Run Rabbit Run Boxset

by Jette Harris

  Rhodes led Z down the stairs, through the French doors, and into a laundry room. He pulled a sheet from the bottom rack of a folding table, threw it across the top, then spread it haphazardly. He pointed for Z to lay her on the table. As soon as she was out of Z’s arms, Rhodes placed a hand on Z’s chest and turned him toward the door.

  “Kitchen,” he said, pointing across the way. “Hot water. As hot as you can get it.”

  As if in a trance, Z padded across the great room to the door across the hall, into the largest kitchen he had ever seen. An industrial sink was right in front of him, but there was a kitchen sink in the opposite corner. He grabbed a clean-looking mixing bowl and carried it to the kitchen sink. He ran the hot water full-blast. Glancing over his shoulder to make sure Rhodes hadn’t followed him, he bowed over the other basin and heaved.

  “I thought you had run off,” Rhodes said when Z returned with the bowl. He had been holding her arms up, peering under the shreds of robe. “Right there,”—he nodded to an end table next to the folding table—“and hold her arms again.” He glanced at the boy, flicking his eyes over Z’s pale complexion and flecks of vomit in his stubble.

  Z placed the bowl as Rhodes directed and took Heather’s arms. Rhodes took a hand towel from the bottom rack and soaked it. Unbinding Heather’s right wrist, he wiped away the blood and inspected the damage.

  “What the fuck am I supposed to do with this?” he muttered. He reached into his front pockets, then ran his hands over his back. “Fuck!”

  Wrapping the towel around her wrist, he twisted the ends together, making a tourniquet. He held it up to Z, saying, “Hold this. Don’t let it go, don’t let it loosen. If you do, she will die.”

  Z nodded, taking the towel. Rhodes left, his footsteps bounding up the stairs.

  “Heather?” Z whispered. “Are you still there… here?”

  She turned her head with a sigh, but did not open her eyes.

  “I’m going to get us out of this,” he promised. “I’ll get us out, then I’ll make you forget this ever happened.”

  “Are you being cute again?” Rhodes asked as he re-entered the room. He dropped a black bag onto Heather’s torso and pulled it open. It resembled the bags doctors used to carry. He reached in and pulled out a stitch kit.

  Unzipping it, Rhodes probed inside. “Fuck. Fuck. Fuck,” he muttered, running the tips of his fingers over his options. He sighed, “It doesn’t fucking matter anyway…”

  “What?”

  “Don’t talk.” Rhodes took Heather’s arm and loosened the towel. He shoved it into Z’s chest. “Clean the other wrist, but no matter what you do, don’t… don’t jostle her.”

  Z reached up to untie the scraps of robe.

  “Clean it first!” Rhodes nodded at the towel.

  Z dunked the blood-soaked towel into the bowl. Water poured over the edges, becoming a spreading pool under their feet. Rhodes paused to glare at him.

  “Sorry.” Z wrung the towel and eased it into the water.

  As Rhodes stitched together the inner workings of Heather’s right wrist, Z wiped away the blood and loosened the clots of the left. He gasped as the blood began to flow again, turning to Rhodes like a child needing assistance.

  “Wrap and twist,” Rhodes told the boy in a patient tone. Z did as he was instructed.

  The skin of Heather’s wrist looked as if it had been worn through by the teeth of a comb, it was so torn and ragged.

  “This is beyond help,” Rhodes muttered, trying to push the pieces of skin together like a jigsaw puzzle. He fished into his bag, pulled out of 4x4 bandages, and patched her up.

  When Rhodes relieved Z of Heather’s left arm, he was left with nothing to do. He watched as the monster painstakingly stitched her back together, then he backed against the wall and sank to the floor. He felt hollow, but his muscles were still jumping with adrenaline. Feeling his nakedness for the first time since Rhodes claimed his robe, Z shifted into a more concealing position.

  After Rhodes finished with the arterial sutures, he paused to study Z. “Are you going to be sick again?” His words were patronizing, but there was an undertone of concern in his voice.

