Scene 1
Warming the Bones
———
Darkness.
Whether his eyes were open or shut, there was no boundary to tell. A perfect black that pressed down on the retinas. The cold of the concrete floor had crept up his spine and soaked into his marrow. How long he had been lying there, he couldn't say. An hour. A day.
He inhaled.
Something stabbed inside his lung. A rib. Each time he drew breath, the broken tip scraped the lining. He had to stop at half a breath. A body that would not permit one full inhale.
His left wrist lay on the concrete at a wrong angle. The fingertips were there but the wrist was not. The order to curl his fingers was severed somewhere along the wrist and sent back unanswered. He pressed his right palm flat against the floor. The rough grain of stone against skin—that sensation was the only proof he was alive.
His mouth felt as though he were biting down on a lump of iron. He rolled his tongue and blood welled from abraded gums. He licked it. Didn't spit.
His right hand found his left wrist.
He traced the break. Where his fingertips met the place the bone had shifted, he could feel the fragment beneath the skin. It hadn't punctured through. It was twisted and caught inside.
He held his breath. And wrenched.
CRACK.
The sound trying to escape his mouth was bitten shut between his teeth. He drove his jaw so hard that the lower molars ground into the upper. His tongue swept the gums. The taste of blood thickened.
There was no sensation of bone finding its seat. Only the feeling of something jammed coming loose. The fragment wedged between the joints shifted, and inside the meat of his arm came a grinding, like kneading gravel between the fingers.
He exhaled. Thin and long.
Ribs.
He placed his right fingers against his flank. Between the third and fourth. The gap that widened and narrowed with each breath. Even through the skin he could feel the misalignment. This was where he had to push.
He cupped his palm. Pressed four fingers into the gap between the ribs as though wedging them in.
He pushed.
POP.
His vision went white, then blacker than the black that had been there before. A darkness darker than the dark. His hearing died. Inside his eardrums only the sound of his heart hammering—clatter-clatter-clatter, like a locomotive. His stomach flipped and bile scorched up his throat. He swallowed.
Didn't spit.
He curled on the stone floor and pressed his forehead into the concrete. The cold touch of stone against his burning brow. If this body were a factory, then right now the boiler was being stoked. The fuel was pain. The more he fed it, the more something between his bones melted and ran.
Something yellow.
He couldn't see it. It was dark. But the heat spreading beneath his skin was different. Not the temperature of blood. From the place where his left wrist bone had been reset, something hot as molten slag poured along his veins. Severed nerve endings reattached like sparks catching. The skin wrapped around his ribs tightened as though being cinched from the inside.
He clenched his left fist.
The fingers curled. All five. Slowly, creaking, but they curled.
In the dark, teeth were bared.
Not a smile. The lips splitting open to bare the teeth was a muscular contraction born of pain. Not crying. Not laughing. The expression a beast makes just before it growls—the lower lip pulled taut and down.
He planted both palms on the concrete.
He loaded his weight onto his arms. His elbows shook. His knees left the floor.
He stood.
In the pitch black, chains clinked. The shackle ring around his ankle clicked—announcing the shift in the direction of the load.
He gripped the chain with both hands. Seized a single link in a two-handed hold and squeezed.
The iron screamed. Metal crumpling, dragging against itself. The link stretched into an oval, then one side snapped and fell away.
The clatter of iron tumbling across stone rang through the dark. In the pitch black, that sound was the only light.
His ankle was free.
Ian walked through the dark toward the wall. His palm met the damp surface. Something sticky—blood or water, impossible to tell—filled the lines of his hand.
He followed the wall. Found the iron door. The thick surface of steel touched the back of his hand. Its cold sank to the bone.
He stopped.
Less than two days.
He didn't steady his breathing. Steady breathing was something this body no longer possessed. Inhale and the lungs tear; exhale and the ribs stick together. That was this body's normal.
Standing before the iron door, the beast in the dark fixed its gaze on what lay beyond.
Scene 2
The Door of the Pen
———
He killed his breath in front of the iron door.
He pressed his back to the wall and shifted toward the hinge side. The door opens inward. Stand on the hinge side and the swinging door becomes a shield. The man entering will push the door, take one step, and check left first. The right—the blind spot behind the hinge—is hidden by the door. One step too late. That one step was enough.
His heart slowed.
The hammering that had been thundering between his ribs like a locomotive now struck slow and deep, like water drops falling to the bottom of a well. His ears opened. Everything coming from the corridor flooded in past his ribs.
Boots.
One pair. The stride was even. No hesitation. Not a patrol—an inspection. On the far side of the door, boot heels stopping. The metallic friction of a key entering a lock. The key turning half a revolution, the bolt sliding free with a click.
The door opened.
Corridor light split the floor. A yellowish kerosene glow slashed diagonally across the concrete. The tip of a boot crossed the line of light. One step. Right hand holding a kerosene lamp. Left hand empty. The holster at his belt caught the light and gleamed.
