Deadly Lies

Chapter 1: A Million Dead Wasps

Chapter 1: A Million Dead WaspsJosh groaned as he tried to move. He didn’t know how much time had passed. It could have been a few minutes or days. His arse hurt from the cold, hard ground; his arms throbbed from being cuffed to the bunk in an awkward position. The chill made his bones ache, but it was nothing compared to the screaming pain in his heart.

The pain wasn’t all bad, though. It reminded him that he was alive, and being alive meant there were still things he had to do.

His son was somewhere outside the thick stone walls and the welded-shut door, wondering why Josh hadn’t gone inside to have some cake. Icicles pierced his chest; he couldn’t leave Sam.

What if Jett has taken him and left?

Struggling against the cuffs, his rattling set off an echoing in the never-ending darkness. Metal cut into his skin as he tried to lift the bunk. His swollen fingers wouldn’t cooperate when he strained to get a good grip on the bed leg. No matter how he pushed or tried to lift, it didn’t move. Feeling around, he grazed a nut on top of a metal plate. Whoever had done this knew what they were doing.

The dried blood on his wrist cracked, and a fresh wave broke through. It wasn’t as bad as the first time around. He didn’t move in panic now, didn’t thrash and pull like a trapped animal, but desperation still made him careless.

His thumb pulsated and burned where it hung immobile next to his other digits. From the feel of it, he guessed it was about twice its normal size. Josh had no way to check, of course. The thick air pressed in on him, and the taste of death was heavy on his tongue.

At the moment, he preferred the darkness; had there been light, he would’ve seen the others.

Bile rose at the back of his mouth, and his heart sped up yet again. He didn’t want to think about who they were or how they’d ended up in the root cellar. Somewhere, someone was missing a husband or wife, a son or a daughter. Were any of them the scared young man with the green eyes he’d seen in the picture all those years ago? Josh’s stomach clenched as he recalled it. Could Jett have done it?

In the midst of all the horror captured in the picture, it also held something else, a tangible…maybe not love. Josh refused to put the word together with what the image represented. Admiration? Maybe even affection—not from the young man, but from the photographer. Could Jett even have taken a picture like that?

He shuddered. He didn’t want to think Jett capable of doing such things, but given where he was sitting…

Out. He needed to find a way out.

He had to protect Sam, had to get him out of Jett’s grasps. He didn’t think Jett would do anything to hurt their son, but how could he ever know? How could he let himself waste away in here, become another body trapped in this tomb, when Sam needed him?

Sliding until his back was against the bed leg, the cold of the metal seeped through his blood-soaked slacks. It didn’t help much—he still couldn’t reach anywhere—but it was easier to twist his hands around when his arms weren’t straining as much.

With small, soft sweeping movements, he managed to push away the dead wasps littering the ground underneath his hands. His fingertips connected with the uneven stone floor that rasped against his skin as he moved. If he could only find something.

He touched more dead wasps, dried-up bodies and paper-thin wings. Something pricked the pad of his finger, and he instinctively pulled away. He didn’t know if dead wasps could sting, if they had any venom left in them, but it didn’t stop it from being unpleasant. Steeling himself, he continued to feel around on the ground. Something. He needed something small.

Josh froze as a rustle came from the bunk above. The following silence had his hair stand on end.

“Hello?” He held his breath. He was alone; he knew he was. None of the bodies in there with him could move.

Josh yelped as something hit the back of his head. His trapped arms yanked him back when he tried to get away. Close to his ear, something moved only to come to rest against his scalp. Squeezing his eyes shut, he tried to convince himself those weren’t skeletal toes caught in his hair.

He shouldn’t have shaken the bed. Swallowing, he tried to ignore the limb that had slid out over the edge of the bunk, and shifted his weight to the side.

Mid-motion, he stopped. In his right back pocket there was a paper clip. At least, he thought there was. He’d picked it up from the kitchen floor earlier, when he’d prepared lunch. It wouldn’t help if the cuffs were new, but if they were of an older model, it might work. He squirmed around, no longer giving a damn about either wasps or skeletal toes. The dense darkness helped him keep any memories of decomposed bodies at bay. Nothing disturbed the deafening silence as he worked his bruised fingers into the pocket. His shoulders screamed in protest at the strain the angle put on them, but Josh didn’t care. He had to get the clip.

