The Black Door

 

Chapter Twenty Two

 

When I wake up I have no idea where I am. It’s the worst feeling ever.

I look around, using my hands to help me up from lying on the ground. I look in horror at my rope-bound wrists. Great. Just great.

I’m in a room that is all black. It’s creepy. The floors are some sort of tile that is a shiny black. The walls are painted the darkest black. There isn’t any furniture or pictures in the room. No desks, or phones, nothing. It’s an empty room, and I’m sitting on the floor of it with my wrists tied. Where is the love?

I back against the wall as the door (yes, you guessed it, the black door) and Oliver walks through it. Only, he’s not alone. Rueben (the guy from the Company) is with him.

Both Rueben and Oliver walk slowly, deliberately up to me and then stand there, looking down as I sit on the ground.

Oliver sneers at me and I yawn widely, to show him I’m bored with his whole badass façade.

Rueben smiles at me and crouches down so that our eyes are level. “Hello, sweetheart.” He says to me. “How are you feeling?” He asks, looking at my cuts meaningfully, and then at my finger.

I blink. He’s not serious, is he? I’m hungry, cold, scared, kidnapped and alone. How the hell does he think I’m feeling?

“I feel awesome.” I say with such conviction that Rueben looks momentarily persuaded. Then I spit on Oliver’s expensive shoes. Which only then causes him to pull back his foot and kick me—hard—in the stomach. I fold in half, the breath knocked out of me.

“Okay,” I manage to mumble. “Less awesome.”

Rueben sighs. “Not now, son.” He says to Oliver and once I regain my breath I gasp.

“Son?” I ask. Holy crap!

Rueben helps me to my feet and nods slowly at me. “Oliver is my son.” He says. I glare at both of them, not at all surprised that Oliver is with the Company. Of course he is. Everybody freaking is.

“Like father like son then, I guess.” I murmur mostly to myself. Rueben’s eyes flash angrily—his calm demeanor gone.

“Look, this can be easy or this can be hard.” Rueben says sternly. I yawn again, looking bored.

“That’s what they said about the SAT’s.” I inform him. “But to be honest, it was all just a bunch of crap.”

Rueben looks irritated. “You’re going to tell us where the Davenports are.” He says.

I blink innocently. “And if I don’t?”

Rueben smiles. “For your sake, I hope you do.”

He then looks at Oliver, who nods and leaves the room. Two minutes later, he’s back, with a two chairs. He arranges them so that they’re sitting across from each other. Rueben pushes me into one and then sits across from me.

He has no weapons, I note. But then again, Oliver is hovering so whatever his Talent is just might be Rueben’s weapon.

“So, Skye. You do know where the Davenports are.” He says. A statement, not a question. I shrug.

“If that’s what you want to believe, then sure.” I say, bored. Rueben glares at me.

“I know you know where they are!” He yells at me. I flinch involuntarily.

“What do you want them for?” I ask, changing strategies. Rueben looks momentarily confused that I’ve stopped denying knowing where the Davenports are. He recovers quickly.

“Test them. Take their DNA, and manipulate it.” He answers. I know that he’s lying. They want them so that they can take their DNA, insert it into some average human and then kill them. Like hell I’d let them do that.

“You might as well kill me, Ruebes.” I say, staring him in the eye. “Because I’m not telling you where they are.”

Rueben looks pissed, but then he smiles and adjusts his wire-rimmed glasses. “Oliver?” Is all he says and Oliver smiles. He steps forward and presses a hand on my shoulder—the one that he’d earlier semi-stabbed. I muffle a scream and then Oliver pulls his hand away.

He grins. “This is going to be fun.”

I shudder and Rueben notices. “If you tell us where they are, none of this has to happen.”

I glare at Rueben with hate. “Burn in hell.” I say and he nods shortly as if expecting this.

“Oliver’s Talent is very unique,” Rueben says with a half-smile. “I should know, I gave it to him. You see, dear Skye, with my Talent, I have the power to give anyone—literally anyone!—a Talent.”

I raise an eyebrow coolly. “I thought Full-Talents were born with their Talents.”

Rueben nods. “And they are. But the Half-Talents, my dear, are created by me.”

I take this in. I’ve never even thought about someone creating Talents. That just seems…wrong somehow. Like, oh, here’s a perfectly normal human. Let’s give them a power! No. It’s so…wrong.

“Alright, whatever you say.” I watch Oliver skeptically. “So what’s hit Talent?” I ask, nodding my head in the direction of Oliver, who smiles.

