It was hot. Much too hot. An oppressive heat enveloped itself around Sam like a thick syrup, and he struggled his way through it in the darkness. It was difficult to breathe. The warmth got closer and closer, and he knew if he didn't get out soon he'd be incinerated in flames.
There it was ahead of him. A pinprick of light in the pitch black. He battled his way toward it, the heat constricting him tighter and tighter, hand outstretched toward his escape, and then-
Gasping, he broke the surface. The lungfuls of air came in too fast for his parched throat, sending him into a coughing fit, each hack pounding into his throbbing head like a hammer. When at last the coughing receded, he moaned lowly and placed his hand over his eyes.
Awareness came back slowly. He was still in bed, still in that room. Daylight streamed in through the window and onto the bed, but what time it was he couldn't be certain because his aching eyes couldn't look out at the moment. The direct beam of sunlight brought with it added warmth to the already unbearable burning emanating from within his body. And the air and the sickness were exacerbated by the lingering effect of the drug, which made his eyes bleary and his mouth dry.
The doctor inside told him it could be a deadly combination. The high desert temperature and the fever left him covered in sweat, and he couldn't afford to lose any more moisture with nothing to drink.
Before it gets worse, Al had said.
If there was one positive, his shoulder, though sore, was at least in better shape. He no longer felt needles down his arm, and he was able to move the appendage now. And the aching in his head, while still agonizing, was at least allowing him some clearer thought. If he could get himself up, he could at least try and find some water around here.
Closing his eyes and counting to three, he heaved himself into a sitting position. Much too quick. A white lightheadedness made him suddenly veer sideways into the wall. His stomach churned and threatened to displace more precious fluid from his body.
"Oh boy..." Sam breathed, his cheek resting against the wood. It smelled of dust. "Too fast...too fast..."
He'd rest here for a moment. The distance to the door wouldn't seem so vast when he opened his eyes again.
The sound of the Imaging Chamber reached his ears.
"Uh, hey there, Sam." Al sounded sympathetic. Quiet.
"Morning..." Sam croaked. He huffed. "Or...whatever time it is there..."
"Heh, that's a good one." Not really. Al's footsteps shuffled closer. "Jeez, you're soaked. You look slicker 'n a couple lady wrestlers covered in canola oil."
"Not funny..." Sam cracked open one fever bright eye. As lousy as he felt, he still managed a glare.
Al gave a tight grin in response. It melted away as he got back to business. "You'll be pleased to know we did manage to finally get some information out of Ziggy. Leave it to the mechanical princess to arrive late to the party." He shot a glance up at the Imaging Chamber ceiling. "Anyway, we had her look up the name Susan Wade."
"And?"
"And what she found was an obituary." Now at attention, an alarmed Sam opened both of his eyes and met his friend's grim gaze. "Don't worry, it's not you. Susan Wade was killed in 1979 after her boyfriend made the genius decision to slam back a few drinks before getting behind the wheel." His eyelids lowered in disgust. "Her mother is Deborah Wade; that's the woman who kidnapped you."
"And for some reason, she thinks I'm her daughter?"
"Well take a look." Sam glanced over at Al, who pulled the handlink out of his navy blue jacket and keyed in a few buttons. The bright block of Jolly Ranchers projected a holographic image above it, two pictures of two blonde girls. Al pointed at one. "That's Susan." His finger slid over to the other picture. "That's you. Spitting image, don't you think?"
No kidding. Though both girls were distinct enough to tell apart, there was no denying that Dorothy and Susan bore a striking resemblance. That only opened up more questions. Sam furrowed his brows. "But she knows she's dead...doesn't she?"
"Evidently, she hasn't accepted it," Al said dryly, inclining his head toward him, "So now you're Susan."
"I don't get it. If Deborah Wade thinks of me as her daughter, why would she cause another accident, drug me, and refuse to take me to the hospital?"
Al thought for a moment before an idea struck him. "Susan was in a coma for a week before she died. Maybe Deborah blames the doctors for not saving her," he guessed with a shrug.
"She's recreating it," Sam concluded, "She wants to save her this time." To be her daughter's hero. In some twisted way, it made sense. He couldn't help but feel sorry for her. He wouldn't know what he'd do if someone he loved had been taken away in such a pointless act.
