Hell on Wheels (Black Knights Inc. #1)(76)
***
The iron taste of blood filled Nate’s mouth as he frantically gnawed through thick ropes caked with sand and God only knew what else. He had to get out of this six-by-ten and find Grigg.
Sweet Jesus, he’d almost gone crazy listening to Grigg’s screaming.
Now everything was quiet. Too quiet.
Previously, when their captors left to tie on their daily drunk, he and Grigg whispered through the thick mud walls of the hut, giving each other encouragement, trying to determine why they were here, wracking their brains and their beaten bodies to figure out a way to break free. But he’d bellowed Grigg’s name over and over for ten long minutes with no reply before beginning on his ropes in frantic earnest, all gnashing teeth that were no longer careful about what was rope and what was skin.
“Grigg!” he screamed again. “Answer me, goddamn—” He bent over, ravaged by an attack of deep, wet coughing.
Their captors delighted in waterboarding him. “The American Way,” or so they laughingly claimed. And yep, Nate was pretty sure he had a corresponding “American” case of pneumonia setting in.
When the coughing finally subsided and he could suck in a tortured breath—goddamn, it felt like he swallowed fire—he spit bright red blood into the powdery sand at his feet.
Shit. He hoped that blood was just from his shredded gums and not coming up from the sickly depths of his lungs.
That would be bad.
Not as bad as, say, being abducted by a group of tangos and tortured for three days for no apparent reason other than the guys were a bunch of sadists bent on taking out their hatred for America on two of its citizens, but it would still be bad. The pickle on top of this shitburger of a situation.
“Grigg!” he yelled again and was wracked by another bout of soggy coughing. More blood ended up in the sand at his feet.
Okay, that’d definitely come up from his lungs.
So…Pneumonia. No doubt about it.
Oh, happy happy, joy joy and a double f*ck.
He went back to work with his teeth on the tough ropes securing his hands together in front of him…and Yahtzee! His left binding unraveled into a frayed mess. Quickly freeing his right hand, he attacked the ropes tied around his ankles. The knots were swollen from his blood seeping into the fibers—the tattered things had soaked up the red stuff like a strand of vampires—and they were so tight he nearly ripped off a fingernail trying to loosen them. After much cursing and praying, they finally came free. Hallelujah.
He stood…
Whoa.
The world went all weird and wacky.
He screwed the old peepers drum tight and swallowed, forcing himself to breathe deep. It helped, if only a little, considering the room—his lovely prison for the last three days—was pretty ripe with the metallic scent of freshly spilled blood and the far more foul perfume of his own excrement.
Finally, after a few more steadying breaths, he was able to move forward without the walls going all Tilt-a-Whirl. Grabbing his KA-BAR from the rickety wooden table where his captors had left it, he grimaced. Oh, buddy, how they’d exulted in using his own knife to skewer his thigh to the chair. Twice.
He glanced down at his swollen, bloodied leg and felt his stomach heave. If he didn’t get some medical attention and a robust infusion of antibiotic on the double, he’d be lucky to keep that leg. It was already oozing smelly, green puss in a slow, thick river down to his knee.
Shit, shit, shit!
He wanted very badly to yell Grigg’s name again, but he knew he’d crash headlong into another coughing fit, so he kept his big trap shut, instead using his strength to shuffle over to try the door.
Locked.
Of course. He couldn’t be that lucky.
He tried prying the lock open with his knife, but the sucker was made from inch-thick, pre-World War II industrial strength iron and wasn’t about to budge.
“Fuck!” he yelled, stabbing his knife into the wooden door and immediately doubling over to hack up more bright blood.
Jesus, Mary, and Joseph, he was in bad shape.
When he was finally able to stand, he wiped the back of his hand over his mouth, and—Hello. What a happy sight to meet his watering, bloodshot eyes. His knife was wedged in the aging wood, the deadly sharp blade protruding all the way to the other side.
Well, sometimes miracles do happen, he thought.
Grabbing the knife’s hilt, he pulled the blade free and examined the wood.
Dry rot.
“Okay, Grigg,” he whispered, taking a limping step back, “I’m coming, buddy.”
He dug his toes into the loose sand, got some good traction, and lurched forward with everything he had, slamming his shoulder into the door.
Sweet lovin’ Lord! He felt some ribs give way.
Luckily, that wasn’t all that gave way. The wood up by the door’s hinges splintered heavily upon impact—giving up the ghost with a satisfying crack.
He held on to his fractured rib cage until he could breathe without wanting to die, then, grimacing, he stepped back only to run and throw himself against the door again.
Blam! The whole goddamned dry-rotted thing flew off the hinges, and he and it landed with a hard crash out in the hall.
He didn’t wait to catch his breath—he was a bit afraid to, afraid a deep breath might send one of those loose ribs slam-bam into his lung. Scrambling up, he ignored the pain and dizziness and ran to the room next door, quickly twisting the lock. When he burst in, he stumbled to a shocked, sickened halt.