SNOWY WINTER'S CHILL
by Porsche 11 – Another Fine Pickle

This is another fine pickle you've gotten yourself into, Hardy, the older of the two Hardy boys chided himself harshly as he sat tied, naked, to a straight-back chair in a too cold room in an unknown location. Just another one of those great things you thought out thoroughly to the end. Had to test your captor didn't you?

Frank wanted to kick himself. Or hit himself. Or even knock the chair he was secured to over sideways and jar himself a good one for stupidity. He knew rule one of being kidnapped was to cooperate with the kidnapper. Period.

Dad drilled that into our heads when we were young. Over and over and over again, he told his if we were ever kidnapped that we must cooperate with our kidnappers; that cooperation was the surest way to survive the ordeal until Dad has time to find us. And here I am, paying for breaking that rule.

Idiot, Frank thought again as he struggled with the handcuffs. Damned James and his damned cuffs and no ropes anyway. And damn me for being so caught up on losing my clothes that I didn't do the usual tricks to keep things flexed so that the cuffs were loose and didn't bite into my arm.

Another fine pickle you've gotten yourself into, Hardy, he repeated again. Note to self. Tell Joe to hit you when he finds you. Order him. You obviously need a good knock on the head to remember the rules.

Frank sighed and wished for a way to remove the blindfold so he, at least, could see. He could open his eyes behind the blindfold for all the good it did; dark cloth in a dark space gave you… dark. Ever so exciting the scenery here.

I suppose I could sing "One Hundred Bottles of Pop on a Wall" Frank thought. Not as much fun to myself, though. It's a truly annoying song anyway. I really thought I was going to throttle Joe when we went camping. Top of his lungs, bellowing that stupid song, over and over again. I thought mom was going to throw him out a window until Dad finally ordered him to shut up already.

Frank went to work on calculus equations in his head and algebraic formulas. Then for fun he sang the ABC song in his head; another obnoxious song that Joe sang too loudly on car trips.

Granted, he was only three and just learned it, Frank thought. But still. He must have sung it a hundred times on that one trip alone!

Frank snorted at the memory. Okay, so I joined him for half of them. Never mind that. Still obnoxious. Annoying.

Straining his hears he heard something. Oh yes. Christmas music. Rudolph? My kidnapper is listening to "Rudolph the Red-Nosed Reindeer?". Dear God.

Frank sighed as he listened the music cycle from Rudolph to "Santa Claus is Coming to Town" and then to "Away in a Manger" and then to "Here Comes Santa Claus."

What is this? A kid's tape? Or is this another version of torment the prisoner?

Frank sighed again, unable to do anything else, listened to the tape cycle to "Little Drummer Boy" and "Do You Hear What I Hear?"

In all he counted twenty songs on the CD before the CD cycled again. Frank shivered lightly.

So c-cold, Frank thought as he shook himself again, striving to keep his blood circulating properly through cold flesh and trying, almost without hope, to ignore the cold temperatures in this uncomfortable basement room. The ropes that secured him to the chair afforded him little in the way of movement; James, the henchman, tied knots very well.

Frank closed his eyes and turned inward to ignore the outward discomfort.

Meditation, he heard his karate sensei say, is the art of inward speculation. The ability to see inside of yourself and find that which is flaw and that which is strength. In meditation you shall ignore the flaw and accept the strength. Breathe in and breathe out. Slow your breathing. In and hold it. Then out. In and hold it. Then out.

But Sensei, Frank wanted to argue with the older Asian man. It's so cold. How do I ignore the cold?

Breathe in and breathe out, Frank Hardy, his sensei said calmly, in a way that sometimes infuriated even the usually patient Frank. Ignore that which causes discomfort, for it does not exist. It is as the air, insubstantial. Ignore it, Frank Hardy and accept the strengths within you. Accept the air that you breathe. Accept the blood that flows through your lungs. Accept the heart which pumps your blood through your body.

Frank breathed in and held it before he exhaled. In and out. In and out. Slowly and calmly until he entered that zen-like state his Sensei Woo desired all his students to enter before a healthy work-out. The cold remained but Frank ignored it and tried to control the things he could control. His breathing. Flexing his limbs as much as the bonds allowed. His panicked racing thoughts calmed so that his heart slowed.

Hypothermia, an unpleasant word he wanted to ignore, invaded his thoughts next. Frank fought to forget about the potential hypothermia but without will he remembered the symptoms. Lowered temperature. Sluggish heart rates. Ability to think becomes slow and impaired. Uncontrolled shivering that stops as your temperature drops too low. Weakness. Loss of coordination. Confusion. Pale and cold skin. Drowsiness. Slowed breathing or heart rate.

Frank frowned at that last one. Had he already brought about the onset of hypothermia by doing his breathing exercises? Sensei never covered that one in their survival lessons.

Time passed; it crawled by as Frank became ever aware of aches in his joints from both the uncomfortable position and the cold. The room technically remained well above freezing but he felt occasional drafts that were cold enough to be outside air. Frank shivered despite his desire to remain under control, glad, at least, that he was dry. You got hypothermia much quicker if you were wet.

Naked doesn't help, Frank blinked his eyes rapidly and closed them again as he flexed and loosened muscles to try to stave off the shivers. Much too early for shivers, he thought. Much, much too early.

Outside the room, Alistair Winston peered inside at his victim and smiled, the expression never reaching his eyes. He watched young Frank closely as the young man seemed to struggle against the extreme conditions surrounding him.

"We have to move locations soon," Winston peered at James as the man leaned against a wall and pulled out a cigarette from his pocket. "No doubt we'll want to stay on the move for a bit. Let me know when he reaches into the middle stages of hypothermia," Winston ordered his tall, blonde, employee. "It will be time to begin the procedure then. After we've started we can move to the next location."

"Do we have that long?" James asked after he lit his cigarette and took a healthy drag.

"We have that long," Winston frowned at the cigarette. "Put that nasty thing out, James. You know I don't allow that in the house."

James growled and dropped the cigarette to the ground and ground out with a boot. He put his cigarettes away and glared at Winston while the man regarded his prisoner again.

"No doubt it will take longer for the effects to show than we like," Winston commented. "But no doubt the boy will give eventually. Fenton is smart but he's not that smart. It will take him at least a day to cotton this location, if not longer. Still, I have Chavez out at the end of the street that leads back here; nobody can get by him without being spotted. We'll have enough warning."

"You think it will take?" the man known as James asked his employer a short while later.

Winston smiled coldly as he regarded the blonde man. "It will take," he turned back to the window that looked into the room where his victim remained. "I shall have what is mine – one way or another."