Carrie scuttled across the tiles prone on her belly, using her elbows and palms to propel herself forward. It was faster going than it had been the first time, now that she had learned what motions would provide the greatest results. She had previously punched out a tile of the small room adjoining their larger one, but she moved past it. The ceiling was twelve feet above the floor, and she couldn't afford to injure herself on the drop down. She figured that even if she clung to the sides of the frame and dropped down straight, the impact onto the cement floor was more than she was willing to risk. She decided her best bet would be to lower herself onto the top of one of the shelves that lined the walls of the room, and then use the bottom shelving as sort of a ladder to climb down.
The light was becoming dimmer. The more she moved away from the tiles that Warrick had removed in the other room, the more the light source faded. Just as she was beginning to think she was going to lose the illumination altogether, she felt, more than saw, the end of the room. Unlike the room she had just left, this one had a solid barrier at its far end.
Carrie scooted backwards until she was one tile away from the end. She leaned forward and pried the last tile from its metallic frame. She peered down into the gap she had created and saw the shelving directly below her. It was wood, or more likely particleboard, about three-quarters of an inch thick. It had been painted white, but had long since lost its luster, and now looked faded and dingy beneath its coat of dust. The five tiers were attached to the cinderblock wall with metallic brackets and it looked sturdy and unyielding.
It wasn't. Moisture and mold had eaten away at the composite materials and the top shelf buckled under Carrie's weight as soon as she lowered herself down onto it. Her legs broke through the shelf and she lost her balance and crashed, hard, onto the cement floor below.
In their room on the other side, Nick and Warrick heard both the thud of her body and her startled yelp. Nick reacted instinctively to her cry. He tried to rise from the cot, but the instant he put his injured leg in motion, the pain was insurmountable and debilitating. He tried to muffle his own outcry and settled for some choice obscenities. He looked to Warrick.
"Stay," Warrick told him, watching him in concern. "I'll check on her."
Warrick rushed to the wall near the door and shouted through it. "Carrie? What happened? You okay?"
The response was slow in coming, and both Nick and Warrick looked at each other with held breath. Finally Carrie's voice came to them, reassuring and strong.
"It's okay. The shelving broke when I came down on it. Knocked the wind out of me for a minute, but I'm fine. No harm done."
What a smooth liar you are, Caroline, she thought to herself as she lay on the floor, her knee on fire and already beginning to swell. She knew what she had done to it. She'd done it twice before, in fact. The first time she had been a junior in high school and had decided she had some talent for gymnastics and was trying out for the school team. She placed her hands wrong on the takeoff of her vault, came down hard with her right leg twisted beneath her. It was the knee that took the brunt of it. She'd sprained it and torn both the cartilage and a ligament, and it took three months of wearing a brace before it healed enough for her to walk without pain.
The second time was the same injury, pretty much, to the same knee, about seven years later. She was riding an unfamiliar horse that became skittish and she knew she was about to come off of it. Not a problem, usually, but somehow her boot got caught in the stirrup and her knee twisted as she came down. And ever since then, that same knee wanted to either lock in place or buckle in on her at the most inopportune times. She didn't let it slow her down much, and she called it her "trick knee" the way she heard athletes who nursed old injuries refer to theirs. She had always considered herself fortunate that she had never blown it out again. Until now. Yep, she knew exactly what she had done. Sprained it, possibly tore one of the tender ligaments around it, if she was lucky tore up the cartilage around the kneecap instead of a ligament. There'd be an MRI to make sure it didn't need to be 'scoped, heavy doses of ibuprofen, a knee brace to keep it stable. She knew the drill. But right now she was lame, and her first order of business was to fight through the pain and try to become mobile enough to make it up those stairs.
Warrick's voice called out to her again. "You'd better get going. Stay alert, Carrie, and get to a main road as quick as you can."
"Don't worry," Carrie sang out cheerily. "I'll be back before you know it. How's Nick?"
Warrick looked at Nick, his face pale and beaded in sweat, drawing ragged breaths to ward off the nausea brought on by the pain his sudden motion had cost him.
"He's fine. Resting easy. We'll see you soon."