  Z shook his head. He was trying not to think of that day at school: Witt’s question, his knee-jerk response. He cared about Heather, so why would he respond like that? For a fleeting moment, he was glad Witt was dead. When the moment passed, he was filled with remorse. Squeezing his eyes shut, he fought hard, but tears began to run down his cheeks. A sob broke from his throat.

  ****

  As Rhodes listened to Z’s muffled sobs, he pulled Heather’s hands onto her chest. She was ghostly pale, but he had seen many much worse who had lived far longer than he intended for these three. Her pulse was weak, but her breath was steady; That counted for a lot. He rinsed his hands in the bowl, then sank down next to Z.

  “Was she your first?”

  “What?”

  “Do you know her blood type?” he said as if he were repeating his original question.

  Sniffling, Z leaned his head back against the wall and searched the ceiling. “O. O negative…” he replied. Rhodes raised a curious eyebrow. “We did Punnett Squares earlier this year… What would happen if she doesn’t get blood?”

  “She’ll be weak. She’ll heal slowly.” Rhodes shrugged. “It’s not a big deal: She didn’t lose that much.”

  “Are you fucking kidding me?” Z recalled the white carpet turning red.

  Smirking, Rhodes turned to him. “You’re lucky I came when I did,” he said. “I was considering taking my time.” He leaned his head back against the wall. “You owe me.”

  Z’s nostrils flared. He clenched his teeth, then nodded. “Yes.”

  “Hm?”

  “Yes,” Z repeated, “she was my first.”

  Rhodes grinned. “Were you hers?”

  “I don’t think so,” he admitted. “I always had the feeling she wanted something else. Something she couldn’t have. I… I don’t know how to describe it.”

  Nodding, Rhodes began to reply, but stopped. His gaze landed on the puddle on the tile flood. Red tendrils of blood swirled in the water. A memory tugged him back to a tiny, dingy apartment. A woman’s foot hung off a small, round kitchen table, dripping blood onto the cracked tile. His chest tightened, like it had on that night. He turned to Z, feeling something strangely akin to hope. Whatever he had been about to say, he forgot.

  “I really should have put a lock on that door,” he said instead.

  54

  Rhodes’s hands were still crusted with Heather’s blood. He wondered what investigators would make of her body, if they ever found it: scarred, broken, beaten beyond the others, yet meticulously, repeatedly put back together. He imagined only her grandfather knew her well enough to make sense of it.

  Returning to the Bedroom, Rhodes confirmed Heather was still in bed, unconscious. Blood was seeping through her bandages. He went into the bathroom, ran the water as hot as it would get, and washed his hands. He poked through the first aid kit under the bathroom counter, then left it in favor of his black bag.

  Although Heather’s eyes were open as he cleaned and re-dressed her wrists, Rhodes was certain she was not aware of what was happening. She remained limp. He measured out a strong dose of penicillin and injected it into her hip, just as he had when she had the fever.

  “Let’s get rid of this.” He pulled off her robe, stiff with dried blood. She complied, still only half-conscious, and hugged the blanket over her chest. He pulled a jar of thick yellow salve from his bag. He dabbed it over the lashes on her back. He coaxed her to surrender the blanket covering her chest and applied the salve to the letters carved into her chest.

  “Are you really as much of a fighter as you pretend to be?” he murmured, not expecting an answer. If the truth was No, she could go into hypotensive shock and die and there would be nothing he could do about it.

  “No,” she replied, surprising him. She rolled over to look behind her. “Whe
re’s Zachariah?” she asked. “Wasn’t he here?”

  He shoved all of his supplies back into the bag and snapped it shut. “Z is with Moné-sha.” He carried the bag around to the bedside table and locked it away. “No use risking the loss of another grief-stricken drama queen.”

  “That’s very considerate of you,” she said.

  He produced two bottles of water. Opening one, he offered it to her. She hesitated before she accepted it. She had to readjust her grip several times before she could support its weight.

  “I’m shocked you would put her through losing both of her best friends on the same day,” he said, studying her.

  “She stopped—” Heather caught herself. Being half-dead was no excuse to start gossiping. She buried her face in the pillow, wishing she could go back to sleep.