“He can pinpoint a person’s darkest fear just by touching them.” Rueben tells me. “He can also conjure a scene, of sorts, of that person’s fear, that seems so realistic that at times its driven people suicide.” Rueben further explains. I nod like its no big deal. Yeah, totally normal. My son doesn’t play baseball, no, not at all. He makes you see your biggest fear.

“You must be so proud.” I say to Rueben derisively. His eyes turn angry.

“I am.” He snaps and I shrug a shoulder. He then continues, staring at me warningly. “Last chance, Skye. Tell us where they are.”

I stare him in the eye. “Sorry to let you down, Ruebes, but no.” I then turn to Oliver. “Lets see what you can do, Frat-boy.”

And you better believe I saw what he could do.

 

In the next minute I was watching a very realistic movie starring the Davenports, the people I most love.

First, I watched Margaret die. She was sitting in a chair, duct tape over her mouth, her blonde hair a mess, feet and hands bound to the chair. She had tears pouring out of her eyes, mascara running down her cheeks. There was a gun sitting on her lap, and then I realized why. Her hands weren’t actually bound to the chair. Her hands were free. Bawling, Margaret shakily picked up the gun. There was nobody else in the room with her, so when she picked up the gun I knew in an instant where this was going.

“No,” I hear myself murmur, even knowing that this mental picture is being induced by Oliver. It’s not real, and I know that. But it’s horrible to watch.

Margaret clicks the safety off the gun, her finger sliding in place over the trigger. She takes a breath and presses the gun against her temple. I close my eyes, but it does nothing to block out the image in my head. Margaret pulls the trigger. I cry out.

Blood, red, splattered, everywhere. I feel—hear—myself sobbing, even though I know that it isn’t real. Hell, how do I know it’s not real? I haven’t seen Margaret in days!

I sob harder and then realize that the image is gone from my head and I sigh in relief. I open my eyes, tears still streaming down my cheeks.

Rueben looks at me calculatingly. “Ready to tell me where they are?” He asks me.

I shake my head and close my eyes. I can handle this. I can handle seeing them hurt in my head, as long as I know they’re safe in real life. I can do that.

“Fine.” Rueben sighs. “Next.”

Next I watch Brody die. He’s tied to train tracks with a thick rope, unable to move. He throws his weight against the rope, struggling to move. I can see his eyes—wildly looking around for help, fear clear as day. I hear the distant sound of a train coming and I call out to Brody, knowing he can’t hear me, knowing that this isn’t real.

Brody thrashes around some more, trying to get out of the rope, off the racks. I scream for him as the train nears. The horn of the rain sounds and I scream again. Brody’s eyes become more frantic, more wild, more fearful. The train edges nearer… nearer...Brody yells for help—anyone! He yells. Help me!—his voice is choked, desperate. The train comes nearer…moves right over Brody, killing him.

I choke out a sob.

Oh, God. Who next?

Without even asking me if I’ve given up yet, the next images appear in my head.

I see Logan lying on a white floor, covered in blood. There are dead people all around him, lying in perfectly white, blood-free clothes, perfectly still. They don’t have eyes; just hollow black spots where eyes should have been. I glance over at Logan and see that he, too, doesn’t have eyes. I muffle a scream. This isn’t real, I tell myself. But then I look at Logan’s twitching body. A river of blood is running from the corner of his mouth to the floor on which he lay. I see a bullet wound in the middle of his forehead. Another bullet wound is barely visible under the blanket somebody laid over him. The second bullet wound is in his heart.

In my head, where Oliver is forcing this image, I see myself fall to the floor. In real life, with Oliver and Rueben standing nearby, I fall to the floor. The tears running down my face fall faster, still silent, and my head falls to my chest as the drops of salt-water splash inaudibly against the ground. Rueben places a hand on my shoulder and I shrug it off. When I look up at him, in my eyes there is only hate—only contempt for the man that caused all of this.

He smiles slightly. I hate him. “Just tell us where they are, Skye.” He says.

I blink at him. He’s not really serious, is he? He doesn’t think I’d be that stupid, does he? My poor ego.

“I’m not telling you anything, Ruebes.” I say, closing my eyes in preparation for the last image Oliver will place in my head. The last image that will be of Chase’s death. The one that’s going to hurt the most.

Oliver shrugs. “You’re doing this to yourself,” he tells me so graciously. I open my eyes long enough to shoot him a glare.

