Buried (Bailey Roberts Trilogy #1) Editing

23: Fighter [3rd Draft]

"Toss me that feeding tube," he said, motioning impatiently with his hand towards the larger man known as Bear.

"Might as well include a catheter too," Bear suggested.

"Nothin' surgical here," he said with a mumble, wrapping an extremely long clear tube around his arm. "Making it surgical, they won't have a choice. The way I do it, they both eat the pureed food and survive as long as possible, or they drown in it. The choices!"

Gwen shivered, rubbing the sides of her arms, ignoring the caked dirt beneath her fingernails as she peeked through the crack in the metal door. She was trying to concentrate on the conversation, but her body ached from the shallow cuts along her arms, her thighs, and her midriff caused by Bear's scalpel.

Gwen's grip unintentionally tightened at the thought, causing her long dirty nails to dig into the marred flesh of her upper arms. She swallowed and shook her head trying to get the thought out, but had no luck.

They'd run out of anesthesia the past week and Gwen had a high pain tolerance. With antibiotics, stitches, and gauze she healed up quickly too. Because it took Gwen longer than Sam to pass out and since she healed faster, Gwen had been the choice. Bear liked any excuse to keep them awake and in pain as long as possible. She tried faking it once, the passing out, just so she could get him to stop slicing her open, but it hadn't worked.

"You're surprisingly tough. For a pampered rich girl," Bear had informed her.

With the inch wide feeding tube in his hand Bear glanced down. "Man, this is sick. I told you I don't want to be a part of this."

"Oh, I see, but cutting them up isn't just as sick? Get over it," he said, his voice deep and gritty.

"Are you burying the red head too?"

There was a pause before he responded. "Gwen? No, I haven't had fun with her yet."

Gwen held in the frightened whimper threatening to erupt and let the anger fill her instead. She wouldn't survive if she stayed afraid. He would pay for this, in her life or in her death, one way or another. She wouldn't let him get away with this.

Glancing at Sam, Gwen shifted forward, placing her hands on the ground and sliding her bare knees through the dirt, crawling towards the shivering, sleeping girl. Curling herself around Sam's fetal position to combine their warmth, Gwen started to gently rub her hands up and down Sam's arms. Creating friction and heat, but she knew it wouldn't last long. It was always so cold, no matter what they did.

The clothes they'd been captured in had been replaced with a clean white wife beater and matching short shorts. The white material no longer had the crisp clean feel of new clothes, now it was sodden with blood and dirt.

He'd sound proofed the walls, but only in this prison cell they were being held in, and there was even a toilet that flushed with an unsteady, dented, metal sink for hand washing, but there was no bed. They were forced to sleep on a brown, ragged, bug infested blanket, like mistreated dogs that had been shoved in a corner. It was like a prison cell, but not quite. There was no writing area for letters to family or books. All they could do was sit, wait, and worry with a sickening fear, wondering who was next. Gwen felt guilty when she hoped it would be Sam.

Gwen dropped her head against the back of Sam's shoulder, biting the inside fat of her cheek to keep from letting the tears fall. She sniffled as she tried squashing that guilt. It was only natural to want Sam to be next.

It was a lie she told herself often.

She snuggled deeper next to Sam, wondering if she was providing warmth or if she was a leech stealing it. Wrapping her arms tighter around the girl next to her, Gwen hugged her, desperately wanting Sam to understand that she was sorry for thinking the way she did. It was the tiny grunt that escaped Sam's lips that made the strength in Gwen's hug lighten...maybe Sam understood, because she probably thought the same way.