Fic: Fell Clutch, Part II
Author: Ryo Sen
Disclaimers, etc., in part I.
Zoey's confused, because just a moment ago she was trying to plan an escape, and now the door's open again.
Large hands reach for her, and she wakes fully.
"No," she mumbles, struggling in vain to stay where she is, because it might be terrifying to be locked in a dark closet, but she'd rather stay there for a month than go anywhere with this man.
"Up," he orders, ruthlessly pulling her to her unsteady feet. It's the same man as before, and Zoey wonders how many people are involved. If it's just this man and the one with the camera, maybe she can escape. Maybe she can get her hands free. Maybe when they lock her back in the closet she can unlock the door with... with... the underwire of her bra. Maybe she'll be able to get out a window--
Zoey's gaze falls on the gun at his waist.
Maybe escape won't be that simple. Not with a broken collarbone and hands that won't come untied and men with guns. She's pretty sure that she could get her hands in front of her if her shoulder weren't completely messed up. Now, though, she figures if she tries, she'll pass out from the pain before she makes any progress. And with her hands tied behind her, she can't see what she's doing. It doesn't look promising.
Still, this time as she's dragged into the small bedroom, she pays attention. The room is dingy, the wallpaper showing its seams, the rug displaying its age. The window occupies Zoey's attention; it's dark outside. She wonders how long she was asleep. She wonders how long she's been missing.
Then she tells herself to pay attention. The window's definitely big enough to climb through, and she could use the small end table or one of the plastic chairs to boost herself over the ledge. She wants to study the window, but her kidnapper is dragging her in the other direction, to the far wall.
She resists until she sees what's on the floor.
USA Today.
She sees her face smiling up from the front page, but her focus shifts to the blaring headline, "WHERE IS SHE?"
I'm right here, she thinks, wanting to scream her frustration.
The words blur and Zoey blinks rapidly, desperate for more. She craves information, news of her parents. She hears footsteps just as the second picture resolves itself into the Speaker of the House and -- her father. God.
She tears her gaze away when the second man enters the room, holding that stupid camera and a small bottle of water. The two men exchange a look, and the first kidnapper spins her around, tugging at the bonds holding her wrists together.
The pressure increases, then releases suddenly . Zoey yelps as her arms drop limply to her sides, reawakening the pain in her left shoulder. It ripples down, radiating through her torso, and she holds herself as still as possible.
"Sit."
Zoey forces her eyes open, forces herself to breathe slowly, breathe through the pain as her cramped muscles register their disapproval. Carefully, she stretches her fingers, then curls them into fists. She feels oddly weak. The man with the camera holds out the bottle and it takes her a moment to react, to accept the water. She upends the bottle, gulping desperately at the liquid, soothing her aching throat.
She's not nearly sated when the bottle is wrenched from her hands by the other kidnapper. He points to the floor. "Down."
She bristles at the command, but the paper's on the floor and she wants to see it. There's also the small matter of the gun pointed at her head. Zoey obeys, cradling her left arm against her body as she moves. Her right arm suffers from severe pins and needles as she stares at her father's face. He looks awful. He looks small and broken, standing beside the Speaker of the House.
He doesn't look like a man who sold out his daughter. He looks like a man in an impossible situation, and Zoey swallows a sob.
"Hold up the paper."
Another picture. They want another picture. With the paper. To prove she's alive.
Zoey tries not to let herself feel relieved. She tries to tell herself this might not be a good sign. They might take the picture and kill her. But maybe they're still trying to use her as leverage. Maybe they're making absurd demands of the president, assuming that the government will cave. Maybe they'll keep her alive a little longer.
Please, she thinks, please, please, find me. Find me.
Zoey picks up the paper, her gaze dropping again to the lead story. There's a smaller picture, just above the fold. It's her mother, standing in the door of the press room with CJ at her shoulder. The dazed look on her mother's face... God.
It's worse than she thought it would be. Her parents are falling apart. She feels the hot rush of tears and refuses to give in.
"Hold it up," the man barks impatiently.
Zoey turns a murderous glare up at her captors. The man with the gun takes two steps and brings the gun to her temple. "Hold up the paper," he repeats icily.
Hands shaking, Zoey complies. He backs off as the man with the camera lifts it and aims it at her. Against her will, Zoey looks right into the lens. She's trying to be brave, trying to look fearless, but she's pretty sure it's not working. The paper trembles in her grasp.
The flash breaks the last of her reserves and she curses the tears on her cheeks. Zoey brings the paper to her lap, tracing her mother's face. She wants to read the article, but the print is too small and her vision is too blurry.
"Get up."
"No."
