Fall of Venus (6 page)

That’s
when it hit me. That door. It was a normal interior door. But the doorknob had
a deadbolt on the outside that looks like it was just put there recently--and a
clumsy job at that. Why would anyone need a deadbolt for a cellar? Maybe a lock
on the inside to keep spying eyes from going down there and looting your wine
collection. But not a lock on the outside--unless your intention was to trap
someone down there.

Why
I wait until now to start kicking and screaming is beyond me. Before, I felt
like I had a fighting chance. That I could still get away when the time was
right. But I was too distracted by the family pictures to take any action.
Victor is dragging me to the cellar door and the fear of the unknown is taking
hold of me. What is down there? A surgical table with numerous torture devices?
Chains and ropes and other items to keep me still? Sedatives and tranquilizers
to slowly poison me and keep me doped up and unable to escape?

I
refuse to go down the stairs so I suppose it’s my own fault I’m in such pain
after he pushes me and I tumble down the stairs, hitting the corner of every
step with some sensitive part of my body. It’s pitch black, but I feel him step
over me as I try to lift my head. A tiny click and there’s a dim yellow light
illuminating a small area above a twin-sized bed. There’s not much else to look
at. It’s just a standard basement with shelves of canned foods and bags of
grain, cardboard boxes stacked in one corner and some cleaning supplies stashed
in the other.

And
then there’s the steel trap door in the floor. It must lead to the bunker.
Every house has one. Ever since the summers have gotten so hot. When the
average temperature began reaching one hundred ten degrees, the government
rallied support for a huge underground network that was nicknamed the “Web.”
Every home and business was required to have one. Taxpayer money went into
building tunnels that would link the bunkers so that everyone could live
entirely underground for the length of the summer. They were required to be
padlocked at the end of the summer and use of them beyond that point is
forbidden. Official government buildings, prisons, and hospitals have
sophisticated security systems that require handprint and retinal
identification, in addition to a coded padlock. The consequence of breaking in
to the Web during off-season is a minimum prison sentence of two years, twenty
years if you break into a highly secure area. But our climate is warming up so
fast that they end up adding an extra day at the end of summer each year. In
another hundred years or so, everyone will be living underground year-round.
I’m glad I won’t live that long. I can’t imagine life without sunlight.

Before
I can get a bearing on my surroundings, I’m being lifted up into the air and
dropped face first onto the old, dingy mattress. It must be at least thirty
years old because the springs are jabbing my chest and squeak with every slight
movement. My hands are being untied and I think for a moment I can throw a few
punches, maybe even gouge his eyes with my fingernails, escape upstairs and
lock the door. But then I’d have Lucy to deal with. But she’s so small and
frail I know I can take her. As he flips me over I pull my elbow back into the
side of his face and he’s knocked to the floor.
 
Adrenaline surges throughout my veins and then I realize I
can’t go anywhere. My ankles have been restrained with chains. I didn’t even
feel them go on. With one fell swoop, his hand comes down on me. And then
blackness.

Chapter
7

My
head is throbbing with a crushing sensation that I’ve just been hit with a
baseball bat. I let out a soft groan and when I try to cradle my cheek I find
that my hands are tied up. Now I remember where I am. My eyes shoot open but I
see nothing but blackness.
Am I blind?
Did Victor do something to my eyes? I can make out a faint yellow glint in the
air, probably coming from underneath the cellar door, and that brings an
unnerving sense of calm. At least I can still see.

I
find myself wondering, what did he do to me? Surely he would have taken
advantage of me while I was out cold. Did he remove my clothes? No, I still
feel them. Did he hurt me? Did he touch me? Fondle me? Insert common household
items in me? Himself in me? Now I’m feeling uncomfortable sensations in every
sensitive crevice of my body. Was I right? Did he do those things? Or is my
mind deceiving me and physically manifesting those feelings? It’s becoming more
obvious that my thoughts are causing me more torture than any sharp instrument
ever possibly could. I must quiet my mind before I drive myself mad.

The
sound of scuffling upstairs disrupts my attempt to suppress my grueling
thoughts. I hear voices and hold my breath for a moment to listen, but I can’t
make out anything clearly. Then more scuffling. Then a loud bang, a gunshot,
maybe? Then two more bangs. A thump. Footsteps moving throughout the house with
a sense of urgency. I wonder if I should scream? I could be rescued. Or I could
be in for more trouble. At this point what else could I do? I have to take a
risk. I open my mouth, but all that comes out is a raspy, “Help.”

I
swallow and take a deep breath. “Help!” It comes out a little louder this time,
but still not loud enough to reach the cellar door. Once more, I try to scream
as loud as I can, “Help!” The footsteps stop.
Did they hear me?

“Down
here,” I yell out. It’s pathetic really. As if I’m in one of those dreams where
no matter how loud you try to scream nothing comes out. My voice simply won’t
get any louder.

My
eyes follow the sound of the footsteps to the cellar door. The door unlocks and
slowly opens, temporarily blinding my narrowed pupils with light.
Did I make
the right choice?

The
footsteps are now coming down the stairs, slowly, then faster. The anxious
drumming of my heart grows with each step. I squint to try to see who it is,
but all I see is a silhouette of a figure. A man.