"Some hero," Al said coldly. While unwrapping a cigar, he continued, "In 1982, Deborah Wade is convicted of the kidnapping and assault of Mary Jameson."
"Who?"
"That's you."
Face contorted in bewilderment, Sam managed to turn his head toward Al. "First I'm Dorothy, then Susan, and now Mary? How hard did I hit my head?"
"Ziggy had a blonde moment," Al's eyes rolled sideways with contempt, "She didn't check the records outside of Terrell County. Turns out there is a Dorothy Roland from the next town over, only her real name is Mary Jameson. She and her mother moved out to the middle of nowhere and had their names changed after her abusive, waste of space stepfather locked her in a closet and knocked her around for three days." His jaw tightened angrily as he thought of what he'd like to do to the monster who would treat someone like that. "No wonder she shut down in the Waiting Room." Sighing piteously, he shook his head and took a drag of his cigar.
Sam shuddered. Poor girl. She'd escaped that hell, only to find herself in this situation. And now she was in some alien space in the future, with injuries that can't be treated or explained, and locked in one room? To her, it must be no better than the closet.
Another thought occurred to Sam. "Hang on, you said Deborah Wade was convicted of kidnapping and assault. So Dorothy-Mary-didn't die."
Cagily, Al craned his neck and scratched his cheek. "Uhhh, no, she doesn't die..."
"So how did she get out?"
The hologram blew out a deep breath. "Well, Deborah works at a vet's office, and they started to notice the tranquilizers going missing and got suspicious. So they reported it and the police tailed her here." He hesitated. "That's...five days from now."
"Five days?!" Sam repeated in shock. He blinked back a wave of dizziness and clutched his upset stomach.
"By then, Mary had become a complete basket case." Eyes narrowed, Al shoved his hands into his pockets. "She never recovered; to this day she's still living in a psychiatric unit." His thoughts were going somewhere he didn't want them to go. He focused a furious stare at the floorboards.
"Then I need to get out now," Sam's voice was laced with self-reproach, "before she has to go through anything else because of me." He hung his head tiredly. Why did the door seem even farther now?
Glancing upward, Al's expression became softer. "Aw, Sam, this isn't your fault. None of this was in your control," he assured him. Then, tentatively, "But, um...a word of advice?"
"Yeah."
"I'd watch yourself here, because anything you do can change history so that she never got rescued."
So that he never gets rescued.
Hands crawling along the wall like a spider, he pressed his weight against it and pushed himself off of the bed. The room tilted unstably.
"Sam, what're you doing?" Al asked, nervously stepping up beside him, "You can't try and hoof it; there's nothing out there for miles. You're in the middle of the Chihuahuan Desert; you'll end up beef jerky!"
"I know that, Al," Sam shot back irritably, wiping the sweat from his eyes, "But I need to find some water..."
"Oh. You sure you can walk?" Al hovered protectively close to him, as if he could catch him if he toppled over. It made him feel more useful than he really was.
"I'm gonna try my best..." Hugging the wall closely while being encouraged by his friend, Sam began to close the distance to the door. It wasn't exactly a speedy pace, and there were one or two close calls where he nearly fell over, but he was doing better than he thought he would. At last, his hand grasped the knob.
Beneath his fingers, it turned on its own. The door pulled away, and he careened forward into Deborah Wade's arms.
"Oh sweetie!" she gasped with concern, "What on earth are you doing out of bed? Look at you, you're burning up!" Pulling his arm around her neck, she led him back to the bed and eased him down into a sitting position. "You just stay right here, missy."
"I need water..." Sam implored.
"Of course. You just wait here." Susan held up a halting finger before exiting into the next room. She re-entered with a little red cooler, pulling out a large water bottle.
To Sam, it was like seeing a heavenly light and hearing a choir of angels, and he licked his lips with anticipation. He reached out to meet her halfway, gulping down the water greedily. Oh god, it felt great.
While Sam was drinking, she reached into the cooler and retrieved a bowl of soup. Both the bowl and the spoon she grabbed with it were plastic. "That's it, drink up. Now I know you must be starving, and there's nothing that makes the sickies go away faster than chicken noodle soup!" She grinned cheerily.
