Vixen shook her head as far as she could. The leather across her forehead was too tight and although she should see the outline of the torture chamber – was that really chintz wallpaper? – she could see only flickers of her tormentors. Her ruined eye was a furnace of pain but there was noting she could do but try to avoid concentrating on it.
She struggled against her bonds. They had, she could tell, removed every weapon and device from her body including the three polymer needles that had been sutured under the skin of her left forearm. If it wasn’t treated soon the wound would heal badly, leaving a tell-tale scar the length and width of a finger.
The tall one was speaking again. “Tell me what you did with Harold,” he said. “You have five seconds before I let Gillian do something regrettable.”
“Like what?” Vixen spat blood from her mouth. “You’ve cut off my hand and torn out my eye. Just get on with killing me.”
“Ten seconds then.” Her captor hesitated. “Is he even still alive?”
Vixen laughed then, a shrill peal that bordered on hysteria. “He’s alive all right. He’s just dead.”
“I don’t understand.” The woman’s voice cutthrough the fog of Vixen’s thoughts. “How can he be alive and dead at the same time?”
“Easy.” Gillian had heard the woman’s laugh before, echoing from the walls of Bedlam. “He’s out of time.”
© Rachel Green 2007