Hideout Page 5

  A satchel with a slashed strap lies on the dirt nearby. The fabric is speckled with blood. I reach for the satchel, but Zara grabs it first. She quickly checks inside.

  ‘Nothing,’ she says. ‘Was this his?’

  ‘Yeah,’ Samson says. ‘I guess I cut it off him.’

  ‘And it was empty?’

  Samson seems to notice the blood on me for the first time. ‘What happened to you?’

  ‘I hit him with the butt of my gun,’ I say. ‘I think maybe I broke his collarbone. But he got away.’

  ‘Shit,’ Zara says.

  ‘Which way did he go?’ Samson asks.

  ‘Like I said, I thought he went this way, but that turned out to be you.’

  The three of us turn around, all scanning different parts of the woods. I’m the only one looking in the right direction, but I can’t see him anymore.

  Who are you? And how did you know my name?

  CHAPTER 7

  I steal eggs and cook animals. Or is it the other way around?

  ‘Kill the prisoners and pack your bags,’ Fred says as we walk quickly back towards the house. ‘We leave in fifteen minutes.’

  I suppress a flinch. ‘I only just got here.’

  ‘It’s bad timing, I know. Sorry, Lux.’

  ‘You want to leave?’ Donnie looks angry. ‘Just let the cops run us out of town?’

  ‘We can’t stop them,’ Fred says.

  ‘Sure we can. We have plenty of weapons. We can hold them off. After two or ten or a hundred dead police, you really think they’ll keep trying to get in?’

  ‘Yes,’ Fred says bluntly. ‘Cops are like mosquitoes. Swat one, and two more will smell the blood and come looking for you.’

  Donnie grinds his teeth, but says nothing.

  We emerge from the woods and walk up to the porch, where Cedric is waiting. ‘What’s going on?’

  ‘The guy got away. I’m pushing the button.’ Fred gets out his phone and brings up an app I don’t recognise. A red circle appears on the screen.

  Everyone else tenses up. Whatever this app does, it’s serious.

  ‘For real?’ Kyle says, eyes wide.

  ‘For real.’ Fred taps the red circle with his thumb. A dialogue box appears on the screen. Are you sure? This action cannot be undone.

  ‘Wait,’ Zara says.

  Fred’s thumb hovers over the yes button. ‘The sooner I do this, the more likely it is to work,’ he says. ‘Right now, that guy will be calling his colleagues. We have thirty minutes tops before they get here.’

  Kyle is shifting his weight from foot to foot, his gaze flitting from Fred’s phone to all our faces.

  ‘I don’t think the guy was a cop,’ I say.

  Fred looks at me. ‘Explain.’

  I have no idea if the man told me the truth. But this secret, isolated house is the perfect place to prepare my next six meals. I can’t let Fred take the Guards anywhere else.

  ‘He didn’t have a weapon or a partner. Police always come in pairs.’ I try to sound confident. ‘He would have yelled out to his partner if he had one.’

  ‘You’re right.’ Donnie sounds hopeful. ‘They usually wear uniforms, too.’

  ‘A lone police officer, out of uniform,’ Cedric says. ‘Hmm, seems far-fetched.’

  He’s calmer than before, his voice flat. Hard to tell if he’s being sarcastic.

  Zara speaks up. ‘He didn’t try to call for help with a phone or radio, either.’

  ‘He might be doing it right now,’ Fred points out. ‘Even if he isn’t a cop.’

  ‘Or he might not.’ Zara wipes her shoes on the mat. ‘A guy out here alone in the middle of the night must be committing some kind of crime. Like poaching.’

  ‘Lux said he didn’t have a weapon.’

  ‘I didn’t see one,’ I say.

  ‘Okay, so he’s a survivalist or whatever,’ Zara says. ‘Either way, he doesn’t want anyone to know he’s out here. He won’t call the police.’

  ‘Even a survivalist might take issue with what we’re doing.’ Fred’s thumb is still above the yes button. Like Caesar, on the verge of sentencing a gladiator.

  ‘He doesn’t know what we’re doing,’ I say. ‘All he knows is that Samson and I were walking through the woods with a gun and a knife.’

  ‘Not suspicious at all,’ Cedric says.

