Dangerous Savior

by Wulff, Carson

  That will never happen. All that will happen is that Ethan will be held captive as planned, slaughtered to feed this possibly cannibalistic hillbilly family. Tom’s not going to grow fond of him in the span of time between now and the dinner plate. Tom’s not going to save him. And if Tom is attracted to him, Ethan will be lucky if he isn’t raped before he’s murdered.

  Ethan should just jump out of the van now. The door is unlocked—Ethan isn’t sure Tom knows how to use the door’s automatic locks, otherwise he would have. If Ethan breaks bones hitting the road at forty miles per hour, if Tom stops the van to kill him, then—well, at least it will be a quick death.

  Instead of jumping, instead of running, Ethan says, voice small, “Tom, I don’t want to die.”

  That seems to have the same effect as if Ethan actually did jump out of the van.

  Tom slams on the brakes, causing Ethan to lurch forward hard into the dashboard, his already sore body slamming into it.

  The van’s switched into park and the next thing Ethan knows he’s being dragged half into Tom’s lap, his arms forced behind his back. Ethan only struggles initially, a knee-jerk reaction to the surprise. His brain manages to take over, to force his body limp because somewhere, distantly, he knows struggling will only make things worse for himself.

  Ethan’s breath is shallow as he pants against Tom’s denim-clad thighs, thick like strongly rooted tree trunks. Something tight is coiling around his wrists—rope, he realizes, binding his arms behind his back.

  What was it?

  What was it that set Tom off?

  The subtle plea for his life?

  The use of his name?

  Maybe the use of his name startled him.

  Could have been either.

  Tom didn’t seem to mind Ethan’s pretend everything’s normal babbling in the cornfield.

  Ethan’s heart sinks and also speeds tremendously, because he’s still sprawled face-first into Tom’s lap.

  Tom, however, seems not to notice this fact and drags Ethan back upright. He pulls something from his hip and for a moment Ethan expects a weapon, a blade—something sharp and dangerous. But no. It’s a handkerchief.

  A handkerchief that must have been hanging from Tom’s utility belt.

  A handkerchief that is red like the blood splattered and crusting on it.

  It must have gotten sprayed heavily when Tom drove the chainsaw into the biker.

  Tom grabs Ethan by his jaw, thick fingers warm and pressing, forcing Ethan’s mouth open.

  No.

  No—

  Ethan realizes what Tom’s going to do before the man tries to shove the bloody handkerchief in his mouth to gag him.

  Ethan flinches backwards involuntarily. The thought of having that thing in his mouth—no, Ethan can’t do it. He attempts to squirm away in weak protest, face contorted in illogical fear. He doesn’t know why this makes him feel so squeamish after everything he’s seen today, after knowing what Tom’s capable of if Ethan doesn’t comply.

  Ethan’s whine seems to give Tom pause. The dirty cloth stops inches from Ethan’s open mouth.

  Tom relinquishes his grip on Ethan’s jaw as if burned.

  Snarling, Tom says, “No more words,” and shoves Ethan pointedly away from him.

  Ethan slams back into the passenger seat, cowering, bordering on hyperventilation. He squishes his body as close to the interior of the door as he can, as far away from Tom as he can. His eyes sting with tears, not from the pain but from the fear, betrayal, and hopelessness Ethan set himself up for by ever believing this man could be on his side.

  Even though Tom showed him yet another kindness by foregoing shoving the bloody handkerchief in his mouth, Ethan wishes he had allowed it to happen. What he got instead—the growling command and the hard shove—is a far worse punishment.

  Because.

  Because…

  Ethan feels like he failed a test. Failed the only chance he had at getting out of this.

  He’s not a fighter. He can’t outrun these people. The only useful tool in his toolbox was his ability to connect with other human beings. And he couldn’t even do that.

  Maybe it wasn’t possible in the first place.

  5

  The farmhouse is just a speck in the distance when Tom turns off the road onto a long, dirt driveway. As they approach, the once-lavish two story home becomes clearer. The structure is all chipping wood, worn by time and use. The house is as tired and dusty as the gas station had been, as the stretches of land have been for miles.

