Again this chapter comes with a warning for beating and reference to abuse of a child.

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Chapter Eight

The hours became a blur. Could have been one, could have been three. The tape played over and over, like a drill into his eyes. No tears, can't cry, can't show weakness. No pain to feel, too much pain already. Shivering, routed to the spot. No way out.

Would he be found? If so how long? Would he still be warm? Would he be able to have an open casket?

Tape ends. Rewind. Play.

This is his world now. No daylight, no respite, no hope. Would Charlie be able to cope without him? He'd better for their father's sake. Not fair on Dad to have to go through losing another member of his family so soon. Dad, Dad I'm so sorry, for everything, anything.

Don wished he could write, wished he could put down how he felt , let his family know he loved them, be strong, see you on the other side. The throbbing in his right hand a reminder that no passage would be written, no closure given.

Cold, so cold. Can't sleep, keep your eyes open Eppes, don't close them, barely blink.

Each time he'd passed out, each time he'd rested his tired eyes the ice water would rain down. He was soaked through, his shivers severe enough to cause his shoulder to throb violently with each movement. Breathing shallow. Don't move.

Tape ends. Rewind. Play.

How much longer was this going to continue? Bruton had long since left the room, leaving his third goon, Ben? Bob? Don didn't catch the name, didn't care to.

He kept his face as neutral as he could, forehead knitted with pain. Eyes threatening to let forth and flow . His body was refusing to cooperate with his mind's need to be strong. He just wanted them to get it over with. Kill him. But Bruton had other ideas. He'd said he wanted knives, for Don. Wanted him to break down, beg for mercy. Flexible bullet to the brain, taking out everything in it's path.

The rush of blood in his ears drowning out all sound. Was he dying? Was this what it felt like? He always thought you felt no pain, felt sleepy and peaceful. This was anything but.

Tape ends. Rewind. Play.

The girl's screams, whimpers and cries were burned into Don's brain. Her struggles, pleading looks and grimaces of pain burned into his eye's. He could take the beatings, he could take that, but not this.

What was her name? He needed to know her name.

Please don't let Charlie know how I died. Please don't let him know that I had to watch all this. Not fair, not fair to Charlie. Should have been there more, should have understood more.

Should have called more.

All those years wasted, at Quantico, on the road, Albuquerque. So much time that could never be gotten back. This girl's family, did they miss their daughter? Had her mother and father prowled the streets at night looking for her? Or had they not cared? The thought chilled Don. What was her name?

He tried to turn his head again but received a smack for the effort. So tired, so tired, so hurt, so cold. Against his wishes his eyes began to droop. Fighting to stay awake Don breathed deep only to be reminded of the pain of broken ribs. He gasped as the pain wrapped it's icy fingers around his torso and squeezed .Like a snake constricting him the pain moved to his shoulder, across the back of his neck and down toward his hand. Tears threatened to fall but Don forced them back. He wasn't going to give these animals the satisfaction of seeing him break. He was going to get out, going to find Alan, find Charlie, he wanted more than anything to be in-between the two right now, each embracing him, love engulfing him, falling asleep knowing his family were watching over , protecting. He couldn't leave them. Wasn't going to happen. No Eppes gave up and he wasn't going to be the first.

Again his eyes drooped and he was rewarded with an ice cold bucket of water over his head.

"Move him downstairs, we have things to get ready here"

Bruton moved in front of Don and grabbed a handful of hair. As he lifted his head Don called upon all his strength and spat at the man, hitting his nose and eye. Bruton kept a firm hold on Don's hair and wiped his face with his other hand.

"Think you're tough pig? We'll see how tough you are later on, until then there's business you've kept me from , so you can sit downstairs and replay that tape in your mind. I've got some ideas for how I'm going to kill you. Not quickly though, I'm gonna cut you for hours."

Bruton left Don alone in the room with Sammy K and the other goon, Bob? Ben? Don couldn't remember. One untied his feet while the other untied his hands. He heard Bruton leave the house, heard a car start and pull away.

