For once in Cass’s life, being in her father’s office at home was not a comforting feeling. The fireplace, once so warm and cozy, felt otherworldly now. Like it served another master, one more uncaring and malicious than her dad could ever be. The display on the wall above the fireplace was still empty, the hunting rifle nowhere to be seen. Her captor had made sure of that.
At her wrists, the cold metal of those damnable handcuffs bit into her skin. They were cinched just a notch too tight. Not enough to cut off circulation, but too much for Cass to try any of the tricks her dad taught her to get out of cuffs. Even if she dislocated her thumbs, there still wouldn’t be enough room for her hands to wiggle out.
That was a pity. She had the time – after being unceremoniously thrown into her dad’s office and zip-tied to a chair, the big guy had stepped back out without another word. She’d heard something being pressed against the door. Wherever Mr. Moon was, she did not know. It was just Cass, tied to the chair behind her father’s desk, hands bound behind her back. If she could get free before the agents returned…
Cass shook her head bitterly, ending that train of thought before it even got started. The handcuffs were too tight. Nor did she have the strength to break them apart. That was something Mark might barely be able to do on his best day. Not little ol’ Cass. Her legs were tightly bound to the chair as well. To get free of the zip ties she would need a free hand and a knife or scissors.
A spark flitted through her mind to restart the train of thought. Maybe if she wiggled. The handcuffs were too tight, but the zip ties? Cass could feel they had a bit of give from them. If she rubbed her skin hard enough to break it a little bit and use the blood as a lubricant, she might be able to slip through. It was worth a try. She began to struggle, straining against her plastic bonds as hard as she could.
“Cass Thomson.”
Cass’s eyes closed in response to the monotone voice coming from the door. It had been opened at some point while she was still thinking of ways to escape. A deep well of frustration bubbled up in her stomach, but Cass forced herself to keep her face calm. The man in the suit was back, a bucket and a rag in his hands.
“Let me remind you. If you try to run again, I will put a bullet in one of your kneecaps.”
Cass’s body stilled. It was over. The man walked further into the room and set the bucket on the floor. Now that it was closer, Cass could see that it was full of water, almost to the brim. Almost as if he hardly cared about her attempts despite his own words on the matter, Mr. Moon pulled a folding chair inside of the room and nodded to her politely.
“You have information that I want,” Mr. Moon began as Cass settled into her father’s chair as best as she could.
Cass continued to force her face to keep a state of blankness, much like how the man in front of her appeared.
“I’m just a nobody. I don’t matter. I don’t know anything.” Cass replied.
Mr. Moon’s hands fiddled with the rag. It was dark blue. She didn’t know why the color struck her all of a sudden. Perhaps it was because the man holding it was so utterly ordinary. The rag in his hands was at least a slight contrast to his dull black business suit. If he hadn’t killed her dad, Cass wouldn’t have given him a second look if they’d passed each other by on the street.
“You were present when the Russians raided the police station several nights ago,” Mr. Moon’s hands stilled. His eyes pierced right into hers. It was like he could see into her very soul, tearing through it in a ruthless and focused search for the truth. “That night, at that location, was also the last verified sighting of a peculiar creature. Sticklike, to the point it would be impossible for a normal human to survive. Yet the eyes are detailed, again far more than a normal human’s eyes would be. It breaths, but does not move or speak. It can be wounded, but those wounds heal soon after. Like magic.”
If this had been before her dad’s death, Mr. Moon’s words may have very well hit Cass like a sack of bricks to the stomach. However, now all she felt was a mild feeling akin to, ‘Ah, I was right. The government really is looking for that thing’.
Cass shrugged noncommittedly. The bastard wanted it? Sucks for him. That automatically meant she would be happier with the creature forever out of the man’s reach.
“I don’t know what you’re talking about. Say, how about this? You uncuff me and give me my gun. Then we see how tough you are in a straight fight. I’ll give you ten paces. Or, we can play Russian roulette! I'll slip all six rounds into my revolver. You can go first.”
Mr. Moon’s empty eyes stared back at her, causing Cass to shudder. They weren’t quite to the point that she felt she was staring at a corpse, but it was close. The man, as far as she could tell, truly did not care about her, other than perhaps for the information Cass had. If she had to put it into words, it was like she barely existed in his eyes. She wasn’t even an ant. Ants existed. You saw them on the sidewalk, gazed at them for a second, and moved on with your life. She didn’t even merit that effort in Mr. Moon’s eyes. There was no argument in Cass’s mind. If she didn’t know where the alien was, she would be a lifeless corpse in that bush by now and he wouldn’t lose a second of sleep about it.
