by L. T. Vargus
Darger swung the can, dousing the side of the shed, letting gas spatter onto the woodpile below. The liquid sloshed and splashed, and it wasn’t until then that Darger realized her right ear was ringing. She couldn’t hear anything out of her left ear. Another heartening sign.
All about her, the fumes hung in a noxious vapor, causing the skin on her arms to prickle, like her body knew she was standing in a toxic cloud. She tried to angle her face away as she poured, not wanting to inhale the fumes. But the stench surrounded her, invaded her nostrils and her mouth and throat. Tears collected along her eyelashes and eventually she gagged on the caustic smell.
She stumbled away in search of a few breaths of fresh air. It took several seconds for the sick, dizzy feeling to pass, and then she stepped back into the haze, resuming her efforts. When there was roughly a gallon left in the can, she stopped. Gas dripped down the siding and pattered off the edges of the stacked wood, forming dark pools in the sand.
Darger shook the can and listened to the remainder of the gas slop around inside. She hoped she’d left enough. She was almost finished.
Slowly, starting at the end of the woodpile, she dribbled a trail of gas through the yard, following along the side of the house, making her way to the front door.
When she reached the driveway, she let the last dregs of the gas pour out into a puddle. She set the can down, careful this time to be quiet about it. And then she pulled the lighter from her pocket.
She held her thumb over the flint wheel, nervous to make the first spark. She hoped she hadn’t gotten any gas on herself.
She tried to trace the trail she’d made in the grass with her eyes, but it was too dim still. She’d just have to light it and pray it worked. Pray the fire would create enough smoke for someone to see. She remembered Corby talking about the dry desert air. About how clear it is, and how you can see the smoke for miles.
Someone would come. Even if she failed again. Eventually someone would come.
And now it was time.
Darger flicked the lighter and a flame sprang to life. She dipped down and touched it to the wet circle in the sand. It burst into flame with a small whoosh.
It was tempting to stand there and watch, to follow the flickering trail as it wound around the house to the shed, but she didn’t have time.
As quickly as her broken body could manage, she hobbled up to the front door.
Chapter 63
Stump approaches the girl in the bathtub and stops. A muscular thing towering over her.
He bends. Unlocks her cuffs. Grunts something Emily can’t quite make out.
The girl scoots into the back corner of the tub and massages her wrists, fingers squeezing at the pink creases where her cuffs had been. Her eyelids flutter again. Smeared black eyelashes flapping like spastic butterfly wings.
Emily checks the towel rack she is now handcuffed to. Watches the nearest screw plate wiggle a little when she gives it a yank, the painted wall around it bulging like a flexed muscle.
She’s pretty sure she could rip the whole thing free from the wall if and when the need arrived. Of course, he said he’d put a bullet in her brain without hesitation if she tried anything. She’s in no particular hurry to test him.
Now he kneels at the side of the tub. Reaches for a coil of rope at his feet. Lifts it.
His voice comes out a growl.
“Put your hands together.”
She doesn’t seem to hear him. Staring at the floor. Shoulders hunched. Not quite present in the moment.
“Nicole. Put your hands together.”
Nicole. He called her Nicole.
Those black butterflies flutter again, and she listens.
He clutches at Nicole’s clasped hands, yanks them out away from her body, and Emily sees fresh hostility in his movements. Hateful aggression. A little glint of glee that reminds her of their first encounter, those vicious punches to the back of the skull that filled her head with that thock sound, knocked her out.
He begins winding the rope around Nicole’s wrists. Works the line with care, wrapping it neatly. But periodically he interrupts this to give her arms another yank, to jerk her into a new pose at his whim. His big body arching over her.
Emily focuses on that spiraling cord.
White nylon rope. She remembers watching a mountain climber sing its praises on TV. Strong. Durable. Resistant to UV damage and rot. More tightly woven than manila. Better for heavy duty use than polyester.
Rope. Rope? Why was she getting stuck on the rope?
