The flare of sudden brightness shot spikes through his swimming head.

He cried out as rough hands grabbed him, dragging him a few feet, then letting him drop to the ground.

The arguing voices were back, but he wasn’t anxious enough to see their owners to risk cracking the eyes he’d slammed shut against the punishing light.

Hands again, jerking him up and tossing him, head down, over something hard and knobby against his belly—a shoulder?

He was afraid that choked scream came from him.  Screaming sure seemed like a good idea.  He’d thought he was in pain before.  Now his body was shrieking in violent protest.

A few eternal, bouncing moments later, the brilliance seeping through his clenched eyelids blessedly vanished.  It was a tiny relief in a morass of misery.

The voices were still harsh and angry, and he was beginning to sort a few words from the ringing noise. 

Three of them.  Arguing over him.

“… stupid idiots…leave…”  Hard voice.

He heard himself release a high, anguished grunt as his body dropped to the floor.

“But…”  Whiney.

“… kicked me…head!  Let… “ Sniffing.  “… bitch…”

“Just what the hell do you figure to do with him?”  Hard Voice, loud and clear.

Hands in his hair, on his face.  He slitted his eyes open, seeing two blurry bulks standing over him. Reflexively, he kicked out, pleased to connect with something soft and hear Sniffer yelp.

“Goddamn sonofabitch!”

Hard Voice laughed scornfully.

The hand tightened in his hair, jerking his head back. “Shut up, Eddie.”  Whiney’s voice.  “Look at him.  Pretty thing, ain’t he?”  High-pitched laughter.  Thudding sounds as the blur he’d kicked dropped to his knees.

“Let’s get a better look.”  More hands.  And no mistaking that hard, metallic sheen.

He writhed and struggled as the knife sliced through the waistband of his sweat pants.  Kicked out and fought as cold air chilled the skin of his thighs and the private parts of his body.

More laughter, and a snort of scorn from Hard Voice.  “Shit, you morons are real perverts.   Do what you want.  I’m ordering pizza.”  Waft of cold air; door slamming.

“C’mon, sweet cheeks.  Let’s see what ya got.”

The hands grabbing, lifting and tossing.  Another small relief as his body landed on softness.  His hands were jerked roughly upward, and he realized why he hadn’t been able to make them work.  They were bound together, thin, harsh twine digging cruelly into the flesh of his wrists.

The soft surface bounced as Whiney and Sniffer dropped down beside him.  A bed.  They’d thrown him on a bed.  And they’d hooked his bound wrists over a corner post.

Oh shit.  Oh shit!

He twisted and fought against the bonds, the bite of lacerated skin minor against the overwhelming symphony of pain sweeping through his body.

Don’t don’t don’t…

Hands impacted against his face, then moved to shove his t-shirt up around his neck and explore, hard and hurting, over his chest.  He rolled away, curling his knees upward.

Chris!  Oh, God.  Chris!

“Looks like he don’t wanna play, Eddie.”  More laughter, more hands grabbing his legs, forcing them flat on the mattress.

“Damn, he sure is a looker.”

“Getcher filthy hands offa me, ya bastards!” he wheezed through a throat constricted by pain and growing panic.

“Oh, you’re a tough one, ain’t you?  With your fancy kicks and shit.”  Sniffer’s hands moved to his thighs, inside and upward.  To places nobody’s hands had any right to be.  “Think yer Bruce Lee.”  Vin’s body bucked as the hands got rougher, pulling and probing cruelly.  “Not so damned tough now, are you?”

Whiney’s face thrust itself close to his.  “We was all set to have ourselves a good time, you piece o’ shit.”  The hand twisted in his hair as Vin tried to turn away, afraid he’d choke on the man’s fetid breath.  “What the hell did you think you were doin’, interferin’ with us?  Now we got nobody to play with.”  The hand jerked hard on the trapped hair; another closed over his throat and tightened.  “Guess you’ll have to fill in.”

Foul breath gusted over his face; high laughter assaulted his ears.  With a final squeeze and jerk, Whiney’s hands left his head, the shadow of his body vanished from his blurry sight. 

Hard jerks and cold air on his feet as his shoes were pulled roughly off.  Hands again, tossing him roughly over onto his belly.

Help me help me help me.  Chris!

Sniffer’s heavy body dropping down to trap his hips, hands again invading private places.

Whiney, muttering to himself, busy around Vin’s legs and ankles as he used the knife to slit the legs of his sweat pants.

 Vin writhed desperately against the weight, the hands, the dull edge of the blade he could feel sliding along his calves and thighs.  His throat seemed completely paralyzed now, unable to produce any of the desperate sounds he tried to force out. 

No no no no no!