“The hard way it is.” Mr. Moon said, standing up from his folding chair. He picked up the bucket of water and walked over to her, even as Cass frantically struggled to break her bonds. Her legs moved a fraction of an inch, but she didn’t have enough space to kick the man. Then the massive bulk of Dag was there in a flash, holding her head back and steady. The rag was pressed hard against her face. The cloth was thin, with the faint yet pungent scent of oil transfused into it. The back of her mind, the part detached from it all, noted that it was probably one of the oil rags from the garage. It was something her dad would have wiped his hands on while working on his car. Sure smelled like it.
Then water poured over her face, and as it soaked through the rag, all Cass felt was a tsunami of panic and fear. She was drowning. Drowning on dry land. Ironic. Her arms fought to rise, to clear off her face, but the handcuffs kept them pinned behind her back, even as her skin was torn to ribbons from her struggles. She couldn’t breathe. Water filled her nose, her mouth, everywhere. Her lungs heaved in panic and desperation, but that only served to make it worse. Cass had no air in her body. It was all water now. Her head began to thrash around, but one massive palm was still enveloping her skull to hold it rock steady. She was going to die. Not in that bush, but here. A crushing sense of fear the likes Cass had never felt before rushed through her body with all the force of a wild freight train.
Cass was going to die in her father’s office alone drowning on dry land she couldn’t breathe she couldn’t clear her face she-
The rag was lifted away. Cass’s lungs heaved in great mouthfuls of sweet fresh air like bellows stoking the furnace of life. Tears stung her eyes as she choked and gasped.
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"The alien. Where is it." Mr. Moon's voice, muffled through her sense of smothering panic, filtered into her ears like a viper's venom. Cass heaved in another breath of beautiful life-giving oxygen. She couldn’t do it again. Whatever hate she had, whatever resistance, it was smothered and drowned under the water. If she didn’t tell Mr. Moon all she knew about the alien, that rag was going back over her face. She was going to drown again.
Something inside of Cass shattered.
But then, just as she shakily began to open her mouth to give up the farm, the doorbell rang. Once, twice, then thrice in quick succession. Mr. Moon and Dag both shared a look, nodding and then running toward the door. Cass was tossed to the side, laying sideways on the ground tied to the chair like an abandoned rag as the two men rushed out of the room. Both men had their guns drawn. Vaguely, her mind noted that this was it. She could try to run again. Her wrists and legs were bleeding now. She might be able to slip out from the zip ties. If Cass was lucky, she could unlatch the window and slide out before they returned, even if she couldn’t shake off the handcuffs.
But her limbs felt heavy, like sandbags. Her lungs still burned, heaving for air and the desperation to purge the water still inside. Her breathing was rapid. Her vision flickered. Black spots coated her eyes, and the only emotion she could feel was pure panic. Cass could still feel the rag pressed against her face, even as it lay on the floor a few feet away from her, abandoned just like she was. She could still feel the water pouring over her face. It too pressed against her, filtering through the imaginary cloth with little resistance. The faint smell of oil was no longer faint. It was overpowering. It choked her. It filled her lungs, her heart, and her bones.
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
Cathy rang the doorbell again. And again. And again. Three rings, a few seconds of silence, then three more. Repeated. That was the signal. Three, stop, repeat. During each moment of silence, Cathy shot a look over her shoulder, searching for anyone following her. No one had left the safe house yet that she could see. Though, it really wasn’t a safe house anymore. Nothing safe about it. Just a house. The house was as quiet as a grave from where she looked.
The door opened after the second trio of rings. Mr. Moon stuck his head out, gun drawn and eyes darting around for threats before he ushered Cathy in, closing and locking the door after her.
“Report.” Mr. Moon curtly said. Dag paced around the living room. His Sig was out as well, and a shotgun was in his left hand, the butt nestled in the crook of the large man’s elbow.
Cathy flicked open the cylinder of her revolver, loading in the .44 Magnum rounds one by one while she spoke.
“The basement of the safe house was breached by an unknown intruder several minutes ago. Steve made the judgment to retreat but was attacked by the intruder and fell down the stairs. I removed what equipment I could and ran here while he bought time. Steve was most likely killed in action."
Mr. Moon took in her report without a word, only sharing a look with Dag. Then he motioned with his head toward a room further down the hallway.
“We have a prisoner with possible intel on the alien. Use your radio to call for reinforcements from the precinct. Prevent the surrounding towns from hearing it. Then give Mr. Sun a status update. We hold here until they arrive.”
Cathy snapped her revolver shut, the increased weight of the weapon settling reassuringly into her palm. She quickly walked into the kitchen, putting her purse on the table, along with the sparse radio equipment she'd salvaged from the house. The radio receiver rested in her palm, with Cathy speaking into it in a calm, unhurried tone.
