the view between villages // a stranger things choose-your-own-adventure

PAGE 8: Fight back

Adrenaline overtakes you. You dodge Ivan's punch and, in a feat of bravery, tackle him around the middle.

He's not expecting it and hits the ground hard. You scramble off of him and dodge a hit from the general, racing for the door.

You yank at the doorknob, but without a keycard, it's locked. You let out a cry of frustration and pound on the door.

"Nice try," Ozerov says. He helps Ivan to his feet, and the soldier looks pissed at you. "You are even stupider than I thought. I guess the stereotypes on Americans are true." He checks his watch. "Send them to Room 13," he murmurs.

Ivan nods and grabs your arm, yanking you toward a side door and into a long hallway.

"Hey!" you say. "Where are you taking me?! What's Room 13?"

No answer. He just tightens his grip on your bicep. He unlocks a door at the far end of the hall and tosses you inside before locking you in.

"HEY!" you scream. You pound on the steel door. "STOP! COME BACK! YOU CAN'T JUST LEAVE ME HERE! LET ME OUT!!!"

No response. You scan the room, dread seeping in through every pore. It's pretty much a jail cell: a one-room cube with concrete walls and floors, a tiny cot, a small toilet, and a sink. There's a small, doggy-door-like hatch in the big steel door.

You can't stay here. You won't.

You hit the door and scream until your voice is hoarse, but you don't know what good it'll do. Maybe Robin and Steve could get the upper hand somehow, or maybe Dustin and Erica could send the police chief to rescue you.

However, as time ticks by and you nearly lose your voice completely, you're left with the sinking realization: no one can hear you. Even if some rescue mission does happen, no one will find you in a room off a secret hallway off of an interrogation room.

The general left you here to die. And you're afraid that's just what will happen.

***

Six hours later, you get a food delivery.

The small hatch in the door opens while you're lying on your cot, attempting to stop the sobs crawling up your throat.

A hand slides a tray of oatmeal-like gray sludge and a small water bottle into your cell.

You leap off the cot and dive for the hand, grabbing hold of it. You hear a man curse in Russian on the other side of the door.

"Let me out! Please!" you beg. "I have a family waiting for me, I need to go home!"

That's a lie. But this guy doesn't need to know that.

You feel a sharp spike of pain on your hand and shout. The soldier you can't see has stabbed your hand with a small penknife.

His plan works—you let go and scramble backward as soon as the hatch closes once more.

"Fuck!" you scream into the emptiness. You glare at the pitiful dinner they've provided and kick the tray, smearing the sludge and sending the water bottle skittering across the floor.

***

It's morbid, but maybe you're okay with dying.

Hours have passed. It's evident no one is coming for you. You have no idea if they'll deliver more food after your last stunt. They may just let you starve.

If you do, you'll see your dad again. He was a firefighter and died a year ago after a real bad apartment fire. His death sent you careening off the clear path he'd set for your future—graduation; college; a nice, functional adult life. That's why you needed to get out of town and go somewhere new.