  Several animal pens sit on the property, a barn attached to them. The pinkish-white hide of shedding goats can be seen grazing behind their fence alongside the adjacent pen of massive swine half-coated in mud.

  Another barn sits closer to the house, the roof partially collapsed, sideboards missing periodically. The barn has obviously fallen into disrepair, far less maintained than the house, which has crude patches in the broken siding.

  Tom pulls Ethan’s van right into the open barn, which is cluttered inside with rusting broken down automobiles. One side of the large barn is cleared of clutter, stacks of sanded wood piled up near a table saw. A wooden chair is nearby, in the process of being stained a beautiful cherry color.

  Arrays of tools and farm equipment pile up in corners, and Ethan’s gaze locks on some sharp tools hanging from the wall.

  If only…

  No.

  He can’t try to grab something to defend himself, not with his wrists bound behind his back. If only he had kept his mouth shut on the short drive over here.

  There’s a moment when he’s alone in the van, when Tom steps out and slams the door behind him—just a small moment where Ethan allows himself to catch his breath, rein in his composure. And then Tom is throwing open Ethan’s door and dragging him out by his shirt collar again.

  The pull is too rough, too careless—Ethan stumbles out of the van and crashes right into Tom.

  Shit.

  His face presses against Tom’s chest. Tom’s body is warm and solid. Somehow, the heat of his skin isn’t uncomfortable even in the stuffy heat inside the shaded barn.

  Suddenly, strong fingers fist the back of his hair, tugging Ethan’s head back until he’s forced to back up, back his body away from Tom’s chest.

  “Ow,” Ethan breathes, standing on the tips of his toes to tilt his head into Tom’s grip, trying to lessen the pressure. And then, because Tom told him not to speak anymore, he adds, “Sorry.”

  It’s then that Ethan realizes that Tom is glaring at him with the most vexed, accusing expression.

  What?

  What did Ethan do wrong this time?

  He doesn’t have time to figure it out, because Tom releases the grip on his hair and shoves him forward instead, towards the barn’s open door.

  Right.

  Okay. Ethan can do this. He can follow orders.

  Just like in the cornfield, Ethan walks and Tom follows. This time, Tom places his hand threateningly on the back of Ethan’s neck, steering him towards the farmhouse.

  Ethan can’t think.

  Can’t concentrate on anything that isn’t Tom’s calloused palm on his sweat-slick neck.

  He shouldn’t be embarrassed by how much he’s sweating. By the fact that Tom’s touching him at all. Not when he’s being held captive right now. Not when he’s a victim and it shouldn’t matter what Tom thinks at all.

  But he is embarrassed, flushing red at the contact.

  What is it about Tom that reduces Ethan to a timid mess of a human being?

  Would Ethan be feeling this way if it wasn’t for the circumstances?

  Yeah, he would be.

  But that’s the problem—even if he would have been attracted to a man like Tom under normal circumstances, he absolutely should not be right now, under these circumstances.

  An apprehensive, greasy mixture of arousal and disgust swirl together in his chest like oil and water.

  Tom leads him up the front stairs of
the farmhouse. From the silence and lack of commotion, Ethan guesses that there’s no one else home. Tom’s mother, sisters, and niece must still be dealing with the mess of motorcycles at the gas station down the road.

  The musty interior is the first thing that hits Ethan as his eyes attempt to adjust to the lack of lighting within the home. Dust floats in small orbs through the air, catching the thin rays of sunlight that manage to penetrate gaps in the curtains. The air in the house contains the stale scent of cigarette smoke settled into every crevice.

  Ethan’s footsteps echo too loudly on the scuffed wooden floor, but Tom’s are even louder, his heavy boots following Ethan as he nudges him along.

  Despite the worn look of the house itself, much of the furniture looks new and expensive, built by hand for practicality as well as decoration. A glimpse into what must be the living room reveals old, faded floral-print sofas and a heavy circular rug that looks just as ancient.

