knew he’d pull some kind of shit, sooner or later.”
Scott stuck his head out the open window, pulled it back in and said, “He’s gone.”
Lila, who had jumped off the couch, moved back into the dining room.
“What is that shit?” Scott said.
“I don’t know, but we’ve gotta check it out.”
Scott felt kind of bad about letting Lila take the lead, but he did it just the same. He wasn’t Bruce Willis or Mel Gibson. He wasn’t a hero. Just a freaked out guy with a shotgun that didn’t even belong to him. His hands were shaking, his pulse racing wildly as they went quietly down the hallway, guns drawn, locked and loaded and ready to cut loose at the drop of a hat. The noise grew louder as they passed an open doorway, and Lila followed her pointed gun into the room. A moment later she reappeared, nodding toward the end of the house. But now there was more than thumping; a muffled keening accompanied the noise, which seemed to be coming from one of the closed doors at the end of the line.
When they could go no further, Lila nodded at the door on the right side of the passageway, and Scott leveled his weapon at the door. She waited a moment before pushing into the other room, the one the noise was not coming from, the room Warren the Rat Boy had obviously turned into his own private storage facility. Cans of food of various sizes littered the floor: Spam and beef stew and an assortment of various fruits and vegetables—pork and beans and chili. Cases of the stuff were stacked against the far wall, along with jugs of water, cans, bottles of beer and wine and liquor. Most importantly of all, though: no people. No one standing in the open doorway of the closet, waiting to blow them apart. Lila got down on a knee, aiming her pistol as she peered under the bed, the thumping next door not as pronounced now, the keening not as loud.
She got up and returned to Scott, who stood rigid in the hallway, still pointing his weapon at the bedroom door. His eyes wide, his face a taut mask of barely repressed anxiety.
Lila pushed the door open and gasped.
A naked child lay face down on a piss-stained mattress, tethered by all fours to the bedposts by thick strands of plastic twine, the high-pitched keening barely audible through a red-and-white polka dot kerchief that had been tied in a knot at the back of his head. He was kicking his feet and wrenching his fists back and forth, the headboard bouncing weakly off the wall with every thrusting movement he made. A series of angry red welts crisscrossed his back, his buttocks and legs, and that made Scott angry.
“Good God,” Scott said, and the child stopped thrashing. He looked over his shoulder at Lila and Scott, and let his face fall to the mattress.
“Guess we know why he ran, now, huh?” Lila said, and to the boy, “You alone in here?”
His head bobbed up and down, and Lila said, “Hold on a minute.” She holstered her weapon and sat down beside him, drew the hunting knife from her backpack, unsheathed it and went to work on his bindings. First his feet and then his hands. Then she untied the gag, tugging at the knot until it gave way, and the fabric dropped against the child’s neck.
Scott felt an incredible feeling of vulnerability hovering about him, as if he were standing in the middle of a glass fishbowl and any second now a giant hand might snatch him away, or he would feel the weight of a booted foot crush him beneath it. He looked up the hallway, and then back at the storage room. When he turned his attention to Lila, the kid was standing beside the bed, fastening the button on a pair of tan shorts he’d stepped into. His hair was the color of straw. His eyes, sunk deep into his skull like two pebbles in a snowfield, were blue. He looked to be no older than thirteen. Or maybe he seemed so young because he was so frail-looking. Who could know when he had last eaten, or what or how much had been drained from him at the hands of that deranged midget. He
Scott stuck his head out the open window, pulled it back in and said, “He’s gone.”
Lila, who had jumped off the couch, moved back into the dining room.
“What is that shit?” Scott said.
“I don’t know, but we’ve gotta check it out.”
Scott felt kind of bad about letting Lila take the lead, but he did it just the same. He wasn’t Bruce Willis or Mel Gibson. He wasn’t a hero. Just a freaked out guy with a shotgun that didn’t even belong to him. His hands were shaking, his pulse racing wildly as they went quietly down the hallway, guns drawn, locked and loaded and ready to cut loose at the drop of a hat. The noise grew louder as they passed an open doorway, and Lila followed her pointed gun into the room. A moment later she reappeared, nodding toward the end of the house. But now there was more than thumping; a muffled keening accompanied the noise, which seemed to be coming from one of the closed doors at the end of the line.
When they could go no further, Lila nodded at the door on the right side of the passageway, and Scott leveled his weapon at the door. She waited a moment before pushing into the other room, the one the noise was not coming from, the room Warren the Rat Boy had obviously turned into his own private storage facility. Cans of food of various sizes littered the floor: Spam and beef stew and an assortment of various fruits and vegetables—pork and beans and chili. Cases of the stuff were stacked against the far wall, along with jugs of water, cans, bottles of beer and wine and liquor. Most importantly of all, though: no people. No one standing in the open doorway of the closet, waiting to blow them apart. Lila got down on a knee, aiming her pistol as she peered under the bed, the thumping next door not as pronounced now, the keening not as loud.
She got up and returned to Scott, who stood rigid in the hallway, still pointing his weapon at the bedroom door. His eyes wide, his face a taut mask of barely repressed anxiety.
Lila pushed the door open and gasped.
A naked child lay face down on a piss-stained mattress, tethered by all fours to the bedposts by thick strands of plastic twine, the high-pitched keening barely audible through a red-and-white polka dot kerchief that had been tied in a knot at the back of his head. He was kicking his feet and wrenching his fists back and forth, the headboard bouncing weakly off the wall with every thrusting movement he made. A series of angry red welts crisscrossed his back, his buttocks and legs, and that made Scott angry.
“Good God,” Scott said, and the child stopped thrashing. He looked over his shoulder at Lila and Scott, and let his face fall to the mattress.
“Guess we know why he ran, now, huh?” Lila said, and to the boy, “You alone in here?”
His head bobbed up and down, and Lila said, “Hold on a minute.” She holstered her weapon and sat down beside him, drew the hunting knife from her backpack, unsheathed it and went to work on his bindings. First his feet and then his hands. Then she untied the gag, tugging at the knot until it gave way, and the fabric dropped against the child’s neck.
Scott felt an incredible feeling of vulnerability hovering about him, as if he were standing in the middle of a glass fishbowl and any second now a giant hand might snatch him away, or he would feel the weight of a booted foot crush him beneath it. He looked up the hallway, and then back at the storage room. When he turned his attention to Lila, the kid was standing beside the bed, fastening the button on a pair of tan shorts he’d stepped into. His hair was the color of straw. His eyes, sunk deep into his skull like two pebbles in a snowfield, were blue. He looked to be no older than thirteen. Or maybe he seemed so young because he was so frail-looking. Who could know when he had last eaten, or what or how much had been drained from him at the hands of that deranged midget. He
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