Fallen Empire (Dirty Empire)

He’ll save me from this mess, too.

But if he doesn’t, I have to be ready to save myself.

I dissect my tiny room in vain for the umpteenth time, strategizing escape routes. Even with a crowbar, I wouldn’t have luck prying the plywood off the window. The door has too many locks and they’re all on the outside. There’s the light bulb, of course. When I flip the bucket upside down and stand on my tiptoes atop it, I can just reach the bottom of it. I’d have to shut the light for a bit, let it cool, and then unscrew it in the dark. I could break it and arm myself with a piece of jagged glass.

My mind keeps veering back to that idea, but it’s quickly followed by the worry: what if it doesn’t break properly and I’m left with too small a piece to cause any real damage? I doubt Bane will replace the light and then I’ll be left sitting here in darkness. As bad as being trapped in a room is, being in a dark room would be worse.

In any case, my bucket is full of urine now, stalling me from that desperate plan.

I could lie in wait by the door and swing the suitcase at Bane’s head….

No, a flying suitcase won’t take out a guy that got through Gabriel’s security team with such ease.

The game show breaks for commercial and a loud creak sounds, followed by the shuffling of feet coming this way.

I scurry back to my spot on the mattress and listen to the locks open. Bane strolls in, dragging his boots as if tired from a long day. He heads straight for the pail.

My cheeks flush as he carries it out without a word, leaving my door wide open to disappear into the bathroom. Is this a test? Is he wanting to see if I’ll make a run for it? My blood pounds in my ears as I listen to liquid splashing into the toilet. I clammer to my feet, the urge to try for an escape overwhelming. But how much of a head start could I really make before he caught up to me? What would he do to me?

It’s dark out now, the glow from the sun around the edge of the plywood gone. I have that going for me if I run. Probably the only thing going for me.

Before I can make a move, the toilet is flushing and Bane is strolling back in, dropping my bucket on the floor.

With a disinterested glance at my uneaten sandwich, he turns and leaves, locking the door behind him.

I wake with a start. It takes only seconds for my mind to register the mattress and the dull light bulb and the plywood over the window, and remember that this nightmare is real, not imagined.

An eeriness hangs in the stale air. There’s no halo of light around the window to hint at daytime, so it must still be the night—

“No! Don’t!” A man’s shout echoes through the otherwise silent night.

I hold my breath and listen for more. Could it be Gabriel? Could he have found me and been caught by this psycho?

A scream sets the hairs on the back of my neck on end. There’s no mistaking the sound for anything other than what it is—agony. That can’t be Gabriel. Vlad wouldn’t have his own son tortured, not when he’s gone to the trouble of kidnapping me to force him into servitude.

“Stop! Please!” The man begs, followed a moment later by a panicked shriek. “We didn’t talk! We didn’t tell them anything! Tell Vlad we didn’t talk!”

It’s not Gabriel. It’s a voice I don’t recognize.

Didn’t talk to who? Didn’t tell them what?

Bane has clearly been paid to play judge, jury, and executioner, exacting whatever punishment his boss has ordered, with the assumption they’ve wronged him somehow.

Another pain-filled scream carries into the night.

And then another.

And another.

And another.

Nausea churns in my stomach, my hands reach for my mouth to stifle my own cry. I don’t know who the man is or what he did to earn Vlad’s wrath and Bane’s attention, but no one deserves to suffer the way he’s suffering.

The agonizing screams carry on into the night. I press my hands to my ears and hum to try to drown out the sound, until my throat is raw and the screams have shifted from blood curdling to sob laced to hollow, and then faded into silence.

But the memory of them lingers long after I hear the heavy footfalls trek down the hall, the running shower turn to a trickle, and the bedframe creak in the room next to mine—a murderer collecting his rest after a busy day.

He killed two people today, while I’ve sat in this room.

How long before I’m screaming like those people?

A slight glow of predawn light outlines the plywood, the only source of light in my room, as footsteps approach along the hall. Between the fingers of my right hand, I hold the shattered lightbulb. Several jagged corners jut out from the base. I grip my bucket between both fists.