His head turned left. Seeing the empty shackle. The broken link on the concrete. His pupils dilated in the light.
His mouth opened.
Before the sound could leave it, an arm shot from behind the door.
The left hand clamped over his mouth. The right arm coiled around his neck. The inside of the elbow crushed the larynx. The scream died inside his throat. The kerosene lamp slipped from his hand and struck the floor. The glass didn't break. The round body rolled across the concrete and bumped against the wall, where it stopped. The flame shuddered.
The soldier's hand fumbled at his belt. Found the holster flap.
He tightened his arm.
The neck bones groaned. Not snapping. Squeezing. Block the carotid and the time it takes for consciousness to go—
The hand fell from the holster. Fingers clawed at the air. Legs went slack and boot heels dragged across the floor. Then even that sound fell asleep.
The body went limp.
He lowered it to the floor without a sound. Dropped to a knee to keep the weight low, and cradled the back of the skull with one hand so it wouldn't strike the concrete. Quiet was everything. One noise would summon a second pair of boots.
He pulled the key ring from the belt. Four keys. He gripped them inside his fist so the metal wouldn't clink.
He picked up the kerosene lamp and killed the flame. Darkness filled the space again.
But this darkness was different. If the earlier black had been a coffin lid, this dark was a hunting ground. A faint thread of light leaked from the far end of the corridor and drew a path. Whatever coated the floor—blood or moisture—caught that light and glistened a dark red.
Ian stood.
His bare soles met the floor. No shoes. The cold of the concrete wedged itself between his toes. But there was no sound. Boots advertise your position. Bare feet dissolve into the walls.
He stood at the entrance to the corridor.
Left: a long hallway. Kerosene lamps hung on the walls. Three. Unevenly spaced. Between one light and the next, darkness pooled like standing water.
He stepped forward.
And dissolved into the first pool of dark.
Scene 3
Slaughter
———
He passed beneath the first kerosene lamp.
The light grazed his shoulder. His shadow stretched long across the wall, then was swallowed by the dark. His bare feet read the floor. The seams in the concrete, the spots where moisture gathered, the places where gravel jutted up. His soles saw what his eyes could not.
Twelve steps to the second lamp.
At the eighth step, he heard boots.
Two pairs. Different strides. The one in front: short and quick. The one behind: slow and heavy. Coming from around the corner ahead. Distance—ten steps or so.
He pressed against the wall. Between the two lamps, where the light didn't reach, a shallow alcove was cut into the stone. He wedged his body in. His back touched the damp wall. He halved his breathing.
Two pairs of boots rounded the corner and walked into the light.
The one in front was unscrewing the cap of a canteen at his hip. The one behind was fighting a yawn, cracking his neck. Rifles slung over their shoulders. Both looking straight ahead. The alcove was outside their field of vision.
Two steps.
One step.
The instant they passed the alcove, the back of the rear soldier's skull entered arm's reach.
Rear man first.
A hand shot out. Seized the back of his head and drove it into the wall. The dull sound of forehead meeting concrete—short. His knees folded and he slid straight down. The canteen cap slipping from his hand was caught on the top of a foot before it hit the floor.
The front man turned.
Before the turn was complete, a strike beneath the chin. The heel of the palm drove the jawbone upward. The clack of teeth. The staggering torso was grabbed, hauled in, pinned against the wall. A forearm crushed the larynx.
"Kh—"
Half a syllable. As the forearm bore down, the soldier's eyes rolled back. His toes scraped the floor, then stopped. The slack body was slid down the wall. Without a sound.
Two lay stacked on the floor.
No keys needed. The set he had was enough. No guns needed. Guns make noise. Nothing was needed. He just had to pass through.
He didn't unhook the rifle strap from the shoulder. Didn't search the belt. He stepped away.
He passed beneath the third lamp.
The corridor turned. At the corner, the texture of the floor changed. Concrete ended. Wood began. First basement level. The air shifted. The reek of earth and blood thinned, replaced by the smell of oil and dust.
He placed a bare foot on the wood. He found the spot that wouldn't creak—the edge nearest the wall. The closer to the wall, the stronger the joist supports the load. The less sound.
At the corridor's end, stairs came into view.
At the bottom of the stairs, a soldier sat in a chair. Cap pulled low, chin dropped to his chest. Asleep or awake—his chest rose and fell slowly. Asleep. A cigarette was wedged between the fingers resting on his knee. The ash hung long. It had gone out a while ago.
The stairs were behind him.
Five steps.
Four steps.
Three steps.
Beneath his foot, the wood groaned.
The soldier's fingers twitched. Cigarette ash fell onto his knee. Under the cap brim, his eyes cracked half open.
The foot did not stop.
The remaining two steps were eaten in one. By the time he reached the chair, the soldier's mouth was opening. A palm landed on the opening mouth. The other hand gripped the back of the skull and drove the temple into the chair's armrest. The wood split with a crack.
He laid the body that slid from the chair onto the floor.
