I haven't posted this before -- it's an old vignette I wrote for someone a few years ago. Hope you enjoy. Photo reflects the peril but not the heroine's attire therein....
When we last left our heroine….
You had picked up a mysterious note left accidentally near the café where you worked. Two quiet men had sat down, ordered nothing but coffee, and barely exchanged a word as they opened up their briefcases and exchanged files. One small slip of paper had fallen on the floor, and you noticed it long after the pair had left. The slip was an electrical bill for an address – simply “The Rambles” – and you were about to throw it away when you saw the handwriting on the back. The handwriting was neat, and consisted of two words. “Fire Jade.”
You knew you had heard that phrase recently...but where? Then it had hit you: in the newspaper – the report of the jewelry heist. The famous “Fire Jade” pendant.
Your mind began to race. As a journalism major, paying her way through university with waitressing and part time jobs, this might be your big break, if you could unravel the secret of the missing gems! And you knew where The Rambles were – it was the old, spooky house at the end of the lane not far from her home. The Rambles was supposed to be unoccupied – some credulous folk said it was haunted. And someone was paying an electrical bill there? Perhaps, you thought to yourself, you could investigate. You wouldn’t do anything foolish – just see what was going on, if anything, at the old, creepy Victorian mansion.
After work, toward sundown, you return home, and prepare for your first big sleuthing adventure. You think of the Famous Five books you had read as a child – and how they always seemed to run into smugglers. You laugh to herself as you dress in “detective black” – black short leather skirt, mock turtleneck (it was a bit chilly out) chic black tights and your black leather knee boots. You throw on a leather jacket to keep warm, and bring along your tape recorder, electric torch, and a notepad and paper. Your long black hair catches the late afternoon breeze and trails slightly as you walk toward the Rambles.
It does not take you too long to arrive at the house. The dark mansion was set back from the road with a hundred and fifty year old iron railing around it. Inside the decorative gate, the front yard was overgrown as befitted an empty house. The building itself was shuttered up and in the first stages of dilapidation from neglect.
You remain out of sight across the street, and watch. There is no sign of anyone coming in or out of the house, but even from across the street you could see the door was ajar. Was the Rambles a drop off point for the stolen items? A rendezvous site? ”Maybe I should take a look a little closer,” you think, visions of awards and accolades leading you where caution would keep you away. You look around – no one was coming down the street, so the crooks would not see you enter the house. “OK, back up story in case I am confronted…” you say to yourself. “I was doing a story on neglected architecture for the local paper, and the building seemed open and unoccupied.”
You suck in a deep breath and head purposefully toward the house. The heels of your boots click quickly on the stone path as you stride briskly past the front gate. There still seems to be no one around, inside or outside. Swallowing hard to overcome some last minute misgivings about the enterprise, you pull the massive oak doors open just wide enough for you to slip inside.
The house is dusty and filled with cobwebs from years of neglect. The light is very dim, just enough to walk around without tripping on something, but not enough to really see much more than shadows at depth. The red sunset light shines dimly through the gaps in the boards which cover the large bay windows.
You are in the foyer, a generous space that opened to the parlour to the right, a dining room to the left, and a wide balustraded staircase that went straight up to the first floor. The parlour to the right is very large, with a high ceiling. From the centre of the ceiling, around cracked mouldings, a glass chandelier hangs, wired for electricity but dark. The furniture is all covered with white sheets, both in the reception room as well as the dining room
So still is it that dust hangs suspended in the air, sheets of it seeming to form where the horizontal shafts of dying daylight illuminate the interior. You turn on your flashlight and begin tiptoeing through the empty rooms. You can hear your own breath as you walk through the reception room, your footsteps echoing faintly and leaving slender boot prints on the dusty floor.
All this dust….You examine the side tables, the sofas, the fireplace with its enormous mantle. “Achoo!” You can’t suppress a sneeze as you sweep your flashlight’s beam across the walls. There are dark patches where pictures had been hung, and light had not faded the wallpaper. Those pictures are all gone – packed away in all likelihood in the cellar, and –
A loud creak on a floorboard. You freeze. Was that someone? Or just the house settling? You can’t tell for sure, but your courage is leaving and a common sense instinct to leave the house was taking over.