They were arguing again.  Over who got to go first.

He twisted, writhed, wrenched… fought with every stubborn iota of strength he could find, knowing it was never going to be enough.  Not nearly enough.

Cruel hands, jerking his legs apart.  Hard blow to his head.  A heavy, sweaty body crouched over him.  Hands.  Goddamned hands, hurting and invading.

The sounds finally escaped, high and desperate, as overwhelming pain tore through him.

Chris stared out over the alley, hands clenched with tension. 

He’d hoped, if he waited, he could still start mending things.  Didn’t want to sleep again without at least trying to get a start making things right with Vin.

But the digital display on the VCR told the bitter story.  Four a.m.  Vin wasn’t coming home.  Not this night.  Morning.

If he’d run for the mountains, no telling how long it would be before he returned.

But somehow, Chris was sure this wasn’t just an escape to the wilderness.  Something was wrong.  That crawling shudder running up and down his spine…

Damn, Cowboy.  Where the hell are you?

Sighing with frustration, Chris turned away from the window, picked up his jacket, and left. 

Pain.  Oh, God, he hurt.  Had never hurt like this before.

He shuddered in disgust at the wet stickiness on his thighs.  His own blood, he figured.  And disgusting other filth.

They were arguing.  Again.  God damn did the stupid fuckers ever stop arguing?

Fuckers.  Oh, God.

For the moment, they were busy with pizza and shouting.  Paying no attention to him.

God, the pain came from everywhere.  Radiating from a dozen different sources.

But he’d hurt before.  He’d been smashed up, been knocked around, been slashed and shot full of holes.  Maybe this was a different hurt, but it was still just… hurt.  And he’d been hurt before.

No one in this universe knew where he was.  There was nobody to help him.  If he didn’t help himself, he was dead. 

He did his best to choke down the agonized whimpers that forced their way past his lips as he shifted, moving his limbs, cautiously testing his limits.  Hands still bound; twine wet and red.  Body shuddering with fifty kinds of pain.  But it moved. 

Okay, Vin.  You know how to do this.  Deep breaths.  Sink deep.

Deliberately, he began to distance himself from the pain, drawing his focus inward.  Seeking out the core of strength that had kept him alive and functioning against all odds through his entire life. 

He closed his eyes, mentally shuttered his ears.  Let them argue; for now, they didn’t matter.

Because Vin Tanner had to take care of himself.  There was no one else.

Vaguely, he was aware of the argument coming closer, of final, insistent words, and the departure of two of the combatants.

Good.  Only one. 

Surely he could handle one.

The pain tried to force itself to the front of his mind as his body was rolled over and mauled.  Fiercely, he pushed it back.

Whiney.  The others had left.  It was just Whiney. 

He slid his eyes open a crack and watched distantly as the beefy man moved around the room.  Allowed himself to hear the disgruntled complaints.

“Damn Ernie!  Thinks he’s something special.  Shouldn’t let him push me around!”

The man crawled back onto the bed, one hand encumbered with the big knife they’d used to bare Vin’s lower body.

Whiney’s breath threatened Vin’s concentration as the big man leaned over him.

“Don’t see why we can’t keep you around a while.”  The flat blade of the knife slid along Vin’s cheek, down onto his chest.  “You are a damned good lay, pretty boy.  But I gotta live with the bastard, so…” 

He dropped the knife onto the mattress beside Vin’s head, sweeping his hands roughly over the bound man’s body.

“But I got one last chance at ya before I gotta get rid of you.  Oh, yeah…”

Panting, he heaved himself up and shifted to squat between Vin’s legs.

“Let’s try this way, okay?  I figure I can get you real good this way.”

He continued to mumble as he lifted Vin’s legs, running his hands up and down naked thighs, stroking and squeezing unresponsive genitals. 

“Shame we couldn’t figure out how to get you interested in playing.  Like to see this package all filled up.”  His high giggle grated at the edges of Vin’s concentration.  “Maybe I’ll collect me a souvenir before I use that knife on yer throat.”

Vin firmly clamped down on his revulsion and fear.  He needed to focus.  One chance. And he knew when it would come.

Whiney lifted Vin’s legs higher, hooking them over his shoulders.  He fumbled at his crotch, moving into position.

Soon.  Soon.  Wait… Soon...  Now!

Vin used the white shaft of agony as the man penetrated his body as a spear to drive his legs higher, closer, tighter around that sweaty neck.  Body screaming with pain, he arched his back, lifted his hips and twisted.

He heard his own tight shriek of anguish as the world blackened around the edges. 

For long moments, there was nothing but the red-shot grayness of overwhelming pain.