Fingers bite into her arm, her injured arm, and pull her upright. The pain is blinding and she thinks she might be screaming. Her arms are twisted behind her back again, and Zoey thinks she can feel the jagged edges of her collarbone tearing through muscle.
She whimpers as the rope tightens on her wrists, wrenching her shoulder again, but she still has the edge of the paper in her grip. Even through the pain, she holds onto it, her link to her family.
"Move," he orders, and then the newspaper is torn from her grasp.
"No!" Zoey yells. "Please," she says, beyond caring that she's breaking her promise not to beg. "Please, let me keep the paper." She struggles as best she can, considering her shoulder, but she's back in the closet already. "The paper," she repeats, turning as the door slams in her face.
"No," she screams. Because she needs that paper. She needs her family. She needs something to hang onto, even if she won't be able to see it in her dark prison. "No," she says again, but she's crying too hard to yell.
Zoey falls to her knees and slumps forward, her forehead on the floor as the pain and the situation and her parents' ruined faces combine to overwhelm her.
***
It feels like she's been unconscious for a long time when Zoey opens her eyes again. Her eyes are swollen from crying and her head is throbbing. She's so hungry she'd happily devour broccoli or spinach or any of the green vegetables her mother used to insist the girls eat.
Her mother. She wants her mother so badly.
She wants the farmhouse in Manchester, with Quince and the cats and the peaceful meadows and that feeling of unquestioned safety. She wants her sisters and she wants her father and she wants Charlie and she wants to go home.
Zoey shifts on the floor, beyond feeling dirty now, beyond feeling sore. Her joints ache as she tries to sit up, almost too weak to manage it without help.
"How long have I been here?" she mumbles, slumped against the wall. "I want to go home." She doesn't feel like crying, but there are tears on her cheeks. She's too exhausted to wipe them off. "I want my mom," she says plaintively. "I want my family."
She sounds tired and she sounds young, like a little girl. She supposes she's regressing, and she doesn't really care. Her plan to be brave and strong and escape doesn't seem to be working out, so maybe she'll take a crack at quivering and cowering like a little child.
No, she thinks, surprised by a surge of anger. I refuse.
She kicks the door. "Find me!" she shouts, not caring if it angers those assholes holding her, those pricks putting her parents through hell. "Find me!"
Footsteps approach the door, and then a fist pounds on it. "Stop it," orders the kidnapper.
"No," Zoey answers. But she does it quietly. She's angry, but she's scared, too, and she doesn't want to tempt him to hurt her. She'll keep her defiance quiet for now. Breathing slowly, she counts to 36 before his footsteps recede. Indulging a bit of her childish pique, she makes a face at the door. "Asshole."
Restlessly, she shifts in the closet. Rising to her feet takes far more effort than it should, and Zoey wonders again how long she's been in this hellhole, how long she's been without food. She moves carefully, bumping into the pole before she gets her bearings. It's so, so dark that she still can't see anything but different shades of black.
She paces slowly, two short steps from wall to wall. She wonders what will happen if she's found. Her kidnappers don't seem like the kind of men who would go down without a fight. If the FBI burst in, Zoey wonders, would these assholes make sure to kill her before they died?
Probably, she thinks darkly. They probably would kill her.
Pacing isn't helping and she's too tired anyway. Zoey sinks back down to the floor, restless and frustrated.
A tactical team. Probably the FBI would send in a tactical team and take out the kidnappers silently. Maybe she'd survive if they died one at a time.
She's shocked by how little that thought bothers her. She's never considered herself a vengeful person; her parents taught her about forgiveness and turning the other cheek, and she grew up to be a good little liberal Democrat, against the death penalty and for the rehabilitation of criminals. But she's reached a place she never thought she would, a place where it might well come down to kill or be killed, and she's surprised to find she thinks she has it in her to kill.
Anger and bone-deep terror are a potent mix.
"I want to go home," she moans. She thinks again about escape. Unless they do it when she's asleep, she's pretty sure the kidnappers don't spend any time in the bedroom, and the bedroom has a window. If she can get into the bedroom, she can get out of the house. Of course, she has no idea where they've taken her, but she'd rather die in the woods than at the hands of these men.
Her hands are numb again, but she does her best to flex her fingers. When they tied her back up, she's pretty sure they did it quickly. Maybe she can get her hands free. Her gaze shifts to the door. She knows the biggest obstacle is the deadbolt, but she figures she'll worry about that after she frees her hands.
She tries moving her injured shoulder again, and gasps at the pain. It's hard, but she clenches her jaw and presses on, scrabbling at the ends of the rope, bending her wrists at impossible angles. The rope brushes against her palm, against her fingers, but she can't get a grip on it.
