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Authors: Ellen Emerson White

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BOOK: Long Live the Queen
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“Okay,” another, much calmer, voice said. “She doesn't know. Just get to it.”
A light flashed into her eyes and hands pried her mouth open,
something metal touching her teeth, Meg struggling away in complete terror.
“Put her out first,” the calm voice said.
“Fuck that!” one of the others yelled. “She—”
“Put her out,” the man said.
DARK. HOT. PAIN. Most of the pain was in her mouth, along with thick liquid, and she choked a little, her lips too numb to spit it out right. Everything felt heavy, like she'd been in an accident, or was sick, or—Jesus Christ.
There was something metal on her left wrist, then chain links, then another cuff around what felt like a bed frame—oh, Christ. Shooting, Chet and Dennis lying on the—oh, Christ, oh, Christ, oh, Christ. Panicking, she yanked at the handcuffs through the dizziness, trying to sit up, to run away—except she couldn't, she—oh, God. She yanked harder, fighting to sit, to stand, to—but, the cuffs were tighter, and it was darker, and—the door slammed open.
Oh, Jesus. She sat very still, very stiff. The man came in, his face misshapen by a stocking mask, and she gulped down a moan of fear, moving back away from him, finding herself in the corner of a wall.
He came closer, not speaking, and she held her breath, shaking so hard that the bed seemed to vibrate.
The man just stood there, looking at her, then laughed, very quietly.
Her voice wouldn't work and she swallowed, feeling nausea up in her throat. Her tongue hit a deep hole and she realized, the nausea much worse, that she was missing
teeth
. That half the side of her mouth was—oh, Christ. Oh, Christ, oh, Christ, oh—control. She had to find some control, couldn't let him—
“W-what's going on?” she asked, her voice higher and shakier than she'd ever remembered hearing it.
He didn't say anything.
She swallowed. “Are you like—Shiites?”
This time, his laugh was more genuine.
“Are you someone
like
that?” she asked.
He didn't answer, reaching up to turn on an overhead bare lightbulb. The sudden light hurt her eyes, but she kept them open, getting her first good look at him. He was tall—at least as big as her father—with dark hair bunched up under the mask. He was wearing a blue t-shirt, jeans, and leather high-tops. The familiarity of seeing New Balance basketball sneakers was surprisingly comforting.
“Are we in
America
, at least?” she asked.
His hand came towards her face and she flinched away, not sure what he was going to do. It closed around her jaw, his thumb pressing in right where the teeth were gone and she winced, trying to pull free.
His fingers tightened. “If I hit you there, it's
really
going to hurt,” he said, in the very calm voice she'd heard in the van.
She stopped pulling, her muscles tensed against the pain, back to being terrified.
“Right,” he said, and turned her face towards him, studying the right side of her forehead. “Your head hurt?”
Her
mouth
hurt. She sat as still as she could, her heart pounding so hard that she couldn't get her breath.
He released her and she sank back against the wall, bringing her right hand up to hold her jaw, shutting her eyes so she wouldn't cry.
“Didn't expect us to leave that transmitter in, did you?” he asked.
She opened her eyes, confused enough to forget the pain.
“They probably told you it was a filling,” he said.
A filling. She flashed on going to the dentist right after her mother had been elected, and yeah, she had had a cavity—only the second one ever, and—Steven and Neal had had cavities, too. Steven and Neal—oh, God. What if these people had—
“Lucky you have good teeth,” he said. “I would have taken them
all
out.”
Meg didn't even really hear that, terrified for her brothers. “Am I the only—” She didn't want to give them ideas. Didn't want to say anything that might—how the hell had they known about her teeth, when
she
hadn't even—“Give me your watch,” Dennis had said, “there's a problem with the signal.” “Tie your shoes,” he'd said, even though she was never, ever supposed to stop unnecessarily when she was in transit—oh, Christ. She looked up, aware that the man was watching her. “That bastard sold me out,” she said.
His smile was especially scary through the mask. “Looks that way.”
“Well, is he—” She stiffened, realizing for the first time that she wasn't wearing her jeans, or her Williams sweatshirt, or—Jesus
Christ
. She looked down—which hurt her head—and saw an unfamiliar grey sweatshirt, grey sweatpants, and white socks. Feeling very exposed, after the fact, she brought her knees up close to the rest of her body, covering her chest with her free arm.
The man's smile widened. “Was beginning to wonder if you'd notice.” He paused. “You have some interesting tan lines.”
“I don't—” She swallowed, feeling sick to her stomach. “I mean, why—”
“Wild guess,” he said.
Because they couldn't take chances. Because she might have been bugged. She probably
had
been. She swallowed again, remembering how many men had been in the van, not wanting to imagine them all—she would be able to tell if they had done anything
really
awful—right?—but, the thought of them all looking, and touching—“Did you—do anything?” she asked, trying to block out any thoughts.
He didn't answer.
Christ. “You can't tell me
that
?” she asked.
He moved his jaw. “Time was a factor,” he said finally.
She decided to take that as a no, letting some of the tension out of her muscles, but keeping her arm across her chest. “It's not like they go pawing through my dresser, putting bugs on everything,” she said stiffly, although now that she thought about it, they probably
did
. Why the
hell
hadn't her parents warned—because, of course, they wouldn't want her to worry. Because—she couldn't think about her parents, or her brothers, or—Josh. Jesus Christ. The school door opening, all of the shooting, and explosions, and smoke—what if he—she shut her eyes, moving her hand up to cover them.
“Need to use the bathroom?” he asked.
