by Sherry Soule
The ground feels sticky…like blood—and I swipe my palms on my thighs. It’s like being in a movie theater after a midnight showing of the Rocky Horror Picture Show. My eyes adjust to the darkness. My death cell is as sparse as a zombie’s vocabulary.
No food. No water. No blanket. No bathroom. Hence, the pee stink.
It sucks there are no actual cell phones on this planet, or at least I wasn’t given one. I can’t call my parents, friends, or even Zeta emergency services.
I scream at the top of my lungs, then start yelling, “Someone help! Help me!”
Upstairs, the pounding of footsteps and shouting voices slide through the opening. My attacker argues with their co-conspirator.
A shadowy figure appears in the square hole overhead. “Told you to be quiet.”
“Why am I down here? Is this like a dungeon? Rost is this your doing?”
“Any last words?” the person asks.
“Please let me go,” I plead. “You don’t have to do this. We can talk it out. Get Neela and Hayden and me together for a group therapy session.”
My kidnapper snickers. The head vanishes and a heavy lid slams shut, closing the opening.
The room becomes even darker and colder. Groping like a bat with radar malfunction, my hands feel along the walls. My chest heaves, my breathing panicked.
Take deep breaths, Sloane, and think about red velvet cupcakes.
Once the footfalls above me stop, I reevaluate my current situation. If only I had my Hello Kitty notebook to make sense of all my pent-up angst. Where should I start in the litany of horror that’s now my life? Hmm, I’ll make a mental catalogue…
One, I’m trapped in a foul-smelling basement. Check.
Two, my wrists are handcuffed in front of me and my legs bound by shackles. Check.
Three, I’m only wearing a mini-skirt and a T-shirt, with fishnet stockings and flats. Check.
Four, I assume the location is deserted, except for my two captives, which means there’s no one else to help me. Check.
Yup, I’m screwed. Except I’m not dead yet.
Five, I’ll just need to summon some Final Girl courage. Check.
“Do not get freaked. You need to stay alive long enough for hero Hayden to rescue you or figure out an escape.”
I breathe in deeply, filling my diaphragm like a hot-air balloon, then release the air. Breathe in, fill up my lungs, release. I do the deep breathing exercises until my heartbeat slows from a gallop to a trot.
Then I’m hit upside the head with a burst of inspiration. I recall a thriller where the heroine picked the lock on the handcuffs with only a bobby pin. I can try it. Shaking my head like a dog drying off after swimming, I jiggle loose the bobby pin securing my hair and it lands on the dirty floor. I grasp the pin, bending it into a ninety-degree angle and removing the plastic tip at the end of the straight section. I insert the bobby pin into the lock on the handcuff, twisting it against the locking mechanism to release the cuff. It takes me several tries to finally get the cuffs to unlock and fall open. I yank them off and toss them aside.
I’m free! Sort of…
My chest fills with this overwhelming and unexpected lightness. Then caves inward.
I try using the bobby pin on the ankle-cuffs, but I only manage to break off the tip inside the lock.
Dammit! Fudge! Crap! Epic friggin’ fail!
I glance upward, trying to see anything through the slit of the opening on the trapdoor above me. Only muted light trickles through the cracks. Then loud quarreling. I stand straighter, tilt my head toward the ceiling to listen. The only words I catch are…
“…locate a spot for the body,” an older woman says.
Mrs. Voorhees? Has to be Neela’s mother. Rost and his crazy momma are in on this kidnapping scheme together. Who would’ve thought? Except that family is just power-crazed enough to devise a murderous plot like this.
My heart seizes. I don’t have much time left because if my homicidal abductors get their way, I’ll soon be taking a permanent dirt nap.
THIRTY-TWO
The night I’m abducted starts out badly and quickly gets worse. Hours pass in the dark underground room, the air heavy and stagnate. After what seems like an eternity, I scream for help until my voice goes hoarse.
There’s no way out. I’m trapped and abandoned. This dank room reminds me of a casino—it is dim and dusky with no windows or clocks, and I lose all sense of time.
Please, let Hayden realize I’m gone and start a rescue mission.
I really hate being alone in the dark.
