Johnny froze in disbelief, mouth open. He and Barnes had briefly worked together at Station 127 the previous November, and their relationship would not have been described as amicable: Barnes bore Johnny a grudge. Gage could scarcely breathe as a burgeoning dread stole his breath and twisted his gut when he remembered Barnes' parting words to him: 'You're mine, Gage.' Only Johnny's eyes moved as he watched Barnes shift to his knees, the pressure of the gun in Johnny's belly never slackening as Barnes rose.
"Get up." Barnes ordered, stabbing harder with the bore of the weapon, drawing a gasp from Johnny. Both men stood. Barnes grabbed Johnny's right arm and jerked him around, shoving the gun into Johnny's ribs. "Start walking."
"What are you doing, Barnes?" Johnny croaked as he finally managed to make his mouth work.
"Shut up and walk." Barnes emphasized his command with another stab of the pistol. They pushed through the underbrush and Barnes steered Johnny over to an old, beat-up, blue sedan parked at the nearby curb.
"Get in and slide over behind the wheel. Don't even think about trying to pull anything. I don't care if you're dead or not."
Johnny complied, heart beating as if he had just completed a 400-metre dash. His mind scurried in panicked circles, trying to think of something, anything, to distract Barnes and make his escape.
Barnes climbed in after Johnny, pulling a set of keys from his pocket. "Drive."
Johnny ran a dry tongue over dry lips. "Where to?"
"Over to the industrial park."
"Barnes…"
"Shut up and drive, skinny boy. Don't do anything stupid. Oh, I forgot. That's going to be pretty hard for you." Barnes laughed nastily.
Johnny did as he was told. Although the drive lasted only minutes, it felt like forever to Johnny. The air felt thick, hard to breathe and everything had a slightly wavy quality to it, as if seen and heard under water. As they entered the industrial park area, Barnes directed Johnny to pull the car around to the back of an old meat processing plant that recently shut down.
"Turn off the engine and hand me the keys." After Johnny complied, Barnes backed out of the passenger seat, keeping the weapon trained on his victim. "Get out."
As Johnny reached for the door handle on the driver's side, Barnes barked, "No! Come out this side." Once Johnny exited the car, Barnes again shoved the bore of the pistol against his ribs. Kicking the car door shut with his heel, Barnes ordered, "Walk!" and steered Johnny over to a door in the side of the building. "Open it."
Barnes pushed Johnny through the doorway. "Don't move." The two stood still, their eyes adjusting to the dusty light within the factory. An unmistakable odor of meat still clung to the air, mixed with something else. Although the processing plant had only been shut down for a few months, the building already smelled of disuse.
"Start walking." Barnes prodded Johnny forward with the gun.
"What do you want?"
"Shut up." As they neared the doorway leading to the next room, Barnes forcefully shoved Johnny up against the wall. Johnny managed to turn his head in time, to avoid breaking his nose, although the side of his face banged and scraped against the concrete. Barnes held one hand to the back of Johnny's neck, keeping the gun pressed to Johnny's right side.
"What do I want? Well, for starters, I'd like my job back, but you took care of that, didn't you? You screwed up everything for me, and I'm here to return the favor. Like I told you before. You're mine, skinny boy." Barnes slowly dragged the gun up the side of Johnny's body, stopping at the neck. Switching hands, he ordered, "Turn around."
Leaning across Johnny's windpipe with his left forearm, Barnes slammed a fist into Johnny's belly several times in succession. "Looks like you're gonna need a paramedic," he guffawed, releasing Johnny and stepping back a pace.
Doubled over and retching, Johnny tried to placate the man. "Barnes! Please! What do you want? Put the gun down. We can work this out." Toby Barnes outweighed him by at least 40 to 50 pounds and Johnny seriously doubted his ability to best him even in a fair fight. But he figured he certainly would have a better chance of defending himself if a weapon were not part of the equation. Maybe the terror he felt would even give him an edge. At the very least, he knew he could outrun Barnes if he had the chance.
Barnes slammed him back into the wall after he spoke, and Johnny braced himself for the blow that he thought would follow. But Barnes stepped back again and tucked the gun into his waistband.
"C'mon, skinny boy! Let's work it out! Think you're man enough to take me?" He grinned ferally, arms open wide, seemingly inviting Johnny to attack.
Johnny launched himself at Barnes, aiming for the face. He got in a couple of good punches before Barnes' fist smashed into his face. Johnny staggered back, tasting blood from a split lip and seeing stars. Another blow spun him around, and he fell heavily to his hands and knees. 'Get up! Run!' shrieked a voice in his head.
A vicious kick caught him in the ribs, stealing his breath away and setting his side on fire. He rolled away, but a booted foot followed wherever he went, until he managed to roll under a butcher's block. He lay, gasping on the floor, sinking into a red-hot quicksand of pain.
"You can't hide forever under there, skinny boy. Get out here."
Johnny heard the hammer of the gun click and he crawled out. Holding his battered ribs, he gingerly stood up.
"Not so high and mighty, now, skinny boy!" jeered Barnes. "You paramedics looked pretty fuckin' stupid, chasing after those false alarms every day. And your firehouse buddies rollin' up with the big rig to put out puny, little Dumpster fires was a fuckin' joke!"
"How do you know about that?"
"You're dumber than you look, skinny boy. I jerked you around like puppets on a string."
Realization dawned. "How could you do that? You're a fireman!"
"Used to be a fireman, thanks to you. Get back over there." Barnes indicated the wooden butcher's block, under which Johnny tried to hide earlier, with a wave of the gun.
Johnny's face flushed with anger, his voice raspy. "Go to hell!"
