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muffled.
Xander said, “Taksidian had them stacked up, like some kind of art. I found . . .” He looked for the metal table, saw it twisted against the opposite wall. “I think I found Jesse’s finger.”
Dad’s eyes widened. He went back through the opening, turned toward the garage, and started calling for David. His voice was panicked now, high pitched and frantic.
Xander felt an icy finger touch his heart. What if he was wrong? What if Taksidian did have David? The thought of his brother with the man who killed people and took parts from them drove him through the wall opening so fast, he knocked his head on a protruding brick and scraped his shoulder on a broken stud.
He went the other direction, passing the front door and bay window, yelling . . . screaming for David.
CHAPTER
seven
THURSDAY, 6:42 P.M.
David now understood what it meant to scream your head off. His brain was throbbing; his throat felt like he’d swallowed glass. He had stopped pounding on the wall when his hand started bleeding. Of course, he hadn’t seen the blood, but the pain told him he’d done some damage, and when a splatter struck his face, he had licked his hand and tasted blood.
He let loose with one more ear-piercing holler. It echoed around the chamber, as they all had. He stumbled back and sat hard on the ground—on the bones . He didn’t care anymore.
He was too tired, too scared, too sore in too many places. He dropped his face into his cupped hands and began crying, loud, uncontrollable sobs.
The darkness spoke his name.
He tried to stop bawling, but he couldn’t. He lifted his head, breathed wet sobs into the air. He prayed he would not hear his name again, mumbled perhaps by the ghosts of the people who had already died in the room. Or worse: he had imagined it.
The darkness and fear were getting to him. He was losing it.
And if he could hallucinate his name, then he could hallucinate anything : grabbing hands, monsters, whole skeletons reassembled from the broken bones around him.
He dropped his face into his hands again, shook it back and forth.
No! No! No!
The chamber was bad enough as it was. He couldn’t share it with monsters, even if they were only tricks created by his own mind. What did it matter if they were real or imagined?
They could still get him. His craziness would get so bad, he would probably start scratching at himself, believing his hands were some other creature’s talons.
He cried harder.
After everything he’d gone through, all the things he thought he might go through looking for Mom, of course he had pondered the possibility of his own death. Stabbed/shot/ blown up by some soldier who mistook him for the enemy. Eaten by creatures who had been extinct for a million years. Portaling into some natural disaster. He knew there were a thousand ways to die—but like this ? Alone in some nothing room? He wouldn’t even know when in history or where in the world he had died until his spirit drifted up out of his dead body and finally out of here, way out of here. Come on!
He supposed if he didn’t gouge out his own eyes or do something else completely insane, then it would be starvation that would get him. Now that was a death he had never considered. He’d been hungry, really hungry, a time or two. But there had always been a Snickers or a sandwich or something nearby. He doubted he had ever actually been starving, but he sure didn’t like the pain in his stomach when he needed to eat. He imagined that pain doubled, tripled . . . What a terrible way to go. Would he resort to eating his own foot, pretending it was a hamburger? He’d read a short story about a guy who did that. The need to eat was that bad.
Stop it! he told himself. You’re not there yet, not even close.
He remembered not eating his lunch at school.
Stupid. Should have eaten something, even that nasty pizza I gave Marcus or that slop that was probably rice pudding.
Stop!
He concentrated on
Xander said, “Taksidian had them stacked up, like some kind of art. I found . . .” He looked for the metal table, saw it twisted against the opposite wall. “I think I found Jesse’s finger.”
Dad’s eyes widened. He went back through the opening, turned toward the garage, and started calling for David. His voice was panicked now, high pitched and frantic.
Xander felt an icy finger touch his heart. What if he was wrong? What if Taksidian did have David? The thought of his brother with the man who killed people and took parts from them drove him through the wall opening so fast, he knocked his head on a protruding brick and scraped his shoulder on a broken stud.
He went the other direction, passing the front door and bay window, yelling . . . screaming for David.
CHAPTER
seven
THURSDAY, 6:42 P.M.
David now understood what it meant to scream your head off. His brain was throbbing; his throat felt like he’d swallowed glass. He had stopped pounding on the wall when his hand started bleeding. Of course, he hadn’t seen the blood, but the pain told him he’d done some damage, and when a splatter struck his face, he had licked his hand and tasted blood.
He let loose with one more ear-piercing holler. It echoed around the chamber, as they all had. He stumbled back and sat hard on the ground—on the bones . He didn’t care anymore.
He was too tired, too scared, too sore in too many places. He dropped his face into his cupped hands and began crying, loud, uncontrollable sobs.
The darkness spoke his name.
He tried to stop bawling, but he couldn’t. He lifted his head, breathed wet sobs into the air. He prayed he would not hear his name again, mumbled perhaps by the ghosts of the people who had already died in the room. Or worse: he had imagined it.
The darkness and fear were getting to him. He was losing it.
And if he could hallucinate his name, then he could hallucinate anything : grabbing hands, monsters, whole skeletons reassembled from the broken bones around him.
He dropped his face into his hands again, shook it back and forth.
No! No! No!
The chamber was bad enough as it was. He couldn’t share it with monsters, even if they were only tricks created by his own mind. What did it matter if they were real or imagined?
They could still get him. His craziness would get so bad, he would probably start scratching at himself, believing his hands were some other creature’s talons.
He cried harder.
After everything he’d gone through, all the things he thought he might go through looking for Mom, of course he had pondered the possibility of his own death. Stabbed/shot/ blown up by some soldier who mistook him for the enemy. Eaten by creatures who had been extinct for a million years. Portaling into some natural disaster. He knew there were a thousand ways to die—but like this ? Alone in some nothing room? He wouldn’t even know when in history or where in the world he had died until his spirit drifted up out of his dead body and finally out of here, way out of here. Come on!
He supposed if he didn’t gouge out his own eyes or do something else completely insane, then it would be starvation that would get him. Now that was a death he had never considered. He’d been hungry, really hungry, a time or two. But there had always been a Snickers or a sandwich or something nearby. He doubted he had ever actually been starving, but he sure didn’t like the pain in his stomach when he needed to eat. He imagined that pain doubled, tripled . . . What a terrible way to go. Would he resort to eating his own foot, pretending it was a hamburger? He’d read a short story about a guy who did that. The need to eat was that bad.
Stop it! he told himself. You’re not there yet, not even close.
He remembered not eating his lunch at school.
Stupid. Should have eaten something, even that nasty pizza I gave Marcus or that slop that was probably rice pudding.
Stop!
He concentrated on
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