“Pollen?”
The voice sounds familiar, but in my confusion I can’t quite place it. After
shuffling around there’s a click and the buzzing yellow light is on again. My
eyes snap shut in a jolting reflex before I can crack them open again. Once my
vision clears, I stare in utter disbelief. Kneeling beside me is Marcus, alive
and healthy apart from his leg wound and a monstrous bruise on his forehead. He
examines the manacles at my wrists and ankles.

“You’re
alive,” I utter, still in shock.

“I
need a key,” he says, holding my wrist while he twists the manacle.

“Victor
put me down here,” I tell him. “I don’t know what he did with the key. He
knocked me out.”

“Just
a sec,” says Marcus, and then he quickly limps up the stairs, holding the rail
for support. After a few seconds he comes hopping back down the stairs and
unlocks my chains.

Marcus
takes my left hand and reaches under my other arm to lift as he helps me stand.
And I’m glad he does. I’m really starting to feel the pain radiate throughout
my body. From the scratches on my arms and legs and ankle, to the throbbing on
the side of my face, to my aching muscles all over. I feel like a crash test
dummy after a few too many tests. I don’t think I can go anywhere right now.
                  

Marcus
practically carries me to the top of the stairs despite his sore leg. Once we
reach the top, the putrid odor hits me like a runaway train, almost knocking me
back into the cellar. Then I look down to see that I’m standing in a lustrous
pool of scarlet red blood. Just a step away from me is the body of Lucy, with a
single bullet in her head. I can see Victor’s legs at the bottom of the stairs
behind the front door. A wave of heat rolls over me and I feel my throat begin
to swell up again. If I don’t get out of here fast, I’m going to throw up.
         

“Take
me outside,” I say to Marcus. We go out the front door and he sets me down in a
padded rocking chair. It’s surprisingly comfortable, considering its hard,
rigid appearance.

“I’ll
go find us something to eat,” says Marcus. “You must be starving.” My stomach
turns in knots at not only the thought of eating anything from that nasty
kitchen, but also fear of being alone.

“I’m
okay,” I say. “I’m really not that hungry. My head is pounding. I think I’m
going to be sick.”

“I’ll
see if I can find some pain meds here,” says Marcus.

“Don’t
leave me,” I plead, clamping his hands in mine with what little strength I have
left. My eyes beg on bended knees and his soften, sinking into mine. He reaches
into his back pocket and hands me a handgun. The quizzical look on my face
amuses him.

“I
got it off one of the guys. It’s loaded. If you see anyone just point and pull
the trigger.” I have to admit, even though I’ve never liked guns, this does
give me a sense of security. I think I can handle being alone for a few
minutes.

“There’s
canned food in the cellar. Don’t get anything from the kitchen. I wouldn’t
trust anything from in there,” I say, gripping my fingers around my nose. “Oh!
And that girl said something about making a call. See if you can find a phone.”

Marcus
smiles, “Okay. I’ll be back in a few minutes. Remember, point and shoot.” Then
he disappears into the house.

The
sun is setting, painting a gorgeous canvas of red and orange hues in horizon
dissolving into the purple above us. It’s a beautiful, contrasting background
to the cigarette butts scattered along the dusty front porch. The hum and
rattling of a generator disrupts the silence over the countryside surrounding
the house.

Marcus
comes out for a brief moment to hand me two little white pills and a glass of
water, before returning inside. I don’t know how long Marcus was in there, but
it took longer than I’d expected. He comes out of the screen door backwards,
pushing the door with his back while holding two steaming hot plates of food:
baked beans, sweet corn, and wild rice.

“Wow!
How did you--you used the kitchen, didn’t you? Are these plates even clean?” I
ask.

“Don’t
worry, I took care of everything. And you’re welcome,” says Marcus.

“Thank
you, Marcus. This smells delicious.” Marcus falls into the rocker next to me
and we gaze at the magnificent work of art in front of us.

“The
landline is dead,” says Marcus. “I checked the bodies and the woman had this.”
He tosses me a cell phone. I open it up, but there’s no number pad, just a
single button. I’ve seen these before. Parents would give these to their kids
to call them while they’re out, but they couldn’t call anyone else. There’s
only a single number programmed into it.

“What
do you think?” Marcus asks.

I
take a deep, disappointing breath, “After they dragged me here, tied me to a
bed in the cellar, and knocked me out I wouldn’t trust anyone that they’d
call.” I wind my arm back and catapult the phone into the darkness. We’d be
better off finding our way back on our own.

“So,
what happened? After I left you?” I ask, starting to scoop the fork into my
rice. The food is plain, what I would have considered bland before all this.
But right now, in this moment, it is the best dinner I’ve ever tasted. The
beans simply melt on my tongue and the corn is so sweet it’s like sucking on
candy.

“I
foraged for some more nuts,” Marcus started, “and just hung around for a bit
waiting for you. Then I heard some noise in the distance. I thought maybe you
were in trouble, but being unarmed I decided to lay low. That’s when I saw it
wasn’t you at all, but those other two guys.”

