Page 172 of Cold, Cold Bones
Raised my head. Felt nauseous and laid it back down.
Lowered my lids.
I tried reaching out to explore my surroundings. Chainssnickedand one hand dragged the other. I was on my belly, wrists bound behind me in what felt and sounded like cuffs. The distorted joint angles and immobility had taken their toll on my arms. The movement shot fire from my elbows to my shoulders.
I tried moving my feet. They, too, were shackled.
How long had I been here? An hour? A day?
Where was “here”?
I dragged my last conscious recollections into alignment. The broken window. The snail missile atop the shattered glass. Henry in the doorway. My quick look away from her intense stare to wherever Birdie had located himself… and then the attack in my kitchen.
Henry’s attempt at humor fired up from my cache of recent memories. Her insensitive quip about the eyeball. What the hell? Of all the stored images, why that scene? No matter. The flashback nudged two other data bytes lying dormant in my id. One by one, the pair roused and snuck through the keyhole into my forebrain.
Christ! Why hadn’t I had this epiphany earlier?
Suddenly, it all made sense.
The phone! Barely breathing, I rolled toward my right side. Felt hardness against my thigh. My mobile was still in my pocket. Functioning? I had no idea. Less how to access it.
Easing back onto my stomach, I strained for other telltale noises. Overhead, I heard the muted cadence of a TV. Closer in, the steadyplunk plunk plunkof dripping water.
My own ragged breath as consciousness ebbed away.
When I opened my eyes again, my body was in the same position. I was shivering and chilled to the core, my clothing a damp shroud wrapping my skin. All ten fingers were numb. From cold? Lack of blood? I wiggled them as best I could.
As before, the movement made me queasy. I fought the wave of nausea, determined not to black out again.
Two things had changed while I’d been out.
Twenty feet off and eight feet up, a slash of light lifted the top few risers of a staircase from the gloom. The railings were wooden, the treads covered by a filthy rubber runner.
The TV had gone silent.
Shout for help?
Why not? Activity might hold the hypothermia at bay.
I raised my head. Which hurt like hell.
“Hell-o!”
I heard a softskitchingoff to my left. Pictured beady red eyes and long naked tails.
Crap!
“Help! Anyone? I’m down here!”
Pain ricocheting through my skull, I called out until my throat felt raw. To no avail.
Exhausted, I lowered my head onto the dank floor and listened for movement above. For scurrying feet on my level. A basement?
Ten minutes. Two hours. An eternity.
Finally, hinges creaked, and the slash of light went trapezoid.
Boots entered my field of vision.