"Shit!"
She keeps trying, pressing her palms against the wall to trap the short end of the rope, but she still can't get any leverage. Clearly, if she wants out of here, she needs to get her hands in front of her.
"Okay," she says. "I can do this." She could when she was little, anyway, and she's determined to succeed now. Zoey takes a moment to regulate her breathing. In. Then out. In. Then out. She shifts into a crouch and hunches over, trying to compact her body, to make herself as small as possible.
She inhales slowly, filling her lungs, and then she uses her right hand to pull her left down, trying to get her arms down and under her hips.
God, it hurts. It burns. It throbs and tears and brings tears to her eyes, but she keeps pressure on her injured shoulder, keeps pulling down.
Then she collapses into a heap. It's not working and the pain is unbearable and maybe she won't live through this and where is God when you really need him and why is the closet spinning like that?
***
Her tongue feels thick and dry and too large for her mouth, and Zoey tries to remember how long the human body can go without water. She thinks it's something like three or four days, but she's not sure and she can't concentrate long enough to dig the knowledge out of her memory.
Her body aches and her shoulder throbs and her clothes feel grimy from cold sweat and too many hours on a dirty floor. It's unbearably hot in the confines of the closet and she fantasizes about a bottle of water, a big bottle. A liter. First, she'd gulp down half, then dump the rest over her head. When she gets home, she decides, she'll spend hours in a bubblebath, soaking away layers of terror.
She tries to imagine it, the feel of soothingly warm water on her skin, but the darkness presses in on her, its impenetrable stillness the same whether her eyes are open or closed. Zoey's never been particularly claustrophobic, but the inky blackness is like constant pressure on her skin, invisible weight on her frayed nerves.
But she can't let herself think about her 10 square feet of space. Whenever she does, she imagines dying in this tiny corner of hell, wasting away for days and days until her body gives up. Or maybe she'll die of thirst instead; she hopes dehydration will lead her into delirium before it gets too bad. She tries to stay optimistic, but she's been in here too damn long with only her thoughts and the pressing silence as companions, and those bastards haven't given her a single crumb.
She hums to herself to break the silence. First, it's whatever pops into her head. Frank Sinatra. Fiona Apple. Miles Davis. Miss Saigon. 'N Sync.
But after a while -- she has no way of knowing how many hours -- she starts singing hymns to herself, songs she'd mumbled her way through every Sunday of her childhood. She closes her eyes and sings The Magnificat and pretends the floor is the hard wooden pew of Our Lady of Peace.
She's sitting uncomfortably, her legs straight out in front of her and crossed at the ankle, her torso listing sideways to keep weight off of her shoulder. She's halfway through On Eagle's Wings, sniffling a little through the chorus, when it happens.
Breaking glass. Shouting.
Then unbearably loud concussive blasts coupled with flashes of light so bright that her dark closet is illuminated briefly. She sees dirt on her black pants before the light disappears.
Zoey's stunned into momentary paralysis, her exhausted mind taking a few elastic seconds to process what's happening.
A bomb?
Oh, God. Oh, God. Someone's here. She's torn between hope and terror.
Her ears ring mercilessly, and she rubs her good shoulder against her cheek. It doesn't help, and she can hear more shouting now. Louder, voices high and panicky.
Zoey scrambles backwards, gritting her teeth through the pain. She curls her body as best she can, trying to make herself the smallest possible target as the gunfire begins.
It's so loud, terrifyingly loud, she can no longer hear the shouting.
Zoey drops her forehead to her knees. She can't hear her own voice as she whispers, "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name..."
The sounds are louder now, closer. Zoey orders herself to stop shaking. It doesn't work.
Heavy steps, and someone is at the closet door. Booted feet.
"Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners..." Zoey squeezes her eyes shut.
A loud metallic sound, like a gunshot only quieter, and the closet door is thrown open.
"Clear," yells a voice.
Zoey goes still. It's a new voice. An American voice.
"Zoey Bartlet?"
She moves slowly, lifting her head, wincing at the light streaming through the door. The looming figure is backlit, a menacing silhouette with black boots and what looks like an assault rifle of some kind.
Then he drops to a crouch and a flashlight beam swivels to his face, to his chest. Zoey's gaze follows, taking in black skin, a black flak jacket, and an American flag patch over his name. Agent Fielding.
"Zoey Bartlet?" he repeats, his voice kind. "I'm Peter Fielding. I'm with the FBI." He doesn't look away from her, but turns his head slightly and raises his voice, "I've got Bookbag. Get me a medic."
Fielding moves backwards a little, and Zoey looks past him, taking in the identically dressed agents fanned out in the bedroom beyond.
