Monster: Chapter 3
DISCLAIMER: None of these characters are mine, but they are memorable. Thank you Mr. Marlowe.
Day 3: Captivity on an isolated island offshore from Tangier Island, May 15, 2014
The slightly humid morning has given way to a blast furnace in the compound that is now home for one Richard Castle. Judging by the position of the sun that is still a few degrees from being directly overhead, it is probably approaching noon. The heat and humidity are oppressive as Castle keeps his now daily ritual – after only three days – of stripping down in the late morning and hand washing his clothes. He only wears his boxers – provided to him by whoever has placed him here – and a pair of low-top tennis shoes, also provided by his unknown captor – or captors – who still remains absent.
"At least they could have given me a pair of high-top Chucks," he chuckles to himself, desperate to keep his humor intact, his spirit engaged.
He's just finished a round of push-ups and sit-ups. He is committed to make late morning and early evening workouts a part of his regimen here. He follows each workout with a half can of whatever he selects for the day, plus a vitamin. The exercise helps with the loneliness. The worst part is not knowing anything.
Where is he?
Why is he here?
Who took him?
Did they take Kate also?
If so, where is she?
He keeps trying to convince himself that Kate is safe, and he's almost ready to believe it. It's easier to believe that whoever did this is just after him. Otherwise, they would have taken them both together, at the same time. That would have been easy.
Yeah, the worst part is not knowing anything.
The second worst part? The loneliness. The solitude. He can't believe how much he misses something as simple as talking to another human being. Hearing their voice. Listening to them laugh. So yeah, the exercise helps. It passes a good half-hour. He knows he needs to build it up to longer stints. He chuckles to himself, noting that – if nothing else – he's going to be in fantastic shape once he gets out of here.
And he is going to get of here. He just doesn't know how yet. But he knows how he would write something like this. If he were writing it, then there would be a couple of little things. They wouldn't appear all that important at first glance. They would be things overlooked. Things that he – so far in this compound – has overlooked. But if he were writing this, he'd find them eventually, and they would be the tools of his escape. This logic tells him that whatever 'it' might be, he has likely already seen it. He just hasn't yet recognized it for what it is – a means to his escape.
He finishes his workout and now begins the second leg. A slow and easy jog – twelve times around the inner fence of the compound. Based upon his walk-off calculations, that's just over a mile. Push-ups, sit-ups, jog a mile. Stay in shape. Stay fresh. Stay frosty. Stay ready.
The compound is a perfect square, roughly one hundred and twenty feet by one hundred and twenty feet. The eastern side is all dirt. The northern side is paved, with a helipad. The western side is also dirt, where the well is located.
The southern side – already his favorite – is mostly dirt, but has a few patches of tall grass brush and a small tree, maybe fifteen feet in height. Unfortunately, it's taller than the fence but not anywhere close enough to the fence to attempt a scaling. His only concern with the southern side is snakes. He hasn't seen any, thankfully. But there have been a few grasshoppers, and he has – reluctantly – learned to suffer their taste. He knows he cannot keep his strength up on just beans and vitamins alone. He will supplement them with anything he can.
"Only three days into it and I'm already eating bugs," he muses sadly.
It strikes him that he is probably not the first person to be detained here. He's not that important, and this is an elaborate set-up. A fortified fence, a landing pad, running water for toilet, and a water well. Whoever has taken him has likely used this place before. And not for torture or interrogation, he realizes. All that is needed for that is a room and a couple of chairs. And if particularly brutal, some form of electricity, which is non-existent here. But you don't need a toilet, and certainly no well.
He takes off jogging, feeling the growth on his chin and along the sides of his face with his left hand. He has no mirror, obviously, but it was already occurring to him this morning that he is working on three days growth. Clearly a bit more than a five o'clock shadow. As he runs, he idly thinks about Tom Hanks, and his transformation in that movie where he was on the island. The name escapes him, frustrating him. But he remembers Wilson. Wilson kept Hanks company, and now, even only three days into captivity, he truly understands the utter loneliness that drove Hanks' character to befriend a volleyball. Watching the movie with Alexis, Castle had found the whole concept humorous. Now? It's not so funny. He gets it. More than that – he is already wondering who - or what - his Wilson will be if he is stuck here much longer.