  Ethan flinches when Tom’s strong arm reaches around him to pull open a heavy door at the back of the house. Unlike the creaky wooden door hinged to the home’s entrance, this door is made of some sort of metal and is lined with several deadbolt locks.

  Ethan can guess what’s behind the door before it swings open—and he’s right. He’s never wanted to be wrong so badly in his life. But no, just as he feared, the door reveals a staircase heading down. A basement.

  A cellar.

  A prison, if the ample locks on the door are any indication.

  Why would any home need a row of deadbolts on the outside of a basement door, if it’s not meant to keep whatever’s in the basement trapped inside?

  They wouldn’t.

  No normal house needs that.

  Ethan swallows, his whole body resisting as Tom pushes him towards the stairs.

  Some part of Ethan knows that if he goes down into this basement, he may never come back up again.

  His hand twitches, wanting to reflexively grab the doorframe, dig his fingers into it—but his hands are bound. Instead, he roots himself in place, resisting Tom’s firm, insistent hand on the back of his neck, urging him forward.

  “Wait,” Ethan breathes, knowing he’s not supposed to speak but risking it anyway—what else can he do? “Please—your mother, your sisters, they aren’t here yet. They won’t know. If you, if you just let me go, they won’t know, please—you saved me.”

  Tom’s hand is heavy on his neck, but he stops pushing. The house is so quiet that Ethan can hear the man’s deep, steady breath at his back.

  “You saved me. From those bikers. You saved me from getting killed in that lineup,” Ethan continues, voice shaking as hard as his bound hands. “I know you saved me. I’m grateful. If—if you let me go, I won’t tell anyone what happened, I’ll—”

  Tom’s grip shifts suddenly to Ethan’s waist and for one horrifying moment, Ethan thinks he’s going to be shoved down the stairs. Instead, he’s pulled backwards, lifted from the ground like he weighs no more than a bail of hay.

  Ethan’s thrown half over Tom’s shoulder, held in place with one arm wound around the back of his thighs, which crush his legs to Tom’s chest. With deliberate steps, Tom maneuvers them both, carrying Ethan through the door frame and down the basement stairs.

  And.

  And all Ethan can think over his terror at being taken into the basement is that…

  Tom is carrying him.

  Tom is carrying him when he could have just pushed him down the stairs.

  Ethan bites his lip in disgust, choking back a sob at his own temporary insanity, because he should not still be looking for signs that this man is being kind to him.

  Ethan should not be clinging to the hope that this cruel person will spare him from this mess—not when Tom is actively holding him captive. Not when he’s descending the stairs to lock Ethan up in some sort of murder basement.

  The stairs creak with each step until Tom’s boots hit the concrete floor below. The air smells strongly of damp cinder blocks and disintegrating cardboard boxes. A hint of gasoline. It’s not an unfamiliar scent and that is enough to fill Ethan with relief. No stench of rotting corpses or fresh blood.

  Tom moves effortlessly through the dark space, which is full of stacked boxes walling off different areas. Ethan can hardly make out anything other than vague shapes no matter how hard he squints.

  Maybe that’s for the better.

  And, yeah—it is, because when Tom yanks a chain on the ceiling to turn on a light bulb screwed into an exposed socket, Ethan sucks in a breath at what he sees.

  Brownish red stains soak into the concrete floor like bruises, the discoloration pooling worse around drains embedded in the floor. Ethan’s brain immediately screams blood. Bloodstains. The alarm bells in Ethan’s head shriek louder when he spots the large freezer pushed against one wall, humming with power.

  Hysterically, Ethan tries to tell himself he’s overreacting.

  Stains on the basement floor and a large freezer do not a cannibal family make.

  There were goats outside. Pigs.

  Maybe… maybe they butcher them in the basement. Store them in the freezer down here.

  Right. Because it totally makes sense that they’d corral an animal through the house and down the basement steps just to butcher it.

  And then chains rattle overhead; thick linked, rusted things that end in hooks.

  The kind of chains butchers use to string up meat.

  Tom pushes the chains aside and drops Ethan’s body onto a sturdy table made of strong wood.

