Page 114 of Jessica, Not Her Real Name
A cage. She was in a fuckingcage.
Panicking, she pushed herself into a sitting position, only to hit her head again on the top of the cage. It made a sound like cymbals crashing every time she struck it.
She tried to calm down and think for a moment, but her body was going haywire on her. Her heart was galloping in her chest, and she couldn’t seem to get enough oxygen into her lungs. She wasn’t claustrophobic, but the feeling of being trapped in the dark by unknown assailants was a primal fear. Her body’s only response was pure panic.
She closed her eyes and rode the wave of terror until it slowly ebbed. When she opened them again, she realized the room wasn’t as dark as she’d thought. Light was filtering in from a rain splattered window to her left. It was an artificial orange, which meant it came from a streetlight. Which suggested she was in a town or a city.
She peered around the room. It looked like a kitchen. She could make out a sink and a counter that ran the length of the wall beneath the window. More shapes to the right took the form of a table and chairs. A darker gap beyond indicated a doorway.
The small lump pressing into her hip bone told her the gun was still there. She didn’t know how she’d get to it with her wrists tied—if she could at all—but just knowing it was there kept the panic from swallowing her whole.
She went to the bars of the cage and ran her hands over them. The metal strips were thin but closely spaced. It was, she realized, a large dog crate. She closed her fingers around the railings and pulled as hard as she could, but they didn’t even bend.
A good quality dog crate.
She followed the bars around until she found the opening. Shaking it, she discovered it was fastened with a length of galvanized chain and a chunky combination lock. She twirled the numbers a few times, knowing it was hopeless. Without some incredibly good luck, there was no way out via that door.
It was then that she realized her crate wasn’t the only one in the room. Butted up against hers was another.
And inside it was a person.
Pulse thudding in her ears, she gripped the bars and pressed her face against them. “Hello?” Her throat was so dry, the word came out as a croak. “Can you hear me?”
The person didn’t move. Maybe they were asleep. Or maybe they’d been drugged, like she’d been.
They were leaning against the side of their cage, their arm pressing against the bars, their head twisted in the opposite direction. Jessica stared hard into the darkness, trying to make out more details about the other prisoner. It was a woman. And she still wasn’t moving.
She pressed her palms together and wedged her hands through a gap in the bars. She reached through into the other cage and shook the woman’s shoulder.
She let go instantly and yanked her fingers back through the bars. The woman’s arm was bare. And cold. And stiff.
At the sudden jostling, the woman slumped further against the cage. Her head lolled to the other side, so she was now staring directly at Jessica.
With blank, dead eyes.
Sucking in a scream, Jessica scrambled to the far side of her cage. Her back hit it, making the thing clang loudly.
The dead woman’s eyes had followed her. The light from the window glinted off them, so that even through the darkness, Jessica could still see them staring right at her.
Run, they seemed to say.Run while you can.
But she couldn’t. There was no more running. It was over. She reached the end of the line.
Instead of fear, a part of her felt relief.I don’t want to run anymore, she’d told Ryan. So, in one way, she’d gotten what she wished for.
She pressed herself into the corner of her cage and lifted her knees to her chest, drawing some strength from the hard lump of her revolver.
* * *
Sitting in the darkness, her mind took strange turns down dark paths. She saw Daniel again, lying beside her in bed. Smiling at her. Then he became Ryan. Then the dead girl with the staring eyes. Then she was gazing at her own dead body.
She jerked out of the half-dream, making the cage rattle.
Through the window above the sink, she saw that the sky had lightened to a soft gray, and the streetlights had turned off. Rain still streaked the glass. It was probably the remnants of the hurricane she’d survived many miles to the south.
Thinking about the storm made her think about Ryan. Where he was now. If the authorities had caught up with him and, if so, what was going to happen to him. And then she found herself wondering why she cared.
And yet she did. For reasons she didn’t have the strength or the desire to examine any further.