Definitely. But, it could wait. “Can you just—” She took a deep breath. “Were people hurt?”
“No kidding,” he said.
Oh, Jesus. “People—my age?” she asked.
He smiled. “What, worried about your
boy
friend or something?”
She looked up uneasily, afraid to say yes, but really wanting—needing—to know.
The man smiled more. “He's in the hospital—I don't know if he died or not.”
Which was terrifying, but there was something so glib about the way he said it, that she tried to see his expression through the mask. The smile was all that showed. “Are you lying?” she asked, feeling her voice shake.
“Maybe,” he said.
“
Are
you?” she asked.
“Got shot about five times,” he said.
“I know you're lying,” she said, shakily.
He bent down, the mask looming close to her face. “If he isn't dead yet, I can send someone to finish the job.”
That made her cry, and she lowered her head, not wanting to give him the satisfaction of seeing.
He nodded. “Figured you for a crier.”
She couldn't stop, and had to lower her head more, blocking her face with her hand.
“Doing the President proud,” he said.
“Doing
your
parents proud, too,” she said, trying to stop.
He laughed. “You need to use the bathroom, or not?”
She nodded, not lifting her head.
“Okay.” He took an extra pair of handcuffs out of his back pocket, snapping one end around her already cuffed hand, then bringing her right hand over to cuff it.
When he unlocked the cuff that was attached to the bed frame, her left arm fell, and it was so numb that she had to use her right hand to lift it off the mattress. She tried to move her fingers, wincing as some of the blood came stinging back in.
“Must hurt,” he said.
There was no sympathy in his voice, and she didn't bother looking up, gently massaging her left hand with her right, hampered by the handcuffs.
“Let's go,” he said.
She slowly flexed her hand. “Did you throw away my shoes, too?”
He bent down, picking up a pair of cheap blue sneakers and dropping them on the bed.
Her legs felt very tired and heavy, and she maneuvered them over to the sneakers, slipping them on. They were only a little too big, and she tried to tie them, but couldn't with the handcuffs.
“Come on,” he said impatiently. “Let's go.”
She swung her legs over the edge of the mattress, uneasily, holding her wrists just above them. “Do I have to wear these?”
“You should thank me for letting you wear
anything
,” he said.
Instead of feeling embarrassed this time, she was only angry. “Yeah,” she said. “Thanks for the dental work, too.”
He just looked at her, and she stood up, her legs unsteady. Standing made her so dizzy that she sagged back down towards the
bed, realizing for the first time how much her head hurt, how much she—aware of how irritated he was getting, she slid her right foot forward one step on what felt like a concrete floor, then lifted her left one for another. Only—what if he was lying? What if he was
pretending
to take her to the bathroom, but was really going to kill her, or—she felt a wave of fear worse than the dizziness and stopped where she was, afraid to move.
He made an annoyed sound and grabbed her arm, yanking her forward. Then, they were out in a dark, empty corridor, with a wall to her left, a door straight across from her, and a hall that went about ten or fifteen feet to her right before turning a corner. A storage building? Or a factory? Something industrial, anyway.
“In there,” he said, indicating the door.
She turned the knob and saw that it was, indeed, a bathroom. There was a light switch on the wall and she pushed it up, going in and closing the metal door behind her. She leaned against it briefly, feeling for—and not finding—a lock. Not that she had expected one.
Okay, okay, she had to stay calm. Couldn't panic. Couldn't lose it. She forced herself to look around the room. Small, windowless, the sink rust-stained. Like a gas station, sort of.
“Don't take all night,” he said through the door.
Night. Did that mean that it was night? Yeah, he would have said “day,” otherwise. Was it still today? Or had she been unconscious for a long time? Or—he probably wasn't kidding about her hurrying up.
She saw that they had—at least—put underwear on her. Men's underwear, apparently new. She was very careful not to touch anything—especially in a place like this—but stayed at the sink as long as she could, washing her hands, her face, her neck, and then her face again. Her mouth really hurt, but what if they were in a place where the water was contaminated? She couldn't risk—
The man opened the door. “Let's go already.”
“Is this water safe to drink?” she asked.
“No kidding.” He grabbed her elbow, pulling her roughly into the hall.
“I can't rinse my damn mouth, at least?” she asked, knocked off-balance.
“Try
shutting
your damn mouth,” he said.
What she tried to do, was get back into the bathroom, and he slammed her up against the wall, keeping her there with one forearm pressed into her throat, yanking a gun out of the back of his jeans and pointing it at her face.
“You want me to kill you?” he asked. “You want me to kill you right now?”
She stared at the gun—a
real
gun—a gun that he might—that he was about to—that—
He jabbed the gun into her cheekbone. “Answer me!”
She shook her head, too scared to open her mouth.
“
Answer
me,” he said.
“No,” she said, her voice so small that
she
could barely hear it.
He looked at her for a long minute, then nodded, stepping away so suddenly that she fell, landing hard on her right elbow.
“Come on, get up,” he said, kicking her, and she groaned. He kicked her again, so hard that it felt as though her entire ribcage was caving in. “Hurry up.”
With an effort, she pushed herself to a sitting position, then all the way to her feet, hunching over her side.
“Get in there,” he said, gesturing with the gun.
She nodded, walking quickly into the room, not protesting as he used the extra pair of handcuffs to chain her to the bed frame before uncuffing her right hand from the other pair, testing the lock with one hard jerk.
BOOK: Long Live the Queen
11.94Mb size Format: txt, pdf, ePub
ads

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