go on this long...”
She paused, as if waiting for Darla to interject, but Darla refused to engage. She blinked lazily and yawned without covering her mouth.
“It’s not up to me,” she continued. “Just tell him what he wants to know and he’ll let you go. If you’re not working for the Sweepers, then what do you have to hide?”
The fly landed on Darla’s shoulder and she batted at it. It buzzed off toward the shower.
From downstairs Lyle shouted up at Lindsey to hurry up. Lindsey leaned down, slipped the rope over Darla’s wrists, and led her out into the hallway. Darla tried to kick at Lindsey’s heels, but she failed. Even though it was midday, the house was dark and stuffy; not a single shaft of light sneaked through the blackout windows. The entire house felt oppressive and severe, and Darla closed her eyes as Lindsey led her back down the steep cement steps to the basement.
“I’ll come back with dinner,” Lindsey said as she unlocked the door. “And I have a proposal...if you’ll hear me out...”
“Save it,” Darla said.
Lindsey pouted as she untied Darla’s hands and gave her a subtle push back into her room. She shut the door, and the locks clicked into place.
Ainsley sat in the corner; she flipped the flashlight on and off. On and off. Her face was gaunt, and her body was growing leaner. The light illuminated her striking features, casting them in shadow, and then she’d hit the switch and the darkness would swallow everything again.
“What day is it today?” Ainsley asked when she was certain they were alone.
“I don’t know,” Darla answered.
“How long have we been here?” Ainsley asked. On and off. On and off.
“Stop with the light.” Darla walked over and took the flashlight from Ainsley. She flashed it on the wall next to the door. Four crude marks were etched into the wall. “Five days. Tomorrow will be six.”
“I’m hungry,” Ainsley complained.
“Then eat what they feed us.”
Ainsley stopped talking. She sulked in the darkened corner. Darla flashed the light on her, and like a vampire she recoiled from the glare, throwing her pencil-thin arms up over her face. Above them they could hear the creaking boards as people moved around the house from room to room—they resented their captors’ mobility.
From beyond the outer walls, Darla heard a faint rumble. The noise was distinct and it jarred her more than anything because she hadn’t heard the sound since they had arrived. A car was approaching. She was certain.
“Is that—?” Ainsley scampered to her feet and lifted her head.
Darla walked over to the corner of the room and dropped to her belly. They had discovered on the third day that a heating vent carried their voices to each other from room to room. It wasn’t a perfect method of communication between the rooms, but it had worked, and it had kept Dean from going too crazy alone with the rabbits.
She crawled past the boxes and a thirty-year-old spring rocking horse with rusted coils, the paint where its eyes were supposed to be faded away, until she felt the cold metal beneath her fingers. “Dean!” she whispered through the floor. “Dean!” She placed her ear against the grate and waited.
“I’m here,” Dean said. “You hear the car, too?”
“Other survivors,” Darla whispered back. “Or...” she couldn’t finish her thought. She hadn’t entertained the possibility that it could get worse.
A car door slammed. Then someone began to knock on the
front door. The movement above them was steady and calm. Their captors did not respond to the knocking with the level of distress and worry that one could reasonably expect from sudden visitors. That led Darla to the only rational conclusion she could muster: the Hales knew the people who had arrived on their doorstep. And they weren’t a threat.
Inaudible voices. Cheery salutations. The front part of the house was alive, and Darla snapped her fingers at Ainsley, who had found her way to Darla’s corner and hovered within earshot of the open vent.
“Stand on the coffee table over there and listen,” Darla said.
Ainsley did as she was told, and Darla followed her with the flashlight, brightening the way. She strained her head and her neck, but shook her head and stepped down.
“You can’t hear anything,” Ainsley said and she plopped herself against the course carpet next to Darla.
“Dean?” Darla whispered.
“Yeah,” he replied.
“They’ve been holding out on us.”
“And we’ve been holding out on them.”
“Cannibal cult,” Ainsley said with a nod.