Once the bounds were off Don's plan had been to launch an attack at the two morons, only his legs didn't cooperate and he fell to the floor in an ungainly heap. Bruton's men each took an arm and dragged him up to his feet, although Don was taller than both his head drooped to below their shoulders. He was dragged toward the basement , waiting his moment. The strength in his legs returned in small amounts, enough to put up a struggle. As they tried to force Don through the door he began to struggle with all his might. Turning, Don surprised Sammy K and smacked him across the nose, blood spurted from the break and Sammy screamed in surprise and pain. Don screamed in anger and pain. The other man tried to grab him from behind but Don spun and lashed out, acting on instinct , and hit the guy on the jaw with his right hand. His strength disappeared in a split second and his world faded to gray. He willed himself to stay conscious and stumbled to where he was certain the front door was. Exit. Hope. Home.

Half way there he felt hands pulling him back, one in his hair, the other around his waist. He was half dragged, half carried down the stairs to the basement. His struggles weakening the deeper they took him. He was thrown the last few steps and as he connected with the floor he wondered what Charlie would make of all of this. Would he have an equation to advise Don on the better plan of action. Not the front door bro, the back door has a higher probability of being the optimal escape route.

Then his world went black.

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Footsteps, he heard footsteps, a door closing. Bruton's voice, the voice alerted his senses and his eyes shot open, only to squeeze together as the pain assaulted his every nerve. Don dragged himself over to the back wall. Carefully turned and sat against it. Letting the cold of the bricks behind his back help wake him up some more. He had to get out. If Bruton was back, then Don was in trouble. Nausea again launched itself throughout his stomach and he leaned to the side, vomiting bile, blood? Don looked away. Best to not know the full extent of the damage done.

Looking around Don saw the basement was full of shelves, each one stacked full of boxes. He focused on the stairs in front, he could hear voices moving away. Footsteps growing fainter, boards creaking overhead. They were moving upstairs. Just what horrors had this house seen? What tragedies had it witnessed? Held within it's walls for generations to come. Don pitied the people that bought the place after this. If he had his way the whole place would be bulldozed. With Bruton and his idiots inside.

Don looked again at the boxes. He needed to know all he could about their operations. He was getting out of this, and he was going to make sure Bruton didn't get away. If they could, Don would have them kill him a hundred times over. He tried to roll forward, his intentions being the shelf nearest, but as he rolled he felt the familiar feel of spinning and black spots began to dance across his vision. Then darkness.

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Slowly he made his way up the shelf. Why he hadn't seen the window sooner he didn't know. Chastising himself with every step he took he ignored every aching muscle, every broken bone and slowly made his way to freedom. His shoulder had begun to bleed freely again. The effort of using his left hand to hold most of his weight, his right elbow leverage to ease himself up. Three more steps and he'd be there. Three more steps closer to home.

Charlie.

Dad.

Across the street, keep moving, keep low. A Stumble, a fall, pain exploding across his vision yet still he carries on.

Charlie.

Dad.

Mum.

Through another garden, across another path, warehouses in sight. A phone booth. Could it really be? Or was his mind playing tricks, a mirage in a desert sent to mock him in his misery.

They had taken his phone, taken his wallet, but left the change in his pocket. Don continued quicker toward the phone booth. The sun was beginning to dip in the sky, it's long journey across the city almost to an end. How long had he been gone? A day? Longer?

Reaching the phone booth Don lent against the glass and deposited all his change. No telling what lecture he'd have to listen to so best to buy as much time as he could. He missed his brothers lectures.

As his legs began to give out Don took another breath and collapsed to the floor as the pain engulfed his body like a fire through a dried forest. He kept the phone to his ear, ignoring the pull on his shoulder, ringing. Pick up, please pick up. Black spots again began to dance their way across his vision. Stay awake. Have to stay awake.

He almost didn't realise the ringing had stopped until he heard a voice he'd longed to hear for hours.

"Don?"

"Charl ?"

"Don where are you? Where are you?"