The images start to appear in my head a second later. I see Chase bloody and beaten, his beautiful face covered in dirt and blood. I flinch from seeing him like that and then remind myself that it isn’t real. In the twisted movie playing in my mind, I see Oliver standing in front of Chase, who is sitting in a chair, his head slightly lolling to the side.

“Not so hot now, are you?” Oliver says, smirking at Chase. I glare in disgust at the image of Oliver in my head.

Chase spits blood at Oliver, which, as I’ve discovered, only further pisses him off. Oliver sneers and slams his fist into a defenseless Chase. I flinch again. Chase doesn’t make a sound. Blood dribbles from his nose, bruises cover every inch of him, and yet, he stays silent. “That girlfriend of yours is dead.” The Oliver-in-my-head says to Chase smugly. Where physically pain has made no real impact on Chase, these words spoken by a liar, a criminal, do. Chase looks up at Oliver, his eyes narrowing.

“She’s not dead.” Chase states, matter-of-factly. Oliver laughs.

“And when I killed her, dude, she was screaming like you wouldn’t believe. I had to turn on some music, she was that loud. Can you believe that?” Oliver laughs. Chase looks slightly sick, and then his eyes turn angry. He fights against the cords wrapped tightly around his ankles and wrists. Oliver smirks.

“You son of—“Chase starts, but is cut off by Oliver’s laugh.

“She screamed for you.” Oliver says, grinning at Chase, taunting him. “She screamed for you to help her. ‘Help me, Chase! Please help me!’” Oliver imitated my voice. Chase stops struggling against the cords, his mouth forming silent words. “And where were you, Mr. Davenport? Hmm? Where were you when I was killing your girlfriend?” Oliver lets the question sink in. “Were you with that blonde bimbo?” He asks, grinning. “What’s her name? Elaine…Elise…Eliza…Elena!” Oliver shouts, triumphant. “Did you have your hands all over some other girl while you girlfriend was crying for you to save her?” Oliver spits on his lap. Chase sits, his head against his chest, his breathing shallow. I can see a tear—one single, slow tear—falling down Chase’s cheek. Oliver grins.

“And now you’re going to die. Just like your girlfriend.” He runs a hand through his hair. “Except something tells me you won’t scream as much as your girlfriend did. Skye, was it?” Oliver grins again. “Beautiful girl. It’s a shame she wasted her time with you.” Oliver wanders over to a table and picks up a gun. He smiles slowly. “But before I kill you, Chase. I’m going to make you watch your girlfriend die.” Oliver picks up a tape and pops it into a TV that I hadn’t noticed before. I want to scream for Chase to close his eyes. For Chase to not believe it. It’s not real! I feel like shouting.

As soon as the tape starts, I see Chase’s face twist into such grief, such pain, that I feel my own gut twisting even though I know it isn’t real.

“Stop.” I whisper, watching Chase struggle against the chair. As I watch Chase cry out at the TV, calling out to me, even though I’m safe. Even though it’s not real. In real life, I whisper a little more clearly.

“Stop.” I can’t take it anymore. I can’t see Chase die. I can’t let him watch me die. Suddenly, the images in my head are gone, leaving only memories in their place. I blink rapidly, forcing tears not to fall. I raise my eyes to Rueben’s.

“I’ll tell you where they are.” I tell him, closing my eyes with a deep breath. Rueben grins.

“Well, see. That wasn’t too hard now, was it?” He asks me rhetorically. I stare in disbelief at him. “Where are they then, dear?” He asks me.

I take a deep breath. If I’m going to do this I’ve got to be able to follow through with it. I’ve got to be able to deal with whatever consequences there may be.

I meet Rueben’s eyes once again. “555 Amador Road.” I whisper. Rueben grins at me and then Oliver. Oliver looks pissed, like he wished I didn’t say anything. I don’t know why.

Rueben leans down and cuts the rope binding my wrists. I rub the raw skin and Rueben pulls me to my feet.

“Oliver, with me.” Rueben says in clipped words. He turns around, walking from the room. Oliver hesitates.

“What about her?” He asks his father. I stare hatefully at the both of them. Rueben turns slightly and gives me a smile.

“She won’t be any trouble now, will you?” I shake my head, and Rueben turns around, satisfied, walking from the room, Oliver in tow.

What have I gotten myself into??

 

Reviews

[Anya]

ahhhh! i'm.. oh i can't even start to describe it. Wow, just wow...