Of Hate and Horror

It's a dismal start to a dismal end.

The concrete room--though judging by the size it was more of a closet--held only a knife, a dim lamp, a basket of mewling puppies, and Finley Reid.

It had been hours since they woke up, weariness clinging to their bones, the aftershocks of some sort of sedative. How many more were before that? How long had Finn been gone? They had no concept of time in this concrete prison, no window to show the sun setting, the watch that held a constant place on their wrist missing along with their shoes.

It was a puzzling and most terrifying situation to be sure.

"Hello?" Finn called out, their voice echoing back, mixing with the squeaking puppies to form a dichotomous harmony. They had been calling sporadically for hours with no response. They didn't exactly expect one now.

So when the crackling of a speaker sliced through the silence, they shot to their feet, the hair on the back of their neck standing up.

"Excuse my absence. I was attending to other matters." The voice was broken and distorted, but deep, shuddering its way through Finn's body, bouncing through their chest. Somehow, though, it was smooth, sliding silkily along their skin, making it prickle with disgust. "I imagine you have questions, but that's no matter of mine. I have a task for you."

The overload of information stalled Finn's mouth, so many words wanting to escape their tongue that they flipped and flopped, refusing to be pulled to the surface. Finn wanted to scream. To pound their fists to the wall and curse the voice until their ears rang. They wanted to refuse, to stop being a puppet before they could begin. And they were about to say so. Then the game changed.

"Don't refuse just yet, dear Finley. I have a boon."

"What boon?" they growled.

"Your friends are here too. In order to save them from death, you must find a key. You have two hours."

Finn thought of their friends. They thought of Freddie's impish smile, of Delia's dry humor, and of how in love they were with each other, two girls more destined than even humanity's downfall. They thought of Tatum's mystical manner, how her low, gruff voice floated over you like a spell, the way she sounded over the phone when she talked them down from a nightmare. And they thought of Nash. Kind, impulsive Nash. A Nash that could be theirs if they weren't such a coward.

There was no competition.

"Where's the key?" they asked finally.

"I think you already know," the voice answered, laughter hiding behind its words. Finn glanced at the basket of puppies, finally realizing what the knife was for.

...

The large room was filled with nothing but boxes. They were made of slatted wood, stacked and painted white. There were dozens, arranged in neat rows on the concrete, too neat. A sinister feeling flowed from these boxes, fogging up the room.

"The key is inside the boxes." the voice had said coyly. Nash didn't trust it. He knew he couldn't. When you wake up in a cell-like room, having been kidnapped, you generally don't trust the captor. But the voice had said two hours. Two hours or his best friends would die. Finn would die.

He approached the closest box, giving it a small shake. It was heavy, heavier than expected, buzzing with energy. A sickly feeling pooled in Nash's stomach. Whatever the boxes held, he was sure he wouldn't like it.

He was right.

The first sting was on his palm as he reached in, feeling for the distinct smoothness of a metal key among sticky honeycomb. They traveled up his arms, stinging through his clothes, somehow crawling under them to create a painful trap. The worst was his face. His cheek, his chin, his nose. He squeezed his eyes shut and screamed in terror, but one stung his tongue. Pain radiated through him as the bees stung him over and over, a never-ending wave as he traveled from box to box.