“They haven’t been trying to fatten us up,” Darla replied, as if this were a valid argument.
“Ainsley soup—” Ainsley said into the carpet as she curled up into the fetal position.
Darla rolled her eyes at the young woman and pushed herself off the floor; she walked over to the coffee table herself and stood up tall, craning her neck to the ceiling. Then she reached down and grabbed the base of a discarded lamp and began to hit the ceiling with methodical thuds. Soon the voices upstairs shifted from cordial to intense; a man’s voice. A woman’s voice. The rising and falling tenor of an argument.
“What are you doing?” Ainsley seethed.
“Making things interesting,” she said and she thumped the lamp base again into the ceiling. After three or four well-placed hits, Darla let the lamp crash to the floor and she hopped off the table and waited. Sure enough, they heard the basement door open and someone take the steps two at a time. Crossing her arms in front of her, she waited until the door flew open.
Lyle stood in the frame, his body backlit by the hall light. He was holding his Taser.
“Quiet down,” he mustered. He snarled.
“You didn’t tell us about the others,” Darla said. She walked forward.
“Back up,” Lyle spat.
“Who are they?”
“I’ll fire,” he threatened.
“Tell me who they are, Lyle Lyle Crocodile,” Darla said and she kept walking forward. She shook her head. Sometimes she couldn’t tell if she was still drugged or if the dark and claustrophobia was affecting her brain.
“I warned you,” he said and without hesitating he fired the Taser at Darla’s leg. The probes locked into her skin through her leggings and she staggered downward, bracing herself before she hit the carpet. Her muscles seized involuntarily. She closed her eyes and waited for her muscles to return to normal. It was the fifth time she’d been attacked with either the barbed Taser or the handheld stun gun. Each time it hurt a little less; each time she anticipated the sting and the burn, and knew that it would be over soon. She was starting to get used to it. Soon, she thought, she could train herself to keep upright. Soon, she might be unstoppable.
The car left an hour after it arrived. And Lindsey came down with dinner not long after. It was a minestrone soup, watered down. She set the bowl on the ground and brought a camping lantern into the room, which cast everything in its green-tinted light.
“Is it drugged?” Darla asked, looking at the bowls.
Lindsey nodded slowly. And Darla responded by lifting her foot to the rim and kicking the bowl over. Reddish soup seeped down into the carpet, the chunks of noodles and vegetables clung to the sides of the bowl. Lindsey sighed. She stood up and started to leave.
“Who were your visitors?” Darla asked. “Your brother didn’t seem very forthcoming earlier.”
“Here,” Lindsey said and she reached into her pocket and pulled out two granola bars. She dumped them on the floor next to the spilled soup. “You’re welcome.”
“Answer the question,” Darla demanded. She eyed the granola bars with suspicion.
“Another group.”
“How many?”
“A few.”
“How many?”
Lindsey sighed. She darted her head out into the hallway and then looked back in at Darla. “I shouldn’t tell you...”
“Do they know we’re down here?”
Slowly, Lindsey nodded.
“And?”
She shrugged. “My dad told them you know where the Sweepers are based. He believes this to be true. He thinks he can get it out of you—”
“Why? What will he do once he knows?”
“I don’t know,” Lindsey answered, and Darla believed her.
Darla reached down and grabbed the granola bar. She inspected the wrapper for tears and holes. Holding it to the light, she ran her fingers over every inch. Being in the basement was making her paranoid. She was examining a granola bar wrapper for puncture marks, and she had never felt more sane.
“I didn’t do anything to it,” Lindsey said, offended.
Ainsley snorted from the corner. “I’ll take one,” she said, and Darla threw the other one back to her.
“Look,” Lindsey said. “I can get you out of here. Okay? The others...look...there were people before...and...they tried to escape. And...”
“Did you kill them?” Darla asked.
“It wasn’t like that. My dad’s not a bad man. He’s scared of you.”