  Rhodes sat cross-legged on the bed next to her, sipping at his bottle. He reached out to stroke her hair. “What were you thinking, little rabbit?”

  Heather shook him off. Holding the blanket over her chest, she sat up slowly. “What… what does it matter what I was thinking?” Her tone was more incredulous than angry. “What do you care? You keep referring to these other groups you’ve had—other people you’ve killed—and now you ask me what I was thinking, as if none of them ever attempted suicide as an escape.”

  “Oh, they’ve tried,” he assured her. “Some have succeeded. Some I’ve allowed to succeed.” He shook his head. “Their loss meant nothing to me.”

  “Mine means something to you?” She met his eyes.

  Rhodes smirked. “I am still determined to break you,” he told her. “If I am anything, I am a powerfully sore loser.”

  “You are that.”

  Rhodes barked a laugh. “See? You’re witty; That’s why I like having you around.”

  “Witt wasn’t witty?”

  The corner of Rhodes’s mouth twitched. The question sobered him. He struggled to keep an even voice. “Witt was pedantic,” he replied. “He had his moments: he was affectionate, and very willing to experiment, but funny?” He shook his head. “He’s not like you… or Z.”

  Heather opened her mouth, but choked on her words. Seeing the question in her eyes, he tilted his head. She clenched her jaw and shook her head. “I could stop being funny,” she said. “I could be like Witt: I could bore you. Would you kill me, too, if I bored you?”

  Rhodes sucked his teeth before answering. “That would be leaving on your own terms.”

  “Would it, really?”

  He shrugged. “Have you ever read Catch-22? I know you have; It’s on your shelf.”

  She scowled at the thought of him in her room. “I haven’t,” she lied. “It’s my dad’s.”

  “Ah, well… you know what a catch-22 is, the logical concept.”

  “Yes.”

  “That situation would be a catch-22: You want to die, so you pretend to be boring. I won’t tolerate boring, but I don’t want to kill you, because I know it’s what you want. So we’re both stuck.”

  Heather kicked this idea around for a moment. “You would seriously allow yourself to get stuck in a situation you don’t want… just to spite me?”

  “You betcha.”

  “I’m surprised you wouldn’t find that situation humiliating.”

  “Humiliating to whom?” He smirked. “I’m not going to lose face. It won’t affect my social standing. Within the next ten days, I’m just going to kill you all, pack up, and go home.”

  Shocked by his casual tone, Heather squeezed her eyes shut. Her head spun. She forced her expression to remain emotionless. “There’s not—” she stammered, “There’s nothing we can—”

  “No, nothing,” he said with a sweep of his arm. “That’s just the way it goes. You are all going to die by the end of the month.”

  “It doesn’t—”

  “No.”

  “But—”

  “Stop.”

  “A lot can happen in ten days,” she shot out quicker than he could interrupt.

  Smirking, he asked, “I thought you were going to be boring?”

  “I am,” she informed him. “I’m boring now. Just watch.”

  Rhodes nodded. He rocked forward and kissed her. Whimpering, she shoved him away.

  “I thought you were going to be boring?” he laughed. “See? It’s not in your nature. Catch-22: You want to die—you want me to kill you—but you are not willing to sacrifice your…”—he searched for the words—“your dignity and independence to do so. But you would have to.”

  “I wasn’t ready,” Heather scoffed. “Try again.”

  Rhodes tilted his head with a curious grin. “Heather Stokes, are you asking me to kiss you?” She turned away, her face burning. “Now,” he said, scooting closer to her, “I know exactly what to do if I wanted your complete compliance. All I would have to do is say…”—he leaned close to her ear—“If you even consider harming yourself again, I will douse Monica in kerosene and light her on fire.”

  She turned to check if he was serious. His face was set.

  “See?” He spread his arms. “Dignity and independence are easily removed from the equation.”

  55

  Rhodes slept that night with one arm around Heather’s waist and the other under her neck. Every so often, she would wake, and his hand would be on her chest—not on her breasts, but cradled between them—feeling her heart beat. Despite the bitterness clawing at her mind, he radiated a heat that lulled her to sleep.

