JEREMY’S FEET ARE numb. He’s tried kicking, and ended up doing some horrific version of a mermaid flail. He now moves his toes instead, working his ankles back and forth, trying to find some give in the zip ties that bind them together. If only he’d worn boots today. Then his ankles would have some bit of protection, some room. He might have been able to slide a foot out, kick free. Instead he wore Nikes with barely present socks, leaving his ankles naked and unprotected, the hair there not enough to stop the ties from cutting into his skin, the warm ooze of blood coming when his foot manipulation gets too enthusiastic.
Whatever drug he was given has worn off for the most part. He stills feel light-headed, bits of nausea still sweeping along, increasing every time he remembers that the sour taste in his mouth is vomit. He must have, at some point in time, chugged a gallon of it. That is unknown. Everything is unknown. He’d come home, grabbed mail on his way in… and that’s as far back as his memory goes. Nothing else. No explanation of why he’d been tied up on the floor, hands tied behind his back, ankles bound together but knees left free, looking like a police suspect banished to the ground for resisting arrest. Whatever bastard did this also felt the need to tape his eyes, one duct-tape strip running from ear to ear, the sticky side pushed down, into his eyes, pushed hard, like some asshole had wanted to make damn sure that every individual eyelash would adhere to it, to torture his lids into submission while robbing him of his sight. A second piece covers his mouth.
He can move a little. Crawl for a bit before his legs are stopped. They seem to be tied to something, his range of motion restricted to an arc that spans from counter to counter, the point of connection being… the kitchen sink? He tries to arch his back, feel with his hands the chain of zip ties that leads into the cabinet, but can’t get far. He can only guess that his feet are chained to a pipe or the garbage disposal. Whatever it is, it is sturdy. He’s yanked and only worn his skin raw as a result.
Jeremy catalogs the house in his mind, tries to discover what is of value, what they could have wanted. Was it a team of men? Highly trained or neighborhood thugs? He wonders, when this tape is finally removed, if his entire house will be empty, wiped of all contents, his truck stolen with the keys they probably took from his pocket. He tries to calculate time. It’s Thursday night. He doesn’t work until Saturday. Should easily survive thirty-six hours. And he doesn’t miss work. Someone will worry. Deanna will notice, call someone. Maybe drive over, not that she knows where he lives. Scratch that possibility. Given the tone of their parting, she might think that his silence is intentional.
In Boy Scouts he was taught the Rule of Threes. Death will come from three minutes without air, three hours without shelter, three days without water. Thirty-six hours will be nothing. He will be fine.
It is at that point, that relaxation of his muscles, the mini-release of stress from his body, when his senses relax that he hears the beep. Coming from behind his head. From, best Jeremy can tell, the direction of the oven.
In that one beep, in that tie of his brain that connects the sound to the appliance, he feels his first moment of panic.