Paul Jones - Towards Yesterday

“Well! Well! Well! Looks like we have an audience,” Portia laughed.

Rebecca’s head dropped to the floor, the muscles of her body so weak she could barely move let-alone lift her head from the oh-so-cool floor to look at what had suddenly grabbed her captor’s attention. A white haze of sparkling fog filled her peripheral vision, but as she strained her head on objecting muscles, the haze began to seep away, clearing her vision sufficiently for Rebecca to make out whom the man with the knife was talking too.

Standing in the doorway, her hands braced against the doorjamb, Rebecca saw Adrianna Drake, a look of confusion, surprise, and horror painted across her little-girl face. Adrianna’s mouth was moving but Rebecca could not make out what she was saying because the buzzing that filled her head like static from a mistuned radio station overwhelmed all other sound. She watched the girl’s lips move, her eyes questioning what she was seeing.

“What—”she started to say, but before the Professor could finish Rebecca screamed at her. “Get out. For God’s sake run.”

For a second she thought Adrianna was going to ignore her or maybe she hadn’t heard her, she could barely make out the sound of her own voice over the insect buzzing in her head. But she realized Adrianna must have understood because her look of confusion was replaced now by one of anger and a glint of defiant understanding in those cool blue child’s eyes. Adrianna’s body language changed subtly, and for an instance, she seemed to solidify into some armored warrior-child. Rebecca thought the girl might stand her ground against this terrible man. She didn’t understand what she was facing, of course. How could she?

“Get out… now!” Rebecca screamed again with all her remaining energy. Her head sagged for a second with the exertion of her scream, but when she managed to drag her eyes back to the door once more, the little girl was gone.

Byron Portia pulled Rebecca along behind him like a kid dragging a school bag through the dirt. His powerful hand enmeshed in her hair, lifting her head and upper torso a foot off the polished floor as he strode down the corridor after the fleeing Adrianna.

Her right eye was swollen shut and from an inch long gash across the soft skin of her cheek trickled a slim stream of blood, the result of her collision with the men’s room door. Still she kicked and screamed, shouting the occasional obscenity at him through choking gasps of anger and fear, the pain held back for now by the pumping of her heart and the steady flow of adrenalin through her veins. Her own hands grasped the killer’s thick wrist to try to alleviate the pain; she had already seen a large clump of her hair left behind, torn from her scalp by this man. Rebecca’s shoes had fallen off almost immediately, and now her stocking feet refused to allow her any kind of grip on the highly polished floor, causing her to bump and slide along behind her captor.

Portia released her outside the door to the receiver room, dumping her unceremoniously into a heap on the floor. Squatting down beside her, he cupped Rebecca’s chin in his rough—skinned hand and pulled her face close to his.

“Sweetie? I need you to focus for a moment, okay? Come on.” He snapped the fingers of his free hand in front of her eyes. Rebecca flinched uncontrollably and let out a quiet whimper, but it had the desired effect; she met his gaze.

“Focus! That’s it, good girl. Now tell me, is there anybody else I need to know about besides that little bitch? Any other surprises I should be worrying over?” Rebecca shook her head. “You wouldn’t tell me anyway would you? Hmmm?” Portia let out a bellowing laugh, grabbed his hostage by the arm, kicked open the door to the receiver room, and dragged the weeping woman inside.

“Well doesn’t this just goes to show, you can’t trust anybody these days.” Portia directed his sarcasm at Rebecca. She lay in a crumpled heap where he had thrown her in the center of the floor, but his eyes had fixed on the other occupant of the transmission room.

Simone had frozen where she stood when the killer kicked open the door to the room, separated from Portia and Rebecca by the midriff—high cupboard holding the now useless experimental receiver.

Portia scanned the room, sniffing the air like a cat checking out a newly installed appliance, suspicious and wary of a trap.

“So where’s that little bitch I chased in here?” he asked, his lips drawn back in a distrustful half smile.

“Don’t tell—” Rebecca began to say from the floor, but her sentence was cut short with a swift kick to the stomach from Portia.

“Was I talking to you? No,” he screamed at her writhing form. Then more quietly, “Now, Simone, where is Doctor Drake?”

A vein of anxiety pulsed just beneath the surface of Simone’s voice when she answered. “I don’t know, she left to go check on Rebecca and hasn’t come back yet. Please, I don’t understand what’s going on? Why are you doing this?”

“Well, it’s a long story, sweetie and unfortunately, I don’t have the time to explain it to you, so why don’t I just show you?” Stepping astride the prone woman, he grabbed Rebecca’s hair and forced her head back exposing the white curve of her throat again. She could feel the tip of his razor cold and sharp against her skin.

“Actions speak louder than words. That’s what my Daddy always used to say,” he continued, as he sank to his knees, straddling Rebecca’s body. He drew the knifepoint down her throat, across her breastbone until he reached the first button of her stained blouse.

“Please, no,” Rebecca whimpered. “Not again.”

SNICK! Her first button disappeared with a flick of his wrist, bouncing off under a table.

“Oh my God, no. What are you doing? Get away from her.” Simone took a step around the cupboard towards them.

“Stay right where you are, bitch,” bellowed Portia, “or I swear I will pop her eyeballs right out of her head.” He moved the point of the knife to Rebecca’s bruised eye to illustrate his intention. Portia’s grin widened and his breathing began to increase as he saw the fear turn to terror in Simone’s eyes.

“Please,” Rebecca begged.

SNICK! Her second button was gone.

“Too late for you, baby,” he said through a maniac grin as he worked the knife between the cotton of her shirt and the final button. A subtle flick of his wrist sent it rolling away into a corner. Using the tip of his knife, he pushed each side of her shirt aside. Sweat glistened on his forehead and his breathing picked up.

“Mmmmmmmmm!” he whistled appreciatively. “I’d forgotten just how sweet you were.” He ran the blade back up over her breastbone until the tip rested just below her chin.

“Leave her alone, you son of a bitch,” Simone cried, fighting back tears of anger and frustration.

Portia turned his head to face her, grinning at the distraught woman. “Don’t worry, sweetie. You’ll get your turn.”

In the cupboard to his left something rattled.

Portia’s attention flicked instantly toward the sound. “Well, what do you know? Looks like you have rats,” he said, his eyes narrowing to slits of suspicion. “Stay right where you are, sweetie. I’ll be right back.” He glanced at Simone. “If you move, I’ll split her open,” he warned.

The noise from the cupboard came again, this time louder, the sound of something shifting its weight.

Climbing off the prone woman, Portia crawled on his knees the few feet to the cupboard door.

With the butt of the knife he knocked twice, hard and loud. “Hello little mousy. Come on out.” Silence was his only answer. A cloud of anger crossed his face and he drew back his arm for a more vicious swing at the closed door. “I said,” he bellowed, “Come on—”