"You're safe, Ms. Bartlet."
Safe.
Zoey blinks. Safe. When she tries to speak, her voice comes out tiny. "Okay."
"Let's get you out of there," Fielding says, "and we'll untie your hands."
Zoey's still trying to process this concept. Safety. She's safe. It doesn't make sense, not yet. "Are they--?" She can't finish the question.
"Yes," Fielding answers evenly. "They can't hurt you anymore."
Zoey nods. They're dead. Her kidnappers are dead.
She understands this on an intellectual level, but she can't quite believe it yet. Safety is too large a concept for her to grasp at the moment. Right now, she wants out of this closet. Out. She needs to get out.
Belated panic -- what if they come back? -- propels her to her feet, and she flinches hard when Fielding reaches out to help. "No!" Zoey misjudges and slams into the wall, jarring her shoulder. She inhales sharply, tears pricking at her eyes, and tries to explain. "My collarbone is..."
She can't figure out the words she needs. She's breathing fast and she feels dizzy, like she might topple over. She tries to focus on Agent Fielding. "I'm a little..."
He dips his chin once. "May I help you?"
Zoey studies his face for several long moments, then nods. She takes one step, then another, and she's out of that fucking closet. Fielding takes her good arm, his large fingers curling around her elbow as he helps steady her. A medic appears suddenly in front of her.
"We're going to free your hands," Fielding tells her.
Zoey nods again, too tired to come up with words. She feels fingers fumbling at her bonds and stiffens. She can tell she's starting to hyperventilate and tells herself to calm down. Then her arms are free and, God, it hurts.
Her shoulder sparkles with pain, and the voices around her blur into an unintelligible mass. The medic slips something over her head, then apologizes softly as he slides her injured arm into a sling. The throbbing eases slightly, and the room around her fades back into focus.
She feels a little like she's encased in a cotton; everything seems far away and a little blurry, but she's aware enough to refuse the stretcher. Some small, stubborn part of her is determined to walk out of here.
Fielding seems to understand, guiding her with a polite hand on her elbow. She thinks he tries to block her view with his body, but Zoey sees a small kitchen, sees the Polaroid man crumpled on the floor in a small pool of blood. Her eyes burn a little, and Fielding moves her faster.
She blinks, but the image stays with her as she emerges from the small, ramshackle house into the cool night air.
Stars. She looks up and she can see stars.
"Over here," Fielding says unnecessarily. There's a small army of emergency vehicles, their red and blue lights flashing frantically. That sight more than anything makes Zoey think this might actually be for real.
Agent Fielding helps her into the back of an ambulance, and two paramedics bustle around her with careful efficiency. Zoey feels disconnected, somehow, numbly answering their questions about her injuries. When asked, she tilts her head back and lets them flush her eyes with saline. Something about tear gas, which maybe explains the burning. She accepts a bottle of water and drinks it eagerly. It's almost painfully cold and it's difficult to swallow. Her throat aches.
"Easy," says one paramedic. "Take it slow with the water."
Hands run warm cloths over her face, her neck, her palms, and Zoey shivers.
Agent Fielding appears again at the open back door of the ambulance. There's another man with him, an older man in a dark suit, but his name slips past Zoey. Only Fielding's words register: "Your family is coming."
"Thank you."
The paramedics tell her that she's going to be fine, that the doctors will want to keep her overnight. Zoey nods and accepts the blanket draped over her shoulders. They help her move, still unsteady, to the tailgate. She settles in to wait.
She's half asleep when she catches sight of her mother, her father, her sisters. After hours of wishing for this, of craving her family, she can't quite believe they're here. She can't believe she survived.
The numbness starts to recede a little, and Zoey stares at her family as they reach her, drinking them in. Her mother yells her name.
Zoey starts to shiver, just a little, and reaches for her mother with her good arm.
Finally, her mother's hands touch Zoey's face. Warm, loving hands that reach through the last of her haze.
She's safe.
Her family is here and she's safe, and for the first time since this nightmare started, Zoey feels herself start to smile.
THE END
01.20.03
Author's Note: While I'm not 100% sure this will be my Last Ever West Wing Fic, the show, for me, has lost its sparkle and, with it, my obsessive focus. I still love these characters, and it's possible Wells & Co. will write something that will rope me back in, but I grow less and less optimistic as each Sorkinless episode airs. Therefore, I'd like to take a self-indulgent little moment here and thank the West Wing fandom for so kindly embracing Jo and myself. My run in this fandom has been a wonderful, creative, prolific time, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. Extra special thank you to members of our update list and to all of those readers who've sent feedback over the years -- you'll never know how much that means to me.
