Capture (Siren Book 1) (7 page)

Twelve

Calder

As my stomach's burbling intensifies, I push the nausea aside to try to explore. There
has
to be a way out of here. Finally, there's nothing left but to try to climb down, see if I'm missing something below the grating. Water seeps into the knees of my pants, cold, brackish, unpleasant. But it's something
different
, so I'll take what I can get.

I flatten my palms along the bottom, feeling for a grate, or a drain, or
something
. Something knocks away from my hand, and I grab for it desperately. I hold it up to the light, turning it until I can put together what it is.

A tie clip. An expensive one, in almost mint condition. No rust, or oxidation, no dirt crusted to it.

It can't have been here long.

I can't think of what happened to its original owner. Not knowing it's probably gonna happen to me next.

I redouble my efforts, exploring the remainder of the sub-floor, but there's nothing else. Just the little puddles. With the unpleasant chill of my pants against me, it's hard feeling like the effort of climbing down there yielded anything worthwhile.

The metal burns a hole in my pocket.

What am
I
gonna leave here, for the next one? Will anyone even realize I was here? I've got nothing but the clothes on my back.

The hunger burns, and aches, and even though I try to shut my eyes, I can't will sleep to come. I count the drips, wondering if they'll eventually fill the waters to the catwalk. Am I going to drown slowly?

No. It's gotta just have a smaller drain than I was feeling for. I'll look for it again, as soon as I can persuade myself to get closer to the heinous water.

Wherever the hell this is, it's secure as
fuck
. I'm going to die in a metal coffin.

But that's not me; I know how to take a punch. If there's a way to survive, I'll
find
it. The claustrophobia, it's making me eat myself alive. But if I just keep my wits...

I try the door again, still with no luck. No matter how hard I twist, it won't turn. The mechanism must be disabled on this side. I put my back to it and drop my head against its unyielding surface. And a dim light catches my eye, above the tank.

I'm lightheaded enough I almost fall, climbing onto it. And from here, the fall would probably hurt a bit, though I doubt I'd break anything. But balanced precariously on top, I'm within arm's reach of a little video camera. It
has
to be newer than the rest of this, though it's certainly not up to snuff for modern tech. It's not wired into the wall; the cords are taped along it until there's a hole drilled for them to pass through. I tug as hard as I can at the cords, and when they fail to come loose, there's nothing left but to yank them out of the back of the device.

Whoever's doing this, for
whatever
sick thrill, I refuse to give them that satisfaction.

Thirteen

Milla

Burning rage subsides to reluctant admiration as I stare at the static-laced screen. I should have known he wouldn't go down without a fight. And no one else has kept their wits about them enough to find my cameras. Admittedly, most of them are a bit harder to reach than that one, hard enough that it would be
weeks
of work for me to try to get casings for the cameras and install them all. No doubt having found the one, he's not going to take kindly to being surrounded with others. I have to assume that when I turn him loose into the main level, he'll keep a watchful eye for my other electric spies. That's not a risk I can take. Just knowing it's done, isn't enough. Not acceptable.

I could override the door, let him wander out into the rest of my playland. Probably
should
, even. But I can't make myself do it. Just seeing his broken body isn't enough; I have to be the one to break him.
Especially
after what I did to get him here.

The more difficult he makes it, the more satisfying it'll be in the end.

I can't stay too long today. He'll be just fine on his own, and I've got work to do, both personal and professional. I've got hours to make up for leaving early two days ago, after all. And if I'm honest, I need the space. His touch still ghosts across my skin, and my throat is hoarse from my moans. I need to get some distance on what we... shared... if you can call it that.

Besides—he seems to be unraveling fast. And it might have more impact to let him work through some of that shit on his own. A watched pot never boils, and all.

Out of habit, I do a walkthrough, look at my work securing all the doors to the main deck. I've disabled the locks so they can only be opened from the inside. And to get inside, well, you have to take a few risky climbs. No one cares about the
Siren
, but she's mine. The ritual of testing the handles, throwing my weight into it to see if it moves... it's reassuring. She's constant. She's protective. These closed doors are a mother's embrace.

I could die here. Someday, I hope to.

A few times, I've considered moving that
someday
up to something a good bit closer. But something's always held me back. Sure, every morning I wake up surrounded by squalor and misery, that all could be avoided if those in charge had an iota of empathy... it kills another piece of my soul.

When I was young, I never believed people could be
that
bad. I thought it was a mistake—that they just didn't
see
what they were doing. But after Mara, I knew the truth.

They knew
exactly
what they were doing. And they
chose
not to care.

If I retreated to the control area of the engine room with my gun, and ended my suffering, I could save myself. And I will. There's nothing for me, not family, not friends, not affection or stability. But to let them go unscathed, that would be the
true
loss.

