Author's Notes: Well, here we are - it's Thursday! Wow, it feels like ages ago that I posted Chapter 1. I can't imagine how all of you guys feel... Anyways, thanks to everyone who reviewed last chapter, and I hope that everyone does the same for this one. Here, we learn some things, and the humorous tone that was in the first chapter is now going away. For good. Sorry to you all who liked it, but it just doesn't work. So... enjoy!

Get Out Alive

Chapter 2
(Of Duress)

"How long do you think we've been down here?"

"An hour, maybe," Wilson replied without even sparing Chase a glance.

Chase clenched his jaw instead of groaning, and compromised with his urge to beat his head against the wall by resting his forehead against it with a sigh. He closed his eyes, wishing that he were at work, home, back in Australia—anywhere but here—and trying to simultaneously drown out the whistling of the wind. He tried to convince himself that he wasn't here, that he was just dreaming, but it wasn't working.

He, Wilson and House had been hauled unceremoniously out of the back of the van after a long drive that made House nearly pass out from pain halfway through, for the road was extremely bumpy and none of them were sitting in proper seats. They were given a brief glimpse of endless stretches of farmland before being forced, at gunpoint again, into an underground storm shelter. The man had left them there and had yet to return.

The room was about the size of a small walk-in closet, made of cold grey concrete, and there were no windows or other holes save for the trapdoor at the top, which was made of steel or some other metal. There was a sole, dingy light bulb affixed to the ceiling, and though it did provide dim light, it did nothing to add to the warmth of the room. Frankly, it was freezing.

The terror had died in Chase some time ago. Perhaps it was the absence of the man, or perhaps it was simply the fact that eventually all fear will die, but either way, the heart-clutching, throat-constricting, nauseating terror had dissipated and left him feeling hollow.

He was being held captive.

The man had a gun.

It was most likely that he was going to die, here, with only his boss and his boss's best friend to cling to.

These facts beat against his brain like a man on the glass front of a store after it had closed. They were distant, muted, and had not fully penetrated their way into his mind as of yet, and Chase was glad of it. The thought of death, of being murdered, had been so far away and beyond imagining this morning, and Chase longed for the security of that again. His mind fought with itself, wondering if the man had put up a ransom or if the police had begun to investigate their disappearance. Surely they would find the man, arrest him and discover them in this little vault before anything bad could happen. That's the way it always worked out.

If the man had put up a ransom, then they would definitely know that they were being held captive. The police would get together and promise to pay the ransom, and they would create a set up where they pretended to give him money but would instead arrest him. Then they would find them, safe and sound, and everything would blow over with time. Maybe he'd learn why… But Chase didn't find that he cared about the why. What did it matter why some man had kidnapped him? All that would matter would be that he was alive. He wouldn't ask for anything more.

What was more important was what would happen to him next. Would they just be kept here, or was this some kind of temporary holding place, an in between for the longer plan. Maybe when he was transferring them, they might be able… But there were three of them. It would be next to impossible to get all three of them to safety. The police would probably find them before that, though.

"Keep pacing, Chase. Your feet'll wear a hole in the floor, and then maybe we'll get out of here," House commented from where he was slumped against the wall, his bad leg jutting out and taking up a good third of the space in the tiny cellar.

"Shut up," Chase snapped, but he stopped pacing. He hadn't even realized that his feet had begun to walk about the area, he'd been so wrapped up in his thoughts.

"Come over here and make me, blondie," House retorted, but beneath the challenge, his voice was thick with pain. Chase had watched him take two more Vicodin not fifteen minutes ago, but they had clearly done no good.

"Cool it," Wilson said. He had his back to a wall and had his eyes shut, as if he was either in deep thought or had a headache. "Fighting isn't going to make anything better."

"Give it a rest, Wilson," House said crabbily, and his hands began to rub at his thigh gently. "Nobody cares."

Wilson's eyes opened, as if a sudden thought had just occurred. "I might..." Wilson trailed off, his face lighting up with excitement as he started digging his hands into his pockets. "My phone! I might be able to get a signal and call for help!"

"You think of this now?"

"Shut up, Chase," Wilson muttered, his fingers trembling as he pulled out his phone. "Oh please, oh please..." He held it carefully and waited while it turned on, and the entire room waited anxiously to see what would happen, if they had a prayer of surviving. "Please, please, please..." The LCD screen lit up, inordinately bright in the tiny cell, and then Wilson's hand rapidly went slack on the phone and it fell to the floor.