  ‘He probably thinks we’re poachers. If he calls anyone, it’ll be Parks and Wildlife, not the police.’

  Samson has stayed silent throughout this discussion, even though he was the only other person to see the mystery man. As Fred switches on the porch light, I get a better look at his face. He has a troubled frown and keeps shooting sideways glances at Fred, who doesn’t notice.

  ‘I vote we keep looking for him in daylight,’ Zara says.

  ‘We’re not voting,’ Fred says. ‘I’m the CEO. It’s my decision.’

  I wonder if he’s actually incorporated his torture porn company. It seems unlikely.

  ‘Of course,’ Zara says, with a little bow. ‘We can pack some essentials to be ready in case the cops show up in the meantime. If they do, it won’t be many. They don’t know anything.’

  ‘And if they don’t show?’

  ‘Then we get back to work. The subscribers are still waiting for the barbed-wire video.’

  I keep my expression neutral.

  Eventually Fred nods. ‘Okay. We’ll wait—for now.’

  He closes the app and returns the phone to his pocket.

  ‘I can take first watch,’ I say. ‘I have nothing to pack.’

  ‘It’s okay, Lux.’ Fred is already pouring coffee into a thermos. ‘I got it.’

  ‘You sure? I want to help.’

  ‘No, go to bed. You can help with the search in the morning. You look tired.’

  After six panicked hours of improvisation, I’ve run out of lies. My brain is fried.

  ‘Thanks,’ I say. ‘See you in the morning.’

  Fred trots down the stairs to the basement. I hear the chair creak as he settles in front of the screens. All those rectangles, monitoring the forest outside and the driveway.

  It suddenly occurs to me that one of the cameras may have recorded my conversation with the mystery man. Fred could scrub back through the feeds and find it. See us mouthing words at each other instead of fighting. Then he might come and murder me in my bed.

  ‘Sleep well,’ he calls.

  ‘Sure.’ I leave him to it, a sense of doom falling over me like a heavy blanket.

  Samson has disappeared into his room. The other Guards roam the house, packing their belongings. I hang around the kitchen, acting casual. I’m pleased to find an acid-based drain cleaner under the sink.

  After two hours, there’s still no sign of any police. The others finally go to bed. I’m dirty from my tussle in the forest, so I take a shower.

  Under normal circumstances, this bathroom would feel very relaxing. A natural-seeming stone floor, rainforest-green tiles, a huge mirror. A showerhead wide enough for two people to stand under the water at once.

  The window is too small to climb through. Ventilation only. Despite this, it’s padlocked shut.

  I’ve had some nerve-racking showers in my life. At the group home, the older boys would sometimes sneak into the bathroom and grab me. I never found out what came after the grabbing—they stopped trying when I got a reputation as a biter. But I still showered rarely and anxiously until I turned eighteen and left the home.

  Nothing beats this, though. There are six killers in this house. Any of them could walk in and put a bullet through my chest, an axe in my head or chain me up with the rest of their prisoners.

  I’m being paranoid. A common problem. Once you’ve done enough bad things, it’s impossible not to imagine them being done to you. But the others think I’m Lux. I’m safe … for now.

  I lather up with organic shower gel and ‘nutrigenic’ shampoo, rinse it all off, and pat my body dry with a towel apparently made from bamboo. Someone has lef
t out a toothbrush for me. I scrub my remaining molars and spit, leaving a swirl of pink in the white basin.

  The toothbrush isn’t one of those rubber ones you get in prison; it’s bamboo, too. Snapped in half, it would make a decent shiv. Not enough to win in a fair fight, but if plunged into the neck of a sleeping person …

  I wrap the towel around my waist and go back into the corridor. All the bedrooms are right here. The weapons are locked up in the armoury. Five killers, defenceless. Could I dispose of them all quietly enough?

  A floorboard creaks right behind me.

  I spin around. No one there. And it didn’t sound like a footstep.

  Maybe I imagined it. There’s something called ‘exploding head syndrome’, where the sufferer perceives sudden loud noises, typically right before or right after bed. A kid at the group home had it—he used to fling himself out of bed and scramble away from it, sweaty and disoriented. Apparently the condition is triggered by extreme fatigue and stress.