He leans back to tighten the coil at Nicole’s wrists. He strains with the effort, the thick musculature at the top of his back quivering a bit.
The girl squeals as the cord cinches tighter, sounding more frightened than pained. And Emily swears she sees his body quake in ecstasy, an almost orgasmic gesture.
Pleasure.
Rope.
Yes. Now she gets it.
He had taken great care in binding them along the way, hadn’t he? He’d changed the method over and over. Zip ties. Cuffs. Chains. The boxes. Now rope.
He enjoys this part of it. Enjoys constricting their limbs. Obsesses over it. Like a fetish.
Even now he fusses over the rope, fingers working delicately, meticulously. Removing the slack. Tying the knot. He gives her arms another violent tug before reaching for a second rope on the floor.
“Ankles together.”
Nicole slides her ankles together, and he starts another coil.
He already has her at his mercy, but he can’t fully enjoy it unless he revels in the control, unless he makes a little show out of it.
Emily can’t resist the urge to speak up.
“You enjoy this.”
That hypnotic coiling of the rope halts. Frozen mid-wrap.
His shoulders raise a little, drifting up so slowly she almost misses it. Surprised? Irritated? She’s not sure how to read his reaction.
“What?” he says, half-glancing back.
“The ropes. The chains. The box. You talk all this philosophy, but I don’t see a philosopher in you. I see a lonely pervert with delusions of grandeur.”
He’s quiet for a beat.
She holds her breath.
Finally, he laughs. Little sniffles exiting his nostrils, an almost silent chuckle.
“Of course I enjoy it. Why else do it?”
He pivots now, letting the rope go to face her. His smile is a savage slit peeling open his face. Intense. His teeth all sharp and gleaming.
He goes on.
“Cruelty is the source of much human joy, isn’t it? The purest expression of power, and, as such, the purest expression of pleasure. Even children love watching cartoon violence. Home videos of people getting kicked in the balls.”
He stares straight through her. Pale eyes that pierce her.
She wants to look away, but she can’t. Can’t give him the satisfaction of letting him stare her down. So she watches his face, those eyes somehow glittering with both hatred and joy.
And more words come spilling out of him.
“Dominating. Degrading. That’s part of the appeal. Anyway, enjoying one’s work hardly diminishes its meaning. If anything, the truth is closer to the opposite, I’d say.”
Emily grits her teeth, but she keeps the fury from registering on her face, or so she thinks. She focuses. Fights to keep her face blank. Emotionless. Perhaps vaguely assertive but nothing beyond that.
“Keep telling yourself that,” she says, her voice sounding detached.
His eyes flick over her again. Measuring her response. Weighing it.
After a moment, he turns back to Nicole. His hands plunge for the rope, find it, return to winding it around her calves again.
At least she’d slowed him down. Distracted him. Got in his head a little bit.
She’d bought them some time. Just a little.
She didn’t know if that was worth anything now, but she didn’t know what else to do.
Chapter 64
&
nbsp; Darger pecked at the front door with her good hand. Ran her fingers along the surface.
Her hand found the knob. Twisted. Pushed.
She held her breath, focused on keeping her movements light. Quiet. Careful.
It slid inward without sound, parted from her path.
She hesitated there, perhaps scared of the deeper shade inside, but the fear only held her still for a second. She didn’t have time to waste.
She crossed the threshold. Moved inside, into that final darkness. Waited a beat for her eyes to adjust, for her pupils to catch up.
Her fingers dug at her pocket, found the screwdriver there, armed herself. It wasn’t much of a weapon, certainly wasn’t ideal, but it was better than nothing.
As shapes and textures began to take form in the blackness around her, she shuffled forward, taking little half-steps. Gliding on the balls of her feet.
Light spilled out of an open doorway down the hall.
And now voices tumbled out of that opening. Strained speech. A woman and a man. Arguing, she thought, but she couldn’t make out the words.
