The fire inspector is too fat to get into the attic.
K's supervisor tells him they don't even use it for storage anymore. He looks through the old reports, nodding slowly. K's shift ended a few minutes ago, but he can see where the conversation is headed...
His supervisor is staring at him, over the top of her glasses.
Okay. But then I'm outa here, he says to her. And she nods, impatient to get the inspection over with.
I'm sure it's fine, the inspector says, tapping on the fire door. Tell you what, I'll go ahead and fill out the forms. You got five minutes. If I don't hear about any hazards you find... we can wrap this up.
Fine, K shoots back. What am I looking for?
Obvious stuff, the guy says. Sounds, smells. Anything unusual. Then he turns, and follows K's supervisor back to the hallway.
K walks over the ladder, and starts heading up. When he's sure they're gone -
"Fuck..."
He pushes on the ceiling boards, and they swing up. The flashlight beam shows him a small chamber. He pauses, and shines the light around - and there it is. A metal hatch cover, maybe a half-meter square, set in the brick wall between him and the main attic.
K crawls into the cubbyhole.
Below him, the fire door starts to move. Thick, solid metal, swinging closed. No one is there to see it.
The lock is permanently engaged. In order to keep the old folks from wandering into the attic, the door has to be opened with the key. Not from K's side, of course. He can get out just by turning the knob.
He opens the iron hatch, swinging the door toward him, and looks for spiders. Okay. K starts going into the attic. There's a thin window at the far end, up near the peak of the roof. It hasn't been cleaned in a long, long time.
But he sees something, and aims the flashlight -
Coming to a halt.
There's something in there... that doesn't belong -
A bench. Long bench.
That doesn't make any sense. It's puffy. Thick padding, maybe. He can't really tell, because the surface is covered with... feathers.
Cuffs dangle from the foot-end. And the far corners too. Wide straps -
K backs out of the attic. Quick as he can.
Behind his feet, the trap door slams.
Not quick enough, he thinks wildly. Oh, shit. He jumps on the trap door, looking back -
Some of the feathers are up. Floating. Over the bench -
He claws for the iron hatch. Slams it, and turns the handle.
It comes off in his hand.
K shines the flashlight at it. Old metal handle, threaded base. There was a nut holding it on the hatch panel. To put it back, he'd have to open the panel, and find the nut -
But the hatch pops open. Just an inch or two, but there's movement. He shoves the panel back, moaning. Planting one foot against it... then the other.
With his back against the wall, he can hold it closed.
He reaches down - and stops.
"Oh... shit," he says. "Just perfect."
He's sitting on the trap door.
To open it and reach the ladder, he has to get up. Move closer to the hatch... without taking his feet off the hatch. There's still something trying to push it open.
Can he possibly move fast enough to get the trap door open and jump out, before -
"Son of a bitch," he says.
He squirms around for awhile, trying to find a way to get his weight off the trap door.
After a minute, he stops to catch his breath.
And there's something near him. Touching his left wrist.
Tightening.
He swings the flashlight around -
Rope? No. Too thin. Twine.
There's several loops already. Fuckin' twine is tying around him... all by itself.
He jerks his arms up. And his left hand plummets back down. K pulls again -
No. His hand won't come back up. Not really wanting to, he shines the flashlight down there.
Twine has snaked through some of his belt loops. His left hand is stuck tight.
He pulls hard, watching it loop around and around -
His right wrist is jerked down. The flashlight falls on his leg, rolling away.
K throws his hand all around, but even as he does the twine is wrapping, and pulling.
After a few minutes, the twine fakes him out by pulling his hand away from his ass. Doubling back quickly, it catches a belt loop on that side.
"Noooooo!"
Just in time, it doubles up. Or something. Whatever it did, his right hand isn't free anymore.
His hands are pulled together again, near the small of his back. A thick mound of twine. They're caught good.
K starts yelling again, and bucks as much as he can... without moving his feet.
Another piece of twine starts winding around his right shoe. There's not much he can do about it...
In the faint light, he watches it circle and tighten. Tugging.
With his back braced against the wall and his feet solidly against the panel, which keeps him from being pulled into the attic - where the bench is - he tries desperately to come up with a plan.
More twine floats up to his shoe, doing something he can't quite make out. Not until his shoelace is pulled taut. The knot disappears...
And the twine loops around a side flap of his sneaker, pulling hard. Away. Loosening his shoe.