  I don’t think I imagined the sound—but that’s a symptom, as well. The patient is unable to believe the noise wasn’t real. It’s a windy night, I tell myself. Maybe the wall studs were just flexing.

  I listen at the nearest door. Someone is snoring inside. A helpless sound.

  But Fred is awake, and some of the others may be, too. A toothbrush isn’t much of a weapon. Even a knife from the kitchen might not be enough. I need a better plan. I go back into my bedroom and shut the door.

  In the closet I find some flannel pyjamas in my approximate size. I put them on and wriggle between the smooth, clean bedsheets. There’s a reading lamp and some books, mostly about programming. The same kinds of books Lux had on his shelves. Maybe they’ve been placed here for me.

  My coding abilities are rudimentary. I open one of the books, with the half-formed idea that I could master new skills overnight and make a more convincing Lux in the morning. But I’m too tired to absorb the information. I turn out the light.

  I think about the hiker, wondering who he was and how he knew my name. Then I find myself thinking about the barbed-wire video, scheduled to be filmed tomorrow. I don’t know what’s supposed to happen in it, who it’s supposed to happen to, or if they will survive it.

  Tonight I stood by and let Donnie murder one of the prisoners. Am I going to do the same thing tomorrow?

  I didn’t come here to save anybody. I just wanted a decent meal before I checked out. According to Samson, the prisoners are killers. It was great. Watching someone like that getting what he deserves. I have no obligation to help them.

  And yet.

  I spend another half-hour lying in the dark, staring at the ceiling. Then I mutter, ‘Fuck,’ and get up.

  CHAPTER 8

  What bird do you force down your throat?

  I remember seeing Samson use a can opener on the baby corn spears. He rinsed it straight away and returned it to the third drawer down, on the right-hand side. It was a P-38, the same kind you find in army surplus stores for a dollar: a rectangle of steel with a fin-shaped blade folded against it. Simple, easy to clean, and useful for things other than opening cans. I would have preferred tin snips, but this will do.

  Someone has left their phone charging on the sofa, near the fireplace. I don’t have the unlock code, but it doesn’t matter. I can switch on the flashlight function without it.

  A button near the bottom catches my eye: Emergency call. I don’t need the unlock code for that, either. I could just call the cops.

  But then I wouldn’t get to eat the Guards. A thousand pounds of meat, wasted.

  I clench my jaw, trying to convince myself to make the right choice for once. But I’m so hungry. I might never get another chance like this.

  I can always call the police later, I tell myself. Then, as I’m about to pocket the phone, I notice the message up the top of the screen: No service. I’m too far from any cell tower. There’s wi-fi, but no network signal. Calling the police isn’t an option.

  I wish I’d tried. Then, when the call didn’t connect, I could have pretended to be the kind of person who sometimes does the right thing.

  It takes me a minute to work out how to disable the lock on the back door so I don’t get trapped outside. Once I’m through, a wall of wind and sleet nearly knocks me off my feet. I pull up the hood of my coat to protect my ears. No moon now, and I don’t have my goggles. Donnie locked them away in the armoury with the weapons. Can’t risk using the flashlight app yet, not with so many windows facing this way. I try to retrace my steps through the backyard towards the slaughterhouse.

  The dogs growl at me as I pass the fence.

  ‘Back,’ I say, imitating Fred’s voice.

  The dogs aren’t fooled. They keep growling until I’m out of sight.

  The slaughterhouse is far enough away from the house that I doubt I’ll be heard, but it’s possible I’ll be seen. I circle around towards the back.

  No one is screaming inside this time, but I can hear a distant howl from further away. Not the dogs. At first it sounds human, but the longer it goes on, the less sure I am. Could be a bobcat in the woods. Eventually the sound is gone.

  When I turn the corner, a red light blinks above me. A surveillance camera. I freeze, my back pressed against the cold sheet metal. I think of Fred, watching all those rectangles. I don’t recall any of the feeds showing the slaughterhouse. Hopefully this camera is pointed outwards, towards the woods behind the property. I can’t see the lens to make sure.

