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"Damn it! Is he alive?"
"This can't be good."
"Did he run out of air or something?"
The voices blended and blurred together from somewhere above Kurt, barely reaching him in the foggy semi-conscious state he found himself in. One of the shapes that was speaking shifted suddenly, and a gust of cold wind slapped him across the face, forcing his eyes open, relief washing into him from the cold clear air that had suddenly replaced the warm, thick air of the trunk. The relief, however, didn't last long.
"See? He's alive."
"Thank god. Now get him inside before anybody notices."
It occurred to Kurt that the bag over his head had disappeared, and for a moment he felt a flicker of hope, that just as quickly came crashing down at the last statement. The shorter man leaned down and, with a flick of a knife, undid the ropes that tied his feet, then immediately pressed the knife against the back of Kurt's neck.
"Here's how its going to go, Princess," he muttered under his breath. "Just over there is our hotel room, and we need to get inside there before anybody notices anything suspicious. You are going to act normal. But if you even try to make a run for it, I have this knife set up right against your neck. And how far would you get, anyway? I think we all know that your wrist looks pretty broken."
The taller of the two men slammed the trunk of the car shut, two bags in his hand. "Alright, let's go."
Each step Kurt took towards the door of the hotel room, his heart sank lower. He could feel the cold blade rubbing up against his skin, he could feel the hand tightly clenched around his upper arm, wrinkling the fabric of his Dalton blazer. He stumbled just before reaching the door, warranting him a hushed threat and a small cut from the man who held him. The door closed behind them, the lock clicking shut, and Kurt fought the urge to suddenly break into tears.
The taller of the two men breathed out a sigh of relief, throwing the bags onto the bed and shrugging off his heavy winter coat. Kurt noted with interest the tattoo located on his forearm, a skull surrounded with barbed wire. If he wasn't so terrified, he would have laughed at how stereotypical the tattoo design was. The man flipped the blinds closed before turning on the lights.
"Which bag?" He asked the shorter man, whose hands were still tight around Kurt.
"The smaller one."
"This one?"
"Yeah." Tattoo-man unzipped the bag and reached into it, pulling out a roll of duck tape.
"You can let go of him. He won't run anywhere." Tattoo-man's voice grew sickeningly sweet. "Will you?"
Kurt stayed completely silent, but this only served to anger his captor. "Will you?" He growled, a feral tone to his voice.
"No," Kurt whispered, cursing his high pitched voice, as it only served to make him sound like a nine-year old girl.
"Good. See?" Tattoo-man glanced down at the shorter man, who, with a moment of hesitation, let go of Kurt. "Why don't you go get us some dinner?" The shorter man glanced around, then nodded, straightening his hat before stepping into the cold, the door closing securely behind him. Tattoo-man inspected the roll of duct tape a minute, looking for the end. "You know, Kurt, we're not total barbarians." His voice was low, conversational, as he sank into the hotel room's chair. "We don't do things without reason." He glanced up to make eye contact with Kurt. "But unfortunately-" He broke off as he found the end of the duct tape, peeling off a piece. "Unfortunately, there is reason in this situation."
Kurt, acting on basic instinct, took one last terrified attempt at freedom. He launched himself for the door, the feeling of hope returning as his fingers closed around the knob and turned. But too slow. It was too slow. Tattoo-man wrapped his hands around Kurt's throat, dragging him back to the center of the room and pinning him down on the bed.
"What's the matter, Kurt?" Tattoo-man pressed a strip of duct tape over Kurt's mouth. "Didn't you say you wouldn't run? It's not nice to break promises." He hauled the boy to his feet, wrapping a second strip of duct tape around Kurt's wrists, not paying attention to the teen's sharp intake of breath at the movement of his broken wrist.
I won't let them see me cry, Kurt resolved as the duct tape was sealed. So he waited until he was thrown into the closet, the door shut and locked, to let the tears escape. Slits of light filtered in through the cracks, casting long lines of pale yellow light across the floor of the closet. The smell of food and the sound of talking filtered into his small prison cell, and Kurt let his emotions out, tears falling fast and heavy, no sound escaping from the duct tape that bound his mouth.
Burt sat in the car, head buried in his hands. The porch lights of the house were on, and he knew he should go inside, tell Carole and Finn that the police had no leads, that they had promised him they would try their best, but not to get up hope. A drumming on the windshield of the car alerted the man inside to the freezing rain that had started to come down, soon to coat the roads and houses in an icy mess. Burt sat back in his seat, and closed his eyes, remembering the last time he had seen his son, only three days before.
"Dad, you're sick! Will you please listen to the doctor's orders?" The brown haired teen reached out to yank the bag of chips from Burt's hands.
"Kurt, its one bag of chips."
"Are you forgetting I literally just found four others hidden away in the cupboards?"
Burt held up his hands in mock surrender. "Alright, I get it Kurt, you're worried about me. But kiddo, I can take care of myself."
Kurt placed his hands on his hips and glared at his father. "Are you forgetting what happened just last fall?"
"What are you implying? That I can't take care of myself?"
"Obviously not." The teen grabbed the bag of chips, tossing them into the trashcan.
"Kurt!"
"It's for your own good."
"Kurt, nothings going to happen to me if I eat one bag of chips."
"You're being selfish, Dad."
"Kurt Elizabeth Hummel, do not try and get me to feel guilty about this again."
The teen threw up his arms and turned on his heel, his voice fading as he disappeared down the hallway. "Fine. I won't. Now, if you'll excuse me, I have to get back to Dalton. If you don't continue to break every rule, I'll see you next week."
Burt never said goodbye.
The freezing rain was coming down harder now, and it seemed to slice at Burt as he stepped out of the warm security of the car. Carole opened the door, silently taking his coat from him. Finn stood impatiently in the doorway from the living room, his eyes asking the question that lingered in the air. Burt couldn't help but feel that something was off, and he had to refrain himself from turning towards the stairs to see a slim, fashionably-dressed son that wasn't there.
"Well?" Finn broke the silence.
"They have no leads." The words hung heavy in the air, even as Carole slid one arm around her husband and one around her son, trying to offer them comfort that she had no way of giving. A comfort that could only come from a boy that was missing, somewhere in the storm, in far more danger than any of them could imagine.
A couple of reviews would be nice...to keep me motivated...not that I'm pressuring you or anything...yes, reviews would be nice...