Chapter 5 Vivianne Drowning
FIVE
Vivianne: Drowning
I yank against the restraints. My heart races, and all I want is to curl into a ball and wait for someone to save me, but there isn't anyone.
No one knows where I am.
The psycho who kidnapped me intimates Paul will come, but what can he do?
A choked cry forces itself up and out of my throat.
A strangled thing, it squeaks into the emptiness of the hellhole I find myself in.
A drop of water runs down my cheek. It could be a tear or a splatter of cold water raining down on me.
That bastard taped a hose to the top of the deathtrap he placed me in.
Strapped to a chair, bound at my hands and feet, I'm not going anywhere.
There's no way this is the end of the road. I, Vivianne Faulks, am not going to die in a dark warehouse, drowned in a creepy contraption meant for a horror movie. There has to be a way out, and I need to find it soon.
Already, the water rises past my ankles and moves up my shins. It pours in a steady stream, splashing over me during its fall. It has nowhere to go. And it's frighteningly cold.
My prison slowly fills. Soon, it will reach over my head.
I struggle and try to stand, but the chair is bolted to the floor. My feet are bound to the legs, my wrists secured to the armrests. Other than the steady cascade of water, there's no other sound.
My captor left me to my fate, fading back into the darkness until he disappeared altogether.
The cold barely matters. Every natural body movement is on hold. Even my shivers seem to have paused as the reality of my fate settles in.
What should I do?
My body should be soaked in sweat, but it's impossible to tell what's sweat and what's moisture from the drops that splash on my dress.
A throbbing settles behind my eyes, and my ears vibrate with a high-pitched buzz.
The thumping of my heart adds to the incessant noise, sending blood surging past my ears and intensifying the buzzing roar in my head.
My fingers curl into fists, nails digging into the soft flesh of my palms. I've likely drawn blood by now, but it doesn't matter.
Nothing matters.
The rapidity of my breaths intensifies. For now, oxygen floods my lungs, moving in and out with unceasing regularity. Soon, water will take the place of air.
My breaths will slow.
Stop.
My heart…
I turn my eyes upward, once again examining the confines of my prison. There's no way out. My gut churns with tense cramps, but I can't let it overwhelm me.
Not now.
Not when I have little time left to escape this hell.
Seconds turn to minutes. Time marches on. Water fills my prison, rising to my shins, creeping over my knees, crawling over my waist, swallowing my shoulders.
I thrash against the bindings as the inevitability of my fate approaches. But there's no rescue, and all my efforts to free myself result in the bindings around my wrists cinching down tighter than ever before.
With my circulation cut off, I no longer feel my fingers or hands, and even my feet suffer the same effects. Not that it will matter much longer. The chill water steals my heat, plunging my core temperature to a dangerous level. I've stopped shivering, and that's probably a bad sign.
The water laps at my lips, and I press them closed. Tilting my head back, I lift my nose above the encroaching water.
But that will only buy me a few minutes.
The water level rises.
I break the surface with superhuman effort, lengthening my spine and gaining a few precious millimeters. Gulping at the air, I find myself under the water again.
My heart hammers against my ribs. There's no one to hear my screams. When I can no longer hold my breath, I struggle again. Stretching and pushing against the chair, I lift my nose above the surface and fill my lungs.
Then, with barely a splash, I'm under again.
This time, there's no fighting it. Soon, oxygen deprivation will steal my thoughts, and my life will end. Every cell in my body screams for oxygen, and the urge to breathe becomes unbearable.
I need to breathe, but if my instincts override my self-control, I'll flood my lungs with water. I'm not ready to die. I want to be saved.
Rescued.
Darkness envelops me. The water closes in, filling me with the oppressiveness of my impending death. I hold my breath as long as I can, struggling to fight the aching burn.
Red splotches dance behind my lids. I squeeze them tight, unwilling to watch my eventual end as it approaches, but it doesn't matter if my eyes are open or closed. The urgent need for air makes my chest ache and my heart pound.
A splash. The water moves. Someone grabs my wrists. They tug as my vision turns black. I sink into the blackness. I open my mouth, gasping for air, only to feel the press of lips sealed against mine.
Hot, moist air floods my lungs, and my eyes pop open.
In my watery grave, an angel.
Paul cups his hand over my mouth. He pinches my nose. My lungs hurt. They hurt so much. He kicks off the floor, leaving me strapped to the chair, and heads up.
Then he returns.
His lips find mine… again. They form a seal around my mouth. Air floods out of my nose in a stream of bubbles. Then he breathes out, exhaling air into my lungs.
The next few minutes pass in a fog. Paul breathes for me, kicking to the surface before returning to feed my lungs. He does that several times and then places a finger over my lips. I understand and nod.
More splashing follows. A banging sound. Something hard slides against my skin. A sharp yank angles away from my wrist, and my left hand floats free. More kicking.
Paul gives me another breath.