Obviously, I love horror movies, but that doesn’t mean I don’t get scared sometimes or have nightmares. I mean that’s the point, right? To be frightened and creeped out all in the name of entertainment. The movie-making people haven’t done a worthy job if the audience isn’t frightened or sitting on the edge of their seat while watching.
Since I’ve never liked being alone, I rescued Jinx from the animal shelter. My heart pinches at the thought of my furry feline friend. I’ve seen so many scary movies that I needed a nighttime companion to sleep with and my black cat was happy to comply.
Pain strikes my gut and my stomach grumbles. I haven’t eaten anything since breakfast. Hard lesson learned. Never skip meals in the event I’m kidnapped and left for dead in a stinky basement. Thirst plagues me. My throat aches and it’s hard to swallow.
When I get safely back to Earth, the first thing I’m gonna do is put on a comfy nightgown and cuddle with Jinx. I’ll watch movies, eat a cheeseburger, and drink a large diet Dr. Pepper. I’ve always found watching movies and eating to be intricately linked, particularly when certain screenwriters have those mouth-watering scenes where their characters feast on elaborate meals. Except a zombie flick. Cannibalism turns even my tough stomach.
My utter hopelessness seems infinite, but I force away the despair and ignore my grumbling tummy to focus on the positives for once. My hands are no longer handcuffed. At least that’s a good thing. I’m alive, which is a definite plus. And I’m wearing shoes with short heels, so they could be used in self-defense. Another bonus point.
It has been silent as a tomb upstairs for awhile now, so I’m guessing my captors have temporarily left the building. I pace the room and hunger pains spur me on. Grasping my snarled hair, I secure it into a high-ponytail using the hair-tie I find in my skirt pocket. I search the room for anything that might be used as a weapon.
“Please, let me find a way out.”
Shuffling along with my hands touching the slimy and cold walls, I enter a pitch-dark section of the room. My foot hits something bulky, tripping me, and I stumble to the ground. My fingers grasp the bottom shelf of the only furniture I’ve found, and the whole thing wobbles. I check the shelves, but they’re empty. Not even a box of stale crackers or a water bottle.
Since the shelf isn’t bolted down, I grab each side. After some fumbling, I’m able to scoot the shelf closer to the trapdoor, then lean it against the wall. I climb the shelves like a ladder, only to discover it’s several feet shy of the opening above.
Crapola. Damn, I do have the worst luck.
I scramble down and sigh. There must be another way. I stretch one arm out, my hand feeling along the wall. I circle the room, stopping at the shelf. No other exits to escape this tomb. Tears slide from my eyes and trickle down my cheeks. I sit on the cold floor and lean against the wall, my shoulders sagging. Hugging myself for warmth, I close my eyes and fatigue overcomes me.
I awaken stiff and achy. Standing, I yawn into my fist. I’m not sure how long I’ve been asleep, but it seems like hours. The power-nap helped my energy level, but hunger has become my constant companion. The emptiness gnaws at my gut like a wild beast growling in a cage.
Hell hath no resolve like a starving woman.
Narrowing my gaze, I scan the room from floor-to-ceiling. A tiny fissure of light leaks from one wall near the ceiling—it could be a window. I didn’t notice it before because it had been n
ightfall and now it must be morning.
It takes me forever to drag the heavy shelf across the space. Climbing the shelves and stretching as high as I can, my fingers touch glass.
Yes! My heart gallops like I’ve guzzled thirteen cans of Red Bull. Sigourney’s Lieutenant Ripley never wimped out and quit fighting, so neither am I.
On tiptoes, I scrape my fingernails on the windowpane, scratching away dirt and grime. Sunlight shines through the spot where I chipped away the filth.
Adrenaline floods my system, urging me on. Scraping away more of the grime, sunshine filters past the glass and brightens the basement, illuminating all the dark corners. I grunt while trying to thrust the window open, clumsily turning the lock back and forth between each push. It won’t budge.
“Seriously!” I yell, my annoyance echoing back at me in the dungeon.
With my heart beating hard in my chest, I use all my puny strength to force it open. When that doesn’t work, I slide my fingertips under the edge, tugging so hard I almost topple over. Not giving up, I try once again, digging my fingers under the pane.