Sam paused, glancing warily at her from over the bottle.
"I think he's a little more than sick, lady," Al commented obviously, "It's gonna take more than soup to heal this ouchie."
She took off the lid, handed Sam the soup, and his stomach grumbled at him. Well, might as well take advantage of the offer. It wasn't bad. Clearly homemade. Deborah eagerly watched him eat. She cared about him like her own daughter; he could see that even if he didn't know what he knew. If she had that much love in her heart, he must be able to reason with her. He stopped with another spoonful on the way to his mouth. "Deborah...please take me to the hospital."
"Deborah?" she questioned with a laugh, "Why so formal all of a sudden? You don't call me Mom anymore?"
"No," he said gently, expression full of empathy, "Because I'm not your daughter."
"Ah, Sam..." Al cautioned him.
Deborah chuckled and shook her head. "Fine. Have an attitude. I won't blame you because I know you don't feel well."
"I'm not your daughter," Sam repeated more firmly, "My name is Dorothy Roland, and I have a mother who's probably really worried about-"
"That's enough out of you," Deborah cut him off, taking the unfinished soup from his hands and beginning to pack up, "You can stop lying, young lady."
"I'm not lying," Sam insisted. He knew he needed to be bluntly truthful to get through to her. The sooner she accepted her daughter's death, the sooner he'd get to a hospital and leap out. He pursed his lips consolingly and tried to explain. "Your daughter Susan is dead."
"No-"
"She died in a car accident two years ago," Sam pushed on over her protest, "I'm sorry, but-"
"NO NO NO!"
Without warning, she slapped Sam hard across the face.
"Hey!" Al shouted furiously, taking an urgent step forward.
Sam simply sat there in surprise, hand over his stinging cheek. The physical outburst had come unexpectedly and wildly out of proportion. Even stranger than her 180, however, was her immediate spin back. Deborah's scowl shifted into a smile as if it had never happened, and she moved his hand to stroke his cheek affectionately. "You're sick, baby. You're imagining things."
A pause. Sam hesitated before speaking again quietly. "I'm not-"
"Now, I want you to be on your best behavior while I'm gone," Deborah told him, placing the empty water bottle into the cooler and packing up, "I have to go to work, so I might not be back for a while."
"You're just gonna leave me here?" asked Sam with disbelief.
She stopped in the doorway, giving him the look of an exasperated parent. "I'll be back. Don't fret." She blew him a kiss. "Mommy loves you!"
"Wait!" Too late. The door closed. Sam scrambled to his feet, faster than he had been able to move since he'd arrived, fueled by sheer determination. His weight fell onto the door, but he found himself immediately stopped by an insurmountable obstacle.
"Sam?"
Sam looked toward Al, mouth agape. "She's locked me in."
He jiggled the knob uselessly, but of course it wouldn't budge. This gave way to frustration, and Sam kicked at the door heatedly. Once. That's about all he could muster without losing his balance. Growling in anger, he unthinkingly slammed his bad shoulder into the door in an attempt to ram it open. Immediately, deafening pain sent him hollering.
"Don't hurt yourself, Sam!" a concerned Al warned him. Sam swore under his breath. "Conserve your energy. Don't worry. We'll come up with something." Al didn't sound so sure. His eyes shifted around the room nervously.
Now what? Sam pressed his forehead exhaustedly onto the door. This was going to be a lot harder than he'd thought. As he'd find out later, this was going to be one of the hardest leaps he'd ever had to endure.
Deborah didn't return for three days.
-
There was no singular moment when Sam came to the realization that he was going to be alone for three days, just the slow crawling of time that gradually shriveled his stomach into coal. Well, not alone. There was Al. But he couldn't help him. He would pop in and out, whenever Sam was awake, and try to pass the time with stories or jokes. They had no other options when Sam was too weak to break his way out, and even if he could, he'd find himself in a harsh, unforgiving landscape, running on borrowed time.
Borrowed time which he was currently using, in a slightly less harsh environment. There was no air conditioning, no power as far as he could tell, and the heat came down on him like a slowly lowering ceiling. His body cried out with thirst, his lips cracked to the point of bleeding, his thoughts haunted by the specter of Deborah holding that large water bottle. And through all this his fever continued to fester, sending him in and out of consciousness.
