The bees are out there, somewhere in the darkness. Only—it isn’t darkness, is it?
I open my eyes. Stare up at my bedroom ceiling. The buzzing is coming from my right, on the nightstand. The alarm clock.
It’s only as I reach over to silence the clock that I remember the nightstand sits to the left of my bed, and I sit up suddenly, realizing this isn’t my bedroom at all.
The room is tiny and bare, just the bed and the nightstand and a door and an open doorway. Through the open doorway is the bathroom. From where I’m sitting on the bed, I can see a toilet and sink.
The alarm clock is still buzzing, the incessant noise having built a hive between my ears, and I reach over and smack it hard enough to crack the top, but at least it does the trick and the buzzing stops.
I take another moment to scan the room, noting the chipped plaster on the walls and the small security camera in the corner of the ceiling right above the closed door. I stare at the camera for a couple seconds before I notice the tightness around my neck.
I gently probe what’s around my neck—what I quickly realize is a leather collar.
My hands scramble to find the clasp, but in my panic I can’t find it at first—it’s like the collar has been melded to my skin—and I start tugging at it, intent on ripping it apart.
That’s when a bolt of electricity shoots through my body.
I go still all at once, my muscles tightening, but my body continues to shake for the second or two it takes before the bolt of electricity stops, and then I sit there motionless, catching my breath, my thoughts momentarily scrambled.
The door opens, and a tall man with a shaved head steps inside. He holds a Glock 17 in his right hand, a small black fob in his left.
He says, “Don’t mess with your collar again. That was just a warning zap. An actual zap will knock your ass out.”
Your collar. I don’t like the sound of that. It’s one thing to think it, but an entirely other thing to hear somebody else say it.
“Where the fuck am I?”
The man’s face remains expressionless, his eyes dark.
“I wouldn’t worry about it. You won’t be here long.”
“Where am I going?”
“That’s something Mr. Hayward will explain.”
“Who’s Mr. Hayward?”
The man steps back, waiting for somebody else to enter the room. I expect it to be this elusive Mr. Hayward, so it’s a bit of a shock when a girl appears. She can’t be more than eight years old, small and petite with long black hair, and she keeps her eyes cast down as she approaches me, carrying clothing in her arms.
Around her neck, too, is a collar.
The girl comes to a stop beside the bed. She doesn’t look at me. I realize she’s waiting for me to take the clothes, and even though her eyes are focused on the floor, I can sense the anguish in her face, the hopelessness, and it both saddens and enrages me at the same time.
I look past the girl at the man standing in the doorway, and all I want to do is spring up from the bed and charge at the man, strip him of his pistol and shoot him in the head. But I know that’s not possible, at least not right now—I’ll get another zap if I try to attack him, one which will put me down—so I’ll have to save that plan for later.
I take the clothing—a bundle of pants, shirts, underwear and socks with a pair of brand-new sneakers on top—and smile at her.
“Thank you.”
The girl barely acknowledges me. She turns away and exits the room without a sound.
The man clears his throat.
“Mr. Hayward didn’t want us to change you while you were unconscious. Those will be your clothes for tonight. There isn’t a camera in the bathroom, so if you’d like to take a shower you can expect privacy, but the collar won’t come off, and if you do try to take it off, just remember that your family won’t appreciate your insubordination.”
The man pauses, waiting to see if I have any reaction to him threatening my family. I stare back at him, giving him nothing.
He says, “Any requests for dinner?”
Because I can’t help but be a smart-ass, even at a time like this, I say the first thing that comes to mind.
“I’ll have a rib eye steak and a lobster tail with garlic mashed potatoes and asparagus. Oh, and a big piece of chocolate cake with a glass of milk to wash it down. Fat-free milk, if you have it.”
The man doesn’t blink.
“I’ll run it by the kitchen. You have fifteen minutes before I return. Feel free to take a shower, but make it quick. If you aren’t ready in exactly fifteen minutes, the next zap you feel will be much worse. Do you understand?”
I don’t answer.
The man’s eyes harden, and his voice lowers.
“I get that you think you’re tough. I respect that. You wouldn’t be here if Mr. Hayward didn’t think you were tough. But understand right now you have zero choice in the matter. You do what you’re told or you suffer the consequences, plain and simple. So I’ll ask it again, now that you have fourteen minutes until I return. Do you understand?”
I swallow and nod, and speak in a quiet voice.
“Yes.”
The man points at the alarm clock on the nightstand.
“The time is currently eleven twenty-seven. See you in thirteen minutes.”
He closes the door, and I quickly stand with the clothes in my arms and hurry toward the bathroom.
Twenty-Seven
The man returns at exactly 11:40. He doesn’t knock. He simply opens the door.
I’m sitting on the bed. I decided not to shower because I didn’t have the time. I’ve changed into the clothes—all of them my size—and as soon as the door opens I stand up.
The man has the Glock holstered but keeps the black fob