He is now three laps into the twelve, breathing a little harder, and wildly swiping at the small horde of black biting flies that follows him. Scratch that, these damn flies – they are the worst thing about this God-forsaken place. They bite, and leave tiny welts, and just don't leave you alone! Someone watching from afar would mistake his half running, half dancing to avoid the flies routine as something straight out of a slapstick comedy movie.
By the sixth lap – halfway finished – he glances at the water pail/bucket that hangs on the handle of the water well pump. As he passes by, he can almost imagine eyes and a nose and a mouth on the bucket. Yeah, he's going to have to get out of here soon, or he's going to lose it.
Another five minutes pass as he comes to a halt after twelve laps. He bends at the waist, breathing hard.
"Not bad, old man," he tells himself. He walks to the water well and pump, and picks up the water bucket, filling it only half way. He greedily drinks down a few gulps of the water, then dumps the remainder on top of his head, smiling as the relatively cool water glides down his face, bare chest and soaks his boxers.
Now somewhat – if not temporarily – refreshed, he walks slowly back to the cabin. Inside he grabs a can – today, it's going to be beef stew – and pops the lid open, careful not to pull it all the way off. He will need to re-close it once he eats his portion. He grabs his single, plastic spoon and slowly begins to eat no more than half of the contents, savoring each bite, knowing that there are very few remaining for the day. Eating slowly, he stretches half can of stew out to almost fifteen minutes.
Glancing down at the can - realizing he has eaten the limit until this evening when he can have the remaining portion - he slowly pulls the top back down into place, working carefully so as not to cut his hands on the sharp rounded edge. He carefully places the can back into the box, closing it up. It tends to keep the bugs out.
He stares for a moment at the oval shaped vitamin in his hand. Canned beans or meat, and a vitamin. He's used to exotic Asian food, vibrant French cuisine, or hell – at least succulent Chinese food in a styrofoam container. Kate's favorite.
Kate. He closes his eyes, smiling as her face is bright and fresh in his mind. He does this often. He does not want that face to fade. Those are the scary thoughts that weigh on him.
How long will I be here before her face fades? Before I can't see her clearly anymore? Before her voice is just a memory? Before I don't remember her smell?
Thinking of her smell takes him down that road. He thinks of her small but perfect breasts, that used to – No! That still fit perfectly into his hands. Her lips that marry his so wonderfully. Her hands that have performed magic tricks. He finds himself getting aroused, and quickly brushes the thoughts away.
"Shit!" he thinks to himself. "No good. Those thoughts are no good. Not here."
He knows that road, those thoughts, they will lead to nothing but trouble. Enhanced loneliness. Enhanced despair. Bitterness. He can't have that. Not here, and not now.
Wrestling himself away from such pleasant thoughts, he steps outside, taking a few quick steps as he walks over toward the southern fence, gazing out into the trees beyond. He closes his eyes, now realizing that he has – since lap nine, and during his brief meal, been humming the same tune from his boyhood of long, long ago. He laughs as he suddenly takes a big jump forward, his imaginary air guitar wailing as he screams out:
Ba –da – da – Jeremiah was a bullfrog.
Ba – da – da – was a good friend of mine.
He finds himself doing this often during the day as well. Anything to break the monotonous silence. Songs from his past have become his best friends. Lines from his books that he has memorized have become his conversations.
Joy to the World by Three Dog Night was always one of his favorites. He hums and sings – and today is lost in a mid-song lead guitar riff that bridges the song. He does a quick twirl, finishing with another leap forward, as he belts out the final verse, head thrown back, his eyes closed and his voice screeching.
