Adventures of Baskerville

The not-so-grand escape

Outside he saw unfamiliar faces, unfamiliar clothing. He smelt unfamiliar smells. He heard an unfamiliar language. Inside, he was seeing, smelling, feeling things that he was all too familiar with. Smells of blood, rust, and dirt filled his nostrils. His dark hair was matted with sweat and stuck to his dirt covered face. The frayed rope binding his hands and feet were slowly cutting into his skin, and his vision was slowly wavering. He didn't know where he was, and he knew he wasn't here of his own will, but he knew he needed to find a way to a familiar place.

As he looked around, he saw a table with letters in a foreign language, and stuck to a wall, a profile of himself, under the name 'Rory Baskerville', and laughed to himself. His captors were obviously terrible information collectors, as they had only acquired his alias, and not his actual name. Though he supposed, he didn't often use his real name; Baskerville sounded so much cooler.

Except for that polished mahogany table, which was a rather grand for a room such as this, there was nothing else in the concrete-walled room. The ground was gravel and sand, with a tattered old piece of rug in the corner, which he was sitting on. There were no sharp objects lying around, so he sighed and got to untying the rope the old fashioned way.

Bringing his arms from behind his back, he lifted them under his legs and brought the rope to his mouth and began pulling on the loops. As the rope was frayed, he pulled off many strands before finally being able to loosen the rope. His hands, now being free from their bounds, were lightly bruised where the rope had been, and he knew they'd be sore for a while. Freeing his feet, he slowly stood, while using the wall to support himself. His legs, not used to supporting his weight, were slightly wobbling as he walked towards the door. Testing the handle, he realised that of course the door would be locked, and a small sense of helplessness washed over him.

Carefully looking out the window, he assumed that there was no one suspicious outside guarding his door. Tapping the windows, he could tell by the hollow thud that they were double glazed, and that it would be dangerous to break them. He stood in the middle of the room, glancing back and forth around him. He did not know where he was, and he didn't know how to get somewhere he did. Stepping quickly toward the table, he scanned the slightly dusty paper, and tried to decipher the contents. It was all foreign characters, and could not even get a feeling for what was written. Exhaustedly leaning against the table, he felt it shift a little under his weight. Standing back up straight, he store at the table. Nudging it again with his hip, an idea suddenly came to him.

Dragging the table so that it was directly lined up with the door, he stood in the small gap between it and the door. Using the table to support himself, he placed both feet firmly on the ground and look intently at the handle. It was solid, metallic, and ball-like, with an intricate design carved into it, and didn't really suit the old wooden door. Unfortunately for his captors, this trick worked on any wooden door. Using all his leg strength, he launched himself upwards, so much that his legs were almost above the door frame, and then brought the heel of his foot down on the handle. It was slightly unhinged, but due to the force, the table was sent sliding backwards and he landed back-first on the ground.