The Things I Do (Chapter 3-1)

Story continues from The Things I Do (Chapter 2-3)

3.

I slowly opened my eyes. I felt like I had been hit by a truck. I looked around groggily. I tried to move my arms, but they stuck fast. Wait a minute…

I couldn’t see. There was something in front of my eyes, on my face. A bag of some sort--some cloth pulled over my head. My heart leapt to my throat.

“He’s awake,” I heard a voice say.

This was my dream, I realized with horror.

I twisted frantically in my seat. I pulled at the rope around my wrists, but they were too tight for me to wiggle out of them.

Footsteps walked toward me, first slowly, then gradually faster. They stopped directly in front of me, and the sack was pulled off my head. I blinked in the suddenly too bright room. A deep feeling of dread flooded in the bottom of my gut. This was my dream. Two figures loomed over me, but all I could see was silhouettes.

Inside, my heart pounded hard against my chest. I struggled to keep my face straight. I wouldn’t let them know I was scared.

“What do you want from me?” I demanded.

The light was so bright, my eyes were still adjusting. A hand fist flew toward my face--there was nothing I could do to avoid it. The fist connected, sending me and the chair to the floor. My ear rang, and I knew that a bruise was already forming on my cheek. I spat on the ground.

“Is that all you got?” I said, laughing.

From ground looking up, I could see that there were three people, excluding myself, in the room. The two above me appeared to be a man and a woman, but I was still somewhat dazed. The other figure was a man, who sat hunched over in a chair at the opposite end of the room. I wondered if he was the one calling the shots. Just behind him, I could see a flight of stairs leading to a door: That was my way out.

The man, a big, bulky guy, reached down and hauled me and my chair up, grabbing me by my shirt collar. The chair legs hit the ground with a thud.

“Hmm,” I said, looking down at my collar, “I liked this shirt.”

Another blow to the face caught me slightly off guard. This time, though, my chair stayed upright. My jaw clicked, and I fought back the urge to cry out in pain.

“Alright. That one hurt a little bit,” I said.

“Enough,” said a woman’s voice. I turned my head back to see a woman with long, dark hair staring at me. “You’re little act isn’t going to get you very far.”

I flashed a toothy smile. “But it will get me somewhere.”

Another punch, this time to the stomach. My breath flew out of me, and with it a small cry. I breathed heavily through my mouth, fighting back the urge to vomit.

“Nice one,” I said shakily.

The man gave a small shrug and folded his arms over his massive chest. The woman sighed and wrenched my head up from my hair. She put her face very close to mine. With her free hand, she reached into her pocket and pulled out a flip blade. She pressed the cold blade to my cheek. I held my breath.

“If I were you, I’d stop acting like this was some game, and start answering some questions,” she whispered. Her eyeshadow glittered in the light almost menacingly. “Nod if you understand.”

I gave a small nod. She pulled the blade away and released her grip. She smiled sweetly at me, knowing full well she had me exactly where she wanted me.

“What do you want from me?” I asked, all the bravado gone from my voice. Suddenly I wasn’t brave--I was the scared boy they wanted me to be. I had no idea what I was dealing with, and they knew it, too.

“Oh, sweetie, perhaps you didn’t hear me right,” she said sarcastically. “We’re the ones asking questions here. And you’re the one tied to a chair.”

She nodded to the man, and he promptly administered another punch to my gut.

I fought for my breath. When I looked up again,the woman leaned real close, holding the side of my face with one hand. “Now you’re going to tell everything you know about the Odin family.”

I spat out blood. “I don’t know anything,” I panted.

She rolled her eyes. Another punch caught my temple. “Honey, you’re going to have to be much more convincing if you expect me to believe you.”

“Please,” I begged. “I don’t know--”

Another punch. My ears rang and the edge of my vision went dark. I welcomed the darkness, but the woman grabbed my chin, drawing me back to reality.

“Oh, no, no. We’re not done yet, Maverick,” she said.

I faintly smelled smoke. For a moment, I thought my powers had come back again. But the man came back into view, and I knew that this time my powers would not be bothered. The man held a piece of smoldering coal held in the grip of an iron tong.

The woman dropped my chin and slid on a pair of gloves before taking the coal in her hand. She leaned in close once more. “Maverick,” she said. “Do you know how hot a piece of coal gets sitting in the fire?”

The woman held the coal in her hand, moving it closer and closer to my face until I could feel the heat radiating off it.

“It can get over a thousand degrees Fahrenheit,” she said as if she were merely reciting the facts, and not threatening me with a thousand degree coal. “I’m going to ask you again: What do you know about the Odin family?”

Sweat beaded on my forehead and rolled down my cheek. My lip trembled.

“I don’t know,” I whispered.

She frowned. “Oh, Maverick. That was really not the answer we were looking for.”

She handed the coal back to the man, who grabbed it with his tongs. She quickly cut the binds around my wrist. She grabbed them before I even had a chance to think though, and tied my right hand--my dominant hand--to the arm of the chair, and wrenched my other hand so that it lay with my elbow extended and my palm facing up on a small wooden table. I tried to yank my hand back, but her grip was too tight, and my hands had fallen asleep they were bound so tight.

“No,” I pleaded, “please.”

She nodded to the man, and he stepped forward with the tongs. He pressed the coal against my forearm.

I screamed and writhed. I tried to wrench my arm away, but the woman held on tight. Still he held the burning coal against my arm. I screamed until tears rolled down my face. I knew nothing but the pain of the hot coal on my arm, making every nerve in my mind twist in torment.