He began to wonder if Deborah was coming back at all. If he hadn't sealed his fate already.
It gave him excessive time to think. About all of the wrongs he hadn't put right, about how many wrongs he'd committed himself. If he'd done all he could for the people he loved. No. The answer was always no.
About Mary in the Waiting Room, slowly withering away along with him, surrounded by strangers with blinking clothes and brightly colored suits. Locked in her closet.
I'm sorry, Sam thought, I don't know how, but I'll get you out of this.
His stomach lurched. Before he had time to keep it down, he had expelled whatever contents were left over the side of the bed. His muscles started to cramp at the loss of more body fluid. The air now rank with the smell of sick, he rolled onto his back and tried to shut out his senses. He wasn't sure how long he was laying there; time didn't have much meaning.
At some point, Al must have arrived. "You awake, kid?"
"Yeah." Eyes kept shut, Sam's voice cracked from his burning throat, corroded from dryness and stomach acid.
"How you holdin' up?"
"Awful."
"Ah. Yeah. Don't know what I expected." Al went silent. It was unusual for him to sound so solemn; his last visits he'd been cheerily trying to distract Sam from his situation. Had he given up on him already?
"Not coming back now...is she?" Sam knew it. He just knew.
"Of course she's coming back!" Al's voice was more resilient now, a rallying the troops tone, "We got the history here, remember? Mary Jameson is still rescued, same as before. And whenever Deborah comes back, we'll figure out how to get you out of here that much sooner. Come on, Sam, don't let yourself think that way."
He was just so tired. He wearily allowed his eyes to drift halfway open, taking in the sight of his friend. In contrast to his encouraging words, Al was plainly worn out too, a five o'clock shadow beginning to form, the wrinkles of his face deepened from anxiousness and, evidently, something that was stuck in his craw. The Italian glared at the wall and tapped the handlink against his thigh.
"What happened...?" Sam croaked.
"Ah it's nothin', just some baloney Ziggy's been tryin' to feed me..." The handlink whirred and Al shoved it into his pinstriped pants with annoyance.
"Tell me."
Al's eyes shifted over to Sam tentatively. Sam waited. The hologram let out an exhausted sigh and his shoulders sagged. "Ziggy has this...uh, theory, that you aren't supposed to escape."
"Huh...?"
"I know! It's nutty!" Al leaned to his right and shuffled to the side. "She thinks that the reason you and Mary are physically linked is because this is something that you both are supposed to experience. That this was supposed to happen to Mary, but you've got something that she doesn't. It's a load of crapola." He made a disgusted noise and waved the theory away.
Nutty, right. Ridiculous. That he'd be leaped in purposefully so he could suffer. That this was fated to happen to Mary no matter the timeline. No one deserves to...
"No one deserves to have something like this happen to them. You can't tell me that God, Time, Fate, Whatever, actually wants this for her. Or for you." Al shoved his hands into his pockets and concentrated unnecessarily deeply on the bars of the windows. His mind was clearly elsewhere.
In Vietnam.
It just dawned on Sam. The distant looks, the uncomfortable shifting, the eagerness for a distractible story. He hated himself for not thinking of it before, for being too wrapped up in his own problems to think of how this must affect Al. To be reminded of the worst years of his life and not being able to help him out of it. Sam realized Al was trapped here too.
"I have a question..."
"Shoot, kid." His focus was still on the bars.
Sam was serious. Deadly serious. "You really meet a guy named Hopscotch Willy...?"
Al glanced over his shoulder at him, at his friend's grave stare. Suddenly, his face cracked with a laugh, and Sam's mouth wearily quirked up into a small grin.
Chuckling softly, Al shook his head. "No, Sam. I made him up."
"I knew it."
All of a sudden, Al had a lot more wild stories to tell. He stayed with Sam until he fell asleep.
-
The Imaging Chamber slid shut, and Al immediately retreated into his private quarters for some time alone. Or, as he'd told an embarrassed Gooshie, so he could play some pocket pinball. Then he was sure to be left alone unless there was an emergency. No one liked to give the Project Director blue balls.