You know I love the ladies, Ba – da- da
I love to have my fun, Ba – da - da
I'm a –
Opening his eyes, he half screams as he falls back onto the ground in fright. His bouncing and flouncing have placed him less than two feet away from the fence. The larger lion stands, less than two feet from the outer fence, and simply stares at him. It is no more than eight feet away from him.
Just staring.
His head is huge. Simply massive. He makes no sound. Just stares at him. It is the most unnerving moment of his life, and Castle finds himself clenching just to hold on to his bowels.
His breathing is now coming in frightened gasps as he stares back at the big cat, desperately wanting to turn and run, but somehow unable to pull himself away; unable to take his eyes off of the magnificent beast.
Suddenly his mind conjures a memory of he and Alexis, sitting in the theatre watching the first – and best - Jurassic Park movie. He remembers Alexis jumping in terror when Game Warden Muldoon, stalking through the jungle, realizes that he's the one who has been hunted, turning too late to see the second raptor that attacks from the side.
The memory of the scene slowly turns Castle's head, allowing his eyes to break contact with the lion in front of him.
"Easy, Simba," he whispers to himself as he turns his eyes away and to the right, toward the western fence.
Nothing.
He slowly brings his gaze back to the big cat in front of him, whose eyes have not faltered. The beast's eyes remain fixed on Castle.
Continuing his turn toward the left, his gaze now rests over on the eastern fence. His breath catches as he sees the large lioness, some forty feet away, standing much like her partner. She is completely still, just a foot or so from the fence, her eyes on Castle.
Shaking, Richard Castle takes one step backward – no quick movements now – one step backward, then another, And another, slightly angling himself back toward the cabin. His eyes have found the larger lion once again, and he maintains eye contact with the beast with each step backward. The beast's gaze has not changed. Castle doesn't even risk a glance back at the eastern fence.
Half a minute goes by when he feels his back hit the cabin. He's backed himself all the way back to the safety of the cabin, and the massive animal still stands there – staring through him. He makes his way into the cabin, and closes the door. Only now does he realize that he has been holding his breath.
"Okay," he tells himself with a scared chuckle, "I guess they don't like Three Dog Night."
It's barely noon, and it is already hot enough in the cabin to suffocate a person, or at least so it feels. He knows that he cannot stay in here for long, but he can't find the courage to step back outside. He can't find the courage to even to go the window.
He sits here, now breathing hard in the hot confines of the cabin, already drenched in sweat. He watches the drops of sweat fall from his chin to the floor below. Almost twenty minutes have passed, and now he is just about ready to panic, when it finally hits him.
There are two tall fences, strong with barbed wire. If those things could get in, they'd be in already.
Like him. If he could get out, he'd be out already.
He slowly walks to the door, and opens it, immediately staring across at the fence where the larger lion had been. Scratch that - where the larger lion still stands, still staring, but now joined by his slightly smaller female companion.
One step in front of the other, Richard Castle walks out of the cabin, slowly, one foot in front of the other, he makes his way back toward the twin beasts. He stops roughly fifteen feet away from the two, and sits, keeping his eyes on both.
"We're all going to be here awhile," he says out loud, but softly. No need antagonizing these two. But he also knows he's got to get used to these two hungry predators. And as long as this fence separates them, he knows he is safe. Scared to death, yeah, but safe, nonetheless.
He chuckles to himself as he realizes the perverse irony here. He's simply at the zoo, nothing more. And in this zoo, he's the caged animal, and the lions are the paying visitors. Except in this zoo, the paying visitors want to eat the caged animals.
And that's when the second revelation hits him. That thing that was pressing in the back of his mind, like an itch he couldn't scratch. Something he had seen, but overlooked. Something important.
"The cans," he tells himself, with a smile. "The pop-tops have sharp edges."
He nods his head, never taking his eyes off the beasts across the fence from him, close enough now to hear a soft rumble from the male. No matter. The pop-tops have sharp edges.
Someone is going to come, at some point. Whether to check on him, or bring more supplies. Obviously they want him alive, at least for now. At least for a while. But they will come. And when they do – well, now he has weapons.