Stephanie woke suddenly. She flicked her eyes open and gasped. She was lying uncomfortably on her side and when she tried to move, she found that her feet were bound and her hands were tied behind her. Where was she? Some vague image teased at the edge of her memory, but she couldn’t quite grasp it. She struggled to sit up, but was overcome by a wave of nausea. She flopped back down on the hard canvas bed and looked around her. She was in a dark, damp windowless room. Her memory came back in flashes – car headlights too close, forced to stop, something clamped over her nose and mouth. She shivered; she was cold and very frightened. Slowly the fog in her brain cleared.
“Hello,” she called. Her voice came out as a crackle. She swallowed and licked her dry lips. She was really thirsty. “Hello,” she tried again. This time her voice was a little stronger.
There was no answer. The room was partly lit by a single hanging light bulb, which gave off a dim yellowish glow. But she could only see a little way. She peered into the gloom of the far end of the room, but couldn’t make out any shapes or movement.
She tried sitting up again and as the nausea hit her hard this time, she leaned over the edge of the bed and vomited onto the floor.
“Ugh,” she spat, and lay back down. Her wrists behind her back were sore and each time she moved, she could feel the bonds cutting into her skin.
She took a few deep breaths as the remaining nausea subsided. Think, Stephanie, she urged herself.
She froze as she heard a rustling movement at the edge of the light. A soft pitter-patter sounded. No – not rats. She forced herself upright, fighting the next wave of nausea and stood up stamping her feet on the ground, careful to avoid the sickly puddle beside the bed.
Where am I? It looks like a storage room. She looked down at her feet. Her ankles were bound with blue plastic computer cable ties. She scanned the room. It seemed long and was really cold and smelled damp and musty. Along the wall from the foot of the bed was a heavy wooden door. It had an old fashioned round metal door knob and below that an empty key hole.
She blinked a few times. Her eyes were sore and her contact lenses felt dry. She swallowed, trying desperately to calm the panic that was rising, threatening to swamp her.
I have to get my hands free, she thought frantically. A sudden thought came to her. She looked at the bed. It was an old canvas camping bed with a thin grey blanket on one end. Stephanie sat down carefully on the edge, sliding her hands and wrists under her bottom. She kicked her feet up onto the bed and spent the next few minutes wriggling and struggling to curl her legs up and slide her hands down behind them and under her feet. Feeling her calves cramping painfully, she finally succeeded and flopped down exhausted. At least the exertion meant that she was no longer cold and her hands, although still tied, were in front of her. She lifted them to her face and rubbed at her eyes, which only made them feel worse. Her wrists were also tied with blue plastic cables. The sharp edges had cut into her skin and there were little trails of blood running down her arms.
She forced herself to sit up. Waves of nausea struck again. What is making me sick? she thought desperately, gulping in large breaths of air, waiting for the feeling to subside.
She looked around. Taking a deep breath she stood and shuffled toward the darkened part of the room. Blinking her eyes to adjust to the gloom, she could make out rows and rows of floor to ceiling shelves that stretched out further than she could see. She shuffled to the first shelf and reached out both hands. Realisation hit her. They weren’t shelves, they were racks. She was in a wine cellar. On the edge of each row of racks were nails, some holding cards. To record the names of the wines, she supposed. She looked down the plastic ties – a nail was exactly what she needed to cut through them. Turning her body side on to the first rack, she began rubbing the plastic tie around her wrists back and forward on the edge of one of the nails. After a minute or so, the plastic made a popping sound. She rubbed harder and the tie began to fray and split. Come on! she urged frantically, and as she gave a final push, it snapped and her hands came free.
She leaned against the rack, feeling sick again after the exertion and gently rubbed her sore wrists. Footsteps sounded outside the door. Stricken, she bent and picked up the torn tie and a broken nail lying beside it and quickly shuffled back to the bed and lay down, putting her hands behind her back. She had just closed her eyes when the key turned in the lock and the door was flung open. Heavy footsteps entered the room.
Sensing someone looking over at her, she resisted the strong urge to open an eye and peek. Instead she strained to listen. It sounded like just one person. He smelled strongly of cigarette smoke and sweat and his breathing was slightly laboured, as though he had been running.
Obviously satisfied that she was still unconscious, the person retreated and the door closed, key turning to lock it again.
She lay quietly for another few minutes, gathering her energy and courage to get up again. She thought about her father and wondered if he knew she was missing. Her mother wouldn’t, that was for certain, and probably just as well. Toby – her heart ached. That sparked another thought – I wonder how long I have been here? James. He would be looking for me. The thought gave her strength. She allowed herself a couple of minutes to think about him – the way his lips curled into a smile after he kissed her, the strength in his arms, the passion with which he played his guitar. She tried to remember the song he had written for her, but her head was too foggy to recall any of it. Her heart tightened. There had been so much anger and suspicion between them; she hadn’t had a chance to tell him how she really felt. She had to get out of here and see him again.
She eased herself up, this time grateful that her arms were free to help. She pulled her feet up on the bed and started sawing at the tie around her ankles with the nail.
Finally it snapped and her feet were free. Rubbing her throbbing ankles, she left the tie on the bed in case she needed to pretend to be unconscious again and crept over to the door. She put her ear to it, listening for any sound outside. There was silence, apart from the occasional scratching sound from the wine cellar behind her. After several seconds she put her hand gingerly on the door knob. The metal was cold to her touch. Carefully she turned it. It wouldn’t budge – locked. Crouching down she peered into the keyhole – there was a large key in the lock from the outside.
Stephanie groaned.
She sat back down on the edge of the bed to think. In the distance a strange thumping noise sounded. It felt like it was coming from above and below at the same time.
She took a deep breath.
Think, Stephanie!
A wine cellar as extensive as this would have to have more than one entrance – I am going to have to go down the row closest to the wall and see if I can find another door, she decided eventually. She shuddered and gathered the courage to walk into the darkness and join the rats.