Chapter 44 – Divergence
Awareness leaked back into me little by little. Bits and pieces floated through the thick fog in my mind, interspersed by long periods of darkness where my consciousness drifted in the ether, unaware of anything that was happening around me.
A bag being tugged over my head, then back to black.
A car ride, maybe... muffled voices...
Cold. I... I remembered cold...
When enough of reality started to slide back together and resemble coherence, I was finally able to open my eyes, and keep them open.
Kind of wished I would've kept them closed, honestly. Because my current situation was not a cheery one.
Once I'd blinked enough to somewhat adjust to the harsh fluorescent lights above me, I came to terms with my surroundings.
For all intents and purposes, it appeared that I was in a slaughterhouse. The air was thick with a raw, sweaty, meaty smell, bordering on fetid – and the air was frigid, my breath visible in front of me. The cold had sunk in, rattling me down to my bones. I convulsed every couple of seconds, the shivers taking their toll.
An empty conveyor belt took up most of the room to my left; to the right, large bovine carcasses dangled from meat hooks.
Meat hooks...
I looked up.
My hands were bound with thick boat rope around a meat hook. As more and more (but not all) of the haze in my head started to clear, my heart stuttered into frantic action, and my instant worry was that I was headed for the slaughter as well.
I felt an intense pressure in my head, like my brain was going to explode– between that, and the ringing in my ears, clear thought was difficult, and recalling exactly how I'd ended up here was harder still. I closed my eyes, dragged in a few deep breaths, tried to focus.
What had happened? How had I ended up here?
I... I'd gotten off of work... tried to get a cab...
Zach. Zach had offered to drive me home.
Gunshots rattled between the walls of my skull. Men with guns... the car crash...
I'd been knocked out.
Okay. Jigsaw pieces put together, and it wasn't a pretty picture.
"This is so not canon," I whispered, horrified. I jerked against my restraints, but they didn't give. My arms ached fiercely. I'd obviously been suspended on the hook for awhile. My feet hung about five inches off of the ground, granting me no support and severely limiting my movement.
My chances of escape, at present, were not looking good.
"It's season one. I can't die in season one," I muttered under my breath, straining against my bonds. "What kind of screw-up gets sent to another universe to put things right, and then gets themselves killed like... one-sixteenth of the way into things? Eight years. That's all I had to do. Not get killed for eight years... and this is where I end up. Fuck!"
I leaned my head back, staring up at my bound hands. I tugged, more and more, but the effort elicited nothing but rubbing my wrists raw. I felt the damp warmth of blood, and a drop leaked down the length of my arm, leaving an itching trail of drying crimson behind.
"There's gotta be a way out of this... gotta think..." But it was so hard to think! All of my thoughts were caught up in a muddled bog, and I didn't know how to pull them free. Anytime I managed to really grip something resembling a good plan, it was cut off by the throbbing, the pressure, the ringing...
"Concussion," I eventually decided. "I've... I've got a pretty bad concussion, don't I?"
The screaming pain in my head was an answer all by itself.
Before I could return to my panicked monologue, a steel door at the opposite end of the room swung open. Three men filtered in; all in suits, all armed. In the center was a stout man, balding at the top, tan-skinned and oily in his appearance. The two on either side of them rang familiar to me, somehow, and I decided that they were most likely part of the group that had cut Zach and I off in the tunnel earlier.
"Well, well, well. Sleeping Beauty is up and at 'em, boys!" the man in the middle exclaimed, spreading out his arms. "Ms. Carhart, it's a pleasure. Wish we could've met under slightly cheerier circumstances, but hey, that's life!"
Voice hoarse from hours of disuse, I asked, "Who are you?"
The man smiled. "Me? I'm Don Calafiore. Ring any bells?"
Shit. Yes, it did. House had mentioned him before in passing. He was one of the biggest organized crime bosses in New Jersey, based out of Trenton.
Not a good sign.
"What do you want with me?" What I really wanted to ask was, "What did House do?"
I managed to restrain myself. Just barely.
"Babes, we don't want anything with you, not really. You're just leverage." He took a few steps forward. "We tried every graft and bribe under the sun with your dad. And you know, with the kind of reputation your pop has got, I didn't think it would be a tough sell. Bastard's supposed to be some kinda self-serving misanthrope, but with this one guy, one mobster, he decides he's got this integrity, this moral code he's gotta uphold."
"What were you trying to bribe him to do?"
"Maybe, perhaps, not to say this is true, of course – but maybe he could work a little less harder to save his current patient."
"You– you want House to kill Joey Arnello?" That could only mean that Calafiore was the intended target of Joey's ratting, and he wanted to silence him permanently.
"Did I say that?" He looked to his two goons, a smug smile on his face. "Did I say that, boys? I don't remember saying that."
"Definitely didn't say nothing about that, boss," one of the burly minions concurred.
"You're watching what you say," I realized slowly. "Which means that... that you're gonna let me go. This isn't an execution."
