Endurance

Cam nodded and hurried off. Felix considered his prisoner. Maybe John didn’t want to talk, because he thought if he did, he’d be killed. Killed because he was no longer useful. Or killed in retribution for the things he’d done to Maria.

“I’m not going to kill you,” Felix said. He knew it sounded hollow. Lame. But the alternative was letting Cam start slicing off fingers; something Cam seemed disturbingly eager to do. This was a slippery slope, and unless Felix could convince John he’d live through this, the situation would get a lot messier.

Could I allow Cam to keep hurting John?

Felix closed his eyes. He saw Maria’s face. If John had something to do with her disappearance, Felix would let Cam roast the guy over hot coals in order to get answers. Felix could have a crisis of conscious after John talked.

If John talked.

“Got it,” Felix said, hurrying back in. “Man, this knife is wicked.”

John began to blubber uncontrollably at the sight of Cam, and Felix felt ready to do the same.

Be strong. It’s for Maria.

Cam positioned himself behind John.

“Don’t cut me... please don’t cut me.”

e knew it sounded hollow,

“I just want to know what happened to my fiance,” Felix said. He forced himself to maintain eye contact.

“He’s... he’s gonna cut my fingers off.”

“Not if you tell me the truth. If you tell me the truth, I promise he won’t cut you. We won’t hurt you any more if you tell me.” He crouched down, staring into John’s face. “Is Maria still alive?”

John’s lips trembled, but he stayed silent.

Anger surged up in Felix like the vomit had moments ago, and the last vestiges of sanity left him as he reared back and slapped John across the face, hard as he could.

“Goddammit, tell me!”

John’s whispered answer was the most important thing anyone had ever said to Felix.

“Your woman is... alive.”

# # #

Maria allows herself to be led out of her cell by George. He’s one of the largest of her captors, close to seven feet tall, and among the most sadistic. He’s not as deformed as the others, though his head is a little too big for his body, and his arms are too long, like a gorilla. The cattle prod he has in his hand is used for amusement as much as persuasion.

But today George seems distant. He straps on her ball gag without saying a word, and the nudge he gives her with the stick lacks electricity.

He puts the black cloth bag over her head, grabs her elbow, and leads her through the underground tunnels. As usual, Maria counts her steps. The first dozen times, they’d been clever, having her walk in circles. All the better to keep her disoriented. But lately they’d slipped into a routine. At exactly a hundred and fifteen paces, they come to the door to the Room.

She hears it open, feels George push her from behind. Maria’s legs lock. As terrible as her captivity has been, her times in the Room were the low points. What happens in the Room goes beyond pain, beyond sickness, beyond desperation.

What happens in the Room is an abomination.

George nudges her, but she still refuses to enter. She braces herself, expecting the jolt, anticipating the hurt.

But it doesn’t come. Instead, she’s shoved inside, many hands grabbing her, pulling her to the chair, strapping her down. Then the bag is pulled off her head, and Maria stares into the bulging eyes of Eleanor Roosevelt. She’s surrounded by a menagerie of freaks. Practically all of them. Deformed, twisted, grotesque, some half-naked, some fully nude. They form a large circle around Maria, smiling, drooling, grunting.

Eleanor holds a cupcake in her hand, a lit candle jabbed into the pink frosting.

“Happy anniversary, child. Today, you’ve been with us a whole year.”

As the words sink in, Eleanor blows out the candle. The freaks—those who have two normal hands—begin to clap. There are hoots. Howls. Giggles.

Maria sobs. She fights her bonds. Fights with every last bit of her strength, even as she realizes that Felix will never save her, that she’ll never get out of this hell alive, that these sub-human monstrosities are going to use her all up until there’s nothing left.

Maria watches George sit in the opposing chair. It’s his turn today; the apparent reason for his lethargy. She watches Jimmy—his eyes crossed and the pale hump on his back protruding through the split in his filthy lab coat—wheel the machine forward.

Maria screams when the needle goes in.

# # #

Kelly’s fascination with the Lincoln bedroom lasted all of six minutes, and then she was lying in bed, tackling Zombie Apocalypse on her iPod. With Grandma watching, she’d finally beaten level 65, though it had taken up all of her shotgun ammo. Now she was on level 70, fighting a boss who was three times her character’s size, with a stomach so fat it looked like he’d eaten ten other fat guys.

Kelly strafed him with the machine gun, circling his rotund body while dodging the green acid he kept puking at her. She got his health down to only a few red bars, and then one of his lumbering minions grabbed her, turning her into a pile of ash.

Retry? the game asked.

“Hell, yeah.”

She adjusted the pillow she was on, took the last bite of a chocolate chip granola bar, and prepared to kick some fat zombie ass.

Then JD growled.

Kelly glanced at her dog. The hair on his muzzle was sticking straight out, and his lips were raised in a snarl. His defensive stance. But he wasn’t focused on her. He wasn’t focused on the front door, either.

JD was staring at the closet.

That’s strange.

“JD. Come.”

Kelly patted the mattress beside her. At home, the German Shepherd wasn’t allowed on the bed, but Mom couldn’t bitch about what she didn’t know.

JD didn’t move. He growled again, hunkering down like he was ready to pounce.

Kelly studied the closet door. She’d checked inside earlier, while exploring the room, and had found it empty. But the way JD was snarling, he obviously didn’t think it was empty anymore.

Could there be something in the closet?

The thought of it was creepy, and made Kelly shiver.

“What is it, boy?” she asked. A pointless question—it wasn’t like JD was going to answer.

But he did answer, in his way. He stared at her and whined.

The only time Kelly ever heard JD whine was when she accidentally slammed his tail in the patio door. That’s what he looked like now—eyes wide, ears flat, tail drooping under his hind legs. Like he was hurt.

Or scared.

That’s stupid. Dogs don’t get scared.

Do they?

Kelly stared at the closet door again. She’d been pretty engrossed by her game. Could someone have snuck past her and gotten into the closet?