The Trouble with Chance
CHAPTER 43
Not Alone - Late June
Nora lay on a chilly surface. The cold permeated her skin and settled in her bones. Her achy body sent a message to her brain, communicating she wasn’t dead—yet.
Mindful of her present situation, Nora recalled a quote she had once read: “Trouble, whether intentional or not—the key is getting out. You’ll know you’re out of trouble when you have dug out of the heap.” It was apparent Nora was in a heap of trouble—buried at the bottom, to be exact, and thoroughly stumped on how to dig out from this pile of—shit. Whether kidnapping one or two, she hadn’t asked for either. “I’ve no problem stirring up trouble on my own, thank you.”
Still, on her stomach, Nora lifted to her elbows. “Hello? A-Anyone here?” It was silly, waiting for an answer she wouldn’t get. “Oh great, here’s another fine mess I’ve gotten myself into. And my compliments to Laurel and Hardy for using their appropriate catchphrase. Definition? I’m screwed.”
The thin stale air stank of an undistinguishable aroma, and something with miniature crawly legs crept down her arm. Nora clenched her teeth, rolling onto her back, brushing the unidentifiable creepy crawler to the floor. She considered something her dad would always say when a bit of mischief backfired on her as a kid, ‘Out of the frying pan into the fire, young lady’ because she had no idea where the insect landed.
Other than being numb and uncomfortable, her confinement was very black. Blurry eyes wouldn’t focus, no matter how many times she rapidly blinked them. Her nose twitched. The air was dry and dusty, but she also noticed oxygen was at a premium.
Goose pimples transformed into one giant bump, and Nora’s damp clothes made the shivering relentless. A pasty substance clung to one side of her pants. She dabbed at the smear, rubbing the mucky stuff between her forefinger and thumb, then bringing those sticky appendages to her nose. She took a whiff and immediately spun her head away. “Yikes. What the hell is that? It’s worse than combining rotting fish, stale socks, sour poop, and cheap perfume into an old tin can.” The back of her hand swiped under her nose, and the horrendous odor added wavy rolls to her nauseous gut.
***
Nora sat up, and the room spun from the assorted stink and the drug remaining in her bloodstream. Her predicament, the why and by whom, was the million-dollar question. The attempts on her life and Phillip’s death scared her. The last thing she recalled was the damaging phone call at Michael’s house, escaping in his truck and being stopped by fake cops, ending with an injection, of course, aware now that it wasn’t lethal.
Nora vigorously itched her scalp, imagining her crawler had returned and nestled in her hair. She shook her fingers free, leaving unsecured strands gooey. Her head fell to her chest. She tried to break through the barrier in the part of her mind preventing her from figuring out the funky paste, annoyed it was something she should know.
Stress fed Nora’s anxiety—anxiety elevated her pulse—her chest tightened, and the rapid heartbeat made her breath expel in short bursts—an utterly vicious cycle. She’d welcome any sliver of light or noise at this point. At least talking aloud lessened the acute unquiet filling the space. She played mental warfare with herself, repeatedly reciting to stay calm and think.
Nora kept flinching, and peering into darkened corners, searching for the source of spooky creaks and faint thuds. Low vibrations and reverberating chords hummed in her head. She shut her eyes, covering her ears. “Okay, enough. Enough of being frightened and having a leg and butt sprawled in some unidentifiable goo.” She unstuck herself from the floor, forcing her legs to stand, rocking until she stabilized her footing. Triumphant, she extended both arms, taking tentative steps.
Not shuffling far, her brows creased at the tiny crunching noise beneath her shoes before stubbing her toe on something metal and circular. Her arm bumped a bulky piece of glass, catching the thing before it toppled, but missing stiff sticks brushing past her arms and legs, rattling to the floor. “Oh, crap, what was that?”
The gunk made dust and cobwebs cling to everything. “This is so gross.” Nora peered heavenward. “Sorry, Dad, forgive me for what I’m about to do”—spitting on her palms, she wiped the filth and sludge onto her pants.
She moved around the stand, inching slowly forward, finally reaching a dense wall, smooth in texture but peppered with pinholes. She raised her arms but made no contact with the ceiling.
Nora rotated, avoiding the pedestal, and took about three giant footsteps before bumping into another solid obstacle made of textured metal. Metal being her forte, she stuck her nose near the immense object where the bitter odor of corroded metal was dominant. “Copper? Bronze?” Her fingertips sketched high and low, discovering the framework for tall arched doors. Above the double doors was chiseled engraving. She outlined indecipherable letters. “Seven. Doesn’t tell me anything.” Halfway down, she gripped twisted tube-shaped bars, tugging and pushing on them, not surprised to find the doors locked.
“Okay, think math. Three big steps multiplied by three—so nine, or maybe ten feet long?” Backtracking a step and a half gave her a general idea of the chamber’s center. To calculate its width, Nora spanned her arms out, knowing when a person’s arms were outstretched, the distance end to end was about the same length as your height. She didn’t connect with any side, so she figured the width was more than five-foot-ten. “As Stephen always said, ‘close enough for government work.’” Her exploration supplied a general idea of the size of her enclosure, assessing it to be claustrophobic.
Nora’s shoes dragged along the floor to one side of the room. Her fingers slid along an extended stone platform three or four feet off the floor, finding a smooth rectangular piece of wood occupying most of the shelf. She stood on tiptoes, stretching her arm over a humped top to connect with an interior wall. “Perhaps three feet wide and a couple of feet high? It’s definitely longer than wider.”
A well-defined split was toward the middle of the bowed object, indicating to her it was a lid. Another division followed along the length of the front and sides. “Another lid?” The corners had thick metal end caps designed in a swirly pattern. “More metal? The kind? Hmm, don’t care, ‘cause I’m not smelling anything else.” A long horizontal pole spanned the exposed side.
Shocked, Nora’s hands halted her examination, clenching the weighty bar. “It’s a handle.” Her fingers slipped to the front, finding the same sticky residue on the floor and herself. “Container? Waaaait just one minute—” she quickly stepped away. “Not a box, but a . . .” Nora tottered backward, crashing into the immovable table, rolling over it, and landing hard behind it. The glass object saved earlier trailed her descent, splintering to the floor as a few needle-like shards landed on her face and arms.
Icy sweat ran down her face and spine, knowing what her prison was and the source of the tacky matter.