"I am shot, Robert.Shot. Be reasonable. I have lost alotof blood, you know. Also, wherever we are going, I do not want to go. I know I am dead, but I do not want to die."
The knife needles into my side. "Shut up andwalk, damn you."
I stumble forward, dizzy and wobbly. "I'm trying, damn you."
"I will leave you here for the rats, if I must."
"That does not sound like an enjoyable plan. But then, I don't think my enjoyment is your primary intent."
"You are maddening."
"You are going to die, Robert. You know that, do you not?"
"Death comes to us all. You first. You and Lash."
"Cute. It's cute that you think you will win."
This time, the knife doesn't just dig, it sinks into flesh. I twist away and drop to my knees, groaning.
Pugli is beside me, and the knife edge is at my throat, either hot or cold at my Adam's apple. "I have had enough of your delirious ramblings, Caleb. I have plans for you, but they don't require your tongue. So please, keep talking." The flat of the knife blade rests on my lower lip. "I would quite enjoy cutting your tongue out of your fucking mouth."
"Mmmm," I hum, not daring to move my lips. “Mmm-hmm.”
I hear something in the distance—voices. Familiar ones. To cover, I cough, lurch to my feet, and slap my soles noisily against the floor. Distract, distract.
Tricky when he's about to cut my tongue out.
It is only a slight exaggeration to trip and stumble from one side of the endless hallway to the other, caroming off walls like a drunkard, and the groans of pain at each impact of my shoulder send agony lancing through my wounds.
It has the intended effect, though: Pugli snarling in annoyance, hurrying after me. "Stay on your damned feet, would you? Just walk."
"You…" I fight the fuzziness, and whatever I was going to say is forgotten.
"…ahead…" I hear an echo of a voice, and I slam into a wall again, and the chair Pugli has had me dragging around clangs and echoes in the narrow, low-ceilinged space.
"Did you hear that?" Pugli says, stopping behind me. "I heard someone speaking."
"The rats, perhaps? They are large enough. I saw one wearing robes, I believe. Perhaps it was Master Splinter." I hum theTeenage Mutant Ninja Turtlestheme song.
He only snarls wordlessly.
Ahead, the darkness takes a different shape, a different quality—darker. Solid. A door. He yanks it open and shows me through. I stumble and hit the ground, rolling and landing on my back, the chair awkwardly and painfully stuck beneath me.
"Can we dispense with the damned chair?" I grumble.
Pugli is silent. And then the flashlight sweeps over me, illuminating yet another massive, echoing chamber. No drips here, and no light. The beam sweeps along a section of wall, and then stops on a door—a huge one, from the quick glimpse I got.
Pugli yanks me to my feet, shoves me forward a dozen or so steps, stops me, kicks the chair open, and slams down into it. Zip ties around my feet again, binding me to the chair once more.
I watch with curiosity as Pugli sweeps the light over old hunks of machinery, now long dead. Wires, cords, and cables lay tangled in serpentine knots. It lands on a gasoline generator—a new one. Pugli yanks the starter a few times, and then the machine rattles and chugs to life, and a lightbulb overhead flickers to life.
I'm on a pedestal of some sort. A giant hydraulic press? I look up: yes, I'm sitting inside a god-sized industrial hydraulic press.
This doesn't bode well.
Pugli locates the control panel—to which the generator is connected—and presses a button. Above, the press grinds to life, lowering and lowering and lowering slowly, millimeter by millimeter.
Oh, that's nefarious.
