Ike Hamill - Extinct

Christine moaned.

Brad’s wrists burned from the ropes and he realized that the extra strain on the bonds was from his hunched shoulders. He rolled his shoulders back and stretched them out, breathing deep and trying to relax his tensed muscles. Something brushed against the tip of his finger as he stretched, so he repeated the process.

His gaze drifted down to the floor—to the area he’d been trying to avoid looking at. Christine’s pinky finger had rolled several inches away when it fell, so it wasn’t near the growing puddle of blood dripping from Christine’s hand. She tried to clasp her hands together to put pressure on the stump. Just below her bound hands, the blood ran down the rope as it looped beneath the chair to connect with the rope that bound her feet. Someone—Buster or Glen—must have cut her rope and retied it at some point. There was a knot in the rope about a foot below her hands. A similar knot was just above where the rope led from her ankles.

Brad stretched again until he felt the thing brush his hand. It was a similar knot—it had to be. He tucked his feet further under the chair and rounded his upper back into a painfully deep backbend. This was a pain he was accustomed to. He’d spent a year’s worth of weekly yoga videos until he could execute a backbend this deep. Stretched to his fullest, he managed to collect the knot between his fingers. He began blindly working on the knot. Sweat stood out on his brow.

Christine stopped moaning.

“They’re going to kill you,” she said, her voice low.

Brad lost the knot. It swung away from his hands and when he reached for it, it stayed too far away. He needed to relax and let it come back to his hands.

“Glen wants me to be happy, I know he does, but I rejected him once,” Christine said. “Neither of them want you, they just want to trade you for Brynn, or at least Buster does. I don’t think Glen cares about Brynn either way.”

“Shut up,” whispered Brad. “I want to hear if they’re coming.” He tried to focus on the knot. One loop was loosened, but it seemed to only tighten one of the other loops. He tried to picture the knot—how the ropes intertwined—but he couldn’t make sense of it. He tugged on the rope and tried to work on the farthest loop.

Footsteps approached outside and he heard a hand settle on the door knob. Arched over he saw the top of the door in the corner of his eye. The knot came loose. Brad pulled and fed the rope through the loop. He sat back down in the chair and slid his feet forward. The rope pulled back on his wrists. The rope was more slack, but the knot still held.

Brad heard the handle turn and the door open. He gathered the slack in the rope and balled it up in his hands.

“You’re a lucky woman,” Buster said to Christine as he walked past Brad. “I’m not allowed to hurt you anymore to try to get information from him.” He turned and looked at Brad before continuing—“I guess I’ll have to extract what I need directly from the source.”

Buster took a step closer and Brad saw his chance. He thrust his knees back and lowered his head, hoping he could plow into Buster and knock him to the ground. The rope held. Brad only rose up a couple of inches before the rope stalled his momentum and sent him crashing back down into his seat.

Buster laughed. The old man raised a hand to his face and scratched his cheek—considering Brad. Behind the chair, Brad’s hands worked at lightning speed, gathering the rope, pulling the knot into his hands, and trying to find the source of the snag. He’d missed a loop, and now having jerked the rope taut, the knot was even tighter. Brad struggled to insert a fingernail in the loop and work it loose again.

“You’ve already seen the bolt cutters. I think we’ll upgrade you to something a little more painful. How’s that sound, Mr. Brad?”

“Let me out of here,” Christine said. “I have to stop the bleeding. I feel faint.”

“You’ll be fine for a few minutes,” Buster said.

“Glen?” Christine yelled. “Glen—I need you.”

“Settle down,” Buster said to Christine’s back. “He’s not completely attached to you. You can’t order him around.”

“Glen?” Christine yelled again.

Buster waited several seconds before he spoke again—“See? Glen’s not at your disposal.”

Brad got his finger into the loop and bent his finger back painfully as he tried to loosen the knot. His knuckle snapped and a wave of fresh pain rippled up Brad’s arm.

Buster rustled through his cardboard box and shook his head as he considered the contents. He straightened, pulling something from the box, and then turned slowly to reveal it to Brad. Buster held a small propane tank with a screw-on torch.

“Heat motivates,” Buster said, “doncha think?”

Brad tried to keep his face still, but he gritted his teeth as he worked a second finger into the loop and then finally managed to work it loose. His face relaxed as he threaded the rope through and then felt it fall away to the floor. He bent his arms at the elbows, testing to be sure his hands were really free this time. No resistance met his pull. He’d managed to disconnect his feet from his hands, but his wrists were still bound to each other, and his ankles were drawn tight as well. Even though he could now stand, he couldn’t expect Buster to stand still as he hopped over to him. He waited for Buster to approach.

“Glen, please help me! I’m bleeding, Glen,” Christine yelled.

“I could cauterize your stump for you,” Buster said. He lit the torch and adjusted the valve until it produced a perfect triangle of blue flame. Christine shut her mouth.

Buster lowered his head and locked eyes with Brad. Buster stalked forward.

The torch hissed.

Brad waited for the older man to get close enough, but Buster held the torch at arm’s length and led with the flame. Buster had a gun holstered on one hip and a knife sheathed on the other—Brad couldn’t afford to telegraph his attack.

“I’m not telling you anything, you piece of shit,” Brad said. He wanted Buster mad—mad enough to get close.

“I’m not sure I care,” Buster said. He smiled at Brad. His eyes twinkled.

Buster brushed the flame across Brad’s cheek. Brad flinched, but the pain wasn’t unbearable. The smell of burning hair—his own burning stubble—filled Brad’s nostrils. When Buster moved the flame over to Brad’s other cheek, Buster finally leaned in towards Brad.

Brad repeated his move from earlier. He thrust his lower body back, sending the chair flipping backwards, and got his feet under him in a crouching pose. Before Buster could pull back, Brad launched upwards, tilting his head down so the top of his skull would hit Buster in the chin.

Brad connected and heard and felt Buster’s teeth slam together. Buster flailed, arms flying through giant circles as he tried to stay upright. The torch sputtered as Buster waved it through the air. Brad felt himself start to topple to the right. His ankles were still bound and he hopped several times to keep on his feet. He angled towards Buster and hopped after the flailing man.

Brad lowered his shoulder and collided with Buster just as the man backed into a stack of cardboard boxes. The two men crashed through the stack, and Buster fell backwards. Brad threw himself down on Buster while bringing his own knees to his chest.

Buster still gripped the torch. As the blue flame ignited Buster’s fine silver hair, he tried to shove the torch away.

Brad stretched his already tortured shoulders and worked his hands down below his butt. His wrists strained and popped as he pulled through the pain while trying to keep his weight on the writhing man below him. He got his hands around and past his bound feet as Buster yelled and rolled Brad to the side.