The warm steel kept slipping away as he tried to grip it between his index and middle finger. The cuffs caught in the fabric of his pocket making it hard to reach. He grunted in frustration. How hard could it be to get hold of a f*****g clip?

Sweat pearled on his forehead making the air seem even chillier than before. He had to take a break, had to sit up properly and let some blood run back into his arms.

Hopelessness wanted to grab hold of him, but he fought it off best he could. Getting the clip out of his pocket should’ve been the easy part.

A few minutes passed. Josh spent them listening to the silence and trying not to scare himself. He would get out of here; there was no other option. He had to, for Sam. A calmness settled over him. There was only one alternative. Get out, get Sam, and run. There was nothing else to be done.

With renewed determination, he shifted to his side again. The bunk creaked, and something fell to the floor. Josh ignored it. He lay on his side as much as he could, moved his arse as close to his hands as possible, and gripped the hem of his pocket with his fingers. The air in his lungs puffed out at the twist and turn. The hard ground made his hip ache, but he didn’t give up. This time, he would get it.

He felt the tiny little thing between his fingers, squeezed them together, and started pulling out of the pocket. It went according to plan until he got caught on the hem, and the clip fell out of his grip.

His heart did a double beat. Had he lost it?

Clumsily, he patted around the little area he could reach. There it was! He caught it between his fingers.

Thank God. His lips almost touched the ground as he fell over on his stomach, legs in under the bunk. His right shoulder was almost pulled out of its socket as he moved. Crawling as close to the bed leg as he could, he managed to ease off some of the stress on it. The change in position also made it possible to bend his elbows and rest his hands on his back. He was stiff, aching, and powerless, but it made it a bit easier to relax. Each heartbeat drummed against the stone ground.

Blowing away the wasps lying closest to him, he rested his head against the floor. The rough surface scraped against his cheek, and a drop of sweat trickled down his forehead.

He began prising the clip open. He’d seen a video on YouTube once, where a guy got out of a pair of handcuffs in seconds. It had circulated at work. Now he wished he’d paid more attention.

Using the thumb he hadn’t injured to feel where the flutings went inside the other end of the shackle, he tried to visualise where the little locking mechanism was. The straightened clip needed to go into the tiny little hole, lift the sprint, and hold while he slid out the uneven part without it catching again.

Josh exhaled and rested his forehead against the ground as he followed the spine with the point of the clip, each little tooth bringing him closer to the small opening. The clip connected with the metal where the single strand went in. Josh bent it slightly, afraid he would lose his grip. The tip slid a millimetre or two against the cuff before slipping in.

He drew in a shuddering breath. There was nothing to cheer about yet, but it didn’t stop his mouth from stretching into a smile. Focusing yet again, he changed his grip on the pin. His wrist prevented him from pressing down, but it was okay. He bit his lip so as not to make any sudden movements.

Slowly, he began turning his left hand. There wasn’t much room in the cuffs to begin with, and the swelling from his thumb had spread up his wrist, making it even harder. What had he been thinking, trying to pull his hand out of a locked cuff? If he hadn’t acted in panic and had used his energy to think instead, he might already have been free—of the shackles, at least.

Josh wasn’t the most patient man in the world, and he was starting to feel the growing frustration tingle in every limb. It crawled around inside of him, made him want to kick and grunt. With a calming breath, he managed to turn his hand enough to press down the clip. He wouldn’t need much room to do it.

Lying there in the inky black, aching all over while trying not to think too much of either Sam or Jett made it a lot harder than it should’ve been. He was shaking as he pushed the tip of the clip as far in as it could go, at the same time trying to unhook the sprint in locking the single strand in place. The tip caught on something inside. Josh carefully pressed a little more until something started to give. Scared to screw up, he tried to get a hold of the rivet.

It was impossible to move his finger the way he needed to get a grip. With a frustrated groan, he flicked his wrist; the metal slid against the clip, but it didn’t catch. Panting against the dirty ground, he twisted his wrist again. A burning, agonising pain followed each little turn, but he didn’t care.

The metal slipped off, and his arm hit the floor.

Josh cried out, in relief and frustration. He might be free of the shackles, but he was still on the wrong side of a welded-shut iron door, surrounded by five dead bodies and a million dead wasps.