Your flashlight catches a swirl in the dust. Odd – You haven’t moved. It must be --- mmmpphhfffff!
Everything goes dark as you are enveloped in a sheet of some kind. You drop your torch, and try to flail to escape the unseen attackers who have snuck up behind you. But strong male arms pin yours to your side, and lift you off your feet. You try to kick, but you cannot get free!
Finally, a voice: “I got her, Nigel! She’s got some spirit, I’ll tell you!”
Another, deeper voice: “Let’s get her downstairs, Rog.”
You feel yourself being wrapped more tightly in the sheet and now picked up by two men. You buck and fight uselessly as they take you down the stairs, screaming for help, your cries muffled partly by the sheet used to trap you, until they plunk you on the floor, still wrapped up.
“Let me go!” you yell still literally as well as figuratively in the dark.
The voices ignore you. “Tie her up and gag her until I figure out what to do with her!” says the deeper voice. Your blood runs cold as you realiz this is no accident – you are the prisoner of these ruthless men! What had you stumbled upon?
You feel the sheet being unwound and you prepare to make a bolt for the exit as soon as it’s off. But as you try to run, powerful hands grab you by the shoulders and pin you to the ground as another set of hands pull your slender wrists behind your back.
In this basement there is some dim light bulb providing some dismal illumination. You can see one of your assailants now: Nigel, the deeper voiced man: tall, thin, with a thin, cruel mouth, a hawklike nose, narrow, mean eyes, and fingers like talons. You try to kick at him with your pointy boots with their narrow heels, but even with a direct hit on his shins Nigel just makes a face of mild pain without relaxing his hold on you at all. All you are doing with your kicks is annoying him, and you stop.
Meanwhile the other, Rog -- who is kneeling behind you out of your field of view – is tying your wrists wincingly tight. “Ow! Please, that hurts!” you say, hoping your pitiful pleading will make him ease the torque in your bonds.
“Gotta make sure you can’t get away!” says Rog, as he knots off the ropes. You test your wrist bonds, twisting your upper body in a futile gesture of resistance.
“Please! Why are you doing this? I’m researching local architecture and – “
Nigel looks at Rog, ignoring you as he cuts you off. “Rog, you seen her before?”
Rog comes around as Nigel pushes your booted feet together and starts tying your ankles. Your heart sinks. Rog is one of the fellows at the café. Your cover is blown. “Yeah, I seen her!” says the smiling, creepily affable man with the fleshy face , oddly reminiscent of Spencer Tracy – on a really bad day. “I never forget a pretty face, I do! She was the waitress at the caff!”
“No! Please! Let me go! I am sorry I intruded!” you plead, tears of fear forming in your eyes.
“Yeah, that you will be…” says Nigel with a grunt as he continues to tie your ankles. You try to kick, but Nigel holds you fast, enjoying your wriggling as it makes your short skirt ride up a little, exposing more of your lithe, delicious legs. He cinches your bonds, and knots the ropes.
You try to kick once more, but with your legs now tied, resistance is hopeless. You look up at your two kidnappers, you eyes wide with fear. “Wha…what are you going to do with me?”
Nigel smiles evilly. “Yeah, you’re right Rog, she’s a fine bit of crumpet,” the thin man says.
“Please, I don’t know why you are doing this!” you wail, hoping ignorance will save you.
Nigel holds your purse in front of you and opens it. Reflexively you pull your feet in closer to you, as the criminal violates your privacy. “Leave my things alone!” you protest. “I don’t know why you are doing this!”
Nigel takes out the slip with the clue on it. “I think you know exactly what we are doing, Miss…” he pulls out your wallet and looks for identification. “….Alexis. Pretty name. You’re a pretty girl. A pretty girl in a lot of trouble.”
You feel a sense of panic rising in your throat. “But..but..you have to let me go….this is kidnapping!” you shout.
“Rog, please gag our guest.”
“Nooooo!” you wail. “You can’t do this!” You thrash furiously in your bonds, accomplishing exactly nothing. “Please! Let me mmmpppphhhh!”
