His Captive Ch. 02-03

The first chapter was received pretty well to my surprise.

Comments are appreciated! This chapter doesn't have any mature scenes but the next update(s) will.

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Three months was enough time to draw his plan down to a T.

Any longer and he would grow wary of the people noticing the unfamiliar face in town, perhaps even give a ring or two to the people after him.

Malachi had drawn up the perfect plan, the specific day, the particular time and which route would be taken.

He woke early, lingering on the makeshift bed in a basement he rented off of Craigslist. Lying there, with the daily headache in the opaque air of his tomb jail edges his patience, but he knows he must persevere. It would all end that day.

Pulling on a pair of joggers and grey hoodie, he goes running, picking the usual path that winds on the town's outskirts and into the forest. The path is thick with shrubs, a sign that no one but him usually uses it and for that he is grateful. It curves around the back of houses, passing by hers, in specific.

Halting, Malachi steps behind two trees and watches for her silhouette.

His Oliver is awake and moving downstairs, still dressed in pyjamas and eating a bowl of instant noodles - which he loathes considering it is not real food. Today is her day off from work, and she will be heading to the cinema at night, with her boyfriend.

Boyfriend.

That word turns to bile on his tongue and anger swathes him briefly. Amir, middle eastern with a chipped front tooth, tall but not as tall as Malachi, and wider. He works as a part-time trainer in the local gym.

Their relationship was a kick to the teeth for Malachi but he did not worry, everything would go down accordingly tonight.

And by tomorrow, they would be home and dry.

There is nothing louder than an American cinema. The clatter of the elevator's rusty doors - some twenty yards northeast of Malachi's head but as clearly perceived as if it were inside his left temple - alternated with the popping of corn, whirring of slush machines and honking cars.

The cinema corridor brims with cheerful, resonant and inept exclamations ending in a volley of hey's and sup's.

Malachi leans by one random table, plum concentrated slushie in one hand, car keys in the other. He twirls it expertly between slender fingers, lips sealed over the straw and sucking noiselessly. The cold burns his throat and nose but it is welcomed.

He stares at the teenagers and young adults moving like sheep in groups, girls in skimpy outfits, boys in sagging dark clothes - humans undergoing the basic sets of puberty.

Occasionally, he would catch a lingering stare from the females and maybe one or two males. The quiet scrutiny, mild admiration, open gawking. Malachi was well aware of his physical attributes; six feet six, lean swimmer's body, dark curls that rest short of his neck, bright silver eyes as a result of infant illness. He was not blind, but the melanin in his eyes had faded.

Tucking the keys into his leather jacket, Malachi straightens at the sight of her.

Oliver walks in, hands clasped with Amir's.

She wears washed out jeans, a hoodie and converse. Wet curls, from the rain outside, held up and away. She is laughing at something the boy says, corners of her eyes crinkling like a leaf held to flame.

His hands burn with desire to touch her.

And snap Amir's neck.

He moves towards the line of movies and glances up at the vague sign, 'Conjuring 3', a horror. He was not a fan of movies as they rarely brought him entertainment. But the ticket was needed.

A moment later he hears her voice directly behind as they join the queue.

"... possibly tomorrow morning, 'cause I have a lecture at nine."

"Do you?" Amir, "if your home is far, I don't mind if you sleep over."

Malachi's hands clench into vague fists, he cracks his knuckles and inhales a measured breath at the man's audacious words.

"Sure," Oliver, "I'll text my mum and let her know."

He wishes to turn and glimpse at her face, body so close he could almost outline with eyes firmly shut. After a heartbeat of silence, Malachi feels her eyes on him, curious copper brown and deep as the earth. He wonders what it would feel like to truly touch her - warm brown hair brushing his collarbone, supple flesh trembling beneath his skimming hands.

The fantasy leaves him delirious, pupils dilating urgently. He shuts his eyes and inhales a lungful then expels the heat and steps forward.

Once he bought the ticket, Malachi walked into the cinema and found a seat at the back, highest vantage point then moved two rows closer once the couple sat.

He sees her figure in the darkness as she takes a bottle of cold Sprite from Amir, shadowy hand rising to her mouth and gulping down its contents gratefully, her long eyelashes pointing downward, and then with an intimate gesture that carried more charm than any carnal caress, his Oliver wipes her lips against Amir's shoulder.