Throwing his yellow suit jacket onto the bed, he slumped down into his recliner and buried his face in his hands.
He was not okay. Not in the slightest. Every new trip into the Imaging Chamber felt like walking barefoot across broken glass, into a wall of flame. Or some other melodramatic metaphor. Point is, he didn't look forward to going back to that shack and seeing his friend looking like road kill. He didn't like that he knew exactly how hot it was, how much it stank, how it felt to be sitting in your blood and filth for days. That Sam knew what it felt like now. If it weren't Sam he wasn't sure he could go back there, but for the kid, well...he could walk across some broken glass.
But god, he hoped Sam made it out in one piece.
And now, good lord, Beeks was wanting to talk to him about it. Beeks. No thanks. He'd experienced enough of this psychiatry junk and frankly, it was a tired old road. Talking about it hadn't fixed him in nearly thirty years, so why bring it up now? It was what it was. He'd manage like he always did. Besides, this wasn't about him. He wasn't the one trapped in 1981 with no one to help him, at the mercy of some loon with the gall to call herself a mother.
Sam was the one in trouble. Al was just a broken record who had collected too much dust.
-
Sam knew he had a couple routes of escape for when Deborah came back. He had a lot of time to consider them. One was to overpower her and take her vehicle, an option with an already low percentage of success that shrank more and more as time went on. He wasn't in the proper shape for a physical altercation, even with a small woman like her, and his driving skills were up for debate at this point too. So that left the second, more reliable option, which remained convincing her to drive him to the hospital.
He'd seen the results of being truthful to her. If he tried it again, she'd shut him out. The odds of her accepting Susan's death were even lower than his odds of winning a fight with her. So instead...he had to become Susan. It left a bad taste in his mouth, but he knew his survival wasn't the only thing at stake. Not that he needed much more motivation, because he couldn't take much more of this misery.
The sound of footsteps roused him from his sleep. The door unlocked, and Deborah peeked inside. "Hello, angel. Mommy's back."
He blinked groggily, somehow pushing his shaking arms into moving him into a sitting position. "H-Hi, Mom..." He gave her a small smile.
"There's my little girl," she beamed happily, "You look better already!"
"I feel better..." Sam lied. He was sure he didn't look any better either.
The sight of the red cooler made him perk up. That meant food and water. By now, his dry mouth was cotton and his stomach had gone past growling into a dull ache. No matter what she'd done, he was happy to see her right now.
Another water bottle, another bowl of soup. The bottle was slick in his eager fingers. He choked as he tried to swallow too fast, the liquid dribbling down his front and sizzling off of his heated skin. When he broke for air, he let out a long sigh of relief.
Deborah looked down her nose at him in a teasing scold. "You had me worried, Susan. All this talk about being someone else. About leaving me."
Sam was already digging into the bowl of soup. "I don't...wanna leave you, Mom," he said carefully, "In fact...I think you should take me home."
The woman gave him a sideways glance. "Oh yeah?"
Sam nodded. He swallowed another spoonful. "But we should stop in town first...to pick up some things. To take care of me, I mean." He could make his escape then. Someone else would help him from there.
Susan mulled it over, a grin creeping up on her features. "We'll see. First you need to build up your strength. Then we'll talk about taking you home."
Sam's friendly face faded. "But-"
"Don't you 'but' me, missy," she chided him, "I know you're young and you think you're invincible, but you need to rest before you run. I love you, honey."
"I...love you too, Mom. That's why I want to go home."
"You will," she assured him, gathering up his empty bowl and bottle, "In the meantime, you've made quite a mess here." She eyed the vomit like he was a small child who hadn't put away his toys, "I'm going to get you some fresh sheets and clean up a little." And she was gone again.
Sam sat there, dumbstruck. It hadn't been much of a plan, but it was the only good one he had, and she'd immediately shot it down. This was it. She was never going to let him leave. He'd be stuck here until it was too late for Mary, and it was already too much for him. The food and water had renewed a small portion of his strength, but how far would that take him? What the hell was he going to do?
