Vacation полностью

Some kind of strong elastic band went around his midsection, knotted behind him.

How long would Dunphy be gone to the lodge, to check on the food being served, grab a plate himself?

Something nice and meaty tonight.

How fucking long?

He came back to the only possibility. That knife, if it was still there. That was the chance. No other possibility at all.

Jack started rocking his body back and forth.

The chair would rise a bit at the front, steady, then lift up from the back. Jack had no control other than to make his body move, to get enough momentum so that the chair would tip and eventually fall to the ground.

But how would it tip? Could it leave him pinned in a weird way, unable to move, a pointless maneuver?

My only chance, he thought, ignoring all the mental pictures that had him trapped, an upside-down horseshoe crab, waiting for the fat cook to return, and maybe start to work on him right there.

Back and forth, the movements so small. But he found a rhythm; he could build some momentum. The lifts of the front, then the back legs. Higher each time.

Until he knew he was close.

More rocking, using the scant movement all the ropes and lashings gave him.

And then he felt it.

The chair starting to fall over, not to the front or the back, but a strange sideways slip. All he could do was let it happen as the chair banged against the table, his head smacking hard against the edge, then slipping down to the cookery’s floor.

He looked left. Fresh blood spatters. He realized after a moment that they were his own.

The chair had landed on its side. Jack looked around to the right, trying to see a side wall of the building.

Please be there, he thought.

Straining as much as possible, he saw it. The beautiful shining silver of the blade, the dull black of the handle.

His right leg on the floor, his weight on it.

The foot was nearly immobilized, but there was some room for movement in the leg. Again, only inches.

He heard voices.

Outside.

Dunphy back?

But the voices moved on.

He couldn’t have much time.

The leg kicked. More pathetic miniscule movements.

Kick. Kick. Kick

Over and over. Gaining mere inches. But he kept doing it, barely aware that this was his fucked-up leg. Barely aware of anything but this need to contract, relax, using this pathetic kicking movement to move the chair inches closer to the knife, the chair that seemed to weigh a ton.

He paid no attention to the progress he made. As though the only thing in the universe that could bring him pleasure was each small kick, giddy with ecstasy every time he came closer to the knife.

His sole obsession: to kick, to move.

He saw the blade near his head. That made him only kick more. He had to get past the blade, yes … get it closer to his hands.

Taking so long. Too long. No way he’d make it.

Fuck that idea, he thought.

I’ll make it.

He couldn’t get his head in position to see if he was close enough. It would be a guess, an estimate of how far he had come.

He might have only one chance.

He stopped.

Was the knife close in line with his tied hands?

Because, he thought, while my wrists are lashed tight to the chair … my fingers, my palm—they are goddamned free.

He looked around and saw the other end of the table nearby, a foot away.

An estimate.

He guessed he was close to the knife.

Now, more rocking, leaning left and right, needing to get the chair’s back to edge closer to where he thought the knife was. Then, more inaccurate kicking, using his weight, his legs.

Fingers scratched desperately against the floor, feeling nothing.

Again, more rocking, more crazy grasping with his fingers.

Then, a different sensation. Metal.

Another kick, and his right hand briefly grasped the blade, felt the sharp metal dig into the soft skin of his fingertips.

No matter; he was close.

One hand would have to hold the knife. By the handle or by the blade—it didn’t matter—then slowly saw the rope. Ignoring the metal if it slid past the rope and bit into his hand, his wrist.

Another crazed grasp and his right hand locked around the knife, partly around the handle, partly around the blade.

Now his fingers had to perform a weird fumbling, knowing that the knife could simply slip away. More guesses as he positioned it, hoping he had the knife tip resting against rope.

His palm and fingers could make the blade go back and forth with only the smallest movements.

His new obsession now, and he thought of nothing else but this movement.

Once he felt the tip of the blade dip, burying itself in skin.

If I hit a vein, this will all be for nothing.

He slowed a bit, taking more care with his strange sawing at such a difficult angle.

He felt the rope actually loosen.

Loose, and that meant he could make bigger slicing movements, now almost a mad butcher himself.

Looser still.

His tied wrists now had some space.