Disclaimers, etc., in part I.
Zoey's confused, because just a moment ago she was trying to plan an escape, and now the door's open again.
Large hands reach for her, and she wakes fully.
"No," she mumbles, struggling in vain to stay where she is, because it might be terrifying to be locked in a dark closet, but she'd rather stay there for a month than go anywhere with this man.
"Up," he orders, ruthlessly pulling her to her unsteady feet. It's the same man as before, and Zoey wonders how many people are involved. If it's just this man and the one with the camera, maybe she can escape. Maybe she can get her hands free. Maybe when they lock her back in the closet she can unlock the door with... with... the underwire of her bra. Maybe she'll be able to get out a window--
Zoey's gaze falls on the gun at his waist.
Maybe escape won't be that simple. Not with a broken collarbone and hands that won't come untied and men with guns. She's pretty sure that she could get her hands in front of her if her shoulder weren't completely messed up. Now, though, she figures if she tries, she'll pass out from the pain before she makes any progress. And with her hands tied behind her, she can't see what she's doing. It doesn't look promising.
Still, this time as she's dragged into the small bedroom, she pays attention. The room is dingy, the wallpaper showing its seams, the rug displaying its age. The window occupies Zoey's attention; it's dark outside. She wonders how long she was asleep. She wonders how long she's been missing.
Then she tells herself to pay attention. The window's definitely big enough to climb through, and she could use the small end table or one of the plastic chairs to boost herself over the ledge. She wants to study the window, but her kidnapper is dragging her in the other direction, to the far wall.
She resists until she sees what's on the floor.
USA Today.
She sees her face smiling up from the front page, but her focus shifts to the blaring headline, "WHERE IS SHE?"
I'm right here, she thinks, wanting to scream her frustration.
The words blur and Zoey blinks rapidly, desperate for more. She craves information, news of her parents. She hears footsteps just as the second picture resolves itself into the Speaker of the House and -- her father. God.
She tears her gaze away when the second man enters the room, holding that stupid camera and a small bottle of water. The two men exchange a look, and the first kidnapper spins her around, tugging at the bonds holding her wrists together.
The pressure increases, then releases suddenly . Zoey yelps as her arms drop limply to her sides, reawakening the pain in her left shoulder. It ripples down, radiating through her torso, and she holds herself as still as possible.
"Sit."
Zoey forces her eyes open, forces herself to breathe slowly, breathe through the pain as her cramped muscles register their disapproval. Carefully, she stretches her fingers, then curls them into fists. She feels oddly weak. The man with the camera holds out the bottle and it takes her a moment to react, to accept the water. She upends the bottle, gulping desperately at the liquid, soothing her aching throat.
She's not nearly sated when the bottle is wrenched from her hands by the other kidnapper. He points to the floor. "Down."
She bristles at the command, but the paper's on the floor and she wants to see it. There's also the small matter of the gun pointed at her head. Zoey obeys, cradling her left arm against her body as she moves. Her right arm suffers from severe pins and needles as she stares at her father's face. He looks awful. He looks small and broken, standing beside the Speaker of the House.
He doesn't look like a man who sold out his daughter. He looks like a man in an impossible situation, and Zoey swallows a sob.
"Hold up the paper."
Another picture. They want another picture. With the paper. To prove she's alive.
Zoey tries not to let herself feel relieved. She tries to tell herself this might not be a good sign. They might take the picture and kill her. But maybe they're still trying to use her as leverage. Maybe they're making absurd demands of the president, assuming that the government will cave. Maybe they'll keep her alive a little longer.
Please, she thinks, please, please, find me. Find me.
Zoey picks up the paper, her gaze dropping again to the lead story. There's a smaller picture, just above the fold. It's her mother, standing in the door of the press room with CJ at her shoulder. The dazed look on her mother's face... God.
It's worse than she thought it would be. Her parents are falling apart. She feels the hot rush of tears and refuses to give in.
"Hold it up," the man barks impatiently.
Zoey turns a murderous glare up at her captors. The man with the gun takes two steps and brings the gun to her temple. "Hold up the paper," he repeats icily.
Hands shaking, Zoey complies. He backs off as the man with the camera lifts it and aims it at her. Against her will, Zoey looks right into the lens. She's trying to be brave, trying to look fearless, but she's pretty sure it's not working. The paper trembles in her grasp.
The flash breaks the last of her reserves and she curses the tears on her cheeks. Zoey brings the paper to her lap, tracing her mother's face. She wants to read the article, but the print is too small and her vision is too blurry.
"Get up."
"No."
