Keep Busy

7.

Again, Frank awoke to the rattling pangs of a severe headache.

Sound crept, jagged and rippling into his ringing ears.

The sound of a car, road noise.

He opened his eyes but was confronted with darkness—a different kind of darkness—completely opaque, not like the darkened shadows and swirling color one sees on the backs of one's eyelids.

This was just black.

He moved to reach his hands to his face but found he couldn't. They were tied at the wrists. His ankles, too, were bound. Next came a tense moment of realization followed by the mind getting angry again.

"What the fuck?" Frank attempted to say, however, the gag in his mouth only allowed for muffled grunts. His tongue accidentally found the fabric stuffed in its home and sent a message to the angry brain. I think it's a sock, it said.

A bitter breath of stale cotton filled Frank's lungs. Then a panic attack provoked by the possibility of a horrible hygienic outcome wracked his body, sending convulsions and icy electricity through his veins. He began to heave and closed his eyes hard, seeing those shadowy twists of color. He heaved, feeling deep, acidic gouges tearing his throat. Of course, there was no open route for the rejected contents of his stomach, just the detour.

His nose burned horribly as the spray jettisoned.

He jumped and writhed in his seat trying to find a breath somewhere in the gummy liquid. There was none.

"Goddamnit," a female voice said.

A second later the gag was yanked from his erupting mouth, the duct tape taking chunks of his beard with it.

"Don't you fuckin' die on me," the voice said.

Frank was able to swallow a hasty gulp of air before he returned to vomiting. He heard the window rolling down to the right of his head and felt the cool air wash over him. He leaned out, spitting squishy chunks and bile. His breaths were still damp and choppy but coming a bit easier.

A cold fist was gripping his insides, pulling at them ruthlessly but he managed to stop the deluge of grossness. His pants grew heavier as the vomit soaked in. This was the second time he'd thrown up in as many days—he never really took himself for a guy with a weak stomach, but the evidence was pointing to the contrary.

"You sure puke a lot," the voice said.

"What?" Frank groaned.

"You puke a lot."

"Yeah, I was just thinking that." Frank shifted in his seat. "You got a towel or something?"

"Uh... no."

"So what? I'm supposed to just sit here covered in vomit?"

"Well... yeah. It looks that way," the voice said matter-of-factly.

A few moments passed accented by the humming of tires on asphalt as Frank collected his thoughts and regulated his breathing.

"You okay?" the female voice asked.

Frank was still focusing on his breath.

The question was casual and delivered with a hint of genuine concern. For a second he was almost compelled to respond with the programmed, "yeah," but remembered his hands and feet were bound, he was blindfolded and being driven somewhere by his abductor.

"No, I'm not fucking okay! I'm tied up, my head hurts, I just puked all over myself and I'm being held captive by... by... what the fuck is going on? Who the fuck are you? Where are we going?" He paused, waiting for answers. "Shall I continue?"