Chapter 6 Noah
Chapter six
Noah
Waking up is… odd. It's not like taking a nap. It's like falling into an ice lake and forgetting which way is up. I come around thrashing and gasping. My lungs burn as if I’ve been underwater too long, dragging in air that doesn’t feel like enough.
Things swiftly change from confusion to a nightmare. Not a slow realization. Not creeping dread. Just immediate wrongness.
I'm lying down, but I'm not in the kennel block.
I'm not in the farmhouse, or even a hospital, although the fact I'm lying on the floor is the biggest clue there.
I'm in a steel room with no obvious doors or windows.
The walls are bare, smooth sheets of brushed steel that reflect the light in dull streaks.
The air smells faintly of antiseptic and something colder, like the inside of a walk-in freezer.
In the center are two hospital beds, but my angle on the floor makes it impossible to tell if they're occupied.
Part of me is too scared to look. A stronger part of me knows I have to.
Standing up is slow and difficult. My limbs don’t feel like mine. Slow to respond. Heavy. Like I’m dragging myself through thick water. I end up back on the floor several times before I finally manage something resembling upright.
The beds are occupied. I think I knew that before I looked, but I need to see it, anyway.
My stomach sinks when I recognize them. Frank and Derek lie sleeping on their backs, looking so much more comfortable than the floor where I'd been. Frank’s mouth hangs slightly open, a line of drool running down his chin.
Derek’s face looks strangely peaceful without the constant scowl he wears on the farm.
If I didn’t know better, I’d think they were patients waiting for surgery.
Waiting comfortably. Although comfort is a relative thing when considering the straps pinning their unconscious bodies to the bed.
Restrained at the wrists and ankles, with straps across their chests and hips, I’ll gladly stick with the floor.
“Well, at least the puppy farm gets closed down now,” I inform them dryly. My hand moves gingerly forward towards Frank’s calf, but stops before making contact. I don’t actually want him waking until I know whether saving them is the right thing to do.
“Good morning, sleepyhead,” a voice calls from the ceiling, shattering the silence with a nerve-wracking force. He sounds calm, relaxed, and strangely familiar.
“Uh, good morning?” I reply, spinning slowly, hoping to find a camera to focus on. I hate not knowing where to look. Where is he?
“Did you sleep well?” The voice asks.
“You don’t care about that answer. If you did, you'd have given me a pillow, or something softer than the concrete floor.” I can't find anything to focus my attention on, which is annoying.
“It’s good enough for your dogs.”
“They have a pillow. And really shitty owners. Which isn’t me, by the way. It’s them.” I point at the brothers, checking where the ceiling meets the wall for a blinking camera light. Nothing. “But I guess you know that as I’m not tied down?”
The answer to that will drastically improve or destroy my chances of staying alive until morning.
“You are a strange anomaly to my plans. What should I do with you?”
“I don’t know.” That is the most stupid answer I could have given. I do know. He should absolutely let me live, but my tongue isn’t quite ready to plead for my life. “Maybe I could ask a question instead?”
“Of course. How can I assist you?”
“Is Honey okay?”
“Who or what is Honey?” The voice asks calmly.
“The dog. I was holding a dog.”
“Ah yes. She is back safe and perfectly well in her bed, awaiting the arrival of the day staff.”
“Day staff,” I chuckle humorously. “I am the day staff. And the night staff. And the weekend cover. I’m everyone except the people who get paid.”
“What is your name? Who are you?” The voice asks sternly, as if that answer is somehow inconvenient.
“My name is Noah. As for who I am, I'm the guy who opened the door for you.”
“Why? Why would you do that?” The voice doesn't rise with the question. He's interested, but not surprised.
“Because someone should care about the dogs. They over-breed the dogs for profit and don't care about them beyond their value. That's why I opened the door. I thought you were there because of the dogs. I thought you were there to save them.”
“So you were carrying the dog to help me?” There’s a hint of amusement in the faceless voice.
I hesitate, resting my hand on the corner of Frank’s table to steady my body.
“Yes. Was I stupid to think you were a good man?”
For a while there is nothing, just me straining to hear his next comment.
“So what happens now?” I'm here, like it or not. He’s already decided what happens to me. He isn’t going to let me live now he's brought me here. But I have to finish my goal. I let him in to save the dogs, and I'm not dying this close to that outcome.
“What do you want to happen now?”
“I'd like the dogs saved. Home the puppies, and let the mummies retire and live happily for the rest of their lives. They’ve done enough. No one is going to find them unless you tell them the dogs are alone.”
“I meant about you.”
“I'm in a locked room somewhere with a mysterious captor. I'm not really in a position to decide. But you have the power to save the dogs.”
“Why do you think that?” He’s testing me now.
I can't hold back my chuckle and then shrug. He can see me; the alternative is that he was talking randomly to the room, waiting for someone to wake up.
“Do you want to die?” The voice asks bluntly.
“No. I do not want to die.” I make that perfectly clear. “Is there anything I can do to make that possible?”
“Answer my questions.”
“Okay. Please. Ask me anything.”
“Why do you think I can save the dogs?”
“You broke into an illegal puppy farm and knocked out the owners and staff. You brought us all here. So either you hate puppy farms, or the Brothers Grimm owe someone money and you're some kind of incentive.”
“Money. I was after the money.”
“Which you would have got after hunting the house. We sold ten pups last week, all cash, and it's still in the safe. You got that, right?”
He wasn't there for the money. That was clear the minute he told me he'd put Honey back to bed. Well, his motives were clear the moment he opened his mouth, but that's best left as my secret for now. I know exactly who he is.
“You're really more worried about the dogs than yourself?”
“You really find that hard to believe?” I huff. “I thought you cared, too.”
“I do not.” His words are sharp and blunt, not the tone I’m used to hearing from him.
I take a sharp breath, fuming at his words, at my captivity, at the fact that no one is there to feed the dogs. “Honey could be in labor. She could be having her puppies all alone. No one checking. No one there to help her.”
“So, what do I care?”
“You’re a monster.”
“You're dehydrated.” That is probably true, but nowhere near the point.
“You're all false kindness, pretending you care about people and animals. But it's all fake, isn't it? Just acting up for the camera, because deep down, you only care about the money. Just like everyone else.”
Silence fills the room. He doesn't reply.
“Oh.” I just played my trump card because I got frustrated. I revealed I know who he is, now he has no choice but to kill me.
The calm voice. The careful questions. The clinical way he talks about everything.
I’ve watched him on television dozens of times while cleaning kennels and bottle-feeding puppies. I listen to his podcast every night while I try to sleep.
Dr Rhys Calder.
The vet who saves animals.
And apparently, he kidnaps people too.
“Oh god.” Stupid me. Only open my mouth to put my foot in, as my father always used to say.
I back away from… the wall in front of me. When my back hits the other wall, my body gives up before my mind catches up. My knees buckle and I sit, hunched in a ball, as if I can make myself smaller. Harder to notice. Harder to end.