Page 74 of Wicked Deceit
My breaths pick up, my chest tightening with a million rubber bands constricting my chest. Air escapes me, and darkness creeps into my vision. No! Do not do this to me right now. Just focus on staying alive and here. Stay calm—one breath in. One breath out.
I force myself into happier memories, scanning through mental images of the boys floating through my mind, encouraging words spilling from them.You got this, Sunshine. Don't fucking give up, Sweetheart. Fight like a warrior, Angel. Come on, baby girl. Don’t. Fall. Apart. Yet.
I crack my eyes open and look around again, focusing on my surroundings. The room I’m in is in deplorable condition. For people making so much money off their dead wives, they don’t invest it here. Peeling mid-century flowery wallpaper peels from the walls to my left and right, and old plaster crumbles have fallen to the corner of the room, with cracks on the walls left behind. Brown water stains rest on the ceiling from where I can see, but the weirdest part is the thick black curtains hanging close to the fish tank I’m in. There should be another wall there, or windows or something. Right?
“Oh, good.” I leap out of my skin at the smooth voice coming over a speaker nestled somewhere in the tank. His voice seems like it’s coming directly into my ear. “You’re awake!” He exclaims with a strange, rumbly giggle.
“Where am I?” I ask with hesitation, darting my eyes around my enclosure, but no speaker comes into view.
The deep voice chuckles. “You all always ask the same questions. Where am I? Why are you doing this? Blah, blah, blah. And my answer is always the same, Pumpkin. Welcome to your last seconds on Earth.”
Shutting my eyes tight, I fight the tears burning, begging to release down my cheeks. I could cry, pray, and plead until I was blue in the face, but they won’t stop. Whatever they’re doing, they’ve succeeded for this long, and they won’t stop with me. They’ll keep going with whatever game they’re playing until they die. And even then, they’ll have more assholes to carry on their legacy in other places for years to come. The Apocalypse Society needs to be stopped now, cut off at the head of their operation before they can grow anymore.
I shake my head. I could say so many cliche things: ‘Please don’t do this,’ ‘I’m innocent,’ ‘Why’re you doing this to me?!’ But what’s the point in pleading with psychopaths? They don’t have souls. Much like Piper’s blank eyes from the night—wait, hours before? Days before? I don’t know how long it’s been since they took me. But what I do know is that they won’t listen. They’ll laugh and get off on my pain. I’ve seen it plenty of times before.
“Get ready, Sugar, you’re about to be famous. Smile at your customers! They’ve invested so much into this. You’re on camera for millions to see. Actually, on second thought, don’t! Scream your tits off. The audience likes it.” Another distorted voice breaks through the speakers, sending dread into the pit of my turning stomach.
“Welcome investors and bidders to lot number 226,” the creepy voice comes from the speakers again, sounding distorted like they’re sitting deep underwater. “It’s the night you’ve all been waiting for. Your last bids have been placed!” The voice booms with excitement, much like a movie announcer.
Cheerful music plays through the speakers, only interrupted by another, deep distorted voice. Sounding more distinct than the last one who spoke.
“Over the past few months, you’ve watched lot 226 through your screens. You’ve selected her torture, her embarrassments, and punishments.” The voice pulls away from the speaker, clearing his throat before continuing. “You’ve watched her cry and yell. You’ve watched her pain, frustrations, and sadness. Now—welcome one and all for your final viewing of lot 226 as she endures your last requests and bids us farewell. You’ve spoken, and you shall receive.” The music and voice cut away, giving me nothing more to go on.
Bidding? My embarrassment? My pain? What the hell did he mean by that? Is that what the cameras were for all-around school? They watched me. They. Recorded. It. All. And laughed at every ounce of torture. The goo. The laxative sprinkles. Hadley beating my ass. The camera they had placed in my room. Everything. And viewers decided on my punishments? The torture I went through at the hands of each and every student of this school. But what about Magnolia? Did they do the same? They filmed her murder, but it wasn’t in a setting like this. She was killed out in the open and discarded afterward like human trash. The more I think about it, the more I realize just how amateur they were when she was killed. They’ve grown since then and expanded their kingdom.
My eyes drift toward the television screen, where my horrified face stares back at me—wide eyes, mouth parted, and pale as ever. Dried blood soaked into my t-shirt from the cut Piper inflicted and smeared across my face.
To my horror, icy water blasts into the tank from below, pouring in and rising higher and higher until it’s up to my chin in seconds. My breaths pick up, and panic roars through my tightened chest, constricting tighter and tighter. Gasping desperately for air, I pull at my hands again, wishing I could break through the pipe or the metal of the handcuffs. They clink below the cold water, echoing through my death chamber like a death bell. There’s no time to plot or think or plead. There’s only enough time to gather my breaths and hope for the best. Because before I know it, that water will rise above my head and drown me before I can scream.