"Sam!" Al's urgent voice caused him to jump. His friend was leaning in closely, hands flailing toward the door. "You gotta get over there! Quick quick quick, before she comes back!"
"Wha...what're you talking ab-?"
"It's unlocked! She left the door unlocked, now move your keister!"
Hope stirred within Sam and lit a fire. Maybe he had more strength on reserve than he originally thought. He wasn't going to squander away the small window of time this slim stroke of luck afforded him. Adrenaline pushed him forward. Freedom-bound legs staggered their way to the door-
-and it opened. Good god, it opened. A rare smile touched Sam's chapped lips as he breathed a sigh of relief. Someone was watching out for him after all.
"You can celebrate later, kid." Sam jumped when Al was suddenly on the other side of the door, peering around them as his lookout. "She won't be gone forever. The van's this way!" He began to march toward the front door.
"Wait..." Sam furrowed his brows, his stomach sinking, "The keys..." There was no way he could get them from her.
"We'll hot wire it, Sam; I'll show ya how. Now go go go!" Al wildly gestured for him to follow, disappearing through the door. Duh. If anyone knew how to hot wire a car, it was Al. Sam had to trust him; he was too sick to be thinking straight. The knot inside him loosening, he did his best to walk a straight line behind him.
The wall of thick desert heat stopped Sam in his tracks for a moment, his churning stomach threatening to get rid of his soup. But once the physical reaction passed, his spirits lifted when he saw the van parked just outside the small, dilapidated shack he'd been calling home the past few days. His shoulders relaxed as a small amount of weight was lifted. His escape. He was getting out!
Beyond this place, there was nothing as far as the eye could see. Simply browns and golds and dots of green; measureless, cloudless sky stretching the length of it. The air bounced along the ground in waves. Even if he'd been in peak physical condition, walking that and surviving would be a miracle.
The van was unlocked. This seemed humorously logical to Sam. Because why would she bother? Was someone going to steal it all the way out here?
As a matter of fact, someone was. Sam fell heavily into the front seat and wiped the sweat from his eyes. Keeping a watchful eye on the shack, Al began to coach him quickly on how to get this clunker going.
As Sam was following instructions, he felt himself begin to slip into autopilot. Despite his excitement, his reserve energy had rapidly burned out, and a bleary fog inched its way over him. Now was not the time for his body to fail him. With worry, he hoped he could push himself long enough to get to safety. The car started to lose focus, and he blinked and shook his head.
His limbs felt very heavy. Unusually so. Like gravity had suddenly doubled its strength. Every move became more and more of a struggle, even simple things like using his hands, which only made him clumsy and lengthened the process. Thousand pound weights tugged his aching muscles downward, and he shook as he tried to follow Al's instructions.
At last, he had to take a break. His arms slammed down beside him and he slumped into the seat.
"What're you doin', Sam? Don't stop; you almost had it!"
"Something...something's wrong, Al..."
"What is it?" One step took Al to Sam's side and he leaned in closer, scrutinizing him with concern.
Sam shook his head. Barely. The gargantuan effort gave him very little. "I dunno...I feel strange..."
The hologram peered even closer now, taking in Sam's glazing eyes, and a look of panic set in. "Oh no! Sam, she doped you with somethin'!"
"How...?" She hadn't injected him with anything; he'd remember.
Then it hit him. The soup and water! She'd laced it! And now that the drug was taking effect, he was rapidly becoming a sitting duck out here.
He didn't feel tired. Just distant. Maybe he could hide somewhere until it left his system, somewhere she couldn't find him. He didn't have time to weigh his options; his muscles were turning into spaghetti.
He meant to step out of the car. But the moment his leg hit the ground, his body noodled under him and he collapsed into a heap.
"You gotta get up! She's coming back any minute now!"
Lifting his head to spit out some dust, Sam gritted his teeth in annoyance. "I'm...trying...Al..." One hand clawed into the dirt in an attempt to drag himself forward. It was as if his body weighed a ton; an immovable monument. Al chattered on frantically in the background.
There was the pair of soft white shoes again. Sam swallowed. His massive, Easter Island head refused to lift itself, but he already knew who it was. Because of course, who else would it be? His "savior." The woman who would put him back in that bed he hated to continue suffering for two more days. It still seemed too far. Could he do this again? Could Mary?
