Бентли Литтл - The Disappearance

“I am building a new Home,” he said in the Language, “and you have been called upon to assist me.”

“Never,” she said in English, though she was not brave enough to look at him.

He shoved his face in front of hers. The candlelight created pools of shadow on his features, giving his eyes an almost skull-like appearance. “You will bear me sons,” he intoned. “In pain shall you bring forth children.”

Her vision blurred. She closed her eyelids tightly as the tears overflowed and ran down the sides of her head, not wanting to see Father’s expression of triumph.

He continued talking to her, but somehow she was able to block out his voice. Closing her eyes helped, but there was also a type of white noise in her head, a dull humming that was probably a residue of whatever had been used to drug her, and she found when she concentrated on that sound, it caused Father’s voice to fade into the background. His voice grew louder and he might have been yelling at her, but she lost herself in the hum and, eventually, she drifted off to sleep.

When Joan awoke again, she was alone. It was still night, but the environment around her was darker. Candles had either burned out or been taken away. She glanced around surreptitiously, trying to figure out where she was. She assumed Father and his people had taken her off campus. But were they even in California? How long had she been out before waking up? How much time had passed? Hours? Days? Weeks?

She was gratified to find that not only could she move her head, but she could wiggle her fingers. And there was feeling again in the lower half of her body. She was definitely strapped—she could feel the ropes holding down her arms, legs and midsection—but at least she was able to see her surroundings.

She was lying on a bed in a small room of primitive construction, in what appeared to be part of an old shack or cabin. The lone candle illuminating the room was behind her head somewhere, so she couldn’t see it, but its flickering orangish glow threw into relief the whorled wood of the walls and allowed her to view the framed photo of Father that was hanging where a window should be. There had to be a door into the room—indeed, she could feel cold seeping in from outside—but, like the candle, it was behind her and she couldn’t see it. Other than the bed on which she lay, there didn’t seem to be any furniture.

Joan listened for any sounds from the world outside or from other rooms in the cabin. Her ears were still slightly plugged up, and at first she heard nothing. Then, from the stillness, came a low, muffled muttering.

Voices in prayer.

How many of them were there? And what were they praying for? The death of the Outsiders? Continued evasion of the police? All of Father’s prayers were selfish and self-serving, asking for favors or begging for revenge, and she had no doubt that he was leading his current group of followers in a plea to save his butt.

The idea that the great and powerful Father was engaged in such a pathetic and prosaically craven pursuit gave her hope and strength, and she immediately began testing her bonds, attempting to discover if any of them were loose and whether she had any hope of escape. Gary and her friends might be dead, but that was even more of an incentive. Their deaths needed to be avenged, and she would not rest until Father had paid for his crimes.

She was crying, thinking about Gary, and for some reason the image that stuck in her mind was one of him eating a sandwich at the beach, staring out to sea while she watched him, unnoticed. But she made no noise, and even as her tears overflowed, trickling down the sides of her head into her ears, she was moving her hands and feet back and forth, trying to create some wiggle room. Her legs felt cold. In fact, the entire lower half of her body felt cold, and she realized with horror that her pants were off.

Had anything been done to her? She couldn’t tell. But even if nothing had happened yet, it would—

You will bear me sons

—and she struggled even harder to free herself.

The prayer had stopped, and now Father was talking. She could not hear the words, only the rhythm, but he was in full fire-and-brimstone form, and she could imagine what he was saying. How many people were with him? she wondered. Almost everyone from the Home had been captured, but she had no idea how many people in the rest of the country were followers of Father or how quickly he could gather them. Although maybe he didn’t want them all with him. Spread out, they could provide a fugitive network, allowing him to evade police indefinitely as he moved from one house and one state to another.

Joan gave up trying to break free of her restraints. There was no progress, for all her effort, and already she could feel pain in her wrists and ankles where her skin was becoming chafed and rubbed raw. She needed to save her strength in case an opportunity arose.

Who was she kidding? There weren’t going to be any opportunties. Gary was dead, Reyn and Stacy were dead, Brian was dead, and she was tied down to a bed in some filthy shack, where she would spend the rest of her life—however short or long that might be—being raped by Father.

In pain shall you bring forth children.

She started to sob again, and this time she couldn’t help uttering small desperate cries of hopeless despair.

Behind her, she heard Father’s heavy footsteps.

And even heavier breathing.

By the time Gary reached the library, it had been evacuated and scores of students stood before the building in the growing darkness, clutching books and backpacks, watching as policemen and firemen came and went through the open doors. Every so often, another student or two would be ushered out. Gary scanned the crowd, looking for Joan, and when he didn’t see her, he moved to the front of the assemblage, hoping to find her being escorted to safety, but very quickly the trickle of people being led from the building dropped to zero, and he realized with a sick feeling in his gut that she was missing.

He was filled with rage and frustration, much of it directed at himself— he should have gotten here faster, he shouldn’t have let the Homesteader go —and he wanted to run into the library and find Joan, wanted to speed across campus and chase down the bastards who had nabbed her, but he had no idea where she was, and he stood there impotently, unable to act.

At the edge of the crowd, Gary saw a shadowy shape, a short figure with an oddly large head, and as the squat form wove in and out between the evacuated students, an unwelcome shiver passed through him. It wasn’t the man he and Reyn had caught on their way to the Communications building, but he had no doubt that it was a Homesteader, one of the Children. From the corner of his eye, he thought he saw additional movement to the side of the library, and when Stacy tapped him on the shoulder and Reyn said, “Hey,” Gary jumped.

“Where’s Joan?” Stacy asked immediately.

He shook his head, unable to say the words, and realized that he was on the verge of tears. They had rescued Joan once before. What were the odds that the same thing could happen twice? Would Father, who was on the run, kidnap her to convert her back to his religion or press her into servitude? No. He probably wanted to punish her. She was probably already dead.

Stacy’s phone was out, and once again she was calling the police. This time, she got Williams on the line. “We think she’s been kidnapped again,” Stacy told the detective, explaining what had happened.

Listening to her describe the situation, Gary came back from the brink. Father probably did want to punish Joan, but he wouldn’t do it by killing her. He would keep her, hold her, torture her.