Why would it do -
"No. Aw, shit," he barks.
All those feathers on the bench...
And no one's coming.
K can see what's going to happen - but he refuses to believe it. Too scary. Too weird. The padded bench is waiting... for him. Just on the other side of the cover.
He grits his teeth and pushes harder, with his legs. There. Maybe his supervisor will come looking. Someone. Anyone -
The twine is tightening. He expects it to pull down, trying to slide his foot down off the cover. But he can't see too well. There's more twine messing with his other shoe.
Suddenly, his wrists are yanked up. It hurts. He yells, twisting -
Both shoes slide. The left one breaks contact.
By the time he realizes it, and stomps his feet back down, his right shoe has fallen off. The left one is so loose he has to kick it off.
Under his soles, the cover moves. But he kicks again, holding it closed.
The twine starts pulling down each sock.
K yells for help, over and over.
When pulling no longer works, the twine catches some of the loose sock-material. Knotting around it, tighter and tighter... in tight knots.
Tearing his socks.
Unraveling them...
And finally, because he can't find any way to stop it from happening, his bare feet are right up against the cold metal, sweaty. His thighs are cramping up -
But he forgets all about that.
Something moves. From the cover, or close to it.
Hanging there, a few inches over his legs. Twirling slowly.
A whimper slips out of his throat.
It's a little brown feather -
Two feathers.
But the cover is closed...
They must have slipped in earlier, he decides. Waited for their moment. And this is definitely it.
He shakes his head, but they amble down anyway. One for each foot.
Stomping down is a relief. It reminds him that the bottom of each foot is safe.
They start tickling the sides of each foot.
"Shit," he says desperately.
His feet twitch.
Within a minute, the feathers have him... chuckling.
Keeping his feet from moving is so incredibly hard.
Before long it's a weird new agony. All he has to worry about is keeping his feet as flat as possible on the cover. Easy.
Or so he tells himself.
His butt is numb, his lower legs are spasming in a scary way - as if they'd slide his feet off the cover all by themselves, if they could, just to be able to move for a change - and his thighs are falling asleep too, a deep dull ache fading away.
The feathers tickle carefully between his toes, from the top side, until his laughter is booming in the cramped space. His feet are just desperate to move. And if they do... The cover will open wide, he'll get dragged in, pinned on that scary fuckin' bench. Clothes cut off, he figures. And the soles of his feet will really get it then, won't they? Firmly held down, hanging off the end of the bench so the feathers can absolutely rock his world -
He pounds his head on the wall until the plaster rains around him.
Coughing clears his head a little. He grits his teeth and stomps harder against the cover. The feathers go away -
No. They start dusting his heels. Achilles tendons. It feels like electrical current... And he shrieks louder. Oh, shit, he has to lift his heels up. Get 'em away. But he can't.
The bench... Arms held out, above his head. Leather tightly buckled around each wrist, making sure he stays there. The whole length of his sides, and his armpits - exposed. Powerless to smack the feathers off his belly.
Staying like that. For how long?
His calves are quivering so hard...
Each second is impossibly long. Of course, it's nothing compared to what he'll be going through when he's dragged into the attic. Nobody knowing he's imprisoned there. Laughing.
There's something new, in his thoughts. When he's in the attic? Not if... but when.
The feathers slide along the outer curves of each foot, jamming their tips as far under the soles as they can.
And K starts hooting good and hard. For real... No, he was serious before. But his feet are trembling much harder. They want to get away from the damn feathers.
He won't be able to control his legs for too much longer. So he has to yell loud enough to get someone else's attention - before the hatch is closed again, with him on the wrong side. If there's one thing the bench says to him, in his scrambled thoughts, it's a promise of secrecy. When he's on it, in there, he can be sure no one will hear him scream for help.
And he will be on the bench soon.
Unless...
He concentrates on yelling, louder than he's ever yelled before. His throat really hurts.
In his mind's eye, he sees the fire door as it swings closed. Six feet of dead space between it and the ladder. The thick wood of the trap door under him. Past the fire door - a janitor's closet is the next closest room. Across the hall and down a few steps, Ferguson and Reitzman, but both of them are so deaf that their TV's are always turned way up.
No one's going to hear K yelling.
So he stops.
And the feathers stop, too. Huh? He pants for air, squinting to see -
One has floated over his feet. It rotates, so the point is above his toes. Flicks backward...
