dying, but of hurting these children as well.”
“If I’m dead, why do I care?” Steven replied flippantly.
“I’ll fight,” Darius said, not really to the group but to himself. “I’ll do whatever it takes to survive here and find a way out.”
“That’s fine for you,” John told him. “But what about me? I’ve never had a fight in my life. I grew up, well,” he said somewhat uncomfortably, “privileged. My father runs the fourth largest oil company in the Middle East. I’ve gone to the best schools, had everything I ever wanted handed to me.” He almost sounded resentful. “I’ve never had anything to prepare me for something like this.”
“You do what you have to in order to survive,” Darius said, still not looking at any of them and staring at his feet instead. “That’s all there is to any of this. Any of the morals you brought with you are out there,” he said, pointing to the cave entrance that led out of the cave, “outside that bamboo cage. You either survive or you don’t. It’s simple.”
“So are you going to protect us?” John asked. “You look like you’ve fought a time or two in the past.”
The scars on Darius’ face agreed. His body was a patchwork of scars, like a road map, and Steven knew of only one way he could have gotten them. “What, you want to be my prison bitch?” The big man laughed hysterically. “You think I’ve done a lot of time or something?”
“Honestly, the thought had crossed my mind,” John said frankly, “and I apologize for that.”
“Don’t. I get it a lot. The big black guy has to be a criminal, right?” he said, finally looking up and staring at Amanda. “We’re too stupid to succeed without turning on each other?”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” John countered.
“Of course you didn’t, but you did. You did and then you felt guilty for even thinking it. Don’t worry about it, but no…I can’t protect you. I can’t protect myself. We’re on our own here, and we either survive or we don’t.”
They were silent a few moments, each wrestling with their own thoughts and fears. Steven was much like John, though he hadn’t led a life of privilege growing up. He’d led the typical, urban American life, born and raised in Houston, going to college there, and only leaving the city on vacation. The closest he’d ever come to fighting had been one badly thought out season at high school football. He’d never been robbed, never mugged, never raised a fist in anger to anyone in his entire life. He didn’t know how to make a fist, as far as he knew.
“I suspect you’re right, Darius, and I also suspect we will either find it in ourselves to survive this madness or we will perish attempting to do so.”
Chapter Three
Sleep came hard for the newcomers; their first night in the cavern was full of anxiety, fear and doubt. Steven, at first, dreamt of nothing but death—death at the hands of the Samoan followed by the pot, death at the hands of Darius, death from falling from the slick cliff face behind the Cage and into a vat of boiling blood. He died a hundred times in his dreams that night, and contrary to popular mythology, he didn’t die in real life.
Though, perhaps, had he his life would have been simpler.
He only slept because he was exhausted. As soon as he’d laid down on the mud, trying to keep his head out of the muck by resting it on his elbow, he’d passed out, but the sleep, and the dreams, came fitfully. The sounds of sleep in the cavern were diverse, from snoring, crying, fighting and lovemaking, peace and hate. He awoke off and on and listened.
Sometime, late in the night—though he really had no sense of time in the Cave—he awoke and noticed Rebecca and the girl were gone. Her warmth at his side had been his only comfort and he wasn’t sure how long she’d been gone. He stood and stepped to the side of their little group and relieved himself.
He wanted
“If I’m dead, why do I care?” Steven replied flippantly.
“I’ll fight,” Darius said, not really to the group but to himself. “I’ll do whatever it takes to survive here and find a way out.”
“That’s fine for you,” John told him. “But what about me? I’ve never had a fight in my life. I grew up, well,” he said somewhat uncomfortably, “privileged. My father runs the fourth largest oil company in the Middle East. I’ve gone to the best schools, had everything I ever wanted handed to me.” He almost sounded resentful. “I’ve never had anything to prepare me for something like this.”
“You do what you have to in order to survive,” Darius said, still not looking at any of them and staring at his feet instead. “That’s all there is to any of this. Any of the morals you brought with you are out there,” he said, pointing to the cave entrance that led out of the cave, “outside that bamboo cage. You either survive or you don’t. It’s simple.”
“So are you going to protect us?” John asked. “You look like you’ve fought a time or two in the past.”
The scars on Darius’ face agreed. His body was a patchwork of scars, like a road map, and Steven knew of only one way he could have gotten them. “What, you want to be my prison bitch?” The big man laughed hysterically. “You think I’ve done a lot of time or something?”
“Honestly, the thought had crossed my mind,” John said frankly, “and I apologize for that.”
“Don’t. I get it a lot. The big black guy has to be a criminal, right?” he said, finally looking up and staring at Amanda. “We’re too stupid to succeed without turning on each other?”
“I didn’t mean it like that,” John countered.
“Of course you didn’t, but you did. You did and then you felt guilty for even thinking it. Don’t worry about it, but no…I can’t protect you. I can’t protect myself. We’re on our own here, and we either survive or we don’t.”
They were silent a few moments, each wrestling with their own thoughts and fears. Steven was much like John, though he hadn’t led a life of privilege growing up. He’d led the typical, urban American life, born and raised in Houston, going to college there, and only leaving the city on vacation. The closest he’d ever come to fighting had been one badly thought out season at high school football. He’d never been robbed, never mugged, never raised a fist in anger to anyone in his entire life. He didn’t know how to make a fist, as far as he knew.
“I suspect you’re right, Darius, and I also suspect we will either find it in ourselves to survive this madness or we will perish attempting to do so.”
Chapter Three
Sleep came hard for the newcomers; their first night in the cavern was full of anxiety, fear and doubt. Steven, at first, dreamt of nothing but death—death at the hands of the Samoan followed by the pot, death at the hands of Darius, death from falling from the slick cliff face behind the Cage and into a vat of boiling blood. He died a hundred times in his dreams that night, and contrary to popular mythology, he didn’t die in real life.
Though, perhaps, had he his life would have been simpler.
He only slept because he was exhausted. As soon as he’d laid down on the mud, trying to keep his head out of the muck by resting it on his elbow, he’d passed out, but the sleep, and the dreams, came fitfully. The sounds of sleep in the cavern were diverse, from snoring, crying, fighting and lovemaking, peace and hate. He awoke off and on and listened.
Sometime, late in the night—though he really had no sense of time in the Cave—he awoke and noticed Rebecca and the girl were gone. Her warmth at his side had been his only comfort and he wasn’t sure how long she’d been gone. He stood and stepped to the side of their little group and relieved himself.
He wanted
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