Where There is Wailing and Gnashing of Teeth

Chapter 3: In Darkness Deeply

“Prokydatysia vysche!”

Freezing wet slapped hard and Shawn lurched awake with a gasp - one hand clawing out to the side where it met a rough wall. The smell of ripe blood flooded his nose and he gagged through tight lips until the second round of dry heaves settled back to a manageable level.

“Shvydko! Shvydko, shvydko!”

Unable to see meant unable to dodge so he wasn’t prepared to flinch when a boot swung viciously into his gut.

“Nuugh!” Dry heaves resumed immediately, his choked sputters and coughs pouring a rancid taste into the back of his throat.

“Shvydko!”

“I don-huuh...don't know what you're saying!” Shawn finally gasped, grunting as fingers grabbed his hair and yanked. Encouraged by the request to sit up, he scrambled to his knees to minimize the damage to his scalp.

“Yzha!”

Something dry and crumbly was shoved into his face. He winced at all the muscle pulls involved with jerking back. He sniffed. Bread.

“Yzha! Yzha!” A slap to the back of the head suggested he wasn't following directions fast enough. Obviously yzha meant “eat”. Or possibly, “I've contacted the police and they'll be here shortly to rescue you”, but that second one might be more of a stretch. Actually it was a stretch if Tiny here thought this bread was going anywhere but on the floor.

Seconds later it became clear that Tiny was the psychic one in the group as the bread was shoved into his mouth.

“UMPH!” Twisting didn't work as the other hand dug into his jaw, pinching hard the more he fought. Stale and hard, he nearly choked on the crust wedged partway down his throat. A lurch combined with some desperate jaw work got the bread between his teeth. Chewing as quickly as possibly, he broke it down enough to swallow – gasping as he was finally released.

“Voda.”

The next thing to shove against his mouth was the lip of a bottle. Rather than battle this time, not eager to drown, he allowed the tipped container to spill water into his mouth and spatter down his chest. Only a few gulps and it was pulled away. The word spoken just before the liquid had been pressed on him was easier to decipher – sounding closer to the English version than the rest of what had been shouted.

He had a few seconds of breathing, sickened by the sweetish, metallic blood smell, and then more one word instructions.

“Yzha. Yzha hleeb.”

Another hunk of bread was forced into his mouth, his captor clearly not trusting him to feed himself as one hand clamped on the hinge of his jaw while the other crammed the hard chunk past his lips. He choked again but the palm over his mouth wouldn't allow him to spit the bread. It was almost impossible to chew with the hands on his face, but the alternative was suffocating on carbs so he worked it down, feeling it scrape the length of his throat.