Calafiore chuckled. "No, this ain't no execution, silly. I don't make the big bucks from killin' little girls."
A small, petulant part of me wanted to point out that eighteen wasn't little to me, but decided that probably wouldn't be in my best interest.
"No, I just want your pop to understand the reality of the situation. He does what I want, or I'll hit a pressure point. You're first on the list. If he really gives a crap about you, he'll do as I so kindly asked, and you can walk out of here without a hair harmed on your tiny head. Capiche?"
"That's all fine and well, but what happened to my friend that was with me? I'm House's pressure point, okay... but if you have him, let him go. He's not involved in this."
"Your boyfriend, huh?" Calafiore smirked. "Hey! Bring in the spare!" he called over his shoulder. Another grunt filed through the door, dragging Zach by the back of his shirt.
"Zach!"
Zach lifted his head ever-so-slightly. Blood streamed from his nose down his face, staining his lips and chin. His blue-green eyes were wide with terror.
Calafiore made a gesture, and Zach was thrown to the ground in front of me, prostrate at my feet. His hands were bound behind his back with a zip-tie. I noticed gore matted at the back of his head; it looked like he'd been hit with something pretty hard.
He looked up at me. "Y-you alright?" he coughed out.
"Don't worry about me, are you okay?"
"Considering? I'm uh... I'm okay, I guess." Zach tried to stand, but he fell back to his knees, looking dazed.
"What did you do to him?" I demanded.
"He tried to fight us when we were pulling you out of the car. Had to give him a little love tap," responded the mobster that had dragged Zach into the room.
God, that looked bad. Zach definitely had a concussion, likely a lot worse than my own. If he started bleeding into his brain...
No. I couldn't think about that now. One hundred percent of my limited brain power needed to go to getting us the hell out of here.
"Meet your pressure point, Ms. Carhart," Calafiore said with a grin. "Your dad's gonna do what I want, or unpleasant things happen to you. And if you decide to give me too much trouble here, well, I might hafta hurt your pal Zach. And you don't want that, do you?"
I didn't respond, simply glaring at the mob boss.
Calafiore didn't like my silence. "I said, you don't want that, do you?" He moved forward surprisingly quick for a big guy, kicking Zach hard in the stomach and sending him sprawling to the side. Zach groaned, eyes pinching shut in pain.
"Stop!" I screamed, flailing against my bindings, even though I knew full well that it was to no avail.
"Stop?" Calafiore raised his hands and stepped back. "Alright. So we have an understanding? I do what you want, you do what I want?"
I nodded frantically. "Yes, yes– just don't hurt him. Please."
If Zach got badly hurt, or– or worse, because of me– I'd never be able to forgive myself.
You never factored that into your little save-the-world plan, did you? That there were people in this universe other than the House characters? That you might affect someone for the worse?
Because I didn't know Zach's future.
And if things went downhill tonight, he could very well not have one at all.
The same could be said for me, I suppose.
"Now, I'm going to make a call to your old man, and we're gonna go from there, 'kay?" Calafiore pulled a cell phone out of his pocket, a burner. "I'm gonna put it on speaker. Say anything I don't like, and Zach here is gonna pay for it." He pointed a warning finger at me, then tapped in House's number.
Two rings, and House picked up on the other end. "Who is this?"
It was almost sad how much of a relief it was to me, just to hear his voice. I hadn't had the chance to talk to House in days, since I'd been staying with Wilson and away from the hospital. I'd missed him a lot, not that I would ever admit that to him. Hell, it was probably the longest period of time I'd gone since age nine without hearing House's voice.
Maybe I was more dependent on him than I should've been. Sue me.
But even more than that, just hearing his voice... it made me feel safer. I don't know why; House logically couldn't do anything to help me. But still, the sound comforted me, gave me strength, grounded me. Granted me determination I desperately needed.
For him, I would get out of here alive.
But I needed to figure out a way to get Zach and I out of here on my own, because God knows I was not about to let Joey Arnello die on my account.
"Dr. House. We spoke earlier. I've got a new deal for you, if you're interested."
"You mobster types really are persistent. Look, I've watched The Untouchables, and I've got to say–"
"Ooh, may wanna hold that thought, Doc," Calafiore interrupted House. "Anya, how's about you say hi to your dad?"
The other end went silent.
"House..." I called out weakly, suddenly overwhelmed with emotion.
House was quiet for a moment. Then he asked in a monotone, "Are you hurt?"
"I'm fine. I– don't let Joey die. No matter what he threatens, don't let Joey–"
Calafiore whipped out his pistol and aimed it at the base of Zach's spine. "Anymore talk like that, and he never walks again!" the mob boss roared at me. His demeanor faded back to a calm one scary-fast. "Now, Doc, we know you don't want anything to happen to your little girl. So, I'm gonna give you... hmm. Two hours. And if Joey Arnello doesn't have a sheet pulled over his head by that time, I'm gonna start takin' bits and pieces off of Anya here. Are we clear?"