"How could you, Susan?"
"I-"
"How could you think of leaving me?!" Deborah's voice was inhuman, loud and full of rage, causing Sam to jump at the severity. Suddenly, he felt something cold and metal placed against his temple. "I was right to test you! How dare you betray my trust?!"
Sam was instantly frozen. All he could think of was Al's warning that he could change fate at any time, that any moment his luck could run out and he would die out here. All he could think of was one slip of her finger-BANG!-and he'd be gone. Deborah was unhinged, but he had thought he'd learned the rules. Her abuse came from neglect and what she imagined were good intentions. He'd thought. He'd never imagined she would threaten her own daughter with a gun.
"P-Please," Sam whispered, barely containing his hysteria, "Don't shoot. I won't leave you, I-"
The gun clicked. Sam inhaled sharply. Al was yelling useless threats. "You lying little bitch!" Deborah spat. She grabbed Sam by the neck and shoved his head closer to the gun, burying the barrel into his old wound. He yelled as the weapon dug in deep.
Al was absolutely furious, placing himself in the woman's face to issue more threats. "You shoot him, I'll jump into that Accelerator and come here to personally plant you in the ground! You hear me?!"
"I'm the mother! I make the decisions around here! If you're going to leave, it'll be because I send you away!" She yanked Sam's head closer.
In pain and terror, Sam shut his eyes tightly and shook his head. "No! Please no! I'm sorry!"
"I didn't hear you!"
"I'M SORRY!" Sam's dry lip had split open from the force of his yelling. Blood dripped down his chin. God, no. Please don't let this be it!
After a pause that seemed like eternity, the barrel left his temple. Exhaling loudly, a small cloud of dust kicked up in front of his face. That was close. Much too close.
Hands wrapped around his wrists as Deborah began not to carry, but drag him back into the shack. Barely able to move, all he could do was sit there as she pivoted him around and pulled him across the dirt; he was like a rag doll in her hands. His already sweat-stained and filthy shirt collected more grime.
"You need to be taught a lesson, young lady."
He was back in his rancid-smelling room; she'd made no actual attempt to clean up. Had she been watching him this whole time? Waiting for the drug to kick in so she could have her "gotcha" moment, reassert her authority?
When his wrists were let go, his arms clunked down to the wooden floor. She hadn't placed him on the bed. Without another word, her mouth a hard line, she exited the room, and Sam watched her curiously. Was she just going to leave him on the floor like this?
When she returned, she had a hammer and a tin can.
Eyes narrowed, Al stood protectively between her and Sam. "What're you up to, lady?"
"Sometimes as a parent you gotta use a little tough love..." Deborah almost sounded as if she were answering him, but of course Al might as well have been talking to himself. Stepping through him as if he were nonexistent, she crouched down beside Sam and set down the tin can.
Reaching inside it delicately, she pulled out a long nail. She moved Sam's hand outward and twisted his palm up.
No. She couldn't possibly. Sam's eyes widened. As the horrifying realization began to dawn on both men, Deborah continued her thought as if there hadn't been a pause. "...if you want to keep your children nailed down."
"Sam!"
"No, don't!" Sam begged, his gaze never leaving the nail. It was rusted and old. She placed it on his palm. When he tried to move, she kept his weakened arm in place with a gentle squeeze. He tried to bargain. "I'll be good, I promise! You don't have to-"
WACK!
An explosion of agony. Sam screamed and dug the back of his head into the floor. A stream of expletives from Al were drowned out as she continued to bring the hammer down, deeply embedding the nail through his palm and into the wood.
At that moment, Sam felt himself step aside. From the outside looking in, he could see flashes of another life, the life of a fearful and small individual. The thud of the hammer. A father's fist. Swearing and anger and pain. Mom crying. Him crying. The closet closed in.
A brief respite. The nail could go no further. But, unfortunately, Sam had two hands. Satisfied with her first job, she took out another nail and moved on to the other.
Al was shouting something in Italian. His voice could've sent any soldier cowering away. But this tiny blonde woman was unswayed.
Observing detachedly, Sam could hear himself scream. The nail went in. The closet door locked.
