eighty-six : the hands
The room was mostly dark, but through the broken window was the faint pink glow of dawn. Sierra had barely moved all night. She had fallen asleep with her head on Eli’s shoulder, and he waited until it was a little brighter before he woke her with a shake. Instinctively, she jerked away, then felt a wave of panic as she remembered where she was.
‘He’ll be here soon.’
Sierra looked towards the window and nodded, her eyes wide. Eli stood up and walked back to the hole that led to the next room, picking up the metal bars from the floor as he went.
‘Where are you going?’
He turned back to her as he ducked down.
‘He doesn’t know we broke the bars. It’s probably better that way.’
‘Okay.’ Sierra clutched her knees to her chest and nodded as Eli crawled back to the other room. Her mouth felt bone dry.
‘You might want to drink some water before he comes.’
‘What, how did—?’
‘What he does, it makes you thirsty as hell when you wake up. Best to drink as much now as you can.’
‘Oh. I thought…’ she trailed off, and struggled to her feet. He knows what I’m thinking. She glanced down at him as he wedged the bars back into place, and knelt in front of the rusty tap. The water felt close to being ice, but she drank and drank and drank until she could feel it sloshing around in her stomach with every tiny movement. As she stood back up, she heard the scrape of metal on concrete in Eli’s room. She froze, staring at the wall, waiting for some other sound to come, expecting to hear Eli trying to fight him off. But there was only a shuffling of feet as Eli sank submissively to the ground, then silence. After a few minutes, she heard the door scrape shut. She looked to her own door. Barely a second passed before it opened. The hands were on her before she could take a step.