“Stop,” Ainsley said, her mouth full of granola. “How can you get us out of here?”
“I don’t know,” Lindsey said. She was nearing tears. She ran her hand over her short hair and then tore off the top part of the nail on her pinky finger with her teeth, spitting it to the floor. “It’s just...”
“Come on,” Darla moaned. “Can’t you finish a sentence?” She hit the ground next to her and Lindsey jumped.
“I’ll come up with a plan,” Lindsey said. “On one condition.”
She waited for a reply, but Darla just stared at her, narrowing her eyes.
Lindsey continued. “Right. I’ll come up with a plan, as long as you take me with you.”
The girls were silent. They waited for her to explain or elaborate, but she only stood there. After waiting a requisite amount of time, she lowered her head and added, “Please?”
Chapter Fourteen
Scott slipped into his seat at the round table and rubbed his eyes. The computer monitor was inches from his face and the Elektos board settled into their places; their voices rang throughout the room, a steady din and buzz of activity. Each of them took their places and waited—the screens for Shay and Muuez remained dark and unmoving. Their absence was noticed. No one had ever missed an Elektos Board meeting.
Tinkering with the monitors, Gordy lowered the volume so that the Elektos members were relegated to a barely audible hum. The meeting wasn’t set to start for another five minutes, and nobody looked particularly anxious to begin. Huck entered the room and walked straight to Scott, and he put his hand on Scott’s shoulder, giving it a small squeeze.
“And?” Huck asked.
“It’s finished,” Scott answered.
“Good. Good. And the mist worked?”
“Worked efficiently. Like the first release, but more potent. Faster.”
Huck sniffed. “Yes, well. That’s what I ordered. So, I’m glad to know you’ve been able to delivery so quickly.”
There was a distance, a perfunctory quality to Huck’s responses that caused Scott to feel on edge. Whenever Huck’s moods veered closer to darkness, Scott felt the need to fix everything, and restore the balance. It wasn’t out of a strong attachment to Huck, but rather a desire to replace the safety net. This ebullient, effusive man’s dark side felt personal; if Scott ignored it, then the gloom would fester. He needed jovial Huck back;
for his own sanity he needed the faux-kindness and the rapport. Without it, he felt like he was staring down the barrel of a loaded gun.
“It’s my pleasure,” Scott replied with a forced smile. “It’s my job and I...support this cause.”
“Hmmm,” Huck nodded once. “A change of heart, I see.” Scott was confused. As Huck turned to take his seat, Scott floundered, and tried to put his finger on the reason for the distance.
“What that boy did to Cass was...” Scott hesitated. “You’d think that he would look at this life like a second chance. Humanity is so...”
“Predictable?” Gordy interjected. There was an edge to that statement that felt directed to Scott. Scott looked at Gordy and held his stare for a beat too long. A heaviness closed in. He wondered what he possibly could have done to offend the Trumans. He had created a new virus just like Huck asked for. He had dispatched his virus to kill the boy. What small objective had he missed?
“So, we’re ready? We have no other concerns?” Huck clapped his hands together and waited for Scott’s answer expectantly.
“Yes. We’re ready,” Scott said.
“Excellent.” Huck smiled.
Scott let out a sigh, and he thought the smile was a good step. It provided him with balance and a twinge of bravery. Perhaps Huck was stressed about the Elektos meeting after the frustrations of the last one; perhaps the mood had nothing to do with Scott at all. He wiped his brow and took a breath. “Look, Huck, can we talk about—”
Huck interrupted him. “Hold your thought. Let me tell the others about our good fortune.” He sat down in front of the monitors and went to adjust the volume.
“It’s just,” Scott started again, taking a deep breath, his eyes scanning the screens, “we need to finish our discussion about Grant. And if we’re heading to the Islands soon...”
The name seemed to cause everyone in the room to freeze. Steadily, Huck swiveled. “Our meeting is starting in sixty seconds.”
The Virulent Chronicles Box Set Page 86