Page 153 of Snared Rider

Chapter Thirty-Five

Something is dripping.This is the first thought I have as my mind cautiously reboots. I pry my eyes open slowly. They feel gritty and sluggish, and I have to blink to clear my vision. I’m met with inky darkness, so I blink again, but it doesn’t clear.

Why can’t I see?

I try to move, but I can’t. Belated, I realise my arms are pulled over my head and bound above me. This does nothing to calm my frayed nerves and ramps my fear up even further.

Terror is consuming. In the darkness all I can hear is my laboured breathing as I try, and fail, to slow my racing heart.

Where am I?

How did I get here?

Where the fuck is here?

Why is it so dark?

Thoughts collide in my mind as I try to latch onto something tangible, but there’s only the consuming abyss of darkness and the overwhelming sense of dread.

A low moan somewhere to the side of me has my head snapping in that direction, although which direction it’s coming from is impossible to discern.

I freeze, trying to get my bearings, trying to work out if it is something I should worry about. I can’t hear anything over the dull roaring of blood pounding in my ears. Maybe I imagined it. The mind plays tricks in high stress situations and this definitely qualifies as high stress.

A wheeze comes out of the darkness and I know I didn’t imagine it. I’m not alone.

“Hello?” I whisper because I’m not sure if whomever (or whatever) is out there is friend or foe.

“Is anyone there?” Despite the quietness of my voice, it echoes eerily through the space. There is no response and there is no more noise. I listen for a while and then put it out of my head.

I need to formulate a plan. I need to get the hell out of this place. But thinking is an impossible task right now. My brain feels hazy and I struggle to latch onto anything. Instead, I hang from my bound wrists, shivering, my feet barely scraping the floor.

The air is freezing, so frigid it seeps into my bones through the thin layers I’m wearing. It’s the kind of cold that steals breath and stops lungs from drawing in air. My skin prickles as my body’s survival instincts kick in and I tremble.

I want to give into the pull of sleep, but I can’t. I know I have to fight, even if it hurts to do so. Giving up is not an option, so I force my arms to move and tug on my bindings. I don’t expect the rope to give way, but I don’t expect the knots to feel as solid as they do. There is absolutely no give in my bindings.

Fuck, shit, bollocks.

Concentrate, Beth. Focus.

I try, but my head is pounding in time with my heartbeat and I feel detached from my body.

I hear another noise in the silence.

This one is different from before. It’s louder but seems further away, like it’s coming from far beyond what I can sense in the immediate darkness. There’s a clang of metal followed by the shriek of steel.

What the fuck is that?

Then I hear a low whistling.

It’s eerie as hell and my nails dig into my palms. I’m bound, helpless and fucked.

My breath catches in my throat at the tune. It’s an old nursery rhyme I know from school: ‘A-hunting we will go’.

I never liked that tune but right now it is the stuff of nightmares. Shivers run up my spine that have nothing to do with the bone-chilling cold.

The whistling moves closer and closer. There’s more scraping and banging of metal and then I hear footsteps. I can barely breathe as I listen in the dark to the noises around me.

I don’t want to die. I don’t want to die.

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