  Ethan can’t help the whine that escapes him when he crashes against the surface of the table, jolting pain into the bruises that surely coat his body after the biker’s beating.

  Tom pauses at the noise, flashing him a hard, assessing look.

  “Sorry,” Ethan murmurs, lying his face against the cool wooden surface of the table, because he can’t force himself to sit up with his hands bound behind his back. “I’m fine. Just bruises from earlier.”

  Tom’s eyes narrow, as if Ethan is accusing him of something.

  “Bruises from the bikers, I mean. Not you,” Ethan explains, forcing a facade of calm conversation. “You haven’t hurt me.”

  It’s… true. And. Also not true at all.

  Tom hasn’t hurt him like the bikers hurt him. Not physically. Not really. The careless shoves and hauling Ethan around like a rag doll hasn’t reached a point Ethan would consider particularly violent. But maybe his scale for measuring violence is off after what the bikers did to him.

  Mentally, though, Tom has definitely hurt him. Even if Ethan really does manage to convince Tom to let him go, he’ll never be the same after this experience. He’ll always remember what it was like to have to barter with another man for his life, his safety. Because to Tom, right now, Ethan isn’t human. He can’t be. He must be some sort of object to him. There’s no basic empathy there, that all humans should have for one another.

  Ethan can’t imagine what could make a person do what Tom is doing to him.

  ...Then again, maybe Ethan can imagine.

  Maybe he doesn’t have to.

  He saw what Tom’s family was like.

  How many generations has their family been this incredibly violent?

  Where did it start?

  When did the violence first get handed down the family line like an heirloom?

  Tom can’t be much older than Ethan—late twenties, maybe. Early thirties at most. His sisters looked older.

  Ethan squirms under Tom’s unending gaze, the way Tom assesses him from head to toe. He’s so vulnerable, curled up on the table, Tom looming over him with his towering height and terrifying bulk. For the longest time that’s all Tom does—stare. Unabashed. Broad chest rising and falling in heavy, audible breaths.

  It should be creepy—and, god, it is creepy—but Ethan’s arousal spikes under the man’s gaze. His entire body feels hot despite the cool temperature of the basement. There’s something about how little control he ha
s right now that’s making his head swim and his blood rush south.

  Tom. He’s—he’s so restrained. Every move measured. Nothing unnecessary. Everything about him is so deliberate.

  What amount of desire would Tom have to be feeling for Ethan in order to break his restraint?

  Is the way he’s staring now a break in restraint—or is it power? Is it doing exactly what he wants, when he wants, because Ethan is powerless to stop him?

  Ethan bites his lip. A nervous gesture. A common one, for him. But it feels like an attempt at seduction when he flashes his eyes up to catch Tom’s gaze.

  Tom stops breathing, his chest stilling visibly.

  And then he starts again.

  In a flash, Tom seizes Ethan’s shirt collar—which at this point, is a familiar enough gesture that Ethan manages to stifle his squeak of surprise. Ethan’s manhandled, flipped around so that Tom has better access to—

  To his bound wrists.

  Just his bound wrists.

  Of course Tom wasn’t going to yank his pants down. Take him roughly and painfully from behind.

  No. That’s. All in Ethan’s head. He’s been reading everything wrong this whole time.

  Somehow, right now, Ethan feels like the creep.

  Tom yanks down one of the thick chains bolted to the ceiling overhead and winds it around Ethan’s arms, effectively snuffing any chance Ethan thought he had to get out of this place.

  He’s chained up in this man’s basement.

  No amount of denial or lust will change that.

  He’s this man’s captive.

  And by the sound of it, he’s going to be butchered. Chopped to bits and stored in the freezer across the room.

  Reduced to his component parts. Meat and bone. Blood and hunks of unusable flesh washed down the drain in the floor.

  If Tom was staring earlier, it’s because he thought Ethan looked like something he’d like to kill slowly.

  Shit.

  For the first time, Ethan’s heart beats with a sickening dread that’s completely devoid of any hope.

  He’s going to die here.

  Without a word, Tom turns away, walks back up the stairs and shuts the door behind him.