They Will Come

Scott woke slowly at first, his mind rising through a thick fog, becoming gradually aware of the pain in his wrists and the dull ache in his arms. His waking was sped up by a line of fire caressing his back with agony. His eyes sprang open and he tried to pull away from the cause of the pain, only then realising the cause for the pain in his arms.

He was chained to a wall, upright, his back to the room. His wrists hurt because the metal of the cuffs was cutting into his skin, his arms hurt because they were all that was supporting his weight. The line of pain came again on his back, his screams muffled by the wad of cloth in his mouth.

“How does it feel, Scott?” The voice was so familiar, but the tone wasn’t. Alan? Scott’s question was unable to escape from behind the gag.

“I felt that whip every day. For being too slow, for being too careless, for being stupid enough to have hope.” The pain came again, but for Scott the most painful thing was the knowledge of who was holding it. He felt a surge of guilt that he had helped transform Alan into this, by failing in his promise.

“The men would take their pleasure from me in the only way they could: by causing me pain. They weren’t allowed anything else. I was special.” He emphasised this point by pressing a hand to Scott’s groin.

Scott tried to pull away, sickened by the touch. There was no way Alan should touch him there. The bile that rose up in his throat at the touch was a mere taste of the revulsion Alan had felt throughout his time here. As Alan’s hands roved over his body, touching places they had no right to go, Scott was desperately trying not to vomit into his gag, his eyes streaming tears in echo of all that Alan had shed.

“I came to wish for the whip,” Alan said, his hands growing still, “because the pain was better than the sickness I felt every time he touched me. I can still feel him.” His fingers brushed Scott’s cheek, touching the soft tears. “I still feel his touch. I can’t wash it off my skin.” Alan’s voice was choked with tears, and Scott sobbed into the gag.

“I prayed for you to come. When they shut me away in here. ‘They will come for me. They will come for me.’ But you didn’t.” Scott wished he could just spit out the gag and beg Alan’s forgiveness. He wished he could get to on his knees and just pour out apologies. He couldn’t begin to imagine, even with Alan’s words, what had happened to his little brother in this place. He couldn’t bear the thought that they’d left him here to suffer as he had.

As Scott wept, tears a torrent down his cheeks, he barely felt the prick of another syringe in his arm, until his legs gave way and he slumped again in the chains. He tried to look around him, but found darkness creeping around the edge of his vision. He struggled to regain his footing, but his limbs didn’t want to obey him.

“You’re lucky,” Alan told him, “They’ll find you much more quickly.” Scott felt the fingers at his wrist, as Alan activated the location transmitter on Scott’s watch.

“Goodbye, Scott,” Alan said. Then he kissed Scott’s cheek.

***

Virgil was just taxiing the Ladybird, borrowed from Tin-Tin, down the runway when Father called about Scott’s signal. Virgil pulled the plane in beside the jet, left there several hours earlier and spoke briefly with his father, growing more concern with each word that was exchanged between them.

“Scott’s signal’s still transmitting,” Father was saying, “but there’s no answer when I try to speak to him.”

“No one’s tried to interfere with the signal?”

“No. Not once. There’ve been no attempts to block it or shut it off. I can’t help but worry that this whole situation might have been a trap. After four years of searching, for Alan to just fall into our laps was too unlikely.”

“But if it was a trap, whoever’s behind it now has Scott. Wouldn’t he want to shut down the communicator?”

“Maybe not. Not if he wanted to use Scott as bait.”

“I’ll be careful.” There was never any suggestion of not going. Even if it turned out, somehow, that Alan wasn’t involved in all this, they couldn’t leave Scott. Just because he wasn’t answering didn’t mean that the signal wasn’t from him. Virgil had to go and find out what was going on.

He spotted three police cars as he made his way towards the estate. It seemed that the detective Scott had spoken to had kept his promise. The cars, along with several officers on foot, were moving systematically through the town. If it turned out Alan wasn’t at the estate, it wouldn’t be too long before he was found.

Virgil found the estate as easily as Scott had, heading into the heart of the building. His eyes scanned the stains that marked the use this house had been put to and bile rose in his throat. Why would Alan return here? Why would he come back to a place that was marked by the pain it caused him?

He found the trail of lights in the lower sections. He knew that something had to be wrong, or it would never be this easy. He could feel the walls of the trap closing around him as he walked down the corridors towards the heart of it all. There was no sound but his own breathing and the soft tread of his feet. Several times he paused, straining his ears to listen to the heavy silence. Nothing.

He tried the communicator and this time did hear something. His voice, repeated from somewhere up ahead of him. He was hearing Scott’s comm. That meant he was getting close, but close to what, he wasn’t sure.

He made as little noise as possible, walking to the door that lay open in invitation. He stepped inside, searching the corners for hidden figures, but the only figure was the obvious one. Scott hung from chains on the wall.

Virgil cross the room in a heartbeat, freeing Scott’s wrists and lowering him gently to the ground, careful not to press too much on his back. Jagged tears in his shirt showed the obvious use of a whip.

Virgil was amazed that his brother hadn’t made the slightest sound during this. He must have been hurt badly to be so deeply unconscious. Virgil checked his breathing, wanting to make sure there wasn’t any serious damage.

Then trembling fingers sought for a vein.

His breaths came in shaking sobs as he struggled to find a pulse. Struggled to find any sign of life.

“Come on, Scott,” he whispered, shaking his brother in a futile hope, “I came here to find a brother, not lose one. Scott, please. Scott!” But his fingers found no beat. He hugged his brother to him, but the chest was still.

Scott was dead.