"What are you doing?" Chase asked furiously, scrambling to get down on his knees to pick up the phone. "That could be our—" He stopped speaking as he saw what the screen read.

Low Battery

It took up the entirety of the screen, and pushing the buttons did nothing to make the white screen go away. The battery was too low for it to work.

"Perfect," he said tightly, and it took all of his self-will not to throw the phone at the wall and start screaming. It was finally beginning to sink into his head that he was going to die. His life would be over, here within these cement walls, and there was nothing he could do about it. It was only a matter of time before the man returned, and Chase wondered how long he had left. Was it in hours? Days? Would they be kept down here for months, years? It wasn't... fair.

"Just fucking perfect," he said, and his control shattered as he threw the phone down to the ground where little it broke with a sharp crack. "You couldn't have charged the batteries, could you? If you'd just put it on the charger for five more minutes, we could be free! We wouldn't be sitting here like—like—animals, waiting to die! Would it have killed you to—"

"Don't put this on me! If we hadn't gone to pick you up," Wilson pointed an accusing finger at him, leveling a stare, "we would have never even gotten here in the first place. This is not my fault."

"And maybe," House spoke up from his corner of the room, "If the both of you hadn't made fun of me, we would have been in the hospital right now. But we're not, so fucking deal with it!" He sucked in a breath to say more, but choked and started coughing horribly.

Wilson and Chase both temporarily forgot their anger as they stared at House, who they suddenly noticed, was not looking very good. His face shone with sweat, his skin had lost color, and his cough was not a dry smoker's cough. It was wet and tangled with mucus.

"Are you okay?" Wilson asked, crouching down to put his hand against House's forehead. "Can you tell me what hurts?"

Chase got down on his knees to get a better view of his boss's face.

"'m fine. Go away." But House's eyes were slightly unfocused, and his breathing was clearly labored. His mouth was partly open, allowing him to breath, and he appeared to be shivering despite the sheen of sweat that glistened on his face. Wilson's hand was pressed to House's forehead, and he removed it as he turned to look at Chase.

"He's got a fever," Wilson said, his words terse because they both knew what that meant.

House was sick. He needed antibiotics, bed rest, regular meals, lots of fluids, a cold compress... but he was going to get none of that as long he was sick down here. The cold temperatures and lack of food or drink would only make him worse as the cold progressed. And they were helpless to do anything about it.

Cameron was not someone who did things halfway. When she wanted something done, she carried it out until it was finished, and then she would do a follow up to be sure. This was probably the main reason that House had hired her, and kept her around despite her innate moralistic code, which she knew that he hated. But he would be thanking her, she was sure, that her innate moralistic code did not exclude helping people who were in trouble. Particularly, people who had gone mysteriously missing.

She was standing in a precinct that smelled of lemon and cough syrup, waiting for the detective to come back. It was late evening. She'd come here straight after her shift ended, stomach churning, with every intent of finding the three missing men. So when the detective appeared from a hall in the back, Cameron straightened and straightened her skirt to make a good impression.

"Good evening, ma'am," the detective said as he approached her, holding out a hand. He was a short man with a Mexican look to him, and the only visible hair on his head was a neatly-trimmed moustache. He didn't even have eyebrows. "I'm Detective Morgan."

Cameron smiled and took his hand. "Allison Cameron—it's nice to meet you." Detective Morgan gestured at a chair next to what must have been his desk, but Cameron shook her head. "I'm fine, thanks. I wanted to... Well, three of my co-workers are missing."

If Detective Morgan had any eyebrows, they would have raised up at her words. But he did not, so the skin where they would have been raised up instead. "Three of them? Do they know each other?"

"Yes," Cameron said, feeling a wave of relief that someone was taking interest in this. Cuddy had brushed her off and Foreman had dismissed it as another Housian stunt, but now she had someone on her side. "It's my boss, his friend and my colleague. They didn't show up for work this morning, and it's just so unlike them to not—"

"Wait," Detective Morgan said, raising a hand. "They only went missing this morning?"