The boy chuckles and tilts his head down, meeting hers halfway.

Malachi lifts his eyes from the betraying sight and focuses on the dark screen that comes to life.

Throughout the movie, he does not concentrate. He stares at his Oliver, the curve of her head as she leans into the boy's shoulder, lips moving as she words the movie. Not once does she jump during the frightful scenes.

He leans back and finishes the slurpee.

Just then, Amir shifts to stand. "... toilet." He murmurs and Oliver nods.

Malachi's smile is slow and unhurried, the plan was going accordingly. He waits for the boy to descend and exit, then counts to five and follows him out.

Stepping onto the partially empty hall, he beelines towards the male washroom and pushes the door open. One man is bent over the tap washing his hands while Amir stands between a stall, urinating.

Malachi had practiced this moment over and over both physically and mentally. Casually, he approaches two stalls away from Amir and unzips his pants and proceeds to piss. The man finishes with a grunt and exits the washroom, leaving both of them alone.

Malachi straights his zipper and approaches the sink. Amir follows suit, nonchalantly washing his hands. He finishes and tears three paper towels, dries his hands and tosses them into the trash.

Malachi stealthily follows close behind him, watching as he approaches the exit.

Just as Amir's hand closes around the doorknob, he strikes. Grabbing the side of his head, Malachi slams him sideways, the sound of his frontal cracking from the sharpened impact.

Darkness falls quickly for Amir. Malachi drags him by the underarms into one of the toilet stalls and props him up onto the toilet then slides a hand into the pockets of his jeans, fishing for the phone.

Removing it, he lifts Amir's index finger onto the back- pressing down the pad on print recognition. The phone unlocks. One text from Olive.

*missing the good parts*

For a moment, Malachi simply scrolls through their text conversations, a low growl of revulsion as semi-nude pictures from either of them appear. He straightens and leans on the cubicle wall, contemplating on a message. One that can possibly lure her out of the cinema before it ends.

*Hey, not feeling great*

He pauses, cracking a knuckle and playing the casual message in his head, *might have to head home early*

Her reply is almost immediate; shit, really? We can watch some other time, where are you? Car?

Malachi slips a hand into the boy's pockets, fingers curling around something cold. Keys.

*Yeah, meet you there in ten? Wait in the car for me, I'll have it unlocked.*

All he had to do was arrive there before her. Closing the bolt over the cubicle, he steps on Amir's thigh and hauls himself over the wall and onto the opposite end. Locked up and unconscious. That would buy him more than enough time to complete the plan.

Exiting the bathroom, Malachi beelines straight for the parking lot and raises his hand, clicking the unlock button on random cars, waiting for the signal. The phone buzzes in his hand;

Alright, on my way.

He curses softly and rushes between parking lots, clicking the unlock button over and over until finally, one car reacts. Silver sedan. Exhaling a sigh of relief, he opens the back seat and stealthily slides behind the co-passenger seat, pulling out leather gloves and wearing them, he does a quick scan of the semi-clean interior.

Duffel bag with sweaty gym clothes, backpack with a lightweight laptop and a box of spearmint gum. Idly, Malachi tears open the packet of gum and picks two sticks, he unwraps and slides the gum in.

Olive appears from between two cars, hands shoved into the pockets of her jacket as she approaches. He slides down slightly, dissolving into the darkness. She seems completely unaware of the environment, her cheekbones are flushed, full underlip glistening and slightly blue from the slushie.

Malachi's dissolution is near as the space between them closes. Tentatively, he reaches into his pockets and removes the small brown bottle of concentrated Chloroform, and dabs it onto the handkerchief.

The moment he had been dying to finally settle, all at once, with a burst of forbidden glee, he sees her reaching for the door handle and pulls it open.

A gust of cold wind follows as she settles, hardly glancing onto the backseat.

Oh, my poor oblivious Olive.

Her nonchalance and false sense of security slightly annoyed him, but that would be dealt with on another day.

He waits just for a moment, relishing in the nearness of her body, familiar gestures as she scrolls through her phone. She is typing something and he does not realize just what it is until the phone - Amir's phone - buzzes in his pocket.

Malachi reacts quickly just as she turns around. His hand latches onto her throat, pressing her back onto the seat, and slams the sedated cloth onto her mouth and nose. She bucks wildly beneath his grip, hands rising and scratching his forearm and wrist.

