Save Yourself | Petekey | Danger Days

Three - Never Coming Home

The camp was exactly as one would expect it to look — at first glance at least. Past the tents and remnants of an unlit campfire was what looked like an abandoned diner. If you looked closer, through the nearly-opaque with grime windows, you could see it had been set up with a large weapons rack display on the back wall. In front of the small building were four parked motorcycles and two cars (all looked old and used, yet still capable and in fine condition).

Refusing to say anything more, the four men exited the vehicle, leaving Pete tied to the back. The sun crawled across the sky. Hours passed. He tried yelling and kicking, even found a way to unmount from the trunk area and stand beside the car, but then could not climb back in and was left standing (the rope wasn't long enough for him to sit) beside the car, his wrists pained from the rope digging into his already injured flesh and his shoulder uncomfortable from the position. The pain in his leg, head, and stomach only grew as time passed and he started to feel the after-effects of the chloroform.

The sky had sufficiently darkened, the sun half-hidden behind grey clouds and mountain ranges in the distance. The balls of Pete's feet throbbed from standing for so long, so he hung lazily from the rope. Just as he began to lose hope, a bell rang in the distance and out came the redhead from earlier. Pete straightened his legs, the pain in his knee growing with the motion, and squinted his eyes against the setting sun. The blonde trailed behind closely, both men marching with such confidence and power.

"What are you going to do to me?" Pete called out as they approached. The blonde reached behind his jeans, having now shed his jacket, and pulled something out, the mystery tool glinting in the sunlight. "Answer me!" he demanded, anger boiling underneath his bruised skin as he yanked on the rope in another failed attempt to free himself. The two still-unnamed men stood only inches from him now. The blonde held something in the air which Pete identified as a pocket knife. His heart sped and he pressed his eyes shut as it neared his skin. Snip.

"Move," the redhead said, uninterest laced in his voice. Pete opened his eyes to see that his hands were now free. Instantly, he held them close to his chest, rubbing the red marks that had formed along both wrists. The sudden change in position made his shoulder hurt. He winced and began to limp after the two men. They walked around the jeep and made their way over to the unoccupied tents. The redhead (who seemed to be in charge) pointed to a tree and Pete walked over to it, slumping down against the weak trunk, wincing and groaning in pain all the way down until he felt the warm cushion of sand beneath him. "So, what's your name?" The redhead kneeled in front of him. Pete noticed the blonde had placed down a bucket of murky water beside them, an equally dirty cloth hanging off the edge.

"You care?" he snapped. The redhead just stared at him as if he hadn't said anything and waited for the answer he wanted. "It's Pete," he mumbled in response after a moment's consideration.

"Well, Pete." He stretched his arm to the side and grabbed the cloth off the bucket, dipping it into the water and twisting it until the excess water finished dripping off. "What are you doing here?" He shook the cloth over the bucket and grabbed Pete's arms. From a distance, it would appear gentle, but his nails dug into Pete's flesh to make sure he wouldn't resist. Pete gulped and pulled his body away. He found himself looking to the blond, who was perched upon a log a few feet away.

He shook his head as the cold fabric touched his skin. "I wish I knew." Both the men sent him a half-hidden confused glance and the man moved on to the other hand. "I just woke up here a little bit before you guys picked me up. I don't know what happened. I don't even know where 'here' is." The tender flesh of his wrists had turned pink, but the dirt and dried blood had begun to wash away. Without making eye-contact, he felt the redhead's eyes on him, his glare boring into his eyes as if trying to find a lie. Once he seemed satisfied, he stood and tossed the cloth back onto the edge of the bucket and went to consult with the other. They whispered to each other for a while, until the redhead looked back at Pete and nodded, walking away. Pete watched him leave and heard sand crunch under the other man's boots as he approached, taking his counterpart's earlier position next to the bucket. He picked up the cloth and repeated the action of wetting and squeezing it. He hesitated and the two men locked eyes.