When Rachel woke up, she was lying on her side on the floor against the back wall. Her hands were zip-tied above her head to a metal pipe that carried water into the house from a cistern outside.
A bank of lights shone brightly into the living room where Sadie lay on the sofa. Rachel could just make out her body, her feet bare. The two men were naked and were moving video cameras around. They were drinking, passing a bottle of bourbon between themselves while they prepared for whatever it was that they intended to do.
Rachel knew.
She had memories of such a setup from her own childhood -- vague memories of lights and sounds, of men looming over her, naked, grinning, laughing, doing things she didn't understand. Making her do things she didn't want to do but had no ability to resist.
She would not let that happen to Sadie.
Luckily for her, her father and Bill had no interest in her and were having trouble getting their camera set up just right. They fussed and fiddled and had to tear down their set up and then re-set it up again, adjusting the lighting and taking shots to see how it looked.
"The lighting sucks," Bill said, watching some video her father had shot as a test.
"We're wasting time," her father said. "This will just have to do."
Rachel knew that she had to act now. She moved her legs forward as far as she could, still lying on her side, and was able to move her ankles up near her zip-tied hands, glad that neither man had interest in her for any sexual purpose. They were far more intent on getting the cameras set up properly for whatever perversions they planned on filming next. She managed to pull up the pant leg of her jeans and worked on getting the folding knife out of its holder without making a sound, but it was slow going and she had to hold her breath to prevent herself from grunting from exertion.
When she finally had the knife loose, she pulled down her pant leg and tried to cut the zip-tie that held her wrists together. It was nearly impossible, for she had to turn the blade around, and hold it in position, then move it against the zip-tie on her wrist without cutting herself. She managed to slide the blade between her skin and the plastic, then began a sawing motion with her fingertips. Finally, the blade cut through the plastic tie with an audible pop, but luckily, both men were intent on pouring the bourbon down their throats and adjusting the camera angles. Bill glanced over at her once or twice, but she had been careful to stop her movements, so it looked as if she was just lying in the same position as they had left her in.
Her escape was made even more important when she saw Bill climbing on top of Sadie.
She tried not to think about what he was doing, what they would do if she didn't get loose and stop them. She focused instead on getting free of her restraints. Once her other wrist was free, she didn't hesitate. She jumped up, knife in hand, and threw herself on top of Bill from behind, her arms around his shoulders, her legs clasped around his hips. She jabbed the knife down into the side of his neck, slicing through the flesh where she knew the carotid artery was located.
She screamed as she did and it so shocked her father, who was trying to move a camera into a different position, that he tripped backwards in shock. Bill tried to stand up, his hands at his neck, and then she and Bill crashed into her father before he could react. They knocked him against the counter, and he hit his head on the corner as he fell.
Luckily, both men had enough bourbon in their bloodstreams that their reaction time was longer than normal. Blessed with a surge of adrenaline and pure hatred, Rachel stabbed Bill a half-dozen times in rapid succession, the knife plunging into his back over and over. The blade went into his body the full three inches to the knife's hilt, and finally, he lay still. She crawled off him and lurched at her father, who was struggling to his feet. She stabbed him in the gut, ripping him open before he could reach down to his clothes on the floor and grab the gun from the pocket of Bill's jacket.
He crouched in on himself, holding his gut protectively as blood seeped through his fingers.
"You fucking bitch," he half-growled half-screamed. He glanced down at his belly, removing his hand to reveal his gut, which had been cut open, something bloody pushing out, blood oozing out around the knife wound.
On the floor, Bill groaned, his head turned to one side, the blood gushing from the wound in his neck, one hand clamped over it trying to stop the bleeding. Soon, he was silent, and she knew he'd lost consciousness from blood loss.
She turned to face her father, who backed away, one hand on his gut holding his wound, the other bloody hand held out, trying to stop her.
"Don't," he said. "Don't..."
He turned and tried to run, making it to the door, throwing it open and stumbling down the steps. Light spilled out into the yard, shining on the outhouse. She followed him, wondering what he was thinking. Was he going to try to make it to the car?
She ran over and blocked his way, holding the bloody knife out.
"Don't even think of it," she hissed.
He backed away, naked, blood running down his groin.
"I'm bleeding to death," he said, his voice almost a sob. "You fucking stabbed me!"
She lunged at him, wanting to finish the job, and he stumbled away towards the outhouse, a trail of blood shining on the wet grass, visible in the light from the cabin.
Did he think he was going to hide in there?
She almost laughed when he threw open the outhouse door and tried to close it, lock himself in.
Before he could, she pulled it open, glad it was on a hinge and not hung like a proper door. She pushed inside and stabbed her father twice and then three times with her knife, the blade plunging into his neck and chest. He screamed like a girl each time the blade made contact. Finally, he slumped against the seat and she stabbed down again and again, losing count how many times her blade met his chest and gut and genitals.
Then, he lay still, leaning sideways, his eyes closed. He slumped onto the floor and she hoped he was dead. She panted while she watched him, her own body covered in blood that had sprayed out of him.
She decided to put him where he belonged -- in the hole. The hole filled with shit and piss.
He'd killed Sadie -- the first Sadie. He'd killed her mother.
He'd abused her for years afterwards.
He'd hurt her daughter Sadie. He'd done things to Sadie while she was trying to cut the zip-ties. She knew he'd done worse to other little girls over the years and was thankful that her Sadie appeared to be unconscious.
He deserved to die in a pile of shit and piss.
It was a struggle, and he was pretty much a mass of wiry muscle and bone, but she finally managed to open the bench, which was on a hinge, revealing the open pit below. She dragged and lifted and pushed him up and he fell head first into the darkness. He fell down about four feet, but the hole wasn't large or wide enough to take all of him. His feet stuck up, their white skin stark against the dark wood of the outhouse wall, the soles red with blood.
On her part, Rachel was covered in his and Bill's blood. Her hands were slippery with it and it got onto her clothes and in her hair. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand and stood there for a moment, admiring her work.
Her mind was crystal clear on what she had to do next.
She went back to the cabin, closed the door, and set to work.