The adrenaline reaction forces her lungs to expand, nostrils flaring as she inhales mouthfuls of the Chloroform.

He holds her firmly, bearing her down to the seat until her movements grow weak and unsteady.

Eventually, she grows completely still.

__

You Are Now Leaving Trenman State, population; fifty thousand. Safe Journey.

Malachi sighs in deflation and relief as the state line sign passes him by.

None hours of coiled tension, spasm muscles twitching, unnerved glances at the rear view mirror - he could finally breathe and the air left him in thick, undulating waves.

Relaxing his grip on the steering wheel, Malachi leans back and rests an elbow on the window's edge, fingers pressing onto his temple, pinky rubbing his lower lip. He licks his teeth and rubs the steering wheel thoughtfully; he had made it. The plan had played out in every optimistic possible way.

Exhaling, his hand rises to the rear view mirror and briefly adjusts it, angling lower. He sees her. Oliver, sprawled out on the back seat unconscious. Her back is pressed, hands loosely tied and resting at the level of her lower abdomen, duct tape pressed on her mouth. Auburn hair falls over her forehead and eyes, shadowing the faint flush of her cheeks.

Malachi winces at the thought of having to muffle her with tape, but there was no time to find a piece of rag tie.

He glances at the timer on his watch; five or so hours until she rouses. He would have to sedate her again, for the sake of a peaceful mind and productive journey.

The highway spreads before him as dawn breaks along the Eastern Horizon, trucks carrying cargo shipment, traveling buses and long distance commute workers file on the mediocre road. It is smooth for the most part, and for that he is grateful.

At half past ten in the morning, his stomach begins the faint demand of satiation. With the ebb of hunger and a sense of her appetite as well, Malachi gently turns the steering wheel as a gas station appears on the desert highway.

Gravel crunches beneath the tires as he guides it towards the first station for refuelling.

Killing the engine, Malachi opens the door and hovers a moment as the first strike of heat gusts over him.

The trees appear defeated, leaves once firm and upward now tilting droop, flaccid as old lettuce. The soil isn't simply dry, but powdery to the touch. The air is dry, scorching the back of his brackish throat.

Shrugging off his hoodie, leaving him in a plain white shirt, Malachi reaches across the seat for sunglasses set in the compartment box and navy blue baseball cap. The sun is barren, lone cloud wandering in isolation and complete desertion.

The convenience store is warm, a single fan rotating idly above. The bell tinkles noisily, signalling a customer.

Malachi steps further inside, chancing a glance at the attendant - an old man wearing a straw hat and wife beater vest, vibrant butt of a cigar pressed between frail lips, liver spotted hands holding up a soft porn magazine.

His face is pale and as wrinkled as a dhobi's thumb from being in water for too long.

They acknowledge each other with sparse locked glances then away.

Malachi picks a blue carrier and moves from one low isle to another; his fingers rise and graze over certain items calculating.

Convenient store food, synthetic, sugar processed, plastic - his stomach churns in distaste at the thought of shoving such mediocre food into his stomach. But he must have something to eat and drink, and for Oliver as well.

He picks two bottles of water and a bag of salted crackers then returns down the snack aisle, vaguely wandering what Oliver would like.

From his months of observation, she had grown a knack for Nutella, constantly lathering the melted processed chocolate on anything and everything including rice.

He picks a small packet of Oreos, Cheetos (a snack she randomly eats during lunch breaks), and two cans of Pepsi.

Then he sets back the Pepsi upon the realization that she might open and spill the carbonized contents on his leather seats.

Malachi plucks two bottles of flavored water instead.

Standing before the cooler of ice cream sticks, he wonders how long she would wake. The weather is incondusively hot and if he does buy the ice cream and she fails to wake on time, then the mess and expenses would be all in vain.

Still, he picks one sandwiched ice cream. Just in case.

" s'that everything?" The old man grunts, eyeing the items he places on the glass counter. Beneath are scraps of playboy cutouts.

Malachi nods, then adds a bottle of hand sanitizer for after their snacks.

Tapping his car key patiently, his eyes roam past the glass window and towards the black Mercedes on idle. She had not woken.

"Forty five and thirty cents."

