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Chapter eleven
Daphne
Istaredatthe light creeping in under the door to the room my captors had chucked me into. Bigger than a closet, but smaller than a bedroom, the place smelled of old paper and cigarette smoke, making me think this had been some Forest Ranger’s office once upon a time. Closing my eyes, I tired to picture it as it would have looked back then, probably done up in bare bones sixties chic. I imagined the walls would have been papered with faded maps, the topographical swirls and lines showing the area in a way that only someone with experience could ever hope to understand. In my mind, I could see the desk against one wall, the gray industrial metal surface scratched and dented, with a horrid chair in front, upholstered in orange and brown floral fabric. There would have been a typewriter on the desk, and a CB radio in the corner, and that would have probably been it.
It would have been dull, functional, and likely went unchanged until the day they closed up shop and sent everyone away.
How depressing.
Opening my eyes again, I couldn’t see much, but enough to know that the window that had previously filled the one wall had been gone for years, the empty space covered over with a piece of plywood. Someone had tried to insulate the building against moisture, but the plastic sheeting now hung limp, one torn corner blowing in the breeze.
Wait.
A breeze?
Climbing off the floor, I moved across the small space quietly, not wanting to draw attention to my actions. When No Neck had left me in here, he had untied my wrists, but not before he shot me a very stern look and mumbled out, “Be good.”
I mean, of course, I wasn’t going to listen to him. Middle of the woods or not, I was not the type to just sit around and wait to be rescued. With my connection to Hack permanently disabled, I needed to try to get away from these nut jobs before things escalated. I still had no actual idea what they wanted, and I really didn’t want to wait around to find out.
Standing in front of the boarded-up window, I ran my fingers around the edge of the plastic sheeting, noticing that while it was secured at the top just fine, the bottom corner looked like it had been chewed through, something I didn’t want to dwell on too long.
As I New York native, I had had more than enough exposure to rats, but I didn’t know if forest rats were more or less aggressive than the subway rats I was used to.
Was there something bigger than a rat that I should be worried about?
Were raccoons aggressive? Holy crap! What about skunks?
Deciding to worry about the local wildlife after I was out of the house, I continued to explore the plastic, finding that the opposite bottom corner was still secure, but that pulling the loose end away from the window allowed enough space for me to actually slide behind the sheet like a shower curtain.
The smell was more than a little dank, but I ignored it as I started to feel up the plywood. I could tell it had been placed a while ago because it had that hazy gray color that wood got when it was exposed to the elements for a long time. This piece of wood had been installed from the outside, meaning that whatever they had used to fasten it was on the wrong side for me to be able to try to loosen, but as I placed my palm against the wood, I felt it move away from me, the soft creaking sound seeming loud in my panicky state.
Holding my breath, I pushed gently once more, finally feeling that breeze against my wrist. Off in the distance, I thought I could hear thunder, low, but soothing.
There was something about the feeling of fresh air on your skin when you were being held captive. I’d been in the room for under an hour, but the cool air blowing across my sweaty face smelled like sweet ambrosia.
Was this how Andy Dufresne felt at the end of The Shawshank Redemption? I pictured myself standing outside the Ranger Station, arms thrown wide as the rain poured down and had to stifle a giggle.
Biting my cheek, trying to calm my racing heart and ignored the adrenaline rushing through my veins, I pressed again, seeing just how far I could get the wood from the window frame. When I had about an inch of space, I stopped, feeling around the edges to see if one spot gave more than the others. I was too short to reach the actual top of the window, but that was okay, because the original bottom corner seemed to be the weakest anyway.
Returning back to that spot, I pressed again, trying to get it farther than the inch I managed the first time. I could hear the wood straining, see the rusted body of the nail where it was pulling out of the frame, and I knew if I could just get it the rest of the way out, I could maybe make a space big enough to slip through.
I had to.
I was just about ready to try again when I heard footsteps headed toward me. Sliding out from behind the sheeting, I leapt away from the window, like putting distance between me and the only means of escape would be less suspicious when someone entered the room.
Back against the wall farthest from the door, I slid down and landed on my butt, wincing at the pain from my bruised tail bone, just as the door swung open, flooding my dark space with light.
“Hey, girlie,” came the voice of Spaz, his lanky body silhouetted in the doorway. “You miss me?”
“Like I’d miss a yeast infection.”
He stiffened, cocking his head to one side as he looked down at my huddled form. “That’s not very nice, you know? And to think,”—he stepped into the room, standing over me and glaring—“I was gonna feed you and everything.”
Looking at him now, my eyes finally adjusted to the brightness, and I could see he held a paper plate. Suddenly, I wanted it.
Bad.
I hated to admit it, but it had been hours since I had last eaten, and even then, I’d only had a soy latte and a single biscotti. Lame.
Sitting up a little straighter, I held out my hands for the plate, suddenly noticing the hollowness in my stomach. If I was going to run—which I absolutely was—then I’d need my strength.
“Not sure you fuckin’ deserve it now,” he sneered, holding the plate over his head, like I had any chance of reaching it from my place on the floor in the first place. “Maybe you should ask me nicely.”
“Please.”
He scoffed. “That was pathetic.”
Clearing my throat, I tried again. “May I have the plate, please?”
“If you think that’s gonna cut it, you’re so wrong. I want you to mean it, girl.” He dropped one hand to his crotch, boldly shifting his junk. “Show me just how hungry you really are.”
Gag.
The thought of him having whatever was in his pants anywhere near me was absolutely revolting. But the last thing I wanted to do was antagonize him. He held all the power.
For now.
“What is it you would like me to say?”
“I don’t really want you to say anything. What I want is—”
“Enough,” came a voice from behind him, and for the first time since I found myself in this room, I started to feel fear. “Leave the food and get the fuck out.”
“Aw, come on, Davis,” Spaz whined, and Mr. Chill—Davis, apparently—whipped his head to him, his glare menacing.
“What did I fuckin’ say?”
