Several applications later, she had it under control.
Supporting herself against the wall, she stood, nearly flushed out of habit. The water was sanguineous, mottled with blood clots. The exertion stole her breath, drained her small reserve of energy as she made her way outside the stall.
Voices outside the bathroom. Her head jerked from side to side, as if she had a decision to make, as if she had any options at all. The stall was all she had, and she moved back inside and straddled the toilet, moved as far back as she could. Trying to get back to the linen closet wasn’t an option.
The lock was thrown, the bathroom door slammed open. “Let’s go, asshole.” The voice drifted toward the showers, along with footsteps belonging to more than one person.
“Where?” James asked.
“Just get the fuck up. Zack wants you to join the party.”
A soft thud, a grunt from James.
“Move!”
She heard them scuffling, and then their footsteps were heading back toward her direction.
Pressed up against the wall, she tried to melt into the plaster and paint. Squeezed her eyes but not completely shut, wanted to see them if they approached her.
The small procession stopped at the door, and she was sure they would find her, that maybe they could hear her raspy breath, could smell the fresh, bloody piss that stank like copper and rotten fish.
Instead, they left.
After several minutes—the longest minutes of her life—she peered outside the stall. The bathroom door was ajar.
She slumped against the wall.
Now what?
The same dilemma that had brought her to the bathroom to begin with returned.
No place to hide. There was another level to the torture chamber, that shrink’s office. She recalled walking up a short flight of stairs, had thought before reaching his office that it had been the way out. Although she hadn’t seen an exit. But still …
She stood behind the bathroom door and listened. Voices, but not close. Down the hall, around Room Four, a few doors away. Someone yelled, a man’s voice, and someone else sobbed. Slapping sounds. A woman screamed. Rushed footsteps, and the corridor was silent. A door slammed.
It took every ounce of reserve for her to leave the relative safety of the bathroom.
Once in the hall, her head jerked back and forth. The stairwell door was at the end of the corridor, near the cells.
She sucked a great breath of air and started to move, trying to ignore the stabbing pain. The rooms seemed to creep by. A few doors were open, but they were dark. She knew them well, knew the layout of each one but couldn’t see inside. Room Six, the Dungeon. BDSM. Whips and cuffs, stocks, racks.
Several feet away a door opened, and three visitors poured into the hall. They were distracted, dragging women out behind them.
Zoey ducked into Room Six, her breath abruptly ripped from her lungs. In the blackness it was impossible to make anything out.
Light filtered in through the open door, but her eyes hadn’t yet adjusted.
Somebody moaned. Zoey tried to swallow. No spit. Her throat was parched and raw.
Further in, her eyes focused.
Several women were in the room with her. Tamara, who had been here less than a week was strapped to the rack, a large solid wooden platform. Her contorted limbs were stretched to impossible lengths. Kim was hanging upside down against the wall, her ankles in wrist chains. Jessica was hung on rings suspended from the ceiling.
“What the fuck …?” she muttered. She knew the men were demented, but this—
She dry-heaved into her palm. Tears blurred what little vision she had.
“Help …” Tamara groaned.
“Zoey?” Jessica cried. “Oh god, Zoey …”
“Where are they?” Zoey asked.
Kim was silent, and she wondered with alarm whether she was still alive.
“Help me …” Tamara moaned, her voice a paroxysm of pain.
Zoey returned to the door and listened. The corridor was quiet.
Tamara first. She released the crank, loosening the stranglehold on the
Supporting herself against the wall, she stood, nearly flushed out of habit. The water was sanguineous, mottled with blood clots. The exertion stole her breath, drained her small reserve of energy as she made her way outside the stall.
Voices outside the bathroom. Her head jerked from side to side, as if she had a decision to make, as if she had any options at all. The stall was all she had, and she moved back inside and straddled the toilet, moved as far back as she could. Trying to get back to the linen closet wasn’t an option.
The lock was thrown, the bathroom door slammed open. “Let’s go, asshole.” The voice drifted toward the showers, along with footsteps belonging to more than one person.
“Where?” James asked.
“Just get the fuck up. Zack wants you to join the party.”
A soft thud, a grunt from James.
“Move!”
She heard them scuffling, and then their footsteps were heading back toward her direction.
Pressed up against the wall, she tried to melt into the plaster and paint. Squeezed her eyes but not completely shut, wanted to see them if they approached her.
The small procession stopped at the door, and she was sure they would find her, that maybe they could hear her raspy breath, could smell the fresh, bloody piss that stank like copper and rotten fish.
Instead, they left.
After several minutes—the longest minutes of her life—she peered outside the stall. The bathroom door was ajar.
She slumped against the wall.
Now what?
The same dilemma that had brought her to the bathroom to begin with returned.
No place to hide. There was another level to the torture chamber, that shrink’s office. She recalled walking up a short flight of stairs, had thought before reaching his office that it had been the way out. Although she hadn’t seen an exit. But still …
She stood behind the bathroom door and listened. Voices, but not close. Down the hall, around Room Four, a few doors away. Someone yelled, a man’s voice, and someone else sobbed. Slapping sounds. A woman screamed. Rushed footsteps, and the corridor was silent. A door slammed.
It took every ounce of reserve for her to leave the relative safety of the bathroom.
Once in the hall, her head jerked back and forth. The stairwell door was at the end of the corridor, near the cells.
She sucked a great breath of air and started to move, trying to ignore the stabbing pain. The rooms seemed to creep by. A few doors were open, but they were dark. She knew them well, knew the layout of each one but couldn’t see inside. Room Six, the Dungeon. BDSM. Whips and cuffs, stocks, racks.
Several feet away a door opened, and three visitors poured into the hall. They were distracted, dragging women out behind them.
Zoey ducked into Room Six, her breath abruptly ripped from her lungs. In the blackness it was impossible to make anything out.
Light filtered in through the open door, but her eyes hadn’t yet adjusted.
Somebody moaned. Zoey tried to swallow. No spit. Her throat was parched and raw.
Further in, her eyes focused.
Several women were in the room with her. Tamara, who had been here less than a week was strapped to the rack, a large solid wooden platform. Her contorted limbs were stretched to impossible lengths. Kim was hanging upside down against the wall, her ankles in wrist chains. Jessica was hung on rings suspended from the ceiling.
“What the fuck …?” she muttered. She knew the men were demented, but this—
She dry-heaved into her palm. Tears blurred what little vision she had.
“Help …” Tamara groaned.
“Zoey?” Jessica cried. “Oh god, Zoey …”
“Where are they?” Zoey asked.
Kim was silent, and she wondered with alarm whether she was still alive.
“Help me …” Tamara moaned, her voice a paroxysm of pain.
Zoey returned to the door and listened. The corridor was quiet.
Tamara first. She released the crank, loosening the stranglehold on the
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