Water swirls around us as his body twists. All the while, Paul continues to breathe for me. He slides what must be a knife against the bone of my ankle and saws back and forth. My lungs scream for air.
My left leg is free.
Paul pulls me against him, lifting me until my head breaches the surface. I gasp. I tug in breath after breath, filling my lungs with precious air. Then I'm coughing hard.
He ducks back under the surface. Now that I can stand and am no longer confined to that chair, the water reaches chest-high. After more tugging, that sawing sensation, he frees my right leg.
Popping back to the surface, he takes in a deep breath of his own. Then he grabs me and hugs me tight against his chest.
"Vivianne…are you…"
My arms feel like lead weights, and my body, previously shiver-free, shakes like a leaf. I wrap them around his neck and sob against his chest.
"You found me."
He sweeps back the wet tangles of my hair from my face and cups my chin.
"I was nearly too late."
"Paul—"
He hushes me, placing a finger over my lips. "Let's get you out of here. Your skin is ice-cold."
Indeed, I'm shivering again.
It takes some maneuvering, but Paul pulls me out of the tank. Water sluices off my body. My evening gown is ruined and clings to my body, but I only care about each wonderful breath surging into my lungs.
"Come, we need to get out of here."
A glance at the floor, the puddle of water beneath our feet, and the open and empty crate.
"No." I cry out as Paul pulls me away. There's only one reason that crate is here. "No!"
A shot rings out, and Paul lurches. His eyes open wide, and he glances down. Crimson spreads across his belly.
My scream rattles the rafters, and I catch him as he collapses into my arms.
A voice speaks from the darkness. "Miss Faulks, I suggest you run."
No way in hell will I leave Paul after he saved me.
Clutching him tight against my side, I support most of his weight. Together, we move to the opposite side of the cistern, away from what looks to be the only entrance, but also out of the line of the gun sight.
"What now?"
Paul grits his teeth against the pain but then takes a deep breath. Agony twists his features. With a shaky hand, he points to a metal set of stairs. "That door. If it's unlocked, we exit there."
A small service door sits at the top of the stairs. I don't know how to get Paul up the steps, and his wound needs tending.
He pulls out his leather belt, grimacing with each movement, and then yanks the wet shirt over his head.
"Did the bullet go all the way through?" He turns, and I examine his back.
Sure enough, an exit wound gapes and blood spreads outward.
"Yes."
"Good." He wads his shirt and wraps it around his side. Then he fumbles with the belt.
I understand his intent and secure the belt in place.
"Tighter." He grunts. "It needs to be tighter."
Complying with his direction, I give another glance up the metal stairs.
"How am I—"
"I can make it, but I need you to be brave. I need you to head up there and open that door. I'll be right behind you."
One glance at that landing confirms my fears.
Whoever is shooting at us will have a clean shot. I have to open the door and hold it while Paul struggles up the stairs, all the while praying the man with the gun has poor aim.
I don't think that will be the case. My value alive is easily a thousand times higher than dead. I won't be the target. Paul has come to the same conclusion. The door is metal. All I have to do is shut it before another shot hits something more vital than Paul's side.
"You ready?"
No. I will never be ready for this, but staying put isn't an option.
"As I'll ever be. You promise to be right behind me?"
"I'm only going to wait a moment. The cistern gives us cover only until the last few steps. I need to make sure you can open that door."
"Okay."
A squeeze to his hand and a kiss on his cheek. I take a fortifying breath. Cold weighs my entire body, but some circulation returns to my arms and legs. I can make it up a few stairs.
And I do.
I dash up the stairs. It's more of a drunken stagger.
Hypothermia from my immersion saps more of my strength than I realized, but I make it to the top. A pull at the lever on the door, and the rusty mechanism groans in protest. It moves.
Holy hellfire, but it moves.
I open the door and glance down. Paul sways on his feet, unsteadily climbing the steps.
But he climbs.
Faster than I think possible. I widen the opening for Paul. When his foot hits the last step, a shot rings out. The bullet whizzes through the air and hits the metal railing beside Paul's head. Sparks fly, and the bullet ricochets into the darkness.
Paul makes it up the last step and lunges for the opening. I take one hand to push him the last few inches through while grabbing the inner handle to swing the door shut. A bullet hits the other side of the metal, and Paul falls to the floor.
"Paul!" Was he hit a second time?
I search his body but find only one bullet hole. Well, technically, two—the entrance and exit wounds.
His chest heaves with the force of his breaths, and he groans as he struggles to rise.
"Shh. Take a minute."
"We don't have a minute." He clenches his jaw. "Help me up."
I pull Paul to a stand, with him hissing in pain. He leans against me, using me to support much of his weight.
He glances down a catwalk extending into the distance. Another set of stairs heads down. The only indications I have that he wants to head that direction are his body's wobble and the lean that follows.
Taking one step at a time, I struggle to reach the stairs.