The Restoration Project

4.01 - MERRICK

Merrick groaned.

A series of radiating shockwaves shot from the back of his skull to his teeth whenever he moved. He would have thought it was from withdrawal if not for the memory of Pierre hitting him with the butt of his gun the night before.

He was lying on hard concrete, the parts of his body that touched it—shoulder, hip, knee—were stiff and sore. He rolled over with another groan and hit metal bars. He opened his eyes. He was back in the holding cells at the front of Frankie's complex. The lights were off, but the sun was about to rise. It brightened the sky enough to make out the shapes of the windows in the darkness.

"Hello?" Merrick croaked, his throat dry. He swallowed and tried again. "Anybody out there?"

There was no response.

"Rusty? C'mere boy," Merrick called out but, again, he got no reply.

Rusty's whimper, from just before Pierre hit him, echoed in his ears. Frankie better not have hurt him.

"Shut up in there," a voice that Merrick didn't recognize cried out. The owner remained planted outside the building, the edge of his silhouette visible in the corner of the entry doors.

"Where's my dog?" Merrick asked as he searched for a way to escape—which primarily involved finding something he could use to unlock the door to the cage. It wouldn't be easy though; they had stripped the cell down. Even his bag rested against a wall outside, just beyond his reach.

"That golden mutt?" the voice called back.

There weren't many dogs that came through Frankie's and this guy knew it, but Merrick had to play along. "Yeah, that dog."

"He's with Axford, he'll be fine," the voice answered.

"Axford? Who the fuck is Axford?" Merrick asked.

"No need to raise your voice. It's only temporary. But until my boss gets what he wants, you're stuck in there so you better learn to play nice. Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to get some sleep before the sun comes up."

Merrick took a long breath. There had to be a way out of this makeshift cage. The only adornment inside was a filthy bucket in the corner, which Merrick didn't want to look at, let alone touch. The handle of the bucket was metal, but far too thick to be of any use as a lock-pick. He bent down and pried at the corner of one of the floor tiles, but he only managed to pull up less than a centimetre before it snapped off. The resulting shard was a flimsy piece of vinyl. He stood back up and kicked at the bars in frustration.

"What did I just say! Knock it off in there! Don't make me get up!" his mysterious overseer cried.

Merrick ignored him. His eyes were locked on the bars of the door. When he kicked them, they moved. It wasn't a lot, but they bowed outward from the force. It meant they weren't solid metal, but hollow. And not that sturdy. He gripped two of the bars in each hand and tried to pull them apart. They barely wiggled. He needed leverage.

He unlooped his belt and looped it around two of the bars in the middle. He cinched it tight, shifted to the left side of his cage, and pulled. The bars wiggled, but didn't bend. He wrapped the excess length of the belt around his hand for added grip and pulled again, grunting from the effort. The inner bar bent, leaning outward as if moving in to kiss its neighbor. He moved the belt lower along the bars and did the same thing, although the closer he got to the anchor points, the less the bar moved.

"You're awfully quiet in there now," the guard shouted as Merrick unhooked the belt and wrapped it around two of the bars on the right side. When it was tight he yanked on it.