David Robbins - Twin Cities Run

“I don’t know as I can forgive myself,” she mumbled.

Zahner drew back, smiling, trying to cheer her. “You really need someone to talk to?”

“Damn straight.”

“Then I’m all ears.”

“Where do you want me to start?”

“At the beginning.”

So she told him, every step of her journey, every gory detail, about her capture and subsequent sexual abuse and beatings, about the Family and the men she’d encountered, and about one man in particular, one man who had won her heart.

Zahner listened patiently, analyzing each detail, marveling. The telling took several hours. After hearing about the Family and the Home, the seed of an idea sprouted in Zahner’s mind.

Bertha finally finished, weary, reclining on the mattress. “And that’s it,” she concluded. “The whole trip. You can still sit there and tell me you like me after what I did? What I was going to do?”

“Could a soul be blamed for wanting to escape the torment of hell?

Don’t be so hard on yourself. We’ve got more important matters to consider.” His eyes, for the first time in weeks, lit with a spark of hope.

“I don’t follow you.”

“Oh, you will.” He laughed. “You’ll follow me all the way to our new home.”

“New home?” she asked, stumped.

“Our new home.” Zahner beamed. “The Home!”

He didn’t know how long he’d been groping in the darkness, feeling his way foot by cautious foot, using his matches sparingly, only when absolutely necessary.

Great Spirit, was he to wander in this stinking maze until he dropped?

Geronimo stopped, his weariness nagging at his mind, needing to rest his head, close his eyes, and sleep.

The sounds returned, an ominous admonition that if he slept, he’d die.

Geronimo wanted to rub his tired eyes, but if he did, he’d smear the muck all over his face and burn his eyes. How long had it been since the Wack had lured him into the tunnels? He remembered falling, landing hard, twisting his right ankle, spraining the muscles. His flailing arms had touched his Browning, and he had grabbed it and risen to his feet. The girl had laughed at him. She had vanished, and he had heard scraping, and something had been pushed over the opening, sealing him in and plunging him into deepest blackness. He had tried to find a means of climbing out, but couldn’t. Frustrated, he had begun to follow the tunnel he was in.

The experience was a living nightmare!

The tunnel’s height varied, allowing him to walk erect for long stretches, and at other times forcing him to crawl through a reeking, clinging slime for interminable periods. The atmosphere was oppressive, dank and dismal. His knees and elbows were scraped raw, his sore ankle throbbed incessantly, and his stomach constantly reminded him of his gnawing hunger.

Then there were the sounds.

At first, there hadn’t been any, only unnerving silence. He couldn’t say exactly when he first became aware of the scratching and the squeaking.

One moment he was crawling along a cramped passage, trying to suppress a growing claustrophobic fear, the only noise his labored breathing, and the next moment something behind him squealed in a high-pitched tone.

He stopped and tried to peer over his shoulder, fruitlessly searching for the source. His eyes had adjusted to the darkness sufficiently to enable him to distinguish his immediate surroundings.

Later, he dozed off for a few minutes, and was startled awake by the sensation of tiny teeth nibbling at his left hand. He’d jerked his hand back and grabbed the matches, a box taken from the supplies confiscated from the Watchers in Thief River Falls. He hastily lit a match, and in the light of the flame he first saw the fiery, feral eyes glaring at him from the blackness ahead, red pinpoints of malevolent intelligence.

The rats.

Now, hours and, hours or even days later, he was finding it difficult to muster the effort to resist his fatigue. He speculated on why the rats hadn’t attacked. Their number had grown since the first solitary rat had found him and announced his presence with that piercing squeak.

Geronimo paused, glancing up. He’d been crawling for some time, but above him the top of the tunnel sloped upward, a patch of gray between him and the roof. He stood, his muscles tired, hurting, especially his sprained ankle. A subdued rustling filled the tunnel.

Time to light another match.

When he’d first lit a match after the nibbling incident, one pair of red eyes were staring at him. The next time he lit up, there were twenty eyes.

The last time, sixty.

How many now?

Geronimo struck a match against- the edge of the box and raised the match over his head.

Great Spirit!

There were too many eyes to count, a veritable wall of red dots confronting him. Why hadn’t they attacked? What were they waiting for?

He could feel goose pimples break out all over his skin. Maybe they were biding their time, knowing he couldn’t escape, keeping tabs on their mobile lunch. Or supper. Or whatever. He was just thankful they moved aside when he approached, closing in behind him after he passed.

Geronimo shuffled forward, dreading he would inadvertently step on one of the rodents and precipitate a mass attack. The thought of hundreds of razor-sharp teeth tearing at his flesh appalled him.

There had to be a way out of this maze!

What were the others doing now? Had Blade been eaten by the Wacks?

Had Hickok and Bertha survived and reached the SEAL? Was Joshua dead because of his negligence? It would serve him right if the rats got him!

Geronimo squinted, perplexed. Was it his exhausted imagination playing tricks on him, or did it appear to lighten ahead?

Something bumped against his right foot.

An accident?

Another small body brushed against his left foot.

He walked faster, ignoring his ankle.

The rats abruptly began squeaking and chattering.

What was happening?

He was certain now, his pace quickening, as he realized there was a glimmer of light in the distance. Could it be a way to freedom?

A rat hit his left leg at the knee, pointed teeth slashing through his pants and tearing his skin.

Geronimo swung the Browning, connecting, sending the rodent sailing against the tunnel wall to his left.

Another rat leaped onto his right leg, its claws grabbing the fabric and holding fast, biting deep.

Geronimo smashed it aside with his right fist.

Two more rats launched themselves, attaching their filthy, furry forms to his thighs, cutting and tearing.

Geronimo ran, making for the light, pounding at the rodents affixed to his thighs, sensing the rats were preparing for an all-out assault, apparently to prevent him from reaching the lit area ahead.

All the more reason to reach it!

Squealing, its muscles like coiled springs, a rat struck him in the middle of his back, catching hold.

The rat on his right thigh fell, its head smashed to a pulp by his repeated blows.

Another rat pounced on his left arm, scrambling, missing its grip, and dropping.

Geronimo’s moccasined feet were stomping on rat after rat, kicking bodies in all directions.

Something brushed his right cheek.

The light was getting closer. Maybe forty yards to go.

More rats were connecting, coming at him from all sides.

He had to discourage them long enough to reach the light!

The rat on his back was chewing his flesh.

Geronimo fired the Browning as he ran, three blasts in front, scattering the rodents. He crouched and spun, shooting twice to his rear.

He was momentarily clear.

It was now or never!

Geronimo pounded along the tunnel, managing ten yards without another rat jumping him, then twenty, and thirty, and he could distinguish the tunnel widening at the end, joining a large room or chamber. The light was coming from that chamber.