I don’t know what time Dr. Hennison returned. For me, the day was a long stretch of misery.
Hennison bounded up the stairs, grinning pleasantly. He carried a half-gallon-sized Tupperware bowl. The sleeves of his lab coat were rolled to the elbows. Spatters of blood and a greasy black liquid covered his hands, arms, and his apron. He reeked of blood and meat like he’d been working in a slaughterhouse.
“Ah, you’re still here,” he said in mock surprise. Dark flecks dotted his safety glasses. “I knew my accommodations would be irresistible.”
He patted the sweatpants right over my wound. His touch renewed the ache. “You might want to get that looked at by a doctor.”
Was Torquemada of the Spanish Inquisition such a ball of laughs?
Hennison turned his attention to cowboy zombie and took the lid off the Tupperware. Hennison circled the open bowl in front of him. “Look. Brains.”
Cowboy zombie’s eyes snapped to the bowl. Yellow drool dribbled to his chin. “Brains.” He reached for the container.
Hennison kept the Tupperware away. “Just a snack for doing such a good job in making our guest feel at home.” The doctor plucked a tablespoon from a pocket on his apron. He scooped gray mush from the bowl.
Cowboy zombie dropped his arms and opened his mouth. Hennison spooned the brains like it was a helping of Gerber’s baby food. Cowboy zombie smacked his lips as he chewed the brains. A dab of gray yuck stuck to his upper lip, and a black tongue licked it clean.
Hennison put the lid back on the Tupperware and closed it with a burp. “The sound of freshness.” He slapped cowboy zombie on the back. “Make sure Felix sticks around.” He went down the stairs.
Cracks of light leaked in from around the drapes covering the windows. The light yielded to dark as evening crept upon us.
Night was a better time to escape. Without sunscreen, daylight would burn me like a bug under a magnifying lens. I knew that pain all too well. In a previous assignment, a government assassin had chased me with a machine gun while my naked skin burned under the sunlight. I survived by jumping into the Atlantic Ocean. This time, there weren’t any oceans close by.
Cowboy zombie kept his eyes locked on me. His hand remained on the switch handle.
The power rheostat indicated half maximum voltage. That’s all? Damn, that hurt. What would full power do?
A feather of hope drifted into my head. An hour ago, escape was impossible. Now it seemed possible. How? By making the zombie throw that switch.
What did this zombie want more than anything?
I whispered, “Brains.”
His eyes crinkled with the teeniest of recognition.
I repeated, louder. “Brains.”
His mouth sagged open and pus-yellow slime dripped over the black stubs of his teeth.
One more time. “Brains.”
His free hand clawed the workbench. “Brains,” he gasped.
“You want brains?” I asked. “Lots of brains?”
Cowboy zombie took a short step toward me but kept his right hand on the switch handle.
“See that knob?” I motioned to the rheostat. “If you turn it all the way to one side, it will fry me like a wienie if I try to escape. Dr. Hennison would be happy. He would reward you with more brains.”
Whatever feeble juice powered his decomposing noggin, cowboy zombie labored to imagine another helping of brains. Drool trickled from his mouth and soaked his shirt.
I described brains in revenant mouthwatering detail, as if reciting recipes from a zombie Rachael Ray. Yum-O!
Cowboy zombie wiped his mouth. A thick scab fell from his hand to the floor.
“You got the idea,” I said. “Now turn the knob.”
Cowboy zombie leaned to one side and gripped the rheostat knob. He turned it full-on clockwise.
Drool splattered on the switch handle. His right hand slipped, and when he grabbed the handle again, the switch nudged toward the closed position.
The terror of being turned into the fried wienie made my back arch and my shoulders tense. “No, no,” I said, trying to sound calm. “That’s off, the other way.”
Cowboy zombie’s eyes remained as dull as the shells of dead beetles. His left hand turned the rheostat knob back to half.
“That’s good,” I commended. “Now keep going. Think brains.”
He twisted the knob to the other stop.
I made the okay sign with my fingers. “Perfect.”
Cowboy zombie put both hands on the switch handle.
“Bet you can’t wait for me to escape?”
He answered, “Brains.”
The sounds of gushing, drilling, the sparking of electric welding torches (and the burnt metallic smells), plus hammering came from the lower floor. Dr. Hennison didn’t once come upstairs for a break. Although he was conducting experiments so fiendish they would make Nazis wince-and planning to roast me in the morning-I had to admire his work ethic.
My right leg was mended, but the effort fatigued me. I needed blood.
Cowboy zombie kept his insect gaze on me. Except for wiping drips of pus leaking from the sores on his face, he made no moves-no blinks, no twitches, nada-to show he was sentient.
I did a function check on my body. I flexed and relaxed my arms and legs and twisted my wrists and ankles. Quarter-inch bolts held the steel bands to the table. I should be able to tear loose. All I needed was to free one hand and my talons would rip through the table. Except for my right leg, all my limbs felt strong despite the torture and the lack of sleep and nutrition.
The rheostat knob remained on the lowest power setting. Now to escape.
I pushed my wrists against the steel bands. They held firm. I closed my eyes and put more effort into wrenching free. My muscles quaked and my hands trembled. The steel bands stretched and bit into my skin. The bolt heads groaned and rotated.
I yelled at cowboy zombie, “Hey, garbage water breath, in case you haven’t figured it out, I’m trying to escape.” Go ahead. Close the switch. The wooden table creaked. In another ten seconds I’d be free.
Cowboy zombie grasped the rheostat knob and spun it to full power. He slammed the switch closed and muttered, “Brains.”