Slowly, he reconnected, sorted.  Felt the harsh bellows of panting lungs, the burn in his wrists and throbbing in his head, the tearing pain in his lower body.

But no sound, no movement from Whiney.  

He’d done it.

For the briefest of moments, he allowed himself to wallow in overwhelming relief.  He’d done it.

But the other two could return at any moment.  He couldn’t stay where he was.  Risking further agony, he braced his heels against the weight pinning him to the bed and shoved Whiney’s limp body to the floor, gasping sharply as the man’s cock was dragged out of his anus.

Hands.  Git yer damn hands free.

For the first time in a long, terrible night, he’d gotten lucky.  The stupid bastard had left that knife on the bed, right next to his head.

He could do this.  He’d killed the bastard; he could get that knife.

With a patience that tore at screaming nerves, he nudged the handle of the knife with his chin, slowly rotating it until he could wedge it between his shoulder and his cheek.  He whimpered as he hauled against his mangled wrists, pulling his body as close to his hands as he could.  His fingers were swollen and half numb; trying to grasp the tip of the knife was an exercise in frustration.  But he managed.

Forcing himself to work slowly and carefully, he used his head to gradually nudge the blade through his puffy fingers until he was able to get a clumsy grip in the handle.  Clumsy, but good enough.

He lost a bit more blood and skin over it, but moments later he’d managed to twist the blade around and saw through the twine between his hands.  Hands and knife dropped to the bed.

Oh, God.  Free.  He was free.

Abruptly, nausea swept through him, and he rolled over onto his side, retching.  A dribble of bile slid out of the corner of his mouth.  He’d lost anything his stomach had contained some time during the endless night.

He lay, shaking uncontrollably and fighting the urge to whimper.  He was a long way from out of here.  He didn’t have time for this.

Finally, he attempted to sit.  The pain as he lurched up onto his abused buttocks forced another squeak through his lips.  He shoved against the mattress, dropping off the bed onto his hands and knees.  He guessed he wouldn’t be doing much sitting for a while.

Jesus, Tanner.  Joking.  Yer losin’ it.

His shredded sweat pants were lying in a bloody heap in the corner.  They weren’t going to be doing him any good.  No way could he run… well, stagger… out of here butt-ass naked and barefoot, and his t-shirt wouldn’t cover much.

For an instant, he considered wrestling the tattered jeans off Whiney’s large body, but a lurch of protest from his already-abused belly nixed that option.  Oh, God.  Not a chance.

But the man had tossed his oversized down jacket across the dresser.  On Whiney, it would be baggy.  On Vin, it would be like a down quilt.

He crawled the six feet necessary to grab the hanging sleeve and pull the coat onto the floor.  It landed with a heavy thunk.

Clumsy fingers tugged the garment over his shoulders.  He’d been unaware of the chill in his body until the warmth from the down-stuffed nylon oozed through him.  Convulsively, he huddled deeper into its folds. 

He’d been right.  It swamped him.  All the better.

Door.  He had to get out that door, and out of whatever this place was.  He forced himself up onto his hands and knees and inched toward the first barrier between him and the outside.

Home.  Safe.  Home.

He’d made it through that first door and half way across the outer room when he heard the key in the lock.

For an instant, shocked denial kept him frozen in horror.  No.  Not now. 

Some instinct sent his swollen fingers into the right pocket of the jacket, where they closed with joyous familiarity around the handle of a gun.  As the door swung inward, he lifted his hand, still in the pocket, and pulled the trigger.  And again.  Again.

The man in the door gaped in horror, then lurched backward, red blossoming over the front of his dirty white sweatshirt. 

Vin kept pulling the trigger, over and over.  Distantly, he was aware the sounds of the shots had faded, that all he was hearing was click after click on empty chambers.  But he just kept squeezing that trigger.

Eventually, the squeezes slowed and stopped.  Quivering, he crouched in the silence of the room, ears ringing, staring through the drifting feathers at the man he’d just killed.

Had he heard a cry from the hall?  Was the third man out there, waiting to drag him back to that hellish bed?

Home.  Gotta get home.  Safe.  Home.

Swallowing hard, he resumed his crawl, fumbling past the bloody heap in the doorway.

No one. The hall was empty.

Good.  Oh, good.  He wrapped his arms tightly around himself, hugging fiercely.  Almost there.

He never remembered the stairs or the miles of hallways.  The sight of outside through the glass of a door drove the rest of the journey out of his memory.

Grabbing the push bar on the door, he hauled himself to his feet, legs rubbery and weak.  He leaned, letting the weight of the door drag his body out into the sharp chill of the night.  Freezing, damp, and the most wonderful air he’d ever breathed.

Better.  He knew where he was.  Close.

Home.  Safe.  Home.

Part 6