Your pleading is cut off as Rog pops a wad of old cloth in your mouth. Before you can spit it out he clamps a hand over your mouth, then with the other hand gets a scarf ready. He forces the scarf between your lips, wedging it deep between your teeth. He pulls the scarf back til it digs at the corners of your delicate mouth, highlighting your cheeks and forcing a kind of terrified involuntary smile on your face as the cleave is pulled taut. You feel the thug lift your long black tresses before he knots the cleave gag bracingly tight. Your jaw already is starting to ache. Your wrists are raw, your hands and feet numb from the savagely tight bonds. And now the two criminals look at you with diabolical triumph as they savor your utter helplessness.
“So, thought you’d tip off the police and get a big reward, right Alexis? Or maybe some prize? Well, it looks like you made a foolish choice today!” says Nigel, leering at you and patting you on the leg.
“So, Nigel, what do we do with her?” asks Rog. You look back at the one, then the other, your terror rising as they begin to discuss your demise.
“I think she knows too much,” says Nigel, rising to his feet and placing his hands on his hips. “I think she needs to meet Chip”
Rog laughs heartily and entirely inappropriately. He whispers in your ear, “He means the wood chipper in the other part of the cellar….”
You nearly pass out in terror, until Rog says “Hey, won’t that make too much noise?”
You nod energetically, and writhe pathetically in your bonds, moaning miserably in the hopes they take pity on you and let you go.
Nigel strokes his chin. “Hmmm, yes, I guess it would attract too much attention to this supposedly ‘haunted’ house.”
“Mmpphhfffff!” you try to interrupt their plans for your elimination. They look at you – Rog winks at you – smile, and carry on with their murderous plans.
“OK, then we’ll time it so that we can get away while she meets her maker. Rog – help me get her set up on the conveyor belt.”
You moan a muffled “Noooooo!” through the gag as the two men pick you up, Nigel by your feet, Rog by your shoulders, and carry you through a doorway to another, larger part of the cellar. There you see a very large metal box, easily eight feet cubed, with apertures at opposing ends. A fifteen foot conveyor belt, with high stainless steel sides, leads to one opening in the box. You can see the grinding wheels and teeth of the wood chipping machine through the aperture – an aperture wide and tall enough for you to go through!
The two thugs prop you up against a long piece 2x8 plywood and begin tying you down to it. You squirm to no avail as they lash you at the shoulders, waist, knees and ankles to the plank, then lift you and the plank to put you on the conveyor belt.
You frantically twist and turn but can do little as Nigel and Rog place you on the conveyor belt, feet first, heading level straight toward the maw of the crushing, gnashing machinery! You try to slide your way off the conveyor, but the sides are too high, the belt itself too narrow, for you to move at all! All you can do is raise your head to look directly at the inert, but evil-looking gears and crushing teeth of the machine’s infernal innards.
“Mmmmpphhfff!” you make once last attempt to beg for you life, but all you do is provoke the derision of your heartless captors.
“She’s make great compost,” says Rog sunnily.
“I thought you thought she was pretty?”
“Aye, that she is, but gardening comes first, don’t you say?”
Nigel chuckles and surveys your delectable, bound body as he answers his demented colleague. “That I do, Rog. That I do. Now Rog, you gather up the rest of the jewels and prepare to decamp. I’ll attend to our snoopy guest.”
Rog leaves you to Nigel’s dubious mercy. Well, Alexis, it has been an all too brief pleasure,” the thin man says. “But we leave you in the hands of Chip, who will embrace you in a very special way.”
“Mmmphhfff!” you moan, sobbing in your gag, your eyes desperately pleading for him to reconsider.
“Ta ta!” Nigel says, throwing a switch on the side of the machine. The teeth start to rotate slowly inside, in a hellish augury of your immediate future if you aren’t rescued in time!
Nigel pushes a lever and the conveyor belt starts to move, achingly, cruelly slowly.
You arch your back, but you cannot loosen your bonds that way. You twist and turn, thrusting your knees forward one at a time to try to make your restraints yield. But it’s no use! You are being drawn slowly but inevitably to your doom!
Nigel blows you a sarcastic kiss as he leaves you to your grisly fate. You are now maybe 13 feet from the maw of the wood chipping machine. You are blinded briefly as tears well up in your eyes. So stupid of you to try to get the ‘big scoop.’ Now look what’s happening.