She recognized Stump’s growl, but the girl didn’t sound like Nicole. It must be the other. Must be Emily.
And by the tinny echo of the voices, they were in the bathroom. This was it. It was happening now.
She tightened her fist around the screwdriver’s handle, and breath heaved into her chest. She was ready.
But something caught in the corner of her eye, the tiniest glitter of light along the floor to her right.
She turned. Saw the foyer closet door there. She scanned the seam of darkness running under the sliding door, but whatever the glimmer had been, it didn’t reveal itself now.
Still, she knelt. Hating herself for taking the two seconds to do so. Ran her fingers along the gap, even if she didn’t know why.
A sharp edge pricked at her knuckles. Cold metal.
It scraped out a little whisper on the tile as she pulled it free.
Even lifting the thing in front of her, it took her a second to sort out what it was, this long, tapered cylinder of polished steel. A leg from one of the school desks. She remembered the scuffle she’d witnessed before. Emily’s escape attempt. This must have been her makeshift weapon, the piece that helped her get all the way to the door before Stump pulled her back, locked her up.
And now it was along to finish its job.
Upgrade time.
Darger tucked the screwdriver into her sock and stood, testing the weight of the bar in her hand. It was light enough to swing one-handed. Could do some damage, too, if she got lucky.
Down the hall she crept, that glowing rectangle of the bathroom doorway growing bigger and brighter as she closed on it.
The voices had fallen quiet, and she knew time was almost up now. Stump’s ritual was about to begin.
And something changed in her over those last few steps.
Animal heat flooded her face. Puffed her chest and shoulders. Whittled her thoughts down to pointy, hateful things. All sharp and simple and frenzied.
Kill you. Kill you. Fucking kill you.
She saw Stump’s face in her head even before she rounded the final corner. It made her grit her teeth.
Kill you. Kill you. Fucking kill you.
And she was there. Turning. Gazing through the threshold and into the kill room.
Stump towered over Nicole in the bathtub, white rope wound around the girl’s wrists and ankles. He adjusted his footing, knife poised in his hand.
Emily huddled against one wall, positioned to view the carnage, cuffed to a towel rod.
Stump’s forearm twitched, and the blade jerked forward, its metal glinting.
He bent over Nicole then. Brought the knife to her neck. Pressed its edge against the jugular there.
Her flesh quivered. Pulsated with the beat of her blood.
And he turned, and his eyes sought those of his audience, of Emily. Tongue flicking out over his lips and teeth.
Darger lurched into the room, planting and lunging off her good leg. The metal rod rose over her head, all of her body going into the strike.
Stump tried to scramble away, but there was no place to go.
The screw plate bashed him on a downward stroke. Sliced him open right at the hairline. The red sluiced out right away.
Even with one arm, Darger felt incredible force unload. All of it driven into his skull.
He tipped forward, and she cracked him again, this time on the back of his head. The recoil reverberated up the length of the metal rod and yanked at Darger’s shoulder, jolted her pretty good, but she held on and swung again. Not as big of a windup this time, but not bad.
The little square screw panel raked over the cupped occipital bone and gashed his scalp. Blood wept down the back of his head, a sheet of red that slid down his neck, soaked the collar of his shirt.
Stump toppled into the tub, past Nicole, smearing red on the smooth enamel surface. The knife tumbled from his grip, clattered near the drain.
Nicole screamed. Emily fumbled at the cuffs chaining her to the towel rod. They needed to run. To take the truck and go now. Darger wanted to tell them this, but her mind was a red pulsing thing incapable of words.
Stump tried to lift himself, push himself up onto arms and legs, but he wobbled and crashed back down.
Nicole wriggled over the lip of the tub, sobbing, finally finding the will to move. She squirmed over the floor as the struggle continued, still bound by the rope, working her way toward the door.
Darger circled around the girl and went to swing again, but her bad knee buckled, and she missed.
