Chapter 5 #2
It occurs to me I’m probably in shock, though at least I have enough sense to let the motor of the chainsaw turn off so I’m no longer in danger of doing something stupid and accidentally hurting myself.
“Good girl. You are such a good dog.” I mean to let go of it.
I really do. But for some reason, my fingers won’t unclench from around the weapon.
Even as I kneel beside the body, steering clear of interrupting Pearl’s meal, I keep one hand on the chainsaw sitting beside me.
The key isn’t hard to find, even covered in blood.
My fingers shake as I jerk it free from a shitty chain around the man’s neck, and I heft the chainsaw up in one hand, staggering a little as I walk to the door.
Time seems to both speed up and stand still, and none of this feels quite real as I fumble to unlock the door, then shove it open to reveal the stairs on the other side.
Freedom.
Or at least, one step closer to it.
Hesitating, I consider going back into the cell where Ariana is.
I consider pulling her over my shoulder and dragging her out with me.
Then, when I shy away from that idea, I tell myself it’s practicality, not selfishness, that stops me.
If I’m carrying her, I can’t use the chainsaw. I can’t defend myself, or her.
“I’ll…I’ll find help,” I call, my voice loud enough to echo around the basement.
Though at this point, I don’t know if anyone is alive to hear me. “I’ll find help and I’ll get you out, Ariana. I promise.”
Pearl comes the first time I call her name and heads up the stairs in front of me, though she looks back at me as I trudge up them, barely able to pick up my feet.
I can do this, I tell myself, eyes locked on the sliver of light at the top of the steps. I have to do this. I’m so close, right? I’ve come so fucking far, and I absolutely refuse to die here.
If I do, then all of this will have been for nothing.
I’m at the top before I can really register it, and for a few moments I just stare at the space I’ve just entered. Sunlight filters in from large, bright windows, and what I’m pretty sure is the auto shop, abandoned as it is, feels cheery.
Fucking cheery.
Like there isn’t a goddamn murder basement below me. The chainsaw is heavy in my grip as I walk, but I can’t let go. I won’t. While it’s not the most practical weapon by any means, it is certainly effective. Not to mention, I might be emotionally bonded to it at this point.
Absently, and with way too much confidence, I stroll through the auto shop, eyes landing on the dusty tools scattered across old workbenches and an air compressor that probably hasn’t worked since the nineties.
A door sits ajar on the other side of the room, and while I should absolutely be looking for a way outside, for some reason, I can’t help but walk into the small, dim office.
Unlike the rest of the upstairs, this room looks like it’s actually in use.
The desk is covered in receipts, pins, and a metal storage caddy that’s only real use is to hold pens, paperclips, and other small, near-useless things.
A notebook catches my eye, one that’s worn but heavily used, judging by the creases in the red cover.
Gently, I rest the chainsaw on the desk, not caring that I’m getting blood all over the papers.
If I’m covered in blood and gore, then why the hell does it matter what else is?
Though my brain shies away from acknowledging just how much of a mess I am, and I’m secretly glad there aren’t any mirrors around.
I don’t think I can handle seeing what I look like right now.
My fingers peel back the pages, leaving bloody smudges, and I look through pages of inked-cursive, lists and names and—
When I realize what I’m looking at, I drop the notebook like it burned me, though it stays open to the page I stopped on.
Female 20s Caucasian
Eyes - sold
Tongue - sold
Left leg - pending
Swallowing down bile as horror builds in my chest, I want to grab the notebook and cut it into itty bitty bits with my chainsaw.
I want to do something, anything, to make this nightmare less real.
It feels like something out of a fucked-up campfire story.
Some old horror book, or cheesy slasher movie where the backwoods rednecks chop up tourists to use their body parts for whatever.
It’s supposed to be fake, like in the movies.
This isn’t supposed to be real.
“Fuck,” I whisper. Almost in need of comfort, my hands go back to the handle of the chainsaw.
Hefting it up, I walk out of the office on stiff, unsteady legs.
Whatever adrenaline’s been running through me is starting to wane.
But I need to be somewhere else before I can even consider sitting down, let alone addressing my exhaustion and wounds.
The slice on my arm still doesn’t hurt like it should, though my palms ache where I’ve broken open the scabs over and over again.
I’m definitely going to get tetanus from this.
Steeling myself, I walk through the auto shop once more, but this time, I refuse to stop and look at anything.
With Pearl scratching at the heavy door where sunlight filters in, it’s easy to figure out where to go.
“Good girl,” I murmur, pushing it open with my shoulder.
Like she’s done this a thousand times before, Pearl precedes me out of the auto shop, and I watch her, hoping that if there’s anyone else here from the truck, she’ll be the first to let me know.
The man had friends. There was more than one person there when I was taken.
While the details are still a little foggy, I remember that much at least. The passenger, with his greasy, oil-slick smile and overly polite way of speaking, has to be around here somewhere.
And so does the driver, though I never saw his face.
“Hey.” The careful, curious voice makes me jump, and I nearly drop my emotional support chainsaw right then and there as I whirl, raising it as my fingers grope for the cord.
I expect to find at least one other man from the truck, ready to rip me apart for killing his friend. Pearl appears at my side, growling, though it sounds more uncertain rather than fully aggressive.
But the men standing a few yards away, one of them leaning against the door of a large truck, aren’t the ones from before. One of them I know I don’t recognize, but the other...
I know him.
I’m sure I’ve seen him before, though my brain is taking its damn time processing where I know him from.
“Y-you’re the sheriff!” I gasp suddenly, relief flooding me and making my knees go weak.
When my grip on the chainsaw slackens, it tilts forward, the blade resting against the gravel beneath me.
“Holy fuck. How did you know—?” I shake my head, deciding that for this moment, at least, that doesn’t matter.
I’m saved.