VamZombie WereWitch Girl and Demon Boy ✓

14 - White Lies

~Enjoy.  Hey, I've never asked for votes on this but if you follow this story would you be able to vote?  Seems R rated content is accepted on the Whats Hot List now.  Would really love something with a good rank.  Love you all.

Vote for Long Chapters!

-December 13, Sacramento CA -

I jerk my hands, failing miserably.  The knot is simply too taught.  It hurt, it chafed, and I can already feel rope burns all over my wrists.  It’s an uncomfortable sensation which makes me not want to move at all, even if I know I have to get up, I have to get away—before they find me.  God damn it Clarine, why this, why so tight?  She tied me up and threw me off into the damn street.

I try to stand, again, only to feel myself going forward so I quickly lean back onto my legs.  She has my knees bound together with the ropes so taught I can’t even stretch them open.  I look around, the SUV in front of me still hasn’t moved since it screeched to a halt, nearly hitting me.  I have no idea where the driver went, but he pulled a phone out the moment he stopped and stepped out.

I look around; behind me is open road, asphalt.  The sides of the road are lined with buildings, white structures with pillars; they are some kind of public government buildings.  I pull against my bound hands again and cause the brittle dry rope to rub deep into my flesh causing moisture to spring from my skin like the rope finally burned its way through to my veins.  It’s so damn tight, how the hell was she so strong to tie these ropes like this in mere seconds?

Seriously, she pulled over in the middle of the road here on the way into Sacramento, she got out and had this rope in her hand—she told me to put my hands behind my back—I did, thinking this is some ploy we’re creating.  In fifteen seconds she had my wrists bound so tight I couldn’t move, when I thought she was done there she pushed a foot up against the back of my knee forcing me to buckle over and used the remainder of the rope to wrap around my knees so tight I couldn’t even bend them.

As a final blow she took this long hunters knife out of seemingly nowhere, slit the back of my shirt right in half, yanked the shreds off and pushed for forward causing my bare body to hit the asphalt and my chest to scrape into the gravel.  I could hardly even get up and when I was able to turn around she looked me, right into the eyes, and said “Tell them to truth, tell them everything.”  Her eyes sat there, right on mine, for several seconds before she got in the jeep, reversed and pulled away.

Tell who, tell who everything?  I relax on my knees, there are red marks all over my chest where I hit the ground and black rocks still stick to my sweat.  I feel my legs going numb and have already lost the feeling in my fingers a minute ago.  If I could see them, I bet my fingers would have gone purple by now.  Tell who?  What the hell is she talking about?

Like clockwork, like God sent its angel down to answer my question, the ‘who’ came, it came fast, precise, and in large numbers.  Around me out of the shadows of the buildings, from behind pillars and inside doors, out of alleys and from behind the SUV it came in numbers. “Police!”  One of them yells, with a very large high-powered carbine of sorts shouldered high in his arms and aimed right at me. “Don’t move!” he shouts again as they seem to swarm in like a pack of wolves on an injured deer.

At least a dozen nozzles are aimed at me.  These uniforms seem to have been put together in force and without proper organization.  There seems to be a random mix of heavily armed SWAT, street police, and event two of the brown-suited highway patrol members.  Each of these officers held the gun of their class: pistols, rifles, a shotgun, carbines—at bit extreme for a single, bound, victim.

One of the more tactically trained SWAT members, full in armor and the typical ‘SWAT’ in large white letters on his armor lifted a single hand and the ring of police stopped. Eighteen, there are eighteen in the circle.  I hold myself very still, as still as possible, afraid that one wrong look would frighten some poor person into squeezing the trigger.  What the hell is this?  Why are there so many? Why do they want me in such force?  I feel my arms shake, my heartbeat rise, and can’t help but to feel my eyes dart down at the ground.  I don’t even want to look at them, to look at them when they shoot.