Carrie struggled to sit upright and surveyed the room. The light coming through the holes in the ceiling was barely adequate to see by, but she found what she was looking for. She scooted forward on her rump and grasped one of the pieces of the broken shelving. It was about twelve inches long and six inches wide. She looked around her, found another piece roughly the same size, and stretched her arm out for it, barely grasping it with the tips of her extended fingers. She wanted to stand, but she knew she couldn't do it without something to support her as she hoisted herself up. She could scoot on over to another shelving unit, but her faith in that was gone now and she didn't trust it to bear her weight if she were to grasp a shelf and pull herself up. So she scooted backwards to the door, using the pieces of particle board in her hands like oars to propel her across the floor, dragging her injured leg uselessly behind her.
When she reached the door she pushed it open with her back and moved through it out into the small landing at the bottom of the stairs. She had lost most of the light now, but she knew what she was after and where to seek it. Her hands groped on the cold cement floor and she quickly found what she was looking for. Her fingers curled around one of the pieces of cloth that had been used as a blindfold and then tossed to the floor. She soon found its mate, and now she backed up to the door of the larger room and used it to support her back as she bound her leg. She put one of the pieces of board on one side of her ballooning knee, the other on the side opposite. She secured them by tying one of the strips of cloth around the boards above the knee, the other below it. It sure wasn't as fancy as the royal blue knee brace with the Velcro straps that she had worn, but it would serve.
In front of her loomed the shadows of the stairs to her emancipation. It was too dark to see them fully and they seemed to continue up into nothingness, staggered tiers without end. Carrie shook her head at them, remembering her sightless journey down those steps, clutching Warrick's belt, terrified she would fall and bring him down with her. Her journey up would be no less difficult. She would back herself up onto them on her butt a step at a time if she had to, but she really hoped that now that her leg was braced she could get herself on her feet. She raised her arms over her head, and, with a small smile of triumph, felt the metallic bar that was across the door. She wrapped the fingers of both hands tightly around it.
Years of bucking hay bales and, more recently, three-day-a-week stints at the health club near her office, had given her toned arms and impressive upper body strength, at least by her own assessment. It was no effort at all to hoist herself up with the bar and rise off the floor. But she couldn't quite keep her injured limb off the cement, and even the slight pressure she applied to it was enough to send a lightning bolt of pain through her entire body. She bit her lip, hard, to stifle the outcry she knew would alert the others to her plight. She thought of Nick's scream of agony when he tried to hoist himself off the floor with the chair, the wail ceasing only when he passed out cold in Warrick's arms. Her own pain ebbed considerably as soon as she let the leg hover over the floor, and she knew she was facing nothing like what Nick had had to endure. Thinking of him, what he had gone through, made her feel a little guilty about her own muffled cry, and she decided she was being a bit of a whimp about it all and the best thing to do was to just ignore it as best she could.
With a one-legged hop, Carrie turned herself around and faced the door. The light switch was on the right side of it, and she reached for it and flicked it on. As she knew it would be, the steel bar positioned across the door was locked in place with a padlock. She took the knife Warrick had given her out of her pocket and opened it up. With a half-hearted effort, knowing as soon as she began that it would be futile, she inserted the point of the blade into the lock. She fiddled with it a little, but only succeeded in snapping off the sharp point. She sighed and put the knife back in her pocket. Nothing left to do now but get up those stairs.
It was actually easier than she thought it would be, although frustratingly slow. Using the rail to pull herself up a step at a time, Carrie once again congratulated herself for the strength in her arms and hopped almost agilely from one step to the next. It was an effort, though, and by the time she reached the landing at the top she was out of breath. She balanced herself against the wall, calculating her moves once she was outside. She wouldn't have a rail then to help her, and she knew without doubt that there was no way she could put her injured leg on the ground. Maybe she could find a stick or break off a branch to use as a crutch. Or not. She shook her head ruefully, reminding herself that she was, after all, in a desert and the trees were not exactly as plentiful as they were in the piney woods of Georgia. But she'd figure it out. Hell, she'd crawl if she had to. She had the strength. She figured she could propel herself forward with her arms alone if that's what it took. Whatever. She'd get it done. With renewed confidence she faced the door, balancing on one leg, and turned the knob.
The knob rotated easily in her firm grasp and she pushed the heavy metal door. And pushed. And pushed. It didn't budge. Carrie shook her head in denial, refusing to believe what she had just encountered. "This is not happening," she said aloud. "Open, damnit, open!"