This is clearly not working. Clenching my jaw, I ram my elbow into the glass. Tiny cracks splinter across the pane. I turn my head to keep the shards from flying into my face and drive my elbow into the glass repeatedly. It still doesn’t break.
Crappity crap.
I pull off my shoe, slamming the heel with full force. Freedom is only inches away, on the other side of this unbreakable window. I smash at the pane once more with my heel.
The glass finally shatters and a brisk gust surges into the stuffy room. Sitting on the shelf, I put my shoe back on and tug off my shirt, then leaning upward, I clear away the glass with the fabric. Shaking out my T-shirt, I tug it back on and hoist myself out the window, which is tricky with ankle-shackles yet I manage to shimmy out.
My fingers touch grass as I push myself up to my feet and survey my surroundings. The night air feels cold and crisp. As I walk around the building, my feet stop dead in their tracks.
I stare at a beach and the ocean, the waves lapping at the green-pebbled shore. Behind me, a grove of trees with plump leaves, wild ferns, and a lone, metal beach house. No other buildings, people, or even a boat. The shrubbery rustles and quakes. There could be scary alien animals that like to chomp on people stranded on this wasteland.
Trudging along the grass, I stay close to the tree line. My stomach grouses again. I examine the plants and trees for something edible, but I’m not sure what’s safe to eat on this planet. Without a wristwatch—because that particular accessory didn’t go with this outfit—I’m not sure how long it takes me, but it doesn’t seem to take more than thirty minutes or so to travel the entire landmass.
Yup, I’m stuck on a deserted island. If only the hunky Johnny Depp’s Captain Jack Sparrow would wash ashore and join me.
I walk through the grassy terrain toward where the ground turns into sand. As I hike the beach, the crashing waves get closer to my feet. Cool breezes whip through my tangled hair and I shiver. If I’m going to find food or shelter, I’ll have to double-back and search the house. There’s a chance my kidnappers have returned, but the silence tells me otherwise.
Feeling defeated, I turn to make the slow trek back. Driftwood floats in the tide. The wood appears smooth and oblong, like planks from an old defective dock. I gather the pieces into a pile on the beach. If the wood dries out enough, the planks can serve as a bonfire to signal a passing boat, if I can somehow manage to light them, and then I’ll be able to get the hell off this floating island of death.
I stomp over the grass and up to the front of the steel house. The metal structure looks rusted and vacant as a bird’s nest in winter. The windows appear dark and shadowy. I creep up the porch steps and try the door handle. It’s unlocked so I push the squeaky door open on corroded hinges. The sparse room contains a battered sofa, lopsided bookshelf, and a table with a broken lamp. Mounted sea creatures decorate the walls like bizarre taxidermy trophies, staring down at me from their perches. The house only has a living room, kitchen, bathroom, and bedroom. Oh, yeah, and the stinky basement. No clocks.
My family and Viola might not even be awake yet. Viola sleeps in later than a vampire, so she might take longer to notice I’m missing and not still on a romantic rendezvous with Hayden.
Tears burn my eyes and I blink them back. My belly loudly complains. I locate the kitchen and search the cupboards, but only find a can of Vegan Gravy Twizzlers and a jug of water left on the counter. Opening the lid, I sniff the twizzlers, which smell like a combo of a biscuits and bacon. I sip the water to see if it’s been poisoned or gone bad. No foul odors or bad tastes detected. I take a chance and eat straight out of the can with my fingers to keep up my strength and guzzle most of the water.
After licking my fingertips clean, I search every drawer and cabinet for a lighter to ignite the driftwood or sharp utensils to use as a weapon. I only find a square metal device with a button on the side. I push it and the top lights with a small emerald flame.
Ah-ha! Sloane’s bad luck has finally left the building.
Now I just need to wait for the driftwood to dry on this The Island of Lost Souls. I shove the lighter into my skirt pocket. Shuffling down the narrow hall, I use the bathroom, then rinse my face and hands. Exhaustion sets in, so I go to the living room and drop onto the sofa, pulling a thin blanket draped on the armrest over me.
Through the grimy window encrusted with sand, I survey the water, hoping a boat will cruise near the island. As the hours pass, no vessels sail by, but I’m not going to throw a pity-party just yet. I will have patience and wait.