After what seemed like hours, he pulled the coal away.

“No! I don’t know anything!” I said. “Please let me go.”

“Listen,” the woman said. “If you don’t start answering our questions, my friend Rob here is going to keep hurting you. I was asking nicely before. Now I want some answers. How long have you been living with the Guthrie family?”

“Ten years,” I said quickly. “They found me when I was eight.”

“Where?” she demanded. “Where did the find you?”

“I don’t know,” I said, shaking my head. She nodded to the man, Rob, and he pressed the coal against my forearm once more. He held it there for a few moments while I screamed and cried in agony. When he finally pulled away, my skin was blistered and scorched.

“I’m telling the truth!” I said. “I can’t remember anything. I swear, I swear.”

“Fine. Let’s try an easier one,” she said. “Who are your parents?”

I closed my eyes. This was all a bad dream, I told myself. But the smell of burnt hair lingered in the air, and when I opened my eyes I was still in the room, tied to the chair.

I sobbed. “I don’t…”

The woman sighed. She grabbed my wrist and tied it to the chair’s arm. She pulled off her gloves, setting them gently down on the table. She turned back to me and backhanded me across the face.

It hurt, but not nearly as much as what she did next. She took out her blade and pressed it straight down onto one of my burns. I screamed, then gritted my teeth. She pushed the knife down, into my skin. A small drop of blood rolled down my arm and dropped to the ground.

“Stop,” a quiet voice said. At first I thought it was only in my head, but then he spoke again. “Stop, Valerie.”

Immediately the woman pulled her knife away. She looked sheepishly at the man on the other side of the room, near the stairs.

Footsteps walked slowly, confidently, toward me. I stared down at my lap. He stopped walking.

“Put that down,” he said. Valerie dropped her knife on the table with a clatter. Faster than the blink of an eye, the man reached around the chair and put his hand over my mouth. I tried to yell, but his hand muffled the sound. “Shh,” he said. “You think you’re strong now. Wait until we have you for a day. For a week.” He leaned his head close, breathing in my ear, “for a year.”

With only a brief thought, I seized my opportunity: I bit down hard on the man’s hand. I tasted blood, and he yelled, tearing his hand away. I twisted in my chair to see who he was, but Rob was still faster. He socked me hard in the face. I heard an echo through my head. My chair toppled over and my skull hit the concrete floor with a sickening thwack.

I was reeling, but I managed to say through gritted teeth, “I am not weak.”

“Take him away!” the man screamed.

The cord around my ankles and wrists went slack. I was pulled to my feet. The room spun and I stumbled, nearly collapsing. Rob quickly grabbed me before I went down, holding me up clumsily.

“Wait!” the man said, thinking. “Put him in the van.”

Rob hesitated. “Sir?”

“We’re taking him to the Crypt,” the man growled.

Rob tugged me forward. I was half-dragged, half-carried up the stairs and out the door. I had to use all my strength just to hold my head up. Rooms passed by in a blur. I heard a door open and I fell onto the cold, hard floor of a van. My hands were cuffed together, then chained to the floor. It was a prison transport van, I realized. The door was slammed shut. A few minutes passed before the engine started and I felt the van begin to move.

I didn’t move. I don’t think I could’ve moved, even if I tried. I didn’t have the energy or motivation. I didn’t know what the Crypt was, but I had a bad feeling about it.

The van speed up. I slowly raised my head and pulled myself into a sitting position, baring my teeth against the pain.

I was pitched against the side of the van unexpectedly. I groaned and pulled myself back up. It felt like something had rammed into us. It hit us again and I was thrown to the back of the van. The chain around my wrists yanked painfully, keeping me from rolling around too much. This time, I stayed down, lying flat on my stomach.

Once more the van was hit, and I felt the wheels slide underneath us that made my stomach drop to my feet. The van turned on its side, jostling me around. Luckily, the force was strong enough to break the chain handcuffing me to the floor, but my hands were still stuck together. The van landed, and I fell down hard on my shoulder. We slid a few feet before skidding to a halt.

I heard a car door opened. Two shots were fired, then silence. I held my breath, my blood pounding in my ears. I stared intently at the doors of the van. Please, Uriah, I begged silently, Please let it be Gerard.

The doors of the van were forced open. A woman stood on the other side, a semi-automatic rifle slung across her shoulder. I could tell instantly that she was a Wick. I braced myself. She tossed her head, making her long black hair bounce. She looked me over with quick, intelligent eyes.

“Oh, God,” she said to herself, frowning. Then, over her shoulder she shouted, “We got him.”

I seized my opportunity. With all the strength I had left, I flung myself at her. She turned just in time to see me, and dodged out of the way. I tripped, having missed my target, and tumbled out of the van into a not-so-graceful heap. I got myself on one knee, but was overcome with a sudden wave of nausea. I held up a hand defensively, but I was outmatched. I was too weak.

I felt something pinch me in my neck. A man stepped away from me as I twisted around, and I saw the glint of a needle in his hand. My own hand flew to my neck, but I knew it was too late. I began to see spots. I wavered uncertainly, and put out a hand to hold me up. I was overcome with an intense need for rest. I fell to the ground, telling myself, I’ll only sleep for a little bit. I closed my eyes. The second before I drifted into unconsciousness something nagged at the edge of my mind. I knew it was important, but it slipped through my fingers.