She wedged her shoulder against the unforgiving gray slab, pushed with everything she had. Nothing gave way except her balance, and she planted both feet on the landing to catch herself. She cried out in pain, lifted her foot off the floor, and then turned to the door once again and pounded her fists against it, giving in to both pain and frustration.
"Shit! Shit, shit, shit! Goddamn fucking…"
Warrick and Nick heard both her cry and the obscenities that followed. Nick shouted to her. "Carrie! Carrie, what's wrong? Talk to us now."
She turned to the steps, shouted down the stairwell. "He locked the door. The bastard locked the fucking door!"
In the other room, Nick and Warrick exchanged stunned glances. As it had with Carrie, it took a while for it to register. The killer hadn't locked that door when he left Nick alone. That he had locked it when he left again was the last thing they had expected.
"He locked the outside door?" Nick's voice was incredulous.
Carrie directed her frustration toward Nick, had nowhere else for it to go. "Yeah, Nick. The outside door. Was there another door you were thinking I was trying to go out of?"
There was only silence from the room at the end of the stairs, and Carrie drew a deep breath, trying to calm herself. She could imagine the impact her news had on Nick and Warrick, and when she spoke again, her voice was gentle.
"I'm sorry, baby. I just…I was just so sure. I wanted to get you help. I was so sure I could do it."
"It's okay. It's okay, darlin'. We'll figure somethin' out."
The drawl in Nick's voice was comforting and familiar, and she longed to be with him. If she could have done it, she would have gone back up into the hole in the ceiling and crawled back to him. She should have trusted her gut, should never have left him. She should have…
"Carrie, come back down the stairs so we can talk to you easier," Warrick called out.
Carrie looked down the steps, so many of them, and knew she didn't have the energy to tackle them. Her knee still throbbed with the pain of her misguided step, and she suddenly felt exhausted.
"I will," she told him. "In a while. I think I'll just…just stay up here for a little bit."
Nick's voice reflected his concern. "You all right?"
"Yes," Carrie assured him. "I'll be down soon. How are you doing?"
On the other side of the cinderblocks, Warrick looked at Nick critically when he heard Carrie's query. Nick had still been shaky and pale from his attempt to rise from the cot after Carrie's first outcry when she had fallen to the floor. At her second yelp, he would not be deterred. Warrick had helped him sit upright and had swung his legs over the side of the cot so Nick could sit on the edge of it as he talked to Carrie. He sat there now, his right hand wrapped around his injured shoulder, his left leg trembling.
"Fine and dandy, darlin'," Nick called out, his voice relaxed and confident, and Warrick marveled at the seeming ease of the deception. But as soon as he had said it, Nick hunched over, not trying to keep up the charade for Warrick. He felt suddenly dizzy, and he could feel the nausea rise.
"Fuck. Not this again," Nick groaned. He looked apologetically at Warrick and then bowed his head again as Warrick placed the round can beneath his friend's hanging head and Nick threw up into the white plastic bag that lined the metal container.
"Sorry, bro," Nick said when he could manage to talk again. "You'd think I'd quit doing that at some point."
"Your body's been through a lot, Nick. This is just the way it's…reacting. And don't forget that you had a pretty good knock on the head. Concussions bring on nausea, too."
Nick didn't much care if he was puking because of the head injury, or the waves of pain, or maybe even shock. He just wanted it to stop. His throat was raw and his abdominal muscles sore. "Whatever. Just don't tell Carrie."
Warrick shrugged. "Tell her what? Come on, drink some water, and then let's get you back down."
Nick sighed resignedly and took the proffered water, taking a long swallow. He was just as concerned about dehydration as Warrick was, but he was torn between wanting to keep hydrated and worried about what would happen if he ever had to pee. But so far he hadn't had to deal with it. Probably couldn't keep any fluid in his body long enough for it to reach his bladder. Hell, there was a silver lining in everything, he thought ironically. He smiled to himself and Warrick watched him quizzically, then helped him back onto the cot. Warrick adjusted the pillow behind Nick's head and pulled the blanket up around him, tucking him in as he would a child.
"Gonna sing me a lullaby, too?" Nick asked him.
"Shut up and get some rest," Warrick ordered. He plopped himself down in the chair next to Nick, keeping an ear out for anything that Carrie might say, trying to come up with what they would do now, now that their escape to the outside world was denied to them.