You writhe helplessly some more. No use. No hope at all. 10 feet from your demise. The machine makes a low, diabolical hum, as if it is relishing the chance to sink its rotating teeth into your soft flesh. You think, incongruously, of how your clothes will be ruined!
Eight feet. You hear the footsteps of Nigel and Rog leaving the house. You are all alone now. It won’t be long.
Seven feet. Your struggling is slowing down as you are left exhausted and weakened by your earlier, useless attempts to get free.
Six feet. “Hewp! Hewp!” you try to scream through the gag, knowing no one will hear you.
Five feet. It must be sundown by now, you think. But you can hardly tell in this boarded up cellar. You slump in your bonds, defeated, helpless.
Four feet. You realize this is going to hurt a lot as your booted feet will be the first to be eaten by the machine. You thrash again wildly at the thought, then give up again.
Three feet. You think of your friends and family, how they will miss you and you them.
Two feet. The lead edge of the plank enters the maw of the machine. A horrible gnashing wail is emitted as sawdust and woodchips fly everywhere. You now realize how horrible the end will be! You try to pull up your feet but they are just tightly bound to the plank, which shudders in nausea inducing fashion.
Twelve inches. The end is here. There is no hope. No one will save you.
Six inches. You close your eyes. The plank is being eaten up in front of you. Bits of plywood fly everywhere.
Three inches. Suddenly, all goes quiet. You open your eyes. The light is out as well. What happened? You struggle, but you’re as tightly tied as ever.
Footsteps on the main floor. “Helloooooooo?” says a new voice. You try to call him, but your voice is stifled by the hateful gag. “Helloooooo – it’s Powergen – I’m here to read the meter…”
Footsteps coming down to the cellar. “Look, sorry to cut off your power, but you haven’t paid your bill!”
You see a torchlight beam sweeping back and forth. “Anybody here?”
You growl as loudly as you can. Footsteps race toward you. A flashlight beam on your face, gagged tightly.
“Mmmppphhfff!”
“Why, Miss! Whatever happened to you?”
You can make out the outline of the meter man in the twilight as he pulls you away from the machine. He quickly unties you and ungags you, and you thank him profusely as you rub your wrists to get the circulation back. A narrow escape, but maybe you have a story for the paper after all!
You had picked up a mysterious note left accidentally near the café where you worked. Two quiet men had sat down, ordered nothing but coffee, and barely exchanged a word as they opened up their briefcases and exchanged files. One small slip of paper had fallen on the floor, and you noticed it long after the pair had left. The slip was an electrical bill for an address – simply “The Rambles” – and you were about to throw it away when you saw the handwriting on the back. The handwriting was neat, and consisted of two words. “Fire Jade.”
You knew you had heard that phrase recently...but where? Then it had hit you: in the newspaper – the report of the jewelry heist. The famous “Fire Jade” pendant.
Your mind began to race. As a journalism major, paying her way through university with waitressing and part time jobs, this might be your big break, if you could unravel the secret of the missing gems! And you knew where The Rambles were – it was the old, spooky house at the end of the lane not far from her home. The Rambles was supposed to be unoccupied – some credulous folk said it was haunted. And someone was paying an electrical bill there? Perhaps, you thought to yourself, you could investigate. You wouldn’t do anything foolish – just see what was going on, if anything, at the old, creepy Victorian mansion.
After work, toward sundown, you return home, and prepare for your first big sleuthing adventure. You think of the Famous Five books you had read as a child – and how they always seemed to run into smugglers. You laugh to herself as you dress in “detective black” – black short leather skirt, mock turtleneck (it was a bit chilly out) chic black tights and your black leather knee boots. You throw on a leather jacket to keep warm, and bring along your tape recorder, electric torch, and a notepad and paper. Your long black hair catches the late afternoon breeze and trails slightly as you walk toward the Rambles.
It does not take you too long to arrive at the house. The dark mansion was set back from the road with a hundred and fifty year old iron railing around it. Inside the decorative gate, the front yard was overgrown as befitted an empty house. The building itself was shuttered up and in the first stages of dilapidation from neglect.