My eyelids grow heavy and I take a siesta. When I awaken, rain pelts the roof and zigzags down the window like a long lost lover’s tears. The gray skies hide the suns, the drizzle striking the blue Reticuli Sea. Stretching, I sit up and wince, the pain from the ankle-cuffs, cutting off my circulation.
I listen to the driving force of the rain hitting the beach and striking the house. Strong winds shake the metal abode and I pray it holds together until help arrives. I stand and shuffle into the bathroom to relieve myself.
Returning to the living room, a rustle at the rear of the house causes my heart to catapult into my throat. Could just be a tree branch scraping against the side of this metal tomb or…
My kidnappers have returned.
No way will I end up like those clichéd chicks in horror movies that get butchered halfway into the film.
Heart racing, I’m on the move searching the space. In the majority of slasher films, a character usually finds a dumb, obvious place to hide. I’m smarter than most victims. I refuse to play a game of hide-and-seek inside a closet or under the bed with a sicko killer.
A dazzling flash of lightning follows a boom of thunder.
Since I don’t find anything suitable inside the house, I slip out the door and out into the tropical storm. I’d rather brave the elements than face my captors. Unfortunately, I can’t run too fast or very far because of the shackles.
Frantic footsteps pound through the house. “Where are you, shalinaya?” a voice screams, the tone loud and angry.
The little hairs on my neck prickle. I jump off the porch onto the soft grass, then scramble under an overgrown shrub leaning against the dwelling. I squint through the mini-jungle at the beach. My gaze lands on the pile of driftwood.
Ducking under the branches, I dash across the grass and onto the sand. I skid to a stop beside the makeshift bonfire and snatch up a piece of wood. Each plank is soggy from the storm, so I can’t ignite the bonfire. I slink back to the undergrown bushes beside the house, wielding the wooden stake like a baseball bat. I’m still no match for a powerful, full-blooded Meleah even with my weapon.
Heavy tread thwacks the floorboards inside, the vibration echoing within the corroded walls. The stomping halts. A shout resonate over the brazen winds and rain.
I want to teleport so badly, but I can’t. Instead, I have to protect mysel
f from the bad guys.
There’s a prolonged moment of silence, apart from the downpour. A creature slithers through the grass and I shuffle backward, the driftwood quivering in my grip. The monster jumps into air and lands near my feet.
I scream in unison with a rumble of thunder, leaping sideways and slamming my skull on the metal abode. With one hand, I rub my throbbing head and glance through the branches, praying no one heard me.
The thing inches closer as if it’s going to bite off my toes and I lurch back a step. I gaze at the ground, my head pounding. Examining me is a traffic cone orange and bubble gum pink colored reptile, the size of a small dog. The lizard stares inquiringly with three eyes, its head tilted. The front door opens and the reptile skitters off into the tropical forest.
I wait, my nerves trembling. The stake feels rough in my sweaty hands.
Someone trudges down the steps and squats, peering into the shrubbery. Lightning flares on a sickly pale face.
THIRTY-THREE
Delta’s big black eyes focus on me like heat seeking missiles. Her hard stare grips my heart and wrings it dry.
I freeze like a deer caught in the headlights of a diesel truck. A big, dumb, purple-haired deer. I can’t move, not even to run away. The only place I can go is the other side of this miniature island, which isn’t far enough.
“What’re you doing here?” I ask, gripping the damp piece of driftwood tighter.
“I came for you.”
“Where’s Hayden?”
Delta giggles, lifting a three-fingered hand to swipe her damp forehead. She moves a step closer, her overalls, long-sleeved top, and sneakers are soaking wet.
“What’s so funny?” I ask, my heart thumping twice as hard now.
“Your hero is not coming to the rescue, shalinaya.” She leans into the giant shrubbery to get out of the rain.
“What’re you talking about? What’re you doing here, Delta? How did you find me?”
“I did not find you,” Delta says. “I helped bring you here.”
All of a sudden, my stomach feels like it’s been inflated with helium and the contents are floating up into my mouth. My hands shake as I try to process what she’s just said. Delta is my killer slash kidnapper. Now there’s a movie plot twist I never saw coming.