  Heather woke in the pale hours of the morning. The air conditioning had not yet kicked on. Rhodes had rolled away from her to cool off, his breathing deep and steady. Her eyes fell on the chain around his neck: the keys were lying on the bed next to him, the chain slack around them. The latch was close to the key ring.

  She placed one hand over the keys to ensure their silence, then unsnapped the waist buck with the other. She paused, listening to his steady breathing, before pulling the key ring free. She slid out of the bed and stood up. The room lurched and she was overwhelmed by the sensation of sinking into the floor. Taking a deep breath, she forced herself to step forward and keep moving.

  She hadn’t even reached the corridor when Rhodes caught her. He snaked one hand around her waist and pushed her head down with the other until she was bent double. He held her there, pressing against her.

  “Wait for it…” he muttered. “Wait for it…”

  Heather wondered what it was she was waiting for. The blood pounding in her ears was making her dizzy. Rhodes jerked her upright. He took a step back and held her there as the blood drained from her head. The room flickered black, then she was on the floor and Rhodes was scooping the keys up from where they had fallen.

  “Whatever happened to boring?”

  “I’m still rusty,” she replied. “I need more practice.”

  Rhodes gazed down at her as he strung the key ring back onto the chain and pulled it over his head. Heather did not move, but watched him from the floor.

  “Stand up.”

  “I’m good on the floor, thanks,” she said. “It’s nice and cool down here.”

  “Is it really?”

  Heather slapped her palm on the hardwood as if she were beckoning a dog. Rhodes hunkered down next to her and lay on his back. She made a strange noise. It took him a moment to realize she was struggling not to laugh.

  “What?”

  “I got you to lie on the floor!” Something about this was inexplicably funny to her in her light-headed state.

  Rhodes could feel his face begin to burn, but he swallowed his embarrassment. After a moment, he was laughing with her. It felt good to laugh.

  “Oof, dizzy…” she murmured, falling silent. This made him laugh even harder.

  Rhodes’s laughter faded into a sigh. He rolled over and pushed himself up onto his knees. Taking her ankle, he pulled her leg over his head and shifted her body so he was kneeling between her legs. She groaned as he freed his penis from his pajamas.

  “What?” He pulled h
er hips up to meet his. “I’m helping you practice being boring.”

  Heather grimaced and squeezed her eyes shut. She tried to block him out. As she shifted with his movement, the scabs on her back began to tear away against the hardwood. She whimpered, attempting to suppress her cries of pain.

  “Ohhh…” Rhodes cooed. He leaned down and wrapped his arms around her waist. “Put your arms around my neck.” His voice was soft. His tone was not commanding as it had been the first time he said these words. Not wanting to acquiesce, she grabbed his shoulders. He lifted her slowly until she was straddling him.

  As she sank onto his lap, a sensation flooded her body, forcing her to arch her neck. A gasp escaped her chest. Her eyes shot wide. Her face burned with shame.

  Rhodes barked triumphantly, lifting and lowering her again.

  “Stop!” She pushed him away and tried to stand.

  “No,” he murmured, holding her tighter. “No. Boring, remember?” He did it again, pressing his face against her breasts. “Very, very boring!”

  “No!” Tears of frustration began to stream down her face.

  “Don’t—” he whispered. “Don’t cry, sweetheart. I’m not hurting you…” He did not stop forcing her to rise and fall, but continued slowly, kissing her breasts (small from years of running and weeks of starvation, but appreciated nonetheless).

  Heather pressed a hand over her mouth, face burning. Desperate, she grabbed his shoulders again and dug her fingernails—what was left of them—into his skin. She prayed he would hit her, throw her, kill her, anything but continue to move her like that. She wanted to feel anything other than what he was making her feel.

  He winced and shook his head, but did not stop. Not even when his shoulders became slick with blood. His only retaliation was to pull her closer and move faster, all the while whispering, “I’m not hurting you.”

  Exhausted, physically and emotionally, Heather loosened her claws. Taking a deep breath, she fell silent and forced her mind clear. Recognizing her surrender, Rhodes took her arms and pulled them around him. Heather allowed him to do so, hugging his head to her chest.