The effort spun her off her axis, twisted her around and sent her stumbling into the wall. She steadied herself against it, but Stump had recovered from the blows.
He stood, reached an arm behind himself, and she realized what he was doing even before she saw it.
The gun.
She’d almost forgotten the gun.
He plucked it from his waist at the small of his back, raised and leveled it, and her mind flashed to the last time he’d done so. Boom. Lights out.
Darger dove at him.
The gun bucked, the crack deafening. Her eyes cinched closed out of instinct.
She felt it — the shock wave passed just over her head like a puff of wind. Inches.
And their bodies collided.
She struck him chin first, her arm wrapping around him a fraction of a second after.
Momentum flung them into the wall, and she felt the desk leg fly from her fingers on impact. Together they landed in a tangle of limbs at the bottom of the bathtub.
The gun. She had to get the gun.
She opened her eyes.
Stump’s hands were empty, he’d lost it. Darger threw herself onto her belly, fumbling her hand along the porcelain surface. Trying to feel what wasn’t there. The gun was gone.
But the knife still lay there, resting on the drain.
She lunged for it, but Stump’s hand snaked out ahead of her, grabbing it.
Panic.
She jerked away, legs kicking out a doggy paddle without thought. Flopped out of the bathtub and onto the floor, squirming. Not quite able to concentrate long enough to sit up, to get up. A turtle trapped on its back.
And he was there. Hovering over her.
Light danced along the edge of the knife as it sliced through the air, a horizontal slash meant to open Darger’s belly. She rolled to dodge the blade.
And she was up. On her feet.
When he came at her again, she caught his arm with her good hand, gripping it and slamming it down on the sink. His fist unclenched, an involuntary movement of the muscles.
The knife slipped from his hand and disappeared under the sink.
Darger couldn’t see the knife, but she went for it anyway, dropping to her belly, scooting closer to the wedge of shadow beneath the sink cabinet. The gleam of hard steel caught her eye.
The tips of her fingers brushed against the handle, and
then something snaked around her neck, yanked her back before she retrieved the weapon.
Stump dragged her upright and arched his back, lifting her off her feet in a headlock. His forearm cut into her larynx. She wheezed once as he pinched off her oxygen supply.
And now she was off the ground. Powerless. The bony edge of his arm cutting deeper and deeper into her throat.
Darger tucked her knees to her chest and kicked off from the bathroom counter, driving Stump back into the wall. She heard the air rush out of his lungs. His grip loosened, and she wriggled free, hammering her right elbow into his ribs for good measure.
He grunted.
She wheeled and went for another blow, swung her right fist at his temple, but he caught her arm and flung her away from him.
She careened across the bathroom, a small, limp thing, slamming into a mirror, sliding to the floor, glass tinkling around her.
Darger crouched on all fours, trying to catch her breath. Her vision ebbed, growing hazy then clearing. Shards from the mirror crunched under her knees.
Movement caught her eye. Emily was huddled just outside the bathroom door, arms wrapped around her knees like a frightened child. Why? Why didn’t she run?
Clutching the windowsill, Darger rose to her feet. Stump had the desk leg now, and he advanced on her.
Darger’s eyes swung down to the floor, searching for the gun. Where the fuck was it?
He raised the leg over his head like a club, and Darger could only lift her arm and turn her head to try to steel herself against the blow.
And then Nicole was there, the ropes gone from her limbs. She ducked low and drove her shoulders into Stump’s legs. He wobbled but did not fall, adjusting his swing at the last moment, bringing the table leg down across Nicole’s back.
She collapsed, cracking her chin against the edge of the bathtub, crying out in pain. Stump grabbed her by the hair and heaved her against the wall. Her head hit the tile with a dull thud, and Nicole’s body folded up on itself like a dead spider.
Howling as she attacked, Darger kicked out at the back of Stump’s knee. His hands whispered against the shower curtain in an effort to stop his fall. Pop! Pop! Pop! The rings ripped away from the curtain rod.