One of Them (Vigil #2) Read Free Page A

how to persuade. We are well versed in those arts.”
    “Then send in your goons and torture me. I am not afraid.”
    “You also don’t know exactly what you are just yet, or even where you are. Who says we need to go in there to apply pressure?”
    “That’s true, but somebody has to come in here to feed me.” I pointed back at the container on the floor. “One of you brought that in here. And one of you will have to bring something fresh in. Or don’t I need fresh blood?”
    “I don’t feel like I should be sharing anymore,” the voice said.
    “Just for the record, if starvation is what you meant by methods of persuasion, then I will believe it when I see it.” I hopped up onto bed. The paper gown I had over me ripped from behind as I plopped down hard. “I need to piss,” I bellowed. “Where am I supposed to do that?”
    “The bucket. Once you’ve emptied it.”
    I looked at it sitting there, half-filled. “Classy.”
    “It’s either that or pick a favorite corner.”
    I reclined back on the bed and ceased communicating.
    “You’re the one who is making this difficult,” the voice said. “This will be a trying time for you, it always is. Cooperation will only make the transition easier. I’m giving you a second opportunity to coexist nicely. We can all begin again, and you will learn that we are not the villains here.”
    The person talking was a woman. After that last spiel, I was certain of it. All needy and giving away second chances like they were candy. The tone was so cloyingly familiar it could have been my stepmother, if she weren’t such an illiterate idiot.
    The voice yammered on, not stopping until I went over and squatted in the corner. I wasn’t too proud to go where I needed to go, and I loved that I could shock my questioner into silence.
    Locked up the way I was, I’d take the upper hand any way I could get it.

Where It Hurts
    The battle of wills stretched on for a couple of days. I withheld; they withheld. They poked; I poked back. All that resulted from our petty skirmishes was a stinky room—that thanks to the multiple deposits I’d had no choice but to keep on making in the corner. My patience was holding steady, though. I couldn’t say anything for certain about theirs.
    Day in and day out, one event became a constant, and that was the continual delivery of blood, refilled in an alternatively colored bucket. The switch was made whenever I was out of it. I would fall to the inevitable oblivion of exhaustion, and once I came around, it would just be there. I had no clue how they were getting the buckets in or out—and I never once finished one off, not entirely. On the second night, I did everything I could to not succumb to sleep. But after a certain amount of time, I would fall into this woozy, weakened condition, and I would lose consciousness.
    I hesitate to even use the word ‘sleep’ when I’m talking about that particular state because it was nothing like how sleeping used to be for me. It was more like a light-turning-off kind of thing, as if I had run out of power. I never drifted off into dreamland; I snapped off. And when I woke back up, I could never remember dreaming of any kind—and I had always remembered my dreams—to a ridiculous degree.
    These blackouts, as I started to call them, were the only method I had for measuring time while I was being held within the box. By my count, I was able to remain conscious for about twelve hours between collapses. But I had no clue how long I was actually out of it. That could have been twelve hours as well, which was likely, or maybe even longer. Without a clock or a watch there was no way to be sure. And there was always a chance the blackouts weren’t a natural occurrence. Perhaps I was being drugged. That had to remain a possibility.
    The games being played against me began to escalate on day four. During the first three cycles, they would do simple shit like turn up the glowing walls too bright in an attempt