Seventeenth Dawn

10) Blood on His Hands, Blood on the Floor

Daniel

We drove for only a few minutes. It felt like much longer, cramped in the dark trunk with my knees tucked against my bleeding palms.

It's kind of funny. Whenever I imagined myself in a scenario like this, I assumed my thoughts would be on escape and getting home. I do think about that, of course, but at the front of my mind is how much I want a shower. And a close second is how my two favorite girls--Maya and Casey--are doing. I doubt my mom said anything to Maya yet. I've only been gone for two days. She probably fed her some lie only a six year-old would bite. But that's okay. It's not a story to scare a small child with. Not yet, at least.

The sun is down the rest of the way when the trunk opens. Two puddles of blood slink in thin rivulets along the trenches in the tarp. I sit up and pull myself out of the car, rising to my fullest height. I hardly tower over the man, but I am an inch or two taller, and a bit brawnier, though I'm quite lanky myself.

God will judge--No.

It's not the usual subconscious drawl that echoes in the back of my mind. It's feminine, and almost like the manufactured version of a voice that I love and appreciate.

"Don't you dare say, 'God will judge him,'" Casey snaps at me. "You are a capable teenage boy, and you're certainly big enough to handle a bit of blood loss. Stop putting this in the hands of some magical, floating fairy that supposedly grants wishes if you're good. He doesn't seem to grant many, and your miracle hasn't come yet." Casey's voice crescendos in my mind. "Man up and fight back! Don't you want to come home to me? To your family? We haven't found you yet, so what are you waiting for? Do you actually want to die?"

I try to shake off the sinful questions, but I take a breath and sift through it.

Roughly thirty paces up to a small, one-story house with dirty windows, but at least they're all intact. I still have time to act...

I think quickly about the best way to incapacitate him without him seeing it coming. Push him to the ground? No--I need more reaction time than that. Punch him? No--I'm too weak.

I decide to kick him hard in the back of the knee, hoping to level the playing field as far as speed goes. I pounce on him, smacking my foot into his knee as hard as possible. I shove him to the ground and run, slipping on the muddy dirt driveway.

"Stop running, kid."

I falter, my unsure feet stumbling. My vision is already blurred from dehydration, so the distraction doesn't help my grand escape.

"I'll shoot. I swear."

I turn and glance back, losing my footing entirely and tumbling to the ground.

"Good choice." He limps up to me, gun in hand. "Now get inside. I really don't want to kill you yet. I have a profile to uphold, after all."

I stand ungracefully and drag my feet up the walkway.

"Hold on."

I freeze.

"Hands back." I feel a thin cord--almost like a cheap bike lock--wrap around my wrists, constricting the blood flow as if it's a makeshift tourniquet. "Don't ever pull that again, got it?" His breath is hot and sticky on my ear. I fight the urge to pull away.

He locks me in a new basement, this one with a single, small, one foot by one and a half foot window high on the far wall. It's unfinished and empty, save for a lawn chair and a few storage boxes. I wait until he leaves to look around more. The knot around my wrists is poorly made, and I slip out of it easily. I find a box of nonperishable goods, and pull out a container of applesauce.

He must not have been planning this. He wouldn't have purposely left me food... I rip open the top, thankful for his forgetfulness, and drink the applesauce. It's not as hydrating as water, but it does wonders for my stomach and even for my throat to some extent.

I pull out the lawn chair and sit with a can of refried beans, trying to decide the best way to open it. After a while, I give up and rummage through the box again until I find a bag of beef jerky. Normally I eat a more vegetarian diet--it's against my beliefs to take a life, even for food--but desperate times call for desperate measures. I keep the beans next to me, however, because they're heavy and hard. If nothing else, I can throw them at my kidnapper like a rock.

I sit quietly and tip the chair back slightly, rocking gently with my feet.

An odd doorbell sound rings throughout the house. It dies abruptly, as if it can't handle resonating at all.

"Ah, Officer Benson," my kidnapper says, voice muffled. "What brings you here?"

"I was just concerned about you. You didn't show up for work the past two days, but you never called in sick."

At the sound of the age-strained voice, the image of an old man with bushy, gray eyebrows and kind blue eyes pops into my head. It's a voice and a face I know well.

"Officer Benson!" I shout, so eager to find a sliver of hope. "Help me! I'm down here!"

Silence settles over the house until the sound of a scuffle, all ending with a loud bang! Then a thump. And the sound of something heavy being dragged across the floor accompanied by the occasional grunt. Then the pounding of footsteps stomping down a hallway. A door unlocking, knob turning. Opening on squeaky hinges. More thundering footsteps.

I brace myself, still holding out hope that it wasn't Officer Benson who dropped.

I watch my kidnapper slink down the last stair, splattered with blood, face twisted in a furious expression. His eyes blare with fury.

And now I know why I recognize him. He's the intern. The one who tried to deter us from setting up a search party a lifetime ago.