After it repeats the gesture a few times, K understands.
But he can't! It feels like volunteering for - that.
Wearily, he racks his brain for another alternative.
The other feather attacks his heels again.
"Oh, shit," he whines.
But he lifts his right foot. Just a little. Lowers it.
And then, his left foot.
The cover swings out.
Something dark and small zips through the opening.
A rattle, a quiet click - and the flashlight goes out. Only a little daylight is left, from the window at the end of the attic...
But the bench is still there.
Hands clamp over his shins. Calves. And, saddest of all, taking hold of his arms. K whimpers, squirming hard in their grip. When they extend his legs, he yells again - because it hurts. A long groan -
Picked up. Off the hatch.
The hands turn him over. His head is going down - bumping.
"Ow!"
The hands squeeze a little harder, making him growl. Struggling, he turns his head.
They stop pinching him.
He doesn't get it. Breathing hard, with his ear against the wood...
Oh.
The only thing it could mean is... they want him to listen. But why? There's no sound.
Finally, he says, "A-ha."
No sound. Nobody coming to the rescue. Just like he thought - but he's forced to listen for another minute.
They want me to know, he thinks crazily. Gotta be sure. No one heard me, and that was my last chance. And now I go into the attic, where they've probably been real careful to soundproof it thoroughly. But just before I do, they're making it real clear that no one knows I'm in trouble.
K has to groan again.
The hands pick him up and carry him inside.
He tries to get a last look at the... escape route.
The hatch closes.
A padlock clicks.
And he looks over at the bench, which seems even larger as they cart him over to it. All those feathers... At the other end of the room, where he couldn't see them before - a large, dark sling. And a complicated rack. Another thing with big slabs. Which can't be what he thinks it is. But he squints, lifting his head. Holes in the slabs.
Stocks, his amazed brain whispers to him. That's right.
The hands turn him over, and slam his ass down on the bench.
He tries to arch and fling himself out of their grip. And he watches his shirt as it's being pulled apart. Fingers tug his jeans down, impatiently, and pull 'em off.
K's arms are slowly extended, up and out, despite his straining, grunting resistance.
And now, of course, the rough texture is surrounding his left wrist. Wide, and snug. They can't have him getting away - or wiggling too much, for that matter. No... he'll just stay right here.
Right wrist. Left ankle. K lifts his head to watch the cuffs in action. It's fascinating. Almost terrifying, too. But really, this is no time for freaking out. Right? They won. Fear isn't what they want. They want him to laugh.
Lying there, spread-eagled... in his underwear, and yet he feels more naked than he has in a long, long time. It must be the cuffs. He's gonna fuckin' stay like this.
A familiar sound, behind his head. A match. He watches a candle, being lit.
Feathers are in the air. They're almost mystical. Steadily hovering feathers, too many to count. His torso is really gonna get it, apparently -
But then he freezes. Afraid to breathe.
A jar slops something thick all over one foot, drenching it. Then, the other.
And that's bad, but K can't take his eyes off something else...
Leather hands. A bunch of 'em! Ten fingers are closer, poised and ready -
But first, they slap together. Rubbing briskly. Eagerly.
They're gonna enjoy the fuck out of this.
And they seem to take forever to reach his soles.
Kicking doesn't help at all. He shakes his head. Please, he thinks. Say it. But he can't get the word out. Any word. No, for example. Stop.
He just shakes his head faster. Watching them drop -
Feeling them slide... and squeeze.
He howls.
The feathers start arriving. Maddening, active...
Jerking, bucking - and he can't get up. The sensations are astonishing. Beyond belief.
Completely out of his control, he laughs louder than he's ever laughed before. Just roaring at the insulation over his head, flickering candlelight on thick old beams.
Flailing around convulsively. The cuffs don't budge.
His sides are on fire. More gloves yet to come. K pictures them driving his truck - hiding it - and cackles harder than he had ever cackled.
And his feet! Perfectly handled. Expert work. Invigorating. Dissolving his feet with infinite slowness. Making them expand, larger and larger, nerves swelling too, more sensitivity every second. He had no idea his feet were capable of feeling... this.
The intensity - so damn much pleasure - well, it's like something out of a Greek myth. Valhalla, maybe. Concentrated, barbaric, inhuman skill.
K keeps squirming and roaring... bouncing, and roaring.
Even to himself, he sounds as if he's never enjoyed anything quite this much.
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