Page 47 of Gatling
Pressing my hands to my stomach, I squeezed my eyes shut, hoping she would be okay.
Looking around, I found myself in a large, dimly lit room, like a basement or a cellar. It smelled faintly earthy, with the sharp tang of new metal. The walls and ceiling were a glossy, fresh steel, untouched by rust.
Along one wall were plain metal shelves packed with food—cans of beans and corn, tins of Spam, bags of rice and potatoes. Stacked in one corner were cases of bottled water, a first aid kit,and rolls of bedding. The only door was on the opposite side of the room, composed of heavy metal.
“Glad to see you’re awake, my darling.”
I flinched at the sound of Olson’s voice—oily slick and sweet. When I turned around, he crouched in front of me, holding out a bowl of soup. His right eye was swollen purple from where Ryker had hit him.
I scoured my memories, trying to place where I’d seen him before. But I couldn’t put my finger on it.
Olson’s expression faltered at my confusion and he placed the bowl of soup on the floor instead.
“You don’t remember me, do you?”
“I—I’m sorry. I don’t.”
He tapped his name tag.
“Joaquin Olson. Janitor at the Brightwater Fitness Center. We work across the street from each other. I wave to you every morning.”
Vaguely, I remembered him now. But I never actuallymethim, let alone interacted with him. It was a small town. The same faces ended up at the grocery store on a Friday night after work every week. That didn’t mean I knew him, or anyone else I recognized in passing.
“Is that how you got into my apartment?” I asked, motioning to his uniform.
Olson shrugged.
“No one pays attention to the janitor. I could be wearing a goddamn pink feather boa and bright orange swimtrunks. They won’t look at me. I’m invisible. It’s like a superpower.”
A shudder rippled up my spine. It was chilling to hear him speak so calmly about it, as if he was talking about the weather or the price of milk.
“But why me?” I asked. “We haven’t even spoken before now—”
Olson shook his head empathically.
“That’s not true. That’snottrue! Back in May, you had a toy drive at the day care over the weekend. You were wrestling with this big box of toys and I noticed. I saw you. I crossed the street to help and I’ll never forget what you said.”
He was smiling now, practically giddy as he told this story.
“What did I say?” I prompted.
“You’re my hero.”He laughed. “Those were your exact words.”
I stared at him, baffled. That brief interchange meant the world to him. And it was nothing more than a passing moment. There was no sincerity to it, no weight behind my comment. I simply said it off the cuff of my sleeve, overwhelmed with the toy drive, trying to get that damn box out of the back of my little car. Grateful to a stranger who offered to lend a hand.
“What do you want from me?” I demanded.
Olson dug into his pocket, retrieved a piece of paper. Smoothing out the creases reverently, he proudly held it up for my examination.
A certificate of marriage, between Joaquin Olson and Kelsie Halliday. Horror grew thick in my throat and I struggled to breathe. This man I didn’t know—this man whokidnappedme—wanted to marry me.
“All it needs is your signature, my darling,” he said. “And then it’s official. We’ll be man and wife. We can live down here, in my bunker I’m building for us.”
Bunker.
Jesus, this was getting worse by the minute.
Olson scrambled to his feet with excitement and gestured to the shelves.