Fingers bite into her arm, her injured arm, and pull her upright. The pain is blinding and she thinks she might be screaming. Her arms are twisted behind her back again, and Zoey thinks she can feel the jagged edges of her collarbone tearing through muscle.
She whimpers as the rope tightens on her wrists, wrenching her shoulder again, but she still has the edge of the paper in her grip. Even through the pain, she holds onto it, her link to her family.
"Move," he orders, and then the newspaper is torn from her grasp.
"No!" Zoey yells. "Please," she says, beyond caring that she's breaking her promise not to beg. "Please, let me keep the paper." She struggles as best she can, considering her shoulder, but she's back in the closet already. "The paper," she repeats, turning as the door slams in her face.
"No," she screams. Because she needs that paper. She needs her family. She needs something to hang onto, even if she won't be able to see it in her dark prison. "No," she says again, but she's crying too hard to yell.
Zoey falls to her knees and slumps forward, her forehead on the floor as the pain and the situation and her parents' ruined faces combine to overwhelm her.
***
It feels like she's been unconscious for a long time when Zoey opens her eyes again. Her eyes are swollen from crying and her head is throbbing. She's so hungry she'd happily devour broccoli or spinach or any of the green vegetables her mother used to insist the girls eat.
Her mother. She wants her mother so badly.
She wants the farmhouse in Manchester, with Quince and the cats and the peaceful meadows and that feeling of unquestioned safety. She wants her sisters and she wants her father and she wants Charlie and she wants to go home.
Zoey shifts on the floor, beyond feeling dirty now, beyond feeling sore. Her joints ache as she tries to sit up, almost too weak to manage it without help.
"How long have I been here?" she mumbles, slumped against the wall. "I want to go home." She doesn't feel like crying, but there are tears on her cheeks. She's too exhausted to wipe them off. "I want my mom," she says plaintively. "I want my family."
She sounds tired and she sounds young, like a little girl. She supposes she's regressing, and she doesn't really care. Her plan to be brave and strong and escape doesn't seem to be working out, so maybe she'll take a crack at quivering and cowering like a little child.
No, she thinks, surprised by a surge of anger. I refuse.
She kicks the door. "Find me!" she shouts, not caring if it angers those assholes holding her, those pricks putting her parents through hell. "Find me!"
Footsteps approach the door, and then a fist pounds on it. "Stop it," orders the kidnapper.
"No," Zoey answers. But she does it quietly. She's angry, but she's scared, too, and she doesn't want to tempt him to hurt her. She'll keep her defiance quiet for now. Breathing slowly, she counts to 36 before his footsteps recede. Indulging a bit of her childish pique, she makes a face at the door. "Asshole."
Restlessly, she shifts in the closet. Rising to her feet takes far more effort than it should, and Zoey wonders again how long she's been in this hellhole, how long she's been without food. She moves carefully, bumping into the pole before she gets her bearings. It's so, so dark that she still can't see anything but different shades of black.
She paces slowly, two short steps from wall to wall. She wonders what will happen if she's found. Her kidnappers don't seem like the kind of men who would go down without a fight. If the FBI burst in, Zoey wonders, would these assholes make sure to kill her before they died?
Probably, she thinks darkly. They probably would kill her.
Pacing isn't helping and she's too tired anyway. Zoey sinks back down to the floor, restless and frustrated.
A tactical team. Probably the FBI would send in a tactical team and take out the kidnappers silently. Maybe she'd survive if they died one at a time.
She's shocked by how little that thought bothers her. She's never considered herself a vengeful person; her parents taught her about forgiveness and turning the other cheek, and she grew up to be a good little liberal Democrat, against the death penalty and for the rehabilitation of criminals. But she's reached a place she never thought she would, a place where it might well come down to kill or be killed, and she's surprised to find she thinks she has it in her to kill.
Anger and bone-deep terror are a potent mix.
"I want to go home," she moans. She thinks again about escape. Unless they do it when she's asleep, she's pretty sure the kidnappers don't spend any time in the bedroom, and the bedroom has a window. If she can get into the bedroom, she can get out of the house. Of course, she has no idea where they've taken her, but she'd rather die in the woods than at the hands of these men.
Her hands are numb again, but she does her best to flex her fingers. When they tied her back up, she's pretty sure they did it quickly. Maybe she can get her hands free. Her gaze shifts to the door. She knows the biggest obstacle is the deadbolt, but she figures she'll worry about that after she frees her hands.
She tries moving her injured shoulder again, and gasps at the pain. It's hard, but she clenches her jaw and presses on, scrabbling at the ends of the rope, bending her wrists at impossible angles. The rope brushes against her palm, against her fingers, but she can't get a grip on it.
"Shit!"