You remain out of sight across the street, and watch. There is no sign of anyone coming in or out of the house, but even from across the street you could see the door was ajar. Was the Rambles a drop off point for the stolen items? A rendezvous site? ”Maybe I should take a look a little closer,” you think, visions of awards and accolades leading you where caution would keep you away. You look around – no one was coming down the street, so the crooks would not see you enter the house. “OK, back up story in case I am confronted…” you say to yourself. “I was doing a story on neglected architecture for the local paper, and the building seemed open and unoccupied.”
You suck in a deep breath and head purposefully toward the house. The heels of your boots click quickly on the stone path as you stride briskly past the front gate. There still seems to be no one around, inside or outside. Swallowing hard to overcome some last minute misgivings about the enterprise, you pull the massive oak doors open just wide enough for you to slip inside.
The house is dusty and filled with cobwebs from years of neglect. The light is very dim, just enough to walk around without tripping on something, but not enough to really see much more than shadows at depth. The red sunset light shines dimly through the gaps in the boards which cover the large bay windows.
You are in the foyer, a generous space that opened to the parlour to the right, a dining room to the left, and a wide balustraded staircase that went straight up to the first floor. The parlour to the right is very large, with a high ceiling. From the centre of the ceiling, around cracked mouldings, a glass chandelier hangs, wired for electricity but dark. The furniture is all covered with white sheets, both in the reception room as well as the dining room
So still is it that dust hangs suspended in the air, sheets of it seeming to form where the horizontal shafts of dying daylight illuminate the interior. You turn on your flashlight and begin tiptoeing through the empty rooms. You can hear your own breath as you walk through the reception room, your footsteps echoing faintly and leaving slender boot prints on the dusty floor.
All this dust….You examine the side tables, the sofas, the fireplace with its enormous mantle. “Achoo!” You can’t suppress a sneeze as you sweep your flashlight’s beam across the walls. There are dark patches where pictures had been hung, and light had not faded the wallpaper. Those pictures are all gone – packed away in all likelihood in the cellar, and –
A loud creak on a floorboard. You freeze. Was that someone? Or just the house settling? You can’t tell for sure, but your courage is leaving and a common sense instinct to leave the house was taking over.
Your flashlight catches a swirl in the dust. Odd – You haven’t moved. It must be --- mmmpphhfffff!
Everything goes dark as you are enveloped in a sheet of some kind. You drop your torch, and try to flail to escape the unseen attackers who have snuck up behind you. But strong male arms pin yours to your side, and lift you off your feet. You try to kick, but you cannot get free!
Finally, a voice: “I got her, Nigel! She’s got some spirit, I’ll tell you!”
Another, deeper voice: “Let’s get her downstairs, Rog.”
You feel yourself being wrapped more tightly in the sheet and now picked up by two men. You buck and fight uselessly as they take you down the stairs, screaming for help, your cries muffled partly by the sheet used to trap you, until they plunk you on the floor, still wrapped up.
“Let me go!” you yell still literally as well as figuratively in the dark.
The voices ignore you. “Tie her up and gag her until I figure out what to do with her!” says the deeper voice. Your blood runs cold as you realiz this is no accident – you are the prisoner of these ruthless men! What had you stumbled upon?
You feel the sheet being unwound and you prepare to make a bolt for the exit as soon as it’s off. But as you try to run, powerful hands grab you by the shoulders and pin you to the ground as another set of hands pull your slender wrists behind your back.
In this basement there is some dim light bulb providing some dismal illumination. You can see one of your assailants now: Nigel, the deeper voiced man: tall, thin, with a thin, cruel mouth, a hawklike nose, narrow, mean eyes, and fingers like talons. You try to kick at him with your pointy boots with their narrow heels, but even with a direct hit on his shins Nigel just makes a face of mild pain without relaxing his hold on you at all. All you are doing with your kicks is annoying him, and you stop.
Meanwhile the other, Rog -- who is kneeling behind you out of your field of view – is tying your wrists wincingly tight. “Ow! Please, that hurts!” you say, hoping your pitiful pleading will make him ease the torque in your bonds.
“Gotta make sure you can’t get away!” says Rog, as he knots off the ropes. You test your wrist bonds, twisting your upper body in a futile gesture of resistance.
“Please! Why are you doing this? I’m researching local architecture and – “
Nigel looks at Rog, ignoring you as he cuts you off. “Rog, you seen her before?”
