At some point in the night, the man died.
Kieren listened to him breath, every raise of his chest sounding like he had marbles rattling around in his lungs. Then suddenly, the man gasped, exhaled one last time and passed on.
"Sir...?" Lydia asked quietly. "Sir?"
The very first time Kieren had seen a dead body was at his grandmother's funeral when he was twelve. They had dolled her up beforehand. They rubbed blush on her cheeks, applied lipstick to her lips, and even styled her hair. She looked like she was sleeping. The makeup was so good, Jem had started asking outloud why grandma was in the casket, which terribly upsetted mum at the time.
The poor man did not look like he was sleeping. He looked dead. Not unlike Kieren or Simon looked like with their pale skin and white eyes, the man was just... dead.
"Goodbye, sir," Lydia said softly, bringing her knees up to her chest. "I'm sorry I didn't learn your name."
()
Lydia and Kieren had been talking quietly for the past two hours (or what Kieren thought had been two hours. He couldn't tell.) They talked about where they were from, their jobs, their interests. Kieren was explaining the difference between oil and acrylic paint when Lydia suddenly huffed and said, "This is so weird. We're in a serial killer's basement and we're talking about paint. God, what the fuck."
"I'm open for suggestions." Kieren tried not to sound snide. "You've been here longer. Does he have a pattern? A weakness you noticed?"
She shook her head. "The first night I was here, I tried screaming my head off. He's close enough to hear because he came down and slapped a leather mask over my face. The sick, kinky fuck. Otherwise, he keeps to himself till morning."
"Did you hear anything about him? Before this, I mean. Like on the news?"
Lydia made a face at him. "I was dead. So no."
Serial killers like Alfred killed for years, so there was a chance the both of them heard something on tv. Unfortunately nothing popped into Kieren's memory. Maybe the victims of Alfred were never found.
Kieren tested the iron clasp for the tenth billionth time. There was no give. "I don't know... maybe I can... break my fingers? Loosen my wrist and slip through?"
"Is that something you can do?"
"Maybe."
"Are you sure you want to do that? If you break your fingers, you can't heal them. And you already lost a pinky."
"Better than sitting here, waiting to be the next play thing."
After a moment of internal debate, Kieren decided to try to break his left hand. The pinkie was already missing, so he might as well not ruin his right hand. He hesitated, unsure how to do it. He's seen it done in action films and tv, but how do you really break a finger one-handed? Did he even have the strength behind his thumb to do it?
He might as well try. He bent his forefinger down and grasped the first knuckle with the tip of thumb. As hard as he could, he pressed down.
Nothing... was happening.
Either the angle was off, Kieren wasn't pressing down hard enough, or this was all bogus and tv lied to him. He kept trying, even on his right hand. He bit his lip, dug his feet in-
"Kieren," said Lydia. "Give it up."
With a huff, Kieren uncurled his fingers. "Damn. Damn!"
()
"How long has he been dead?"
Kieren was startled out of his sleep by Alfred's booming voice. He was actually surprised he even got to sleep. He thought fear would keep him awake. In reality, it helped to pull him under.
When neither Kieren or Lydia answered Alfred, he kicked Kieren's shoe. "I'mma not going to ask again. How long has he been dead?"
Arms up in shackles, Kieren did his best to shrug. "Don't know. Don't have a clock in here."
"Pretty and sarcastic," Alfred mumbled, bending down to the dead man. "What a great combination." He reached out and touched the body.
"Hmm..." He said, his hand pressing over the bruised and bloody-covered flesh. "He's only in the first stages of rigor mortis. That means he's been dead for only... five hours, maybe."
Without meaning to, Kieren found himself being impressed. It was a brief, passing feeling, and he hated himself for having it in the first place. How many dead bodies has Alfred interacted with to know from mere touch how long rigor mortis had set in?
Alfred reached over and undid the man's shackles. Kieren had expected the arms to drop, but they stayed up, still and unmoving. "Excuse me for a moment," Alfred said, grabbing the body to move it away. "I need to get rid of him before he begins to stink."
"Wait," Kieren said suddenly.
Surprisingly, Alfred stopped and looked at him, his eyebrow raised in question.
"His name," Kieren asked. His eyes glanced over to Lydia, then back to Alfred. "What was his name?"
A first name, a last name, or even a fake name. Just give something, please.
Alfred shrugged. He made the universal 'I don't know' noise, then proceeded to drag the body out of the door.
Once it closed behind him, Lydia buried her face in her arm, her face scrunching up painfully.