"You first, skinny boy." Barnes stepped forward, grasping a wad of Johnny's T-shirt as he yanked him closer, and raised the gun to Johnny's temple. "What's it gonna be?"
Choice made, Johnny stumbled over to the table, keeping a wary eye on Barnes and the gun. Barnes gave him a shove and Johnny's hip slammed painfully into the worn, wooden block.
"You're still pretty uppity, skinny boy! Time to teach you a lesson." Barnes unzipped his pants.
Johnny stared at Barnes in disbelief.
Then Barnes waved the gun at Johnny's waist. "Take 'em off."
Johnny shook his head minutely in numbed shock. He felt as if he were encased in ice. His mind went blank. Time ceased to flow. This couldn't be happening.
Barnes repeated his command. "Do it!"
Johnny remained frozen in place, eyes filled with terror, the sound of his breathing harsh in his ears.
Enraged, Barnes again grabbed Johnny's T-shirt and yanked him up against his body. "I said do it!" he hissed, digging the gun into the skin at Johnny's temple.
Johnny found his voice. "Do what? I don't know what you want!"
Barnes only answer was to pull back the hammer on the gun. Johnny closed his eyes and swallowed. "No, please..." he whispered. "You don't want to do this, man. Don't...don't kill me."
"Take 'em off. I'm not telling you again." He shoved Johnny backward against the butcher's block.
Hands shaking, eyes never leaving Barnes' face, Johnny complied, and let his running shorts fall around his ankles. "Jockstrap, too." Johnny removed that as well. Instinctively, he tried to cover himself with his hands. Barnes just laughed. "Move your hands, skinny boy. Let's see what you got." His eyes shone cold, hard, animal-like, and Johnny didn't doubt for a minute that Barnes meant to kill him.
Barnes looked him over with a smirk. "Turn around and bend over." Barnes indicated the worktable with a wave of the gun. Johnny turned his back on Barnes, leaned over the table and closed his eyes, unable to do anything but obey.
"You fucked with me, and I'm gonna fuck with you."
"Barnes, no, please..." Johnny started to turn around, but Barnes cracked the gun against the side of the paramedic's skull, and stars exploded in front of his eyes. He started to slide off the table as his legs buckled under him, but Barnes grabbed his hair and jerked him back up.
"Stay awake, skinny boy. I want you to feel this!"
Johnny prayed for unconsciousness. But his mind was trapped, alert in his body, just as surely as Barnes trapped his body on the table. There was no escape. Fear seized him, stopping his thoughts, stealing his breath, paralyzing his muscles. Freezing him to the table. Then he felt hands, rough, merciless, grabbing him, invading him, burning wherever they touched. A terrific weight on his back pushed him against the cold, damp wood of the table. Then came a fiery, rending pain, so deep, so sharp, and so intense, he thought he'd been stabbed. White-hot lightning bolts of pain arced through the core of his being as Barnes shifted, and Johnny felt, rather than heard, the raw, visceral scream erupt from his throat. Barnes shifted again and again, grabbing Johnny's shoulders. He felt the fingers digging into his flesh, felt the hard edge of the table digging into his groin with each thrust, and screamed again in pain and denial.
He heard Barnes' harsh breathing, felt the foul breath hot on his neck, smelled the sour, stale scent of beer. He heard his own ragged breaths, a counterpoint to Barnes', and the wet sound of flesh slamming against flesh. Barnes' low, mocking laughter rang in his ears and echoed in his head. Barnes hands left his shoulders and resumed their ministrations, pulling and tugging. Johnny gasped in shame as he felt the humiliating betrayal by his own body. He willed it to stop as he focused on his own hands, gripping the edge of the table, his knuckles whitening under the pressure, but he couldn't make his body cease its disgraceful response. No control. Blood from his cut lip seeped into his mouth, salty, metallic, tasting like fear. He gagged. And permeating it all, the cloying odor of raw meat.
Then, it was over. The weight lifted from his back, the pressure abated, the pain receded, and nothing held him to the table any longer. He slid to the floor in a boneless heap, existing in an oasis of shocked numbness. Lying there, he calmly wondered who might find his body after Barnes finished with him. Then Barnes yanked him to his knees.
He couldn't make out the words over the screaming in his head. He knew Barnes was talking to him, ordering him to do something unspeakable. Johnny shook his head, thinking that he would far prefer to die now, since Barnes intended to kill him anyway, until the gun pressed against his forehead, and he made his choice to live. The horror began again and continued on and on until, completely, mercifully unaware of his surroundings, he slipped into darkness.
He heard a voice from far away, mocking him, and then felt a boot connect once again with his ribs. The pain roused him from his haze and he woke, gagging. His stomach tried to exit through his throat and he heaved what felt like the contents of his body onto the floor.
Apparently tired of his sport, Barnes backed away from where Johnny now lay shivering on the floor, eyes closed. "I don't think I'll kill you today after all, skinny boy," he laughed.
Johnny opened his eyes and looked at Barnes, his face devoid of expression.
Barnes gazed down at him with a satisfied smirk. "Remember, you're mine." He nudged his victim with a foot. "You count to a thousand, and then you can leave." With that, Barnes turned and exited.
Johnny listened to the retreating footsteps, his breath coming in short gasps, his eyes focusing on nothing. He curled up into a trembling ball and lay unmoving as he tried to count. He couldn't focus on the numbers. He knew only one thing... he was alive.
He started to retch again and the dry heaves went on forever, each convulsion stabbing at his bruised ribs, aggravating the deep pain in his gut and in his back. When the retching subsided, he managed to get to his knees. He groped around for his shorts, then slowly and painfully pulled them back on. Using the butcher's block for support, he pulled himself to his feet. Staggering, he lurched out into the late morning sunlight with just one objective in mind: get as far away as possible from where he was.