Chapter 5

Consciousness came back to him slowly, measured in sensations.

The low rumble that either surrounded him, or had replaced what used to be his head.

Something cool on his hand.

Overwhelming darkness. Much darker than it ever was, in his bedroom. Except for that eerie, red glow … was there some sort of odd eclipse, filtering the light of the moon? Why hadn't Larry told him this was going to happen?

Pain. His right hip and leg stiffened if kept in the same position for too long. He tried to stretch, felt and heard a metallic 'thunk' that crashed through the remaining fog and reminded him of it all. Colby. Addison. Michaels. Dead. Dining room.

Trunk. Colby had said he was going to make him ride in the trunk of the car.

He quickly raised his arms, and they met solid, cold, metal a few inches over his face. His fingertips traced the confines of the metal, while he kicked out with his feet to do the same.

No doubt about it.

He was in the trunk of a car. That rumbling noise was the engine.

Charlie kicked hard, banged his fists on the trunk lid, shouted.

"COLBY! LET ME OUT!"

How long had he been unconscious?

Why in the name of all that was holy had he woken up?

Charlie tried to force his breathing to slow down. He felt around at his sides, found the cool bottle again. What was that? He brought it as close to the red glow as he could. He thought he recognized it as a bottle of water, the brand they used at the house. Colby had left him a bottle of water?

He used it to bang harder on the metal.

"PLEASE! PULL OVER! COLBY! COLBY!"

He kicked some more. Somehow, he managed to kick out the taillight, and he felt a rush of cool air on his ankle. It was a tiny comfort. Despite holding the cool bottle of water, he was so warm he would rip everything off if he could. Not just his clothes. His skin. Everything. He wished he could maneuver around to put his face down by the rush of air — maybe it would help. After a brief and pointless struggle, he gave up. It would be easier to break the other taillight.

He shifted the bottle to his other hand, used the capped end to pound at the light. He pounded as hard as he could. He didn't notice when he started sobbing, or when he caught the plastic bottle on the latch of the trunk, puncturing it. He didn't notice that with every subsequent slam he sent the water cascading down his arm, rolling under his body. He didn't even notice when his wet hand slipped and caught on the same latch, didn't feel the pain of it slicing into him, didn't differentiate between the flow of blood and the trickle of water.

He didn't even realize he was screaming.

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Colby turned up the radio, but he could still hear the thumps coming from the back of the car, the occasional shout.

He felt badly about this, he really did.

As soon as they were far enough out, and he was sure they weren't being followed, he would let Charlie out.

He remembered a small roadside store and gas pump just a few miles from the last turn into the mountains that they would make before they had to start walking. It would probably be closed by now. He could pull in back, where other cars wouldn't see them.

The thumping seemed more frantic. Probably his imagination.

"Just hang on, Chuck," he thought. "Just another hour."

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"Charlie, go down to the basement and get my roller blades. I'm spending the night with Andrew tonight, and I want to take them with me."

"I don't wanna." The seven-year-old spoke in a small voice. "I don't like it in the basement."

Don opened his closet and took out his sleeping bag. "Come on. Don't be such a little weasel. Just turn on the light at the top of the stairs."

Charlie shook his curly head. "No."

Andrew laughed and rose from his position on Don's bed. "Come on, Squirt, I'll go with you."

Charlie didn't like Andrew much more than he did the basement, but Don would get angry if he didn't do it, so he reluctantly went along. Andrew led the way down the basement stairs, retrieved Don's skates from the pile of bats and baseballs and surfboards and basketballs. Then he looked at Charlie and pointed to the stairs.

"You were right to be scared. I could tell coming down that those weren't safe. We're too heavy together. Let me go up first. Then you."

Charlie shook his head again. He didn't want to be last. But the staircase had spaces in-between each step, and when he went up he was sure something would come out of the shadows under the stairs to grab him, so he didn't want to be first, either. He stood rooted to the spot.

Andrew smiled. "It's okay. Just be careful." Without another word he sprinted up the stairs. At the top he looked down, and laughed. "You are so easy, Charlie." With that, he flipped off the light and left, slamming the door behind him.

Charlie managed to yell "Andrew!" once before he was too frightened to speak. He backed away from the stairs. There was no way he could go up there now. Whatever lived in the dark shadows under the stairs would surely feel safe enough to come through the cracks and drag him away. He whimpered and backed away a little more, feeling the solid washing machine behind him. He crawled into the space between it and the dryer. Maybe they wouldn't see him here, if he was quiet. If he could stop crying.

Later, they told him that he was missing for hours. His parents had been ready to call the police. In a last-ditch effort, Alan had walked to Andrew's home three houses away to ask Donnie when he had last seen his brother. Andrew caved immediately when faced with Donnie's father, and confessed leaving Charlie in the dark basement. Alan used Andrew's parent's telephone to call Margaret and tell her to check the basement, then dragged Donnie home with him, forbidding him to ever play with Andrew again. When they arrived home and found Margaret and Charlie huddled on the couch, both in tears, even Donnie seemed both relieved and angry at the same time. He never complained about not being allowed to play with Andrew any more.

Charlie sat on his mother's lap and sobbed late into the night, holding tightly to her neck, terrified that if he let go, he would be alone in the dark again.

Charlie jerked awake, gasping.

Oh, God.

Somehow, he had fallen asleep in the trunk of Colby's car, and the terror and the darkness had brought it back. The long-repressed memory.

Oh, God.

Maybe it wasn't a memory. Maybe he was still crouched between the washing machine and the dryer.

He wasn't staying here, wherever he was.

With both hands and both feet, he struck out for freedom.

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Relieved, Colby pulled slowly around the back of the roadside market. Things had been quiet for a while, but then it had suddenly gotten worse, a few minutes ago.

He hurried to the rear of the vehicle, popping the trunk as he went. When he got to the back of the car, he lifted the lid. He placed a hand over Charlie's mouth so that no one passing could hear the hoarse shouts. In the light of the moon and the stars, he could see the terrified look in Charlie's eyes, the fresh and dried tears on his face, the broken, bruised and bloody knuckles on the hands that reached for his.

He sat Charlie up. "Take it easy, Charlie. Swing your legs out. You can get out, now, but you've got to be quiet." When Charlie made no move, Colby cautiously removed his hand. Harsh breathing, but no more shouting. He leaned over to move Charlie's legs, helped him stand and balance outside. Charlie was shaking violently. "Hang on, here." Colby placed Charlie's hand on a fender and hurried to the back seat of the car. He leaned in and grabbed Charlie's pack. He hurried back to the rear of the car.

"Shit, Whiz Kid, I'm sorry. I mean, I knew you were claustrophobic, but geez…" He stopped in front of Charlie. He placed the backpack in the trunk. "Here. I think you need your change of clothes. You can change back here. I'll keep an eye out in front for a few minutes." Colby started to turn, then stopped. "Unless you need some help?"

The smell of his own urine and the feeling of his jeans plastered damply against his legs brought Charlie back to himself — although he immediately wished he could leave, again. He silently shook his head, shakily put a hand on this pack.

Colby spoke again, gently. "I'm really sorry, Charlie. I didn't know it would be this bad." There was regret in his voice. "It seems every time I try to help you, I end up almost killing you." He tried to meet Charlie's eyes, but the professor wouldn't look at him. "We're … we're almost there. A few more miles on a gravel road, and then we walk for a few hours. You going to be okay?"

Charlie still didn't say anything. He just grabbed his backpack and limped around the far side of the car. Colby watched him go. "Shit," he whispered again, fiercely. Then he turned and ran in a crouch toward the front of the building.