Nothing from House.
"House?"
The other end clicked off, followed by an inane beeping. Calafiore looked back at the phone in surprise. "Huh. Didn't expect that." He checked his watch, then looked at me. "Two hours, babes. Your daddy doesn't deliver, I'm gonna deliver you back to him one chunk at a time."
Calafiore turned around and headed for the door, his henchmen following close. Only one remained behind to watch us, and he merely leaned against the wall and lit a cigarette.
When the steel door slammed shut behind Calafiore, I immediately tried to rouse Zach. "Hey, hey, are you okay down there?"
"I... yeah. Breathing, anyway."
"Shit, Zach, I am so sorry for this. I never wanted to get you involved. I never wanted to be involved, I–"
"I don't... don't blame you," he cut across me, struggling back into a sitting position, long blond hair disheveled and hanging in front of his eyes. "More blaming your dad. And uh, if we die... I'm definitely gonna be pissed, I'm not gonna lie."
"We're not going to die. We've got to find a way out of here," I said in an urgent whisper. "Look, my number of functioning brain cells is a lot lower than usual, but we can still figure something out between the two of us."
"Anya... I dunno how to tell you this, but I can barely remember my own middle name, let alone figure out how the fuck we're gonna..." He winced. "Christ, all I can smell is blood. I think I'm gonna puke."
"Can you strategically puke on the guard?" I asked hopefully.
Zach glared at me.
I glanced at the guard. He was far enough away that he couldn't overhear our conversation if we kept our voices down. I switched my attention back to Zach. "I might still have my phone on me. Can you check my pockets?"
"Without Tony Pepperoni noticing? Probably not," he admitted. "Can't you feel if you have it?"
"I'm pretty numb from the cold," I replied. "Just... um." I pulled my legs up as far as I could, almost to my chest. "See anything in my back pockets?"
"Are you asking me to stare at your ass?"
"Zach!"
"Sorry, sorry... and no. There's nothing."
"Damn. What about you? Did they leave your cell on you?"
He shook his head. "No, they took my knife, my wallet, my phone, everything."
"You carry a knife?" I asked, a bit surprised.
He shrugged. "Not anymore."
"There's gotta be something... anything... we're in a friggin' slaughterhouse, if there's not a weapon around, I'll eat my socks."
"Eat your socks?"
"I'm concussed, okay, I'm not great with the turns of phrase right now!" I said, a little too loudly.
"Hey, quiet it down over there," the guard with the cigarette admonished us.
I continued to prattle on in a hushed tone about the different ways we could get out, coming up with plans and discarding them seconds later when I realized the impossibility or irrationality of said course of action.
When Zach didn't say anything for a few minutes, I began to grow worried. "Zach?"
No response.
Oh no.
I swung my right foot just enough to tap his shoulder. Nothing. I repeated the action. This time, he stirred, albeit minutely. He made a gurgling, pained sounded in his throat.
"Zach, look at me."
"Hurts..."
"You need to stay awake, okay? I know it generally only happens with kids, but if you're badly concussed and you pass out or fall asleep, you can stop breathing for ten to twenty seconds, or– or completely."
He nodded dimly. "I'll... t-try to stay awake..."
"Don't try, succeed!" I urged him desperately. "Zach, I... I don't... I can't..."
"Can't... can't what?" He managed to lift his head just enough to look up at me through clouded eyes.
"I can't lose you," I admitted in a choked whisper. "Zach, you're the only person I've got that's just... that's..." That isn't a fictional character? Whose health and well being doesn't depend completely on my every move? That I haven't been watching through a TV screen for the better part of the past decade?
"...that's mine," I finished lamely.
To my surprise, Zach rasped out a chuckle.
"Why are you laughing?"
"I don't really know," he told me. "But you should probably shut up, now."
"Why?"
"'Cause if we keep talking like this, I might ask you out. And I don't want to ask you out when I'm bleeding and beat to shit on the floor of a slaughterhouse."
Of all the stunning things that had happened in the past couple of hours, somehow it was Zach's admission that managed to shock me into silence.
Oh gosh, this all was just too much for my pounding, exhausted brain to handle right now.
The smoking guard straightened his shoulders, looking around with a level of alertness he hadn't had before. "Did you hear that?" he asked.
I couldn't hear much past the ringing my ears. "What?"
We all held silent for a moment, then... weeee-oooo. weee-oooo.
"Shit!" the guard cursed. "Pigs! Boss, we got pigs!"
"Cops?" Zach murmured.
"Thank God," I gasped out. "Thank you, thank you, thank you–"
The doors on the other end of the room burst open, and Don Calafiore and his troupe of henchmen returned, all of them looking none-too-pleased.
"Looks like our party here is gettin' cut short," Calafiore said curtly.
He aimed his pistol between my eyes. Ice flooded my veins.
"Looks like your two hours are up a lot sooner than we thought."