Rog comes around as Nigel pushes your booted feet together and starts tying your ankles. Your heart sinks. Rog is one of the fellows at the café. Your cover is blown. “Yeah, I seen her!” says the smiling, creepily affable man with the fleshy face , oddly reminiscent of Spencer Tracy – on a really bad day. “I never forget a pretty face, I do! She was the waitress at the caff!”
“No! Please! Let me go! I am sorry I intruded!” you plead, tears of fear forming in your eyes.
“Yeah, that you will be…” says Nigel with a grunt as he continues to tie your ankles. You try to kick, but Nigel holds you fast, enjoying your wriggling as it makes your short skirt ride up a little, exposing more of your lithe, delicious legs. He cinches your bonds, and knots the ropes.
You try to kick once more, but with your legs now tied, resistance is hopeless. You look up at your two kidnappers, you eyes wide with fear. “Wha…what are you going to do with me?”
Nigel smiles evilly. “Yeah, you’re right Rog, she’s a fine bit of crumpet,” the thin man says.
“Please, I don’t know why you are doing this!” you wail, hoping ignorance will save you.
Nigel holds your purse in front of you and opens it. Reflexively you pull your feet in closer to you, as the criminal violates your privacy. “Leave my things alone!” you protest. “I don’t know why you are doing this!”
Nigel takes out the slip with the clue on it. “I think you know exactly what we are doing, Miss…” he pulls out your wallet and looks for identification. “….Alexis. Pretty name. You’re a pretty girl. A pretty girl in a lot of trouble.”
You feel a sense of panic rising in your throat. “But..but..you have to let me go….this is kidnapping!” you shout.
“Rog, please gag our guest.”
“Nooooo!” you wail. “You can’t do this!” You thrash furiously in your bonds, accomplishing exactly nothing. “Please! Let me mmmpppphhhh!”
Your pleading is cut off as Rog pops a wad of old cloth in your mouth. Before you can spit it out he clamps a hand over your mouth, then with the other hand gets a scarf ready. He forces the scarf between your lips, wedging it deep between your teeth. He pulls the scarf back til it digs at the corners of your delicate mouth, highlighting your cheeks and forcing a kind of terrified involuntary smile on your face as the cleave is pulled taut. You feel the thug lift your long black tresses before he knots the cleave gag bracingly tight. Your jaw already is starting to ache. Your wrists are raw, your hands and feet numb from the savagely tight bonds. And now the two criminals look at you with diabolical triumph as they savor your utter helplessness.
“So, thought you’d tip off the police and get a big reward, right Alexis? Or maybe some prize? Well, it looks like you made a foolish choice today!” says Nigel, leering at you and patting you on the leg.
“So, Nigel, what do we do with her?” asks Rog. You look back at the one, then the other, your terror rising as they begin to discuss your demise.
“I think she knows too much,” says Nigel, rising to his feet and placing his hands on his hips. “I think she needs to meet Chip”
Rog laughs heartily and entirely inappropriately. He whispers in your ear, “He means the wood chipper in the other part of the cellar….”
You nearly pass out in terror, until Rog says “Hey, won’t that make too much noise?”
You nod energetically, and writhe pathetically in your bonds, moaning miserably in the hopes they take pity on you and let you go.
Nigel strokes his chin. “Hmmm, yes, I guess it would attract too much attention to this supposedly ‘haunted’ house.”
“Mmpphhfffff!” you try to interrupt their plans for your elimination. They look at you – Rog winks at you – smile, and carry on with their murderous plans.
“OK, then we’ll time it so that we can get away while she meets her maker. Rog – help me get her set up on the conveyor belt.”
You moan a muffled “Noooooo!” through the gag as the two men pick you up, Nigel by your feet, Rog by your shoulders, and carry you through a doorway to another, larger part of the cellar. There you see a very large metal box, easily eight feet cubed, with apertures at opposing ends. A fifteen foot conveyor belt, with high stainless steel sides, leads to one opening in the box. You can see the grinding wheels and teeth of the wood chipping machine through the aperture – an aperture wide and tall enough for you to go through!
The two thugs prop you up against a long piece 2x8 plywood and begin tying you down to it. You squirm to no avail as they lash you at the shoulders, waist, knees and ankles to the plank, then lift you and the plank to put you on the conveyor belt.