She keeps trying, pressing her palms against the wall to trap the short end of the rope, but she still can't get any leverage. Clearly, if she wants out of here, she needs to get her hands in front of her.
"Okay," she says. "I can do this." She could when she was little, anyway, and she's determined to succeed now. Zoey takes a moment to regulate her breathing. In. Then out. In. Then out. She shifts into a crouch and hunches over, trying to compact her body, to make herself as small as possible.
She inhales slowly, filling her lungs, and then she uses her right hand to pull her left down, trying to get her arms down and under her hips.
God, it hurts. It burns. It throbs and tears and brings tears to her eyes, but she keeps pressure on her injured shoulder, keeps pulling down.
Then she collapses into a heap. It's not working and the pain is unbearable and maybe she won't live through this and where is God when you really need him and why is the closet spinning like that?
***
Her tongue feels thick and dry and too large for her mouth, and Zoey tries to remember how long the human body can go without water. She thinks it's something like three or four days, but she's not sure and she can't concentrate long enough to dig the knowledge out of her memory.
Her body aches and her shoulder throbs and her clothes feel grimy from cold sweat and too many hours on a dirty floor. It's unbearably hot in the confines of the closet and she fantasizes about a bottle of water, a big bottle. A liter. First, she'd gulp down half, then dump the rest over her head. When she gets home, she decides, she'll spend hours in a bubblebath, soaking away layers of terror.
She tries to imagine it, the feel of soothingly warm water on her skin, but the darkness presses in on her, its impenetrable stillness the same whether her eyes are open or closed. Zoey's never been particularly claustrophobic, but the inky blackness is like constant pressure on her skin, invisible weight on her frayed nerves.
But she can't let herself think about her 10 square feet of space. Whenever she does, she imagines dying in this tiny corner of hell, wasting away for days and days until her body gives up. Or maybe she'll die of thirst instead; she hopes dehydration will lead her into delirium before it gets too bad. She tries to stay optimistic, but she's been in here too damn long with only her thoughts and the pressing silence as companions, and those bastards haven't given her a single crumb.
She hums to herself to break the silence. First, it's whatever pops into her head. Frank Sinatra. Fiona Apple. Miles Davis. Miss Saigon. 'N Sync.
But after a while -- she has no way of knowing how many hours -- she starts singing hymns to herself, songs she'd mumbled her way through every Sunday of her childhood. She closes her eyes and sings The Magnificat and pretends the floor is the hard wooden pew of Our Lady of Peace.
She's sitting uncomfortably, her legs straight out in front of her and crossed at the ankle, her torso listing sideways to keep weight off of her shoulder. She's halfway through On Eagle's Wings, sniffling a little through the chorus, when it happens.
Breaking glass. Shouting.
Then unbearably loud concussive blasts coupled with flashes of light so bright that her dark closet is illuminated briefly. She sees dirt on her black pants before the light disappears.
Zoey's stunned into momentary paralysis, her exhausted mind taking a few elastic seconds to process what's happening.
A bomb?
Oh, God. Oh, God. Someone's here. She's torn between hope and terror.
Her ears ring mercilessly, and she rubs her good shoulder against her cheek. It doesn't help, and she can hear more shouting now. Louder, voices high and panicky.
Zoey scrambles backwards, gritting her teeth through the pain. She curls her body as best she can, trying to make herself the smallest possible target as the gunfire begins.
It's so loud, terrifyingly loud, she can no longer hear the shouting.
Zoey drops her forehead to her knees. She can't hear her own voice as she whispers, "Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be Thy name..."
The sounds are louder now, closer. Zoey orders herself to stop shaking. It doesn't work.
Heavy steps, and someone is at the closet door. Booted feet.
"Holy Mary, mother of God, pray for us sinners..." Zoey squeezes her eyes shut.
A loud metallic sound, like a gunshot only quieter, and the closet door is thrown open.
"Clear," yells a voice.
Zoey goes still. It's a new voice. An American voice.
"Zoey Bartlet?"
She moves slowly, lifting her head, wincing at the light streaming through the door. The looming figure is backlit, a menacing silhouette with black boots and what looks like an assault rifle of some kind.
Then he drops to a crouch and a flashlight beam swivels to his face, to his chest. Zoey's gaze follows, taking in black skin, a black flak jacket, and an American flag patch over his name. Agent Fielding.
"Zoey Bartlet?" he repeats, his voice kind. "I'm Peter Fielding. I'm with the FBI." He doesn't look away from her, but turns his head slightly and raises his voice, "I've got Bookbag. Get me a medic."
Fielding moves backwards a little, and Zoey looks past him, taking in the identically dressed agents fanned out in the bedroom beyond.