  I fold out the blade of the P-38 and stab it into the wall, about four feet above the ground. It doesn’t go through until I thump it with my other hand. The screaming starts from inside. I wiggle the handle back and forth, working the blade towards the ground. The wall is thicker than a can. Cutting through it is slow, hard work.

  A woman inside says, ‘Shut up!’ and the screaming stops. She’s realised that the Guards wouldn’t be cutting through the back wall of their own dungeon. She thinks this is a rescue mission.

  She’s right, more or less, although the details might surprise her.

  By the time I reach the concrete foundation, my arms are burning. I wrap my sleeves around my hands, grab the sharp edge of the sheet metal, and bend it outwards. It creaks and bangs, but the wind swallows the sound. I don’t have a mask, so I pull the hood low over my face, then slip through the triangle of darkness.

  Inside, I can hear panicked breaths, and the scuffling of frostbitten heels on cold concrete.

  ‘Who’s there?’ someone whispers. Maybe the same woman as before.

  I don’t answer. If I don’t succeed in getting the prisoners out, I can’t risk any of them exposing me to the Guards.

  I get out the phone and use the flashlight app to take a look around. Five shivering people, dazzled by the light, unable to see me behind it. Even with the space heater, their clothes are barely warm enough to keep them alive on a night like this. Sunken cheeks and hollow eyes. Doesn’t look very sexy to me. But what would I know?

  The time I donated sperm, a tired-looking nurse led me into a small, windowless room with a TV, a chair covered in a giant paper towel and every subcategory of porn movie. I didn’t like any of it, and the fact that the nurse knew what I was doing in there made it almost impossible to get the job done. Soon I understood why the law student who loaned me his ID hadn’t wanted to do it himself. If I hadn’t needed the money so badly, I would have just left.

  When I finally gave the sample cup back to the nurse, she told me that prospective couples often asked for her opinion of the donors. The pause after she said this implied that I wasn’t going to get any biological children. Fine by me.

  But someone else got the ID later. I heard he loved the sterile room, the paper-cocooned chair, the nurse waiting right outside. It was all a turn-on for him.

  I guess it’s all about taste. The Guards know what their audience likes.

  One of the prisoners, an elf-eared woman, her blonde hair falling out, her wrists worn and bleeding, sa
ys, ‘Who are you?’ She has a loud, confident voice that’s at odds with her frail, skinny frame.

  I shine the light on her restraints. Earlier I got a good look at the cuffs and the chains, but not how they were connected to the walls.

  Most of the chains are looped through steel rings embedded in the concrete, or around the beams which hold up the ceiling. The P-38 can cut through the walls, but not the chains and definitely not the beams. Even if I wanted to release the prisoners, I couldn’t.

  I point the light upwards, looking at the cameras mounted on the ceiling. They look better than the ones outside. Not security—they’re for making the videos that the Guards sell. High frame rate, high resolution.

  Without those cameras, the Guards have no motive to torture the prisoners.

  There’s a folding chair next to a stack of bricks in one corner. Some of the bricks are spattered with old bloodstains. None of the prisoners here look like they have matching injuries—the blood must be from a previous prisoner.

  Fred’s voice in my head: You don’t need all this stuff to hurt someone. You can just use an electric kettle, or a screwdriver, or a hockey stick. Or a brick, I guess.

  I pick it up, grunting with pain and conspicuously favouring one arm, as though the other one is injured. If the prisoners are later interrogated about me, I want them to give the Guards misleading clues. I unfold the chair under the bundle of cameras. One of the prisoners starts sobbing.

  ‘What are you doing?’ the woman demands. ‘Tell us what you want!’

  I climb up onto the chair. I’m no electrical engineer, so this won’t be subtle.

  I use the can opener to saw through all the cables I can see. It’s surprisingly tough, once I get through the rubber to the copper. When I slice through the second cable, a little red power light goes dead. I keep chopping until everything is shredded. I want the damage to be obvious. I crack the camera lenses with the handle, just in case Fred has spare cables back at the house.

  ‘You’re not one of them,’ the woman says, ‘are you?’

  ‘Holy shit,’ someone else says. I can’t see him well in the shadows, but he looks young, maybe twenty. Dark skin, dressed in tan rags.