White-hot panic spears through me when water fills the tank more. Shit! If I were some sort of badass, I’d have picked it already and freed myself. I’d push through the top of the tank and take everyone out with my fists as the feds burst in and save the day. But I’m not a badass. And the feds don't know what’s going on. Well—maybe Veritas. They seem to be onto something, even if they don’t have a paper trail backing my claims. They know something, and they have Chase's dad. But they aren’t here to save the day. No one is—only me. So, I can’t depend on anyone else to get me out of this and survive. I’m all on my own.
Raising my chin, I gulp for air greedily, filling and refilling my lungs while I can suck it in. Oxygen eases the flaring panic warring inside my brain. I try to remind myself by chanting—don’t panic—repeatedly inside my head, but it does little to ease the rising terror. Pfft. Yeah, fucking right. How can I not panic? I'm not fucking prepared for this. I can't swim or hold my breath or survive this. As proven by the twins forcing me into their pool, I hate swimming. I’ve never been good at it, but here I am. I’m stuck in a tank filled with cold water and have no way to escape.
Water rushes into my ears, sloshing and churning. The ends of my hair float in the rushing waters, soaking the ends and finally soaking every inch. I throw my head back, letting the water fill my ears, sucking in my oxygen.
“How long will she last, folks? Five minutes? Three minutes? The jury is still out! Let’s watch and see.” The voice says with giddy excitement, distorted by the rush of the water.
My heart thunders in my chest, pounding until it echoes in my ears, like a drum beating a frantic beat repeatedly.
Growing up, I never learned to swim. It terrified me. Getting in the pool with the twins was a big feat for me. I mean—the promise of sex in a water lagoon made it more enticing. So I did it. I swam, and they helped me. But the feeling of water over my head and unable to open my eyes isn’t a party to me. The pressure sinks into me as the ice water covers my mouth. Shifting my legs, I shove my mouth above water one last time, taking the deepest breath I can muster before the water level rises above my head.
The eerie swishing and splashing of the water echoes in my ears like the death sentence it is. I kick at the glass, trying with all my might to break it down, to do anything to get this water away from me. My lungs burn with a deep ache, begging for fresh air. The voice of the speaker talks, but their words wash away.
I kick at the glass with my bare feet, pounding my heel into the thick, secure glass. The reverberation shoots up my legs like fire searing through my veins. My teeth grit together from the pain, but I refuse to cry out and give the water any more of my oxygen. The glass doesn’t budge or bend. No matter how hard I kick, it doesn’t crack or break. Panic sets in, and I frantically look around the cloudy water, looking for another escape route. All their victims' names repeatedly run through my mind, reminding me why I started this investigation. It may have started with my best friend, but it ended with more than her. So many people have died this exact way or worse. They've tortured people for too long, and it's time it ended.
I may be their rabbit in a trap, but I’ll be damned if I go down without a fight. I’ll fight and kick, scream and bite—anything to save my life from their greedy hands.
A deep shiver works through my limbs, and goosebumps pimple across every inch of my skin. The cold water sets my bones on edge. Sharp shivers take over my whole body, trembling my limbs. The feeling in my hands and feet slips away, and a tingle takes over. My lungs beg for clean air, and black dots take over the edges of my vision, begging me to succumb to the darkness awaiting me if I stay under the water any longer. Desperation eats at me when I kick the glass some more, sloshing the water into waves—anything to stay awake and alert. If I can make it through these agonizing five minutes, I can survive whatever else they have in store.
I lean against the glass, staring out through my watery grave. It squiggles and moves with the waves I’ve created, splashing onto the floor. Looking above me, I notice a fish tank lid again—flimsy and moveable. Without second-guessing my actions, I move inside the tank back and forth, creating massive waves. Water seeps through the mesh material, splashing on the disgusting carpet and creating puddles. I mentally fist-bump myself and keep going, making more and more waves, and spilling more out of the tank. Exhaustion pulls at my tired muscles, and more black dots litter my vision. In seconds, I know the world will blur, and I’ll no longer exist. I have to keep going and moving and thinking so I don’t die.
My body slows, going with the waves inside the tank. It’s been more than a minute, and I know it has. Time slows down before my eyes, a drowsy feeling encasing me in its grasp. A heaviness pulls at my eyelids, begging them to shut so my body can cease. I grunt, expelling bubbles through my mouth, and shake my head. I refuse to give in to this sick game and let them watch me succumb under their thumb. I will not give up. I’ll fight till the last second of my life. Moving back and forth again, I continue to splash the water over the sides of the tank. Back and forth. Back and forth. The water splashes and splashes over the edge, greeting the disgusting green carpet and soaking it.
Looking up in desperation, I throttle my entire body, using my feet to the tiny air pocket above me. My handcuffed hands strain against the pull, staying below and cutting into my skin further. It can bleed me out for all I care. I need this air. It’s a sliver of hope directly above me.
A tiny miracle of air sits above my head, bringing it straight into my burning lungs. It’s oxygen to my heart, which pounds and pounds frantically against my chest. Huffing and puffing, I cough and sputter, clearing my lungs of the intruding water, and replacing it with cool, fresh air.
“Well, well, well, little rabbit, it looks like you’ve won this round. I have notified the bids for under ninety seconds! Your prize awaits! On to the next!” The distorted voice booms out, ringing in my aching ears.