When every corrupt political flunky, incompetent or uncaring inspector, or amoral smuggler is entombed here, only
then
will I crawl into my grave and accept my lot.

That conviction, it warms me like a shot of liquor. It makes it easier to pick up my feet, drag my sorry ass through the day.

I wish her farewell with a last reverent touch as I climb down to the rotted, abandoned docking, and make my way through the woods that litter her resting place like abandoned bouquets of flowers. I turn to catch a last glance of her graffiti-covered hull, every inch above the waterline crowded with half-hearted tags, and heartfelt declarations of love.

A branch cracks in front of me, and I straighten, squinting into the underbrush until I can make out the group coming toward me. Teenagers, carrying backpacks. From their defensiveness when they see me, they've come to add their own signatures to her.  I put my back to them and press forward.

They won't know her like I do, but for the thousands of fingerprints that still remain on her, from years of work and life, I can let her collect a few more.

Still, it would be better if fewer people were around. I don't want to encourage them to explore. Once I'm a safe distance away, I pull out my burner phone, and call the cops. I let them know where the kids were going, pretending to be a concerned neighbor who just doesn't want to see them hurt. I go through the motions of contributing to their society, same as they do.

The cops won't come. They've got too much else on their plates. Nowadays, it takes
hours
of waiting to get someone by to take a report on a break-in. The money's in speeding tickets, and in watching the middle class neighborhoods for minor violations. They have nothing to gain by chasing scavengers away from the rotting corpse that is the rest of this town. They'll hole up in their little enclave, waiting for the next crumb to fall from the Roanes' lips.

I've got to tweak my plans, a bit. If Roane pushes his advantage with the cameras, I'll need to figure out some
other
way to monitor his state. And in the meantime, I'll work. I've got three more acquaintances to reunite with Roane. I sincerely hope their reunion is explosive.

Fourteen

Calder

I can't even tell how long I've been here, anymore. The hunger's given way to a fierce thirst, so fierce that I can't resist dipping my shirt into the water below the grate. As dizzy as I am, I don't trust myself to climb down there without breaking my neck.  The water stains the pale fabric, and I try not to think of what
exactly
is turning it that color. I suck it out, grateful for the sustenance and its weight in my stomach, even as the aftertaste festers on my tongue.

I glance down again, my eyes having adjusted enough to make out much more. There's an oily sheen, and now that the smell of bile's familiar, I can pick out the acrid sting of gas, beneath it. No
wonder
the water steeping down there tasted awful. Even the thought makes my stomach clench, but I can't throw up again. It would hurt too much to.

It's gotten both easier, and harder to sleep. Easier, because I don't have the energy to do anything else. Harder, because the light seems so much brighter, the drip so much louder.

Even looking at the wrecked camera doesn't even provoke a prick of satisfaction anymore. Who gives a shit that they can't watch me? I'm still trapped. Even timing my breaths to the soft plops and balling my shirt into a pillow to protect my face from the sharpened pattern on the grating hardly helps.

I can't escape into daydreams. The world around me, outside this room, has ceased to exist. I might as well dream about visiting Narnia as my own mattress.

I heave a sigh, listening to the way it reverberates around me. There's almost an echo to it, as well as a soft thrum that
might
be a machine running elsewhere in the building.

I try to place which direction it's coming from, in case that might tell me something. But I can't.

And then there's another noise. A muted yell.

My heart leaps into my throat, and I swallow, pushing it back down before releasing my own scream. “Hey!
Hey!
I'm here—” My throat constricts and my voice cracks, my tongue painfully dry. And I dip the shirt into the water again—hopefully for the last time—to moisten it. I suck the fluid out, quickly.

Ugh
. This time I'm sure I can taste my own piss in the water. This better be worth it.

I yell again, and there's a pause, and then an answering call.

I throw my weight into the door, rapping on it with bruised knuckles. “I'm in
here
!”

My heart misses a beat as the door creaks, and as the mechanism disengages.

And then it's open. I stagger out into a wider catwalk corridor, much more brightly lit, and almost fall into the arms of a terrified-looking man. He's wheezing, just from the effort of opening the door, and his voice is almost as thin as mine.

“Thank fuck—I thought I was alone.”

“I
was
alone.” At that, he looks me up and down. I can't muster any self-consciousness at my stubble and whatever the hell my hair or clothes might be doing.

“How... how long?” He doesn't seem like he honestly wants to know the answer.

“I don't know. Must've been days, at least.”

“How—How'd you—”

“Get here? Your guess is as good as mine. You?”

“I—I don't know. The last thing I remember's walking to my car.”

