Page 106 of Existential
FORTY-TWO
Dagne
The handle has been broken off on the inside of the truck door. Only the end of the cable shows through the hole it’s left in the panel.
“Not much further,” Digits announces cheerily as we fly down a dirt road toward God only knows where—probably my death.
I grunt in answer, my fingers creeping over the rim of the metal to try and get enough purchase on the cable. If I can open the door, I can tumble out. The impact might injure me quite bad, but would it be worse than whatever Digits has planned?
We stopped off at some shitty house this morning, and he shoved me down a trapdoor to a dusty basement while he went about his “club business.” Whatever it was, I’m pretty damn sure it doesn’t belong to the same club he displays on his back. More likely this shady asshole has started a new one, gone out on his own to pet his ego.
“What kind of leverage am I?” I ask quietly, curiosity getting the better of me.
He said that’s what he wanted me for, but so far I’ve seen no evidence of him trying to use the knowledge that he has me for any greater good.
“Insurance policy,” he answers, turning the wheel and guiding us around a right-hand bend.
The truck comes to an abrupt stop, and he twists in his seat to smile at me. I inch toward my door.
“I wouldn’t bother tryin’ to open it,” he says smugly. “I’ve got the kid-lock on.”
Shit. I move my redundant hand to my mouth instead, tapping out a frantic pace on my bottom lip.
Digits climbs out, rounding the vehicle to let me out also. I slide up in my seat, taking in as much of my surroundings as I can in case I’m able to call for help later. It’s no use; trees and cornfields could place us anywhere. I try in vain to spot a road sign, property name, or letterbox anywhere as I climb down from the truck cab, but it’s to no avail.
We’re literally in the middle of nowhere.
“This way.” He takes ahold of my arm and jerks me roughly in the same direction as him.
I stumble along behind, wincing every time my foot slips on the uneven ground since his grip tightens in response. We trek into an open field, through the rows of corn, and to a small four-foot square clearing with a scarecrow perched in the middle.
“Perfect.”
I note for the first time the bag in his other hand as he drops it to the ground with a puff of dust. His hand releases my arm, and I decide that if I’m going to die I’d rather do it trying to be free.
I turn and strike my first footfall when the crack of a gun has me diving for the cover of the corn. Some fucking heroine, I am.
“Stupid fuckin’ girl. You want me to knock you out again?”
I roll to face him, shaking my head.
“Then get over here and do as I say.”
I push to my feet and walk to the scarecrow, standing at the base of it as he keeps the gun trained on me.
“Rip that fuckin’ thing off the post.”
I draw a deep breath, eyeballing the notch on the end of his gun as I nod. The hay protruding from its weatherworn clothes scratches at my skin, yet I persist in the knowledge this crazed man behind me could inflict so much worse.
The scarecrow lies in a heap at my feet in no time at all, and I turn to face Digits again, waiting on my next instruction.
“Strip.”
Fuck. No.
“Why?”
“So I can paint you in oils, Dagne,” he snaps. “Why the fuck do you think?”