GARY WALKS AWAY again.
A second or two later, I make out the trailer door opening and closing.
Penny is crying so hard, she can’t speak. She drops down onto the clay floor on her bottom, slams her knees into her chest, and sobs uncontrollably. That’s when I smell the onions. The floor is littered with them—and rotting, putrid potatoes.
“She’s dead,” she cries. “Chloe is dead. Don’t you see what’s happening, Sidney? Chloe is dead, and it’s all because of me, of my horrible decisions. Soon we’ll be dead, too, and on our way to hell.”
Something goes snap inside my head then. Like when you break a pencil in half. You sense the tension of it bending in your fisted hands, and then, just like that, it goes snap. Reaching down, I grab hold of her arm, yank her back onto her feet, pull her into me, her face so close to mine we’re swapping sweat.
“Now you listen to me,” I utter, my words forced, coming from deep inside me. “You are not going to do die. Chloe is not dead. And we are not fucking going anywhere, let alone hell. This hole we’re trapped in … this onion cellar or whatever it is … this is hell on earth. That creep up there, he’s the devil.” I feel a smile growing on my face. “And guess what, Penny? I’m going to kill the devil tonight. I’m going to make the son of a bitch pay.”
Penny stares into my eyes. She’s not making a sound, not making a move, her eyes unblinking and startled.
“All right, Sid,” she whispers. “I believe you.”
I let go of her arm. She takes a couple of steps in reverse, pressing her back up against the clay wall.
“Now if only we can figure a way out of this pit,” I say, staring up at the bright, ceiling-mounted trailer lights.
Then, a voice that belongs neither to me, or Penny, or Gary comes to me from out of nowhere. A faint voice. A child’s voice.
“Daddy,” the voice says. “Daddy, is that you?”