Philadelphia, Pennsylvania

ANTON BERLIQUE

The guy was crazy.

I entered the hallway and walked into the third door on the left. I stepped on air and nearly fell down the vaguely lit stairs. Barry grabbed me from behind to stop me from tumbling. It wasn't the toilet, which was weird because I was sure this was the third door on the left. And I was even more certain that Elane had told me these directions.

Directions for a reason. A small light bulb hung down so there must have been a switch somewhere. I waved my hands through the air and felt a light cord. I pulled on it and quickly closed the door behind me so the family wouldn't notice.

An osmotic draft breathed into the basement. It took me one glance at the base floor to see why Elane had led me into this room. A boy, not any older than sixteen, hovered above the ground with his arms skewered onto meat hooks.

The impaled arms were the least of his problems with bruised and swollen face and eyes. There were also several holes in his body, made perfectly circular in circumference and tiny. Probably some broken bones, observed by one leg hanging lower than the other and his elbow dipping like a chicken spanning its dysfunctional wings.

I wondered if the boy's parents missed his truancy. But then again, I had no idea what he was doing here and how long he had been missing. Much like a parent finding their child. Or not finding their child. Or even if the boy had ever committed truancy since he was slant-eyed. Or even if the boy had parents.

But there was one thing I did know. I needed to get the boy to safety. It is my mission as a fucking vigilante.

Barry jumped off from the railing and landed on the base floor with the silence of an assassin. I tiptoed down the stairs. Barry took the shirt gag out of the boy's mouth and put a finger to his lips to keep quiet.

"I'm not supposed to be down here," I whispered.

"Please, help me," he said simply without pretense. His chest heaved heavily and there was a slight scratchy effect to his voice. Barry fished through my pockets and pulled out his lucky dice.

"Well, that's down to the dice," Barry said. The boy looked up at him, confused as if I was speaking another language. Barry held the dice up to the boy's puffy face. "Roll a one or two - I get you out and incapacitate your captor. Roll a three or four - I leave you in this basement, kill Dirk and the cops will come free you. Roll a five or six - I will get you out myself and kill him as well."

The confusion stayed on his face and did not waver or fret in fading.

"You're as crazy as they are." I breathed moisture onto the dice and rubbed it on the epaulet of Barry's jacket.

"They?"

"Yes, the family of the Richards."

"They are coerced by the father - is what I'm getting."

"No - no, who do you think has done this to me? One man?" If what the boy was saying was true, then I might have to change the outcomes of the dice to better suit my interests and align with the new information.

"The little kid as well?"

"No, he is just a kid. So is the girl. Mr and Mrs Richards are monsters hiding in the skin of their past selves." I gently placed the dice in the boy's lifeless hand.

"I have changed my mind. Roll a one - I get you out and incapacitate Dirk. Roll a two - I get you out and incapacitate both Dirk and Irene. Roll a three -"

"Yeah, I get the point. Let's get this over with."

"Just drop it, no need to roll it in the state you're in." The dice fell from his hand before Barry could ignite a countdown. It bounced on the floor at first before easing into a rattle and then finally sliding into a puddle of dried blood beneath the boy's lifted feet.

I picked it up and showed it to him. It was the best thing I could do to let him know he was already safe. In the affirmative region within the realm of the die's 6 round dots against its cuboid white.

He rasped, "A six. Which version of fate did that number entail?"

"The one where I gotta shove this shirt back in your mouth," I said.

I gagged the boy before any more complaints were made. I swiftly pulled out one of his arms from the meat hook. He screamed but the gag muffled it enough to sound like a dog whining next door to the ears of the inhabitants above.

I went to the other side and did the same. I looked through the hole in his arm. Before the blood had clotted against the metal of the hook, so he hadn't lost much blood. Now it was an eruption of red that dripped down both our clothes.

Once the boy passed out from the agreeably painful experience, Barry took the shirt back from the boy's mouth and ripped it into rags that he used to tighten the blood flow at the biceps. Toilet breaks usually weren't this long unless the toilet had been clogged so we needed to act fast or else they'll start suspecting something's up.

I threw him onto my shoulders and walked behind the stairs, shallow with shadow. Barry grabbed a drill from the torture table on our way there. I set the boy down and propped him closely to the basement wall.

As I predicted, someone came to check up. A gun was cocked. I couldn't tell what gun but I knew who the handler was.

Dirk trudged down the stairs, taking his time. Surveying the situation. We watched from behind the stairs as his boisterous shape commanded the light we were given. The wood creaked horrendously and I was afraid he might fall upon us.

Once Dirk reached midway down the stairs, Barry stuck the drill through the wooden steps and pierced the bottom of the man's foot.