There
has
to be a reason we're here. I stare at him, try to think if I've ever seen him before in my life. “Do I know you?”

He shrugged. “I know
of
you, but we've never actually met. Alex.”

“Calder.” I put out my hand, and he grips it, hesitantly. Even just the effort weighs my limbs down, and I swear. “Have you found anything to eat in this shithole?”

“No, I—I haven't—Do you think that's his goal?”

“His goal?”

“Well
someone
put us here, and proper grammar says it's a him until we have evidence there's more than one.”

“You don't think it could be a woman?”

He snorts, looking me up and down. “You look like you've got a lot of muscles under there, and I ain't exactly lean meat either. You think a girl could pick you up?”

I shrug. “You never know. This one chick I dated did, on a dare.”

He rolls his eyes. “That's what I don't understand about you kids. Gender equality this, no difference between the sexes,
that
. Too openminded to see the very real and very physical truth in front of you.”

I laugh, a little more harshly than I intended, and his gaze flutters down.

“Sorry—I overstepped.” Apparently he
does
know of me, at least enough that he fears my disapproval.

I change the topic. “So how long have you been wandering around here?”

“I just woke up. I opened my eyes, saw where I was, and started screaming. Then I heard you.”

“So you haven't had a thorough look around?”

“No, not really.”

“Well, let's do that, then. There's
gotta
be a way out of here.”

He seems happy to have the excuse to obey; plainly he's not really a leader, even in more normal settings. And neither one of us mentions splitting up; this is too weird. And even knowing there's someone else here soothes the worst of my anxiety.

Despite that, I don't take my eyes off him. It's more than possible that
he
put me here, and is just sticking around to toy with me. He might charge me, knock me over the rail, dislodge a pipe to beat me with... or he might have brought his own weapons...

Who knows; he looks like the type to wear a tie clip. Maybe the one I found in the other room is
his
. I have to be prepared for
any
of it.

Once again, I wrack my brain for
any
recollection of the night I ended up here.

The room isn't terribly expansive, though the pipes above and below us, darting down through the grating, it all adds a sense of space and chaos that's almost more claustrophobic than the room I was in.

There's several doors, but they're all sealed off, and no amount of force can loosen them. I can't think of a single type of building that would have this kind of architecture... unless...

Really? I'm gonna die on a goddamn boat? I've never even been comfortable spending time on them when they're in the drydock. I hesitate, wondering whether to share my suspicions with Alex. Eventually, I press my lips together and keep it to myself. Who knows. Maybe we're just in the upper floors of a factory or power plant or something. I'm not an industrial engineer—how the fuck am
I
supposed to know what any of that would look like?

Something white catches my eyes, and I call him over. “What's that?”

He squints. “I don't have my glasses. What
is
it?”

“I don't know—” Finally, I make out the shape somewhat, a flat white lid over a blue rectangular box. “A cooler, I think.”

Instinct takes over. I don't discuss it, don't wait for him to follow, don't look to make sure it's safe. I climb over the rail, and drop onto the pipe bellow me, clambering along it until I can take another leap of faith  to land next to the cooler.

My stomach hurts so much it's beyond an ache. It's an all-consuming fire. And inside the cooler, all pretty and fresh, still wrapped in little bags, are sandwiches, bottles of water. It's enough to make me cry, not that I let Alex see that.

Now, the only question is how to get it back
up
.

For a moment, the thought hits me, that I could just stay here, eat it, while he figured out how to get his fat ass down. I've been here for
days
. I need the sustenance more than him.

But I'm not that far gone. And the far more pressing issue is, how long will the food last? How long does whoever left it here expect it to? We have to think this through.

Before I even contemplate climbing back up, I take another look around, from down here. Who knows what else we might have been missing?

But aside from a sealed off opening, from which the most
awful
smell emanates—rot, mold, and salt-water—there's nothing here. I take the trip up more carefully, and my heart skips a beat to be trying to make those same jumps with cooler in arms. The last one, I don't even attempt it. Alex leans over the rail, and takes the cooler from me, and only
then
do I try to grab for the catwalk.

The grating cuts into my fingers, but it'll only be a few minutes before I can
eat
. I don't have it in me to ask how long it'll be before there's more. I sit on that cold grail, and wolf my half of the food and water down in the time it takes him to shuffle into his own seat and open the first of his.

My stomach aches from the surprising sense of fullness. And with one desperate biological urge down, the others take hold. I lay back and close my eyes. Better to enjoy this while it lasts.

When I open my eyes again, it's colder. Maybe
that
's a way to tell time, in here.

Alex is laying near me, just near enough that his body heat distorts the chill. Somehow, that makes it all feel better. I go back to sleep.