You frantically twist and turn but can do little as Nigel and Rog place you on the conveyor belt, feet first, heading level straight toward the maw of the crushing, gnashing machinery! You try to slide your way off the conveyor, but the sides are too high, the belt itself too narrow, for you to move at all! All you can do is raise your head to look directly at the inert, but evil-looking gears and crushing teeth of the machine’s infernal innards.
“Mmmmpphhfff!” you make once last attempt to beg for you life, but all you do is provoke the derision of your heartless captors.
“She’s make great compost,” says Rog sunnily.
“I thought you thought she was pretty?”
“Aye, that she is, but gardening comes first, don’t you say?”
Nigel chuckles and surveys your delectable, bound body as he answers his demented colleague. “That I do, Rog. That I do. Now Rog, you gather up the rest of the jewels and prepare to decamp. I’ll attend to our snoopy guest.”
Rog leaves you to Nigel’s dubious mercy. Well, Alexis, it has been an all too brief pleasure,” the thin man says. “But we leave you in the hands of Chip, who will embrace you in a very special way.”
“Mmmphhfff!” you moan, sobbing in your gag, your eyes desperately pleading for him to reconsider.
“Ta ta!” Nigel says, throwing a switch on the side of the machine. The teeth start to rotate slowly inside, in a hellish augury of your immediate future if you aren’t rescued in time!
Nigel pushes a lever and the conveyor belt starts to move, achingly, cruelly slowly.
You arch your back, but you cannot loosen your bonds that way. You twist and turn, thrusting your knees forward one at a time to try to make your restraints yield. But it’s no use! You are being drawn slowly but inevitably to your doom!
Nigel blows you a sarcastic kiss as he leaves you to your grisly fate. You are now maybe 13 feet from the maw of the wood chipping machine. You are blinded briefly as tears well up in your eyes. So stupid of you to try to get the ‘big scoop.’ Now look what’s happening.
You writhe helplessly some more. No use. No hope at all. 10 feet from your demise. The machine makes a low, diabolical hum, as if it is relishing the chance to sink its rotating teeth into your soft flesh. You think, incongruously, of how your clothes will be ruined!
Eight feet. You hear the footsteps of Nigel and Rog leaving the house. You are all alone now. It won’t be long.
Seven feet. Your struggling is slowing down as you are left exhausted and weakened by your earlier, useless attempts to get free.
Six feet. “Hewp! Hewp!” you try to scream through the gag, knowing no one will hear you.
Five feet. It must be sundown by now, you think. But you can hardly tell in this boarded up cellar. You slump in your bonds, defeated, helpless.
Four feet. You realize this is going to hurt a lot as your booted feet will be the first to be eaten by the machine. You thrash again wildly at the thought, then give up again.
Three feet. You think of your friends and family, how they will miss you and you them.
Two feet. The lead edge of the plank enters the maw of the machine. A horrible gnashing wail is emitted as sawdust and woodchips fly everywhere. You now realize how horrible the end will be! You try to pull up your feet but they are just tightly bound to the plank, which shudders in nausea inducing fashion.
Twelve inches. The end is here. There is no hope. No one will save you.
Six inches. You close your eyes. The plank is being eaten up in front of you. Bits of plywood fly everywhere.
Three inches. Suddenly, all goes quiet. You open your eyes. The light is out as well. What happened? You struggle, but you’re as tightly tied as ever.
Footsteps on the main floor. “Helloooooooo?” says a new voice. You try to call him, but your voice is stifled by the hateful gag. “Helloooooo – it’s Powergen – I’m here to read the meter…”
Footsteps coming down to the cellar. “Look, sorry to cut off your power, but you haven’t paid your bill!”
You see a torchlight beam sweeping back and forth. “Anybody here?”
You growl as loudly as you can. Footsteps race toward you. A flashlight beam on your face, gagged tightly.
“Mmmppphhfff!”
“Why, Miss! Whatever happened to you?”
You can make out the outline of the meter man in the twilight as he pulls you away from the machine. He quickly unties you and ungags you, and you thank him profusely as you rub your wrists to get the circulation back. A narrow escape, but maybe you have a story for the paper after all!
Brings back memories, ... *sigh*
ReplyDeleteWhat a fantastic story, so well written and a great peril
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