Placing a fifty on the counter, he plucks the plastic bag, "Keep the change." And walks out into the merciless weather. A stray drop of perspiration trails down the nape of his neck, leaving mild relief in its wake.

Settling inside, Malachi twists open the bottle and drinks then turns on the AC. He glances over his shoulder at the girl, still unconscious and glowing with sweat. He presses a button behind his seat and adjusts the AC, directing it towards her reddening face.

Four more hours.

___

Olive first felt heat as it wrapped its thick hot tail around her limbs, then neck and finally face, forcing consciousness upon her. With a lazy struggle, she peers both eyes open, staring at the back of a seat. A car seat.

The realization of her situation does not settle at once. Not until her hands tried to move then still, tape had been wrapped around her wrists. Next, she tries to squirm her feet, those too are locked at the ankles.

Finally, her mouth. Hot, droopy saliva pressing into the spaces, smearing over her lips.

The panic set in hard as adrenaline surged through thickened veins.

Olive jerked upright, startling whoever was on the steering wheel. She sees the back of his tall figure but only briefly as her feet rise and aim for his seat. Olive kicks out viciously while screaming, sounds muffled in her thickening throat.

The man grunts from the impact and he turns. Silver eyes, calm yet slightly wild;

"Olive-" He tries to speak but she thrashes about like a deer caught in a bear trap, violently slamming into the door, struggling to force it open.

"Olive, stop-" Her slippery fingers clutch at the door handle and attempt at opening. Locked. Next she presses the unlock button and tries again. Still locked, her assailant had placed a baby lock only accessible from the driver's door.

There is a scream from deep within that forces its way from her taped mouth, it is as if her terrified soul has unleashed a demon. Eyes wide, she screams again and again.

Her face grows chalky, gaunt and immobile, fists clenched with blanched knuckles and nails digging deeply into the palms of her hands.

She kicks at his seat over and over then throws her whole body against the door, trying to force it open. Her sudden primal nature edges the car off the highway and onto the side. She stills, only briefly, as the man opens the car door and steps out.

Olive watches him, heart thrashing with pained intensity, following the white shirt as he rounds to the boot and clicks it open.

She tries screaming again, this time banging on the window as a handful of cars drive by- oblivious humans to the kidnapping, and possible death, of a girl.

The boot slams shut as her face snaps in the direction of his walk, he opens the back door and she reels back in terror. In hand is a piece of wet cloth.

"Olive, calm down for a minute." The man begins, voice soothing and calm, yet the deceptive hardness in silver eyes gives away any form of amiability.

He leans down and tries reaching for her; "I will not hurt y-" The heel of her converse collides with his jaw.

She kicks out again, hitting him on the shoulder then neck. The attack elicits a growl, something inhuman, from his throat and his hand clamps down on her ankle tightly.

With an effortless tug, he yanks her towards him. He crosses her ankles and maneuvers above her bucking body.

"Hush," the assailant coerces, holding her tied wrists and pressing them back onto the center of her chest. Her face thrashes for side to side, narrowly avoiding the cloth that hovers above.

"Olive," he sighs, "please don't-" She attempts to butting him but the action is caught, hand gripping her jaw and pressing her back onto the seat. The clothe is set over her nose and held.

She struggles not to breathe, holding her breath for as long as possible, but the burn in her lungs forces her airways open and she inhales one large breath after another. The effects ebb seconds later, hands reaching in the darkness, wrapping around her body, sinking her back into slumber's embrace.

Malachi waits a moment longer until her body slackens beneath him. Then he rises from above her and sets her back into a comfortable position then shuts the door. Tossing the cloth onto desert land, he walks back around and enters the car.

Flexing his hands on the steering kneel, Malachi works his jaw back and forth, wincing slightly from the kick. Turning on the ignition, he guides the car back onto the highway.

Dusk begins to saturate as he turns off the highway and onto a dirt path.

BrineLand Woods.

Five hundred kilometres of uncharted woodlands.

Here, the weather is sullen and heavy. The scent of rain is heady, and precipitation falls in light then heavy drops. The spin of tires plow up mud and gravel like gunfire.

He drives for another three hours until the house finally takes shape. Lake water glimmering in the near distance.

The house, though old it may seem from the outside, wears its steep, gabled roof pulled over its ears like a low hat.