He wiped the back of his hand on the uniform sleeve. Something sticky transferred. Blood or sweat—he didn't care. He curled his fingers and uncurled them. The joints moved. Enough.
He climbed the stairs.
Twenty-two. Wooden steps. He stepped only on the wall-side edges. At the thirteenth step, his toes trod on something wet. He didn't look down. He stepped over it and kept going.
At the top, a door.
Not wood.
Iron.
Scene 4
Ascent
———
The iron door was cold.
When he pressed his palm to it, his body heat was siphoned away. It was thick. He didn't need to knock to know. The density transmitted through his fingertips was different. No comparison to the cell door below. That door had been built to cage. This door was built to block. Not keeping the inside from getting out, but keeping the outside from getting in.
He was on the inside.
He stood with his palm flat against the door. The chill of the steel climbed from his palm to his wrist, from his wrist to his forearm. And beyond that cold—
A sound.
Far away. Outside the mansion. A sound that had traveled through walls and iron and layers of air. A grandfather clock. The first stroke of midnight.
DONG—
The vibration traveled through the iron door and seeped into his palm. It was not the sound of a bell. It was a pulse resonating inside his bones. Something swelled behind his ribs. Not the lungs. Not air. Something with no name pressing outward against his ribcage.
DONG—
The second.
It wasn't that his eyes had adjusted to the dark. The dark itself had changed. At the edges of his vision, outlines bloomed. Every rivet head studding the door's surface became visible. The positions of the bolts. The angle of the hinges. The spots where rust had set in.
DONG—
The third.
He lifted his palm. Gripped the door's edge with both hands. The side opposite the hinges. His fingers dug into the seam between door and wall. Nails scraped iron. There was no gap to pry. His fingertips slipped. Blood on them. His own, or what he'd stepped in on the stairs.
He scrubbed his palms hard against the uniform sleeves. Gripped again.
DONG—
The fourth.
He drove force into his fingers. The seam between iron and wall—a gap no wider than a fingernail. His first knuckles wedged in. A nail lifted from its bed. Pain drew a line from fingertip to elbow. He bit down.
He pulled.
The iron door screamed. The sound of hinges chewing at the bolts anchored in the wall. SKREEEEEE—the entire underground rang. Stealth was over. It was no longer needed. From here, sound was the weapon. Let the ones who heard it feed on fear.
DONG—
The fifth.
The veins in his forearms stood out. Every muscle connected to his shoulders became a single rope hauling backward. His back muscles wrenched at his ribs. The bones he had just set tried to split apart again. Between the ribs, yellow heat flared. Hot. Molten slag filling the gaps between the bones.
DONG—
The sixth.
One hinge bolt ripped free. The iron pulled from the wall tumbled down the stairs, clanging. The door tilted. The gap widened. Wide enough for a fist.
Through that gap, wind rushed in.
Different from the air underground. Not earth. Not blood. Cold, clean night air. And carried on that wind—
A silver bell.
No. It was the sound of wind squeezing through the gap in the iron door. But his eardrums translated it into a bell. His brain swapped it in on its own. That sound from beyond the window. Clear and thin and cold.
He shoved both hands into the gap. Not just fingers now. His entire palms.
DONG—
The seventh.
The second bolt groaned. The door twisted. He pulled his arms apart as though opening them wide. Not the door—his body was the weapon. He was tearing. Tearing iron.
The skin of his palms was being peeled away. From the flesh sheared by the iron's edge, something hot ran down. His hands grew slick. Each time they slipped, he gripped harder.
DONG—
The eighth.
The hinges ripped free. The remaining bolts tore from the wall all at once and the door fell. It caught against the wall at about knee height and toppled at an angle. The crash of it hitting the floor boomed down the stairwell.
DONG—
The ninth.
Light poured in.
The moon. At the far end of a long corridor, a window. A large window with no curtain. Through the first-floor window of the mansion, moonlight spilled white across the wooden floor. To eyes pickled in subterranean dark, that light was a blade. His vision whited out, then returned.
He stepped forward. Over the fallen door. His bare foot touched wood. Every footprint left behind was stained dark red. What he'd picked up on the stairs, what had come from the guards, what was his own—all of it mixed beyond telling.
DONG—
The tenth.
He stood in the center of the corridor. Moonlight fell on him from straight ahead. White light settling onto a body marinated in the cold of concrete. The uniform sleeves were soaked a blackish red. Beneath his bare feet, a trail of bloodstains led back down toward the underground.
Outside the window, the final echo of the grandfather clock faded.
Midnight.
Ian stood in the moonlight. Both eyes fixed on the far end of the corridor. Moonlight shattered across his irises and burned like amber glass. His blood-soaked hands hung slack at his sides.
His lips parted.
No sound came. It was not a word. Not language made by a human tongue.
He inhaled. His ribs spread and his lungs expanded. The bones he had set screamed. It didn't matter.
He exhaled.
A long, low, raw breath filled the corridor.
The beast had risen to the surface.