"You're safe, Ms. Bartlet."
Safe.
Zoey blinks. Safe. When she tries to speak, her voice comes out tiny. "Okay."
"Let's get you out of there," Fielding says, "and we'll untie your hands."
Zoey's still trying to process this concept. Safety. She's safe. It doesn't make sense, not yet. "Are they--?" She can't finish the question.
"Yes," Fielding answers evenly. "They can't hurt you anymore."
Zoey nods. They're dead. Her kidnappers are dead.
She understands this on an intellectual level, but she can't quite believe it yet. Safety is too large a concept for her to grasp at the moment. Right now, she wants out of this closet. Out. She needs to get out.
Belated panic -- what if they come back? -- propels her to her feet, and she flinches hard when Fielding reaches out to help. "No!" Zoey misjudges and slams into the wall, jarring her shoulder. She inhales sharply, tears pricking at her eyes, and tries to explain. "My collarbone is..."
She can't figure out the words she needs. She's breathing fast and she feels dizzy, like she might topple over. She tries to focus on Agent Fielding. "I'm a little..."
He dips his chin once. "May I help you?"
Zoey studies his face for several long moments, then nods. She takes one step, then another, and she's out of that fucking closet. Fielding takes her good arm, his large fingers curling around her elbow as he helps steady her. A medic appears suddenly in front of her.
"We're going to free your hands," Fielding tells her.
Zoey nods again, too tired to come up with words. She feels fingers fumbling at her bonds and stiffens. She can tell she's starting to hyperventilate and tells herself to calm down. Then her arms are free and, God, it hurts.
Her shoulder sparkles with pain, and the voices around her blur into an unintelligible mass. The medic slips something over her head, then apologizes softly as he slides her injured arm into a sling. The throbbing eases slightly, and the room around her fades back into focus.
She feels a little like she's encased in a cotton; everything seems far away and a little blurry, but she's aware enough to refuse the stretcher. Some small, stubborn part of her is determined to walk out of here.
Fielding seems to understand, guiding her with a polite hand on her elbow. She thinks he tries to block her view with his body, but Zoey sees a small kitchen, sees the Polaroid man crumpled on the floor in a small pool of blood. Her eyes burn a little, and Fielding moves her faster.
She blinks, but the image stays with her as she emerges from the small, ramshackle house into the cool night air.
Stars. She looks up and she can see stars.
"Over here," Fielding says unnecessarily. There's a small army of emergency vehicles, their red and blue lights flashing frantically. That sight more than anything makes Zoey think this might actually be for real.
Agent Fielding helps her into the back of an ambulance, and two paramedics bustle around her with careful efficiency. Zoey feels disconnected, somehow, numbly answering their questions about her injuries. When asked, she tilts her head back and lets them flush her eyes with saline. Something about tear gas, which maybe explains the burning. She accepts a bottle of water and drinks it eagerly. It's almost painfully cold and it's difficult to swallow. Her throat aches.
"Easy," says one paramedic. "Take it slow with the water."
Hands run warm cloths over her face, her neck, her palms, and Zoey shivers.
Agent Fielding appears again at the open back door of the ambulance. There's another man with him, an older man in a dark suit, but his name slips past Zoey. Only Fielding's words register: "Your family is coming."
"Thank you."
The paramedics tell her that she's going to be fine, that the doctors will want to keep her overnight. Zoey nods and accepts the blanket draped over her shoulders. They help her move, still unsteady, to the tailgate. She settles in to wait.
She's half asleep when she catches sight of her mother, her father, her sisters. After hours of wishing for this, of craving her family, she can't quite believe they're here. She can't believe she survived.
The numbness starts to recede a little, and Zoey stares at her family as they reach her, drinking them in. Her mother yells her name.
Zoey starts to shiver, just a little, and reaches for her mother with her good arm.
Finally, her mother's hands touch Zoey's face. Warm, loving hands that reach through the last of her haze.
She's safe.
Her family is here and she's safe, and for the first time since this nightmare started, Zoey feels herself start to smile.
THE END
01.20.03
Author's Note: While I'm not 100% sure this will be my Last Ever West Wing Fic, the show, for me, has lost its sparkle and, with it, my obsessive focus. I still love these characters, and it's possible Wells & Co. will write something that will rope me back in, but I grow less and less optimistic as each Sorkinless episode airs. Therefore, I'd like to take a self-indulgent little moment here and thank the West Wing fandom for so kindly embracing Jo and myself. My run in this fandom has been a wonderful, creative, prolific time, and I wouldn't trade it for anything. Extra special thank you to members of our update list and to all of those readers who've sent feedback over the years -- you'll never know how much that means to me.