“Earl
and Ned,” I say.

“Yeah.
So they’re coming toward me, but I must blend into the background pretty well
‘cause they can’t see me. After they passed by, I snuck up behind them whacked
one of them with a branch. Before he fell I was able to snatch that gun your
holding out of his back pocket. He was knocked out pretty good, but the other
guy and I had kind of a stand off for a while. He told me Victor had killed
you. I didn’t believe him, but that’s all the info I could get out of him so I
shot him. Then I put a bullet in the other guy’s head.” Marcus hangs his head
low, almost ashamed of what he did. Glenn would have bragged about it, sending
his ego through the roof. Yet another stark contrast between the two.

“I
wandered around the woods for awhile,” Marcus continues, “looking for you. But
since I couldn’t find a body, or blood, I figured you were still alive. I swear
it’s pure luck that I even found this place.”

I
told Marcus about what happened to me: Victor sneaking up on me, making me walk
backwards and punching me with the gun when I tried to turn, Lucy and him
arguing in the kitchen, even the pictures on the wall that drew my attention.

“Did
you see them?” I ask.

“To
be honest, I never really noticed,” said Marcus.

“I
don’t think Victor or Lucy or Ned or Earl own this house. They don’t look like
anyone in the pictures. I wonder what happened to them, that family,” I
speculate.

Marcus
lets out a sigh and leans forward, rubbing his forehead as if he has a
headache. “Pollen,” he pauses, “I’m having some, memories, I think.”

“You
know what happened?” I ask wide-eyed, dropping my fork to the plate.

“Not
exactly. But I keep getting flashes. Bits and pieces. And I can’t quite put it
all together yet. I remember my mother being sick. And people calling in to
work. And I remember…you.”

I
must look like a deer in headlights now. Glenn always used that expression to
describe me when I’m confused, shocked, or intrigued. “How is that possible?” I
ask. “We’ve never met before. I’m sure I would’ve remembered.” That’s not completely
true. I do feel like we’ve met before, but I can’t imagine why I would forget
something like that.

“I
don’t know,” says Marcus, “but I think I knew you before I woke up in the
woods. I keep seeing you in a tunnel. Not like the Web, but much smaller. Dark
and constricting. Then I see you running as if your life depends on it. Like
you are trying to get away from someone or something. I know. I sound crazy.”

I
pause for a moment to let it all sink in. “No, I don’t think you’re crazy.
You’re remembering something. More than me.” Silence consumes us for a few
minutes as we watch the last threads of the sun sink into the horizon. “Let’s
change the subject, can we?” I suggest.

“Yes.
Oh! I almost forgot,” says Marcus as he stand up and walks to the front door.
“I’ll be right back.” When he comes back he hands me a bottle of McMullin’s
Pride beer.

“Oh
my god,” I say, “I
so
need one of
these!” I take a swig, but end up chugging half the bottle. “Are there any
more?” I ask.

“At
least a case,” says Marcus. “The fridge is full of it. Seems like our previous
tenants didn’t eat much.” I finish off my bottle and Marcus looks at me like
I’m a lush.

“Oh
shut up. I’m thirsty,” I say. Marcus gets up, assumingly to get me another
beer. I stop him, “No, I’ll go this time. I need to stretch anyway. You want
another one?”

“Make
it two,” he responds.

Every
muscle in my legs screams as I rise and walk to the front door. Even my skin
feels raw and achy. The gash on my ankle has begun to swell and ooze with blood
and pus.

“Oh,
here,” says Marcus reaching around his rocker and retrieving the pack I had
carried. “I found this inside.” Marcus gently lifts my foot onto his lap while
I grasp his firm shoulder to steady myself. His pinky finger smoothly glides on
the antibiotic ointment. Shivers run up my bones to the apex of my thighs in
response to his touch. I feel the blood vessels in my cheeks expand giving me a
rosy glow.

“Thanks,”
I say after he covers it with a bandage and rubs my leg before releasing me. I
hang my head as I turn away so he won’t see me blush.

I’m
completely astonished when I walk into the house. The putrid smell has been
replaced by bleach and lemons. The bodies are gone and the blood cleaned up. I
enter the kitchen and although I never really saw it before, it looks nothing
like I would have imagined it. The granite countertops are polished and the
white cabinets sparkling. Even the hardwood oak floor looks clean enough to eat
off of. Marcus must be some sort of extraordinary neat freak. I’m impressed.

I
find a small tub, place six bottles of beer in and fill it with water and ice
from the freezer. I figure that should last a little while. I also find a few
candles and a lighter to lend some ambiance to the night.

I
ease back down on my rocker with my second beer, feeling much more relaxed with
Marcus. “It’s funny,” I say, “we haven’t really talked much since we met. I
still don’t really know much about you.”

“Well,
what do want to know?” asked Marcus.

“I
don’t know,” I say. “Hey, I know a drinking game my friends and I used to play.
It’s called ‘mirth and melancholy.’ We take turns asking each other questions.
So if I say ‘mirth’ you ask me about something happy or funny. If I say
melancholy you ask me about something serious. I can either answer the question
or chug a beer if I choose not to.”