Cameron paused, suddenly feeling uncomfortable. "Well, yes—but it's just so unusual! I mean, they're all—"

"I'm sure," Detective Morgan said sympathetically. "But there's nothing I can do until they've been gone of twenty-four hours. Did you check their homes? Call their relatives?"

"No..." Cameron said, now feeling a bit like an idiot. "But I don't feel like I know them well enough to start... calling around..."

Detective Morgan gave her an understanding smile. "Okay. Well, give that a shot, and if they aren't anywhere by tomorrow morning, you can come down here and we can really do something about it. I'm sorry, Dr. Cameron, but we just get too many instances where people run away for a day or so, and we couldn't possibly handle all of those cases."

Swallowing, Cameron tried to retain a few shreds of her dignity. "I understand. I'm sorry to have bothered you, and I'll be sure to check their houses and call their families. Thank you for your time."

She left the precinct, feeling foolish for making a big deal out of nothing. She wasn't going to go running after House—Cuddy and Foreman were probably right. House, Wilson and Chase were probably counting their winnings from a night on the casino in Vegas right now. Feeling comforted, Cameron went home that night without any plans of trying to find the three missing men. Let them have their fun.

Chase knew that what he'd seen earlier—endless acres of farmland—meant that even if they screamed through a bullhorn, no one would ever be able to hear a cry for help. He imagined that Wilson must know this, too. But it didn't change the fact that House was rapidly deteriorating and they were all going to die regardless, and that was why they were shouting for help.

"Anyone! Anyone out there—help! Help! We're stuck here!" Wilson was bellowing, cupping his hands around his mouth and standing directly below the steel door in the ceiling. His shouts ricocheted about the concrete room uselessly and House moaned, probably in response to the loud noises, but it could have been in pain. Chase hadn't dared to give him a Vicodin while House was so incoherent.

"Hey! Get us out of here!" Chase shouted, but he knew that his shouts were going nowhere beyond this tiny box in the ground. "Help! You've got to..." He paused to take a breath, but never finished his sentence and abruptly gave up. "This is stupid," he said, his shoulders slumping. "No one's going to hear us."

"We've got to try," Wilson said, looking irritated that Chase would give up so quickly. "I'm not going to sit here like—like a pig in a slaughterhouse! There's always a chance that someone will hear us."

Chase glanced over to House. "He looks worse," he said, using it as a diversion from the conversation. House really did look much worse, despite the coat that Chase had given up for him. He was half asleep, and with his eyes barely cracked open, House was mumbling to himself incoherently and massaging his thigh incessantly. "We've got to find a way to help him."

Wilson stared at him incredulously. "What do you want to do? Have you got a water bottle in your pocket? Or some antibiotics? Because if you've been holding out on us, then please, whenever you deign to—"

He stopped speaking as a sound came from above. There was the groan and screech of metal being scraped across metal, and Chase realized that it was coming from the trapdoor. Someone was opening it!

"Hey! We're down here! Help us!" he shouted, completely forgetting about House as he felt a burst of excitement. Someone had heard them, they were going to open the hatch and they would all be free. They weren't going to die.

With a great sound, the metal hatch above them opened and revealed not a shining sun, but the dark sky of night. Chase blinked in surprise—how long had they been down here? Was it evening already? Was it early morning? But that didn't matter anymore, because they were being rescued right now.

"If I see any of you, I'm going to shoot you."

Chase's heart dropped into the bottom of his stomach as he realized that it was him. The man. He was back, and they weren't being rescued... they were about to be killed.

"So stay where you are."

Chase swallowed, furious with himself for being so idiotically hopeful.

"If you're going to kill us, then just do it!" Wilson said defiantly, and Chase stared at him with wide eyes. What the hell was he doing?

"Only one of you is going to die," the man said, his voice flat.

"Which one?" Wilson demanded, while House continued to mumble and Chase tried to quell the rising panic in the pit of his stomach. "Why take all three of us if you only want one?"

"Because you're going to decide who will die—once you have, the other two will be released."

There was a resounding silence.

"You—you want us to chose?" Wilson said finally, his voice trembling. "But we can't—"

"You can. If you want to live," the man said. "Let me know when you've made your choice."

There was a deafening bang as the hatch was slammed shut, and then a twisting as it was locked. Chase met Wilson's eyes, his brain processing the situation that he was facing without really providing comprehension. The question was, which was worse? Being killed, or choosing to kill someone else?