Rachel Hawkins - Grim

I wonder briefly if his stutter is back now, and then realize I don’t have time to waste worrying over things I have no control over.

When I finally pull out the lighter for the second time that day, I see it in an entirely different way. It’s no longer a craptastic birthday present from the step-bitch, it’s now a lifeline. My only hope.

It’s fancy, and probably more expensive than some people’s cars, because even though she probably didn’t put any real thought into it, she doesn’t do anything half-assed, and I hold it reverently. Afraid that I might somehow drop it, and then I’ll be trapped in here forever. Or until that guy comes back to do whatever he’s trapped me in here to do to me. I flick my thumb over the wheel, the way I’ve done so many times before, and I hear the familiar hiss and see the sparks. My heart skips as the ethereal gas sputters.

And then the flame catches.

It the most glorious thing I’ve ever seen—and yes, I get that the word glorious seems like a bit of an overstatement, but it’s true. It is glorious.

I bend my wrist until the flame finds its way through the wire enclosure, until I have the lighter positioned just so beneath the plastic of the zip tie. I have no idea if this’ll even work. The zip tie is thick, and the lighter could run out of butane before the flame can do the trick, but I have to try. I have to.

I’m not sure which happens first, but it’s not long until my wrist aches from the strange angle and my thumb burns from being pressed against the rapidly heating metal of the wheel. I can’t let it go, though, or the flame will go out. Already I can smell the plastic burning, and it makes me wonder if he can smell it, too. If he’ll know what I’m up to.

The white plastic starts to blacken and blister. My thumb is blistering, too, I’m sure of it, but still, I keep going. Smoke is rising from the zip tie, but other than the fact that it seems like there’s too much smoke, I don’t feel like I’m getting anywhere.

Still, I loop my fingers through the metal mesh and jiggle the cage door. When it doesn’t budge, I feel hope evaporating in a cloud of burned-plastic smoke, and I sag heavily against the wire. “No,” I wheeze, my throat dry and scratchy.

Only, this time, when I lean against the door, something happens. Something so unexpected that I nearly topple out onto the floor.

It was the snap of plastic. Plastic made thinner and weaker from being burned, and then the door of the cage banged open, swinging wide and hard, and rebounding back at me again. I laugh out loud at the turn of events, a choked sound somewhere between shock and relief, and I have to cover my mouth to squelch the noise.

Already the crashing of metal was too loud. I can’t risk my own squeals of delight alerting him to my escape.

I don’t hesitate, though, and I tumble out of the cage headfirst. I use my hands to break my fall as I drop the few feet to the wooden floor, pocketing my gleaming lighter before dragging myself to my feet.

I’m still in the cabin, I’m certain of it. The floor here is exactly the same, although this is no time to admire the craftsmanship.

From here, my choice is easy—there’s only one door. My legs are cramped, and without knowing where Ranger Dude is, I warn myself to keep quiet. I creep through the door, cringing when it squeaks, and cringing again when I find myself standing in total darkness.

Again, I’m reaching for the lighter, and when I ignite it a chill races down my spine.

Faces stare back at me. Hundreds of them.

I’m surrounded by a gallery of images, some faded and torn, some peeling at the edges. Some are smiling and others are stone-faced. Some are young and some are old, and many are in-between, but all of them have one thing in common.

They are the faces of the missing, one and all. At least that’s what the posters and flyers say, the ones plastered from floor to ceiling, on every wall around me. I turn in a circle, taking them in, men and women, children and teens.

Like me and Hansen.

We’re missing, too. And only two people know it: the step-bitch and Ranger Dude.

The same ranger who’s covered his walls in a montage of missing-persons flyers. The same ranger who drugged me and locked me in a cage...and has taken Hansen god knows where.

That’s when the smell hits me, the smoky, barbecuey scent that drew us here in the first place. I picture the dinner that Ranger Dude laid out in front of us, the steaks—grilled and overseasoned.

I hear footsteps above me and I realize he’s up there, and I whirl around, searching for something to use as a weapon.

In the lighter’s flame, I see nothing, but as I spin, my feet get caught on something, tangled in canvas and straps, and I nearly lose my balance. Arms out, I careen forward and catch the wall, ripping several of the macabre flyers before I can right myself.

But when I relight the golden lighter, I see what tripped me up, and a sense of...I’m not sure what—nostalgia...relief...urgency—tears through me all at once. It’s Hansen’s backpack.

Without thinking, I reach for it, draping it over my shoulder as I head for the stairs in front of me. My chest aches with an overwhelming need to find my brother, while the fear that I might already be too late crushes me.

At the top of the steps, I pause. My mouth is so dehydrated my tongue feels like a foreign object, making it hard to swallow. There’s only one way to know if Hansen is still alive.

I slip through the doorway, expecting to walk into a bloodbath, but I find myself in the kitchen, and it’s quiet and empty. Every nerve in my body is on fire, every sense on alert.

Whatever the smoky smell, it’s not coming from in here.

And then I hear it. Him. Hansen.

And I’m moving, running toward the back of the house. Toward the sound of my brother’s screams.

He’s still screaming when I reach him, which is probably why Ranger Dude doesn’t hear me burst into the room—whatever this place is. The ranger’s back is to me, blocking Hansen’s face from view, but I see enough to get the idea.

I know now what the smell is. On one wall is the biggest effing barbecue I’ve ever seen. It’s more like an oven or an incinerator, and it’s blazing, with flames jumping and dancing within. I also know why my brother is screaming. He’s strapped to a table, like a metal gurney with plastic sheeting spread all underneath him. Ranger Dude is wearing an apron that’s equally plastic.

I don’t have to have it spelled out for me. Ranger Dude looks like some sort of deranged butcher, and don’t think I missed the assortment of knives and saws he has laid out on the tray beside the gurney.

“Wh-why are you d-doing this?” Hansen is screaming over and over again, his stutter getting the best of him.

Instead of answering, Ranger Dude wads a piece of cotton that looks suspiciously like Hansen’s own T-shirt and shoves it into my brother’s mouth. It doesn’t stop the screaming, but now it’s muffled and incoherent.

Ranger Dude leans close to my brother’s face, and I see him stroke his forehead. “Like I told your sister, some fates are better’n others. Think of it this way. You’re doing me a favor. It’s almost winter and my freezer’s getting low. Not a lot of hikers once the weather changes.” Hansen’s eyes go wide and he struggles against the restraints holding him down. This seems to amuse the ranger, and he chuckles, and the sound is so innocuous, at odds with his words, which are so chilling that my skin crawls.

I try to tell myself that I misunderstood his meaning, but I can’t get the image of all those steaks out of my head, and I know I understood him perfectly. It makes me sick, and I want to gag, to puke up anything that might be left in my stomach, except I don’t have time for that. I can’t even afford to wallow in my own disgust.