“It’s the blasted lock on the blasted handcuffs. They may not be standard issue. Damn it. She’s coming back. Get on your bed.”
Lizzy stormed through the door, flipped on the light, ignored Willadean cringing on the tiny bed, and thrust her hand through the cage bars. “Give it to me, pointy end toward yourself.”
Fergus stared into those green-rimmed black orbs. There would be no denying this Lizzy, who seemed different from the Lizzy that brought their supper. He turned his back to allow access to the scalpel in his hands.
“You’re lucky I don’t slit your wrists with it.”
Biting his lip to keep from supplying a tart retort, he felt the metal slide from his fingertips, along with any hopes of a quick escape. The next second, he felt a tiny stabbing sensation in his neck.
Damn it...
***
When he awoke unknown hours later, the memory of his scythen conversation with Harlan hovered between consciousness and unconsciousness. He forced it to the forefront.
Perhaps the cavalry is coming.
A raging thirst superseded all thoughts. He squatted on the cement floor to reach the red solo cup. The tepid water may be dosed with more of the drug with which Lizzy had injected him, but it didn’t matter. His body needed hydration.
“Finally,” came Willadean’s voice through the gloom.
“How long have I been out?”
“I’m not sure. I fell asleep about an hour after she left. We sure pissed her off. I wonder how she knew about the scalpel. What are we going to do now?”
“Fewer questions until I’m fully awake, please."
“Fine.”
He closed his eyes again and reached out with his scythen. Lizzy was definitely no longer in the cabin. “She’s gone,” he said, louder now. “We should assume going forward that she may be listening or watching. Understand?”
“Already thought of that.”
“I assume you weren’t drugged as well?”
“I was not. I’m a good girl,” she said loudly.
“Willadean, do you know about your brother’s...nighttime activities?”
“You mean yanking his wanker or that other thing?”
“That other thing. Careful, love.”
“He never told me about it, but I got a whiff of it because we’re twins. That’s probably all I should say.”
“Very good. Since I asked about it, you can probably fill in the blanks.”
A half-minute passed before she replied. “Gotcha.”
“You’re a clever girl.”
“Damn straight.”
“How are you doing? Are you nervous? Worried? It’s okay to tell me.”
“I am a little of both. But I have faith that everything will work out fine.”
“Good. I have faith too.”
“I don’t mean the kind you get from the Bible,” she added. He could hear the derision in her voice.
“So you’re an atheist?”
“I like to think there may be a God, but I’m not certain of it. I can’t imagine God would allow all those people to die from Chicksy. It wasn’t pretty for them at the end, you know.”
Fergus felt the familiar lump in his throat. That always happened when he thought about the children, both those who had died in the pandemic and those who had survived it only to witness the unspeakable suffering.
“But I also look at the forest and the mountains and the sky, and I think all that beauty couldn’t have happened by accident.”
Fergus smiled but didn’t respond.
“On a side note, I hope she lets me use the bathroom when she comes back.”
“I’ll turn my back so you can have privacy at the bucket.”
“I can wait. What about you?”
“I can wait, too. I think I’m dehydrated,” he added, grimly. “I need to think for a few minutes, if you’ll excuse me.”
“Sure. I’m not going anywhere.”
He pondered their situation. It was difficult not to be frustrated under the circumstances; one of his more finely tuned talents was escape. Yet Lizzy’s containment system had flummoxed him. If Willadean had located the dropped handcuff key, would it have even worked on the nonstandard cuffs? The cage in the basement, the isolated location, the restraints...all smacked of preparedness.
The notion of a ‘kill room’ surfaced in his mind. A faint aroma of bleach permeated the floor; he’d noticed it when taking sips from the water cup. Why was bleach needed to clean the floor? What better location than a remote forest in which to conduct one’s nefarious deeds? What better setup than an underground room furnished with chains, handcuffs, a metal cage, and — likely — implements of torture tucked inside a rolling cabinet? Lizzy must have dropped the scalpel then inadvertently kicked it under the cabinet during some previous visit to the basement. Had she been too distracted by a former occupant of the cage to notice? He thought of the bleach again and how its use would destroy trace evidence.
Any self-respecting, sadistic serial killer would own dozens of such devices: pliers to remove teeth, bamboo shards to jamb under fingernails, cudgels to break kneecaps. Perhaps Lizzy delved into more medieval forms of torture: the breast-ripper, the pear of anguish, the head-crusher.
Fergus had seen those used in Europe firsthand. He very much didn’t want to be the victim of any of them, nor their modern counterparts. Withstanding torture wasn’t impossible. He’d done it before. But the psychological damage it would inflict on Willadean was unthinkable. Also unthinkable: Lizzy performing such torture on the child. Lizzy was a monster. Was she also that kind of monster? His gut said no, but his gut had been wrong before. They must escape — and soon. Time wasted waiting on rescue was better spent formulating a plan.
“Are you thinking about how we’ll escape?” Willadean whispered.
“I know there’s an avenue I’ve yet to uncover. I’m rather adept at escape, you know.” Even if Lizzy were listening, the message was necessary. Willadean must believe in him and his ability to save