“All units be advised; backup is requested at the Thomson residence. A suspect is at large, considered armed and extremely dangerous. Proceed with caution.”
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-
In one hand, Mark held a sandwich. In his other hand, there was a second sandwich. One for him, one for Cass. If she was super hungry, then it would be two for Cass instead. He’d gotten a few bites in during the wake. It wouldn’t be the end of the world if his sandwich had to be sacrificed.
“Cass.” Mark whispered, drawing near to the bush he remembered his friend being nestled in. He was on the other side of the fence, keeping the white picketed barrier between him and Cass’s house.
There was no answer. Mark repeated himself, whispering as loud as he could while still keeping it a whisper. “Cass! You there? I have food.”
Still, there was no answer. Mark risked straightening up slightly, enough to get a peek over the side of the fence. As he did, his eyes widened to roughly the size of dinner plates. The bushes, were, well, mangled. Nearly destroyed. Something human-sized had crashed through, heedless of broken branches. Mark’s breath caught in his throat, and he hopped over the side of the fence. His legs landed with a muted thud on the ground. His hands shot to the dirt to steady his balance, and Mark’s eyes widened further as a strange sticky substance met his fingers.
He pulled his hands up. It was hard to see, but he was close enough to the street that the streetlights were able to provide a little bit of light. The substance was sticky. Slightly warm, and looked dark red in the dim light.
It was blood. Mark’s eyes darted around, frantically searching for Cass, for anything. But there was nothing. He was the only person, living or dead, in the bushes. He nervously wetted his lips with his tongue. The bushes were destroyed. There was blood on the ground, but no bodies or discarded weapons. Was Cass dead? Did she shoot that guy? Was her body inside the house? Or was she captured?
Mark’s heart rate quickened to a frantic pace. He shot up, vaulting back over the fence and dashing across the neighbor’s lawn. He had to get away. He had to get help. If Cass was dead, he could be next. If she was alive, he could still be next.
If Cass was dead.
A lance of despair shot through his chest at the thought. Mark halted in the middle of the neighbor’s driveway. There were no lights to be seen in the windows of the neighbor’s house. No movement. In Cass’s house, he could see some life in the windows. No people, just lights with curtains drawn. His hands were empty, the sandwiches long abandoned in the bushes out of haste and fear.
What if Cass was alive? What if she got caught?
Mark collapsed to his knees. Salty tears dripped down his cheeks, but what came from his mouth was laughter. Not joyful nor happy laughter, but more of a grim, self-pitying mirth bordering on flat-out despair.
“Look at that,” Mark cruelly sniggered, “Cass is in trouble, and I ran. What a joke.”
His sobbing laughter rose into a crescendo, uncaring for the noise he made. Then as suddenly as it started, it stopped. Mark was silent, staring at the concrete driveway. His hands pressed against the cool yet rough surface.
“I ran.” Mark’s voice was utterly devoid of emotion now. “I ran. When I called Cass after the wreck, she hopped right over to help. Even with how much crap I gave her over the breakup back in school. Because she is a good person, and I’m worthless trash.”
He sighed. Then what felt like a switch flipped in his head. Mark gritted his teeth so hard it felt like they would shatter, and then his fists rained down on the concrete, punching and battering at it until his skin split and his bones creaked. Over and over again. Specks of blood splashed against his cheeks, his knuckles popped out of place, and his skin gave way to stark white bone.
Mark's strikes slowed and then stopped. He held up his hands, watching as his flesh ever so slowly knit back together. Was it faster this time? It felt like it was healing faster. His skin itched like a thousand mosquitos were hard at work at the same time as the flesh was repairing itself.
Who cared.
"I guess this is what I always do," Mark muttered helplessly. "I run away."
“I run away.” Mark repeated.
That phrase. He repeated it for a third time. But this time, he rose to his unsteady feet. What if he didn’t this time?
Could he?
Or was he just a yellow-bellied coward to the core?
He ran from his relationship with Cass in school. He ran from college when he proved to be a failure. He ran. Like a witless, gutless coward. Like a worthless dog crawling on the ground for scraps of attention garnered from being a big fish in a tiny, miniscule pond. A frog in a well.
Cass was in trouble. She might even be dead.
Mark’s head turned to look at the Thomson residence. For once, once in what felt like a very long time, his mind was made up. He was stupid. But Mark’s fists were big, and his back was strong. If Cass was alive, he would bust down the door and get her out of there for round three with the feds. He could put his healing to the real test. Maybe he could actually be useful for once in his life.
And if Cass was dead, then it wasn’t like he had much else to live for at this point.
Mark hunched over, quieting his breathing to the utmost, and rushed toward the fence, leaping over it effortlessly to run toward the back door of the house. Quickly, quietly, and as calmly as he could considering there were professional killers with guns inside.