Free The Fort (Aric Davis) by Aric Davis

heading back upstairs. The AR-7 was dancing in his mind, and the conversation with the detective, along with the business card in his pocket, all but forgotten.

15
    Hooper whistled as he walked through the hardware section at Meijer Wednesday morning. He was back, buying supplies to make a pair of different restraints, and was wearing sunglasses and a Detroit Tigers cap, just in case. His cart already held chains, heavy-gauge rope, ratcheting straps, a pair of locks, and a few short two-by-fours. He had also gone shopping on Division Avenue, near the stretch where he had happened upon Amy in the first place. There he bought a pair of leg cuffs, a pair of handcuffs, a metal collar that locked and had a steel ring hanging from it, a rubber ball gag, and an enormous purple silicone cock. The sales clerk had made no mention of what Hooper was buying, just took his cash and said, “Have fun.” Hooper couldn’t help smiling as he left the store. What a world, where a man could buy such things in a store.
    After perusing all of the wonderful things the hardware section had to offer, Hooper walked his nearly full cart to the opposite side of the store. There he threw a couple bottles of mascara, some nail polish, and tubes of lipstick into his cart. He wasn’t exactly sure what he was looking for, but figured he’d just have to start somewhere, keep experimenting with different colors or brands until he had her looking just right. It was going to be a learning process, and he couldn’t wait for it to begin.
    Hooper also bought some groceries. He was used to subsisting mostly on rice and dehydrated foods, all stuff he’d grown accustomed to in the military, but he decided Amy’s palate was probably different from his. At least until she could tell him what she liked to eat, he bought a few cans of soup, another loaf of bread, and a bottle of orange juice. He also threw a large bottle of NyQuil into the cart, along with a fifth of 190-proof Everclear. Ready to leave, he checked out at the front of the store, paying cash for his odd assortment of goods.
    Once everything was loaded into the car, he fired up the engine on the old Dodge and turned on the radio. Bon Jovi was playing “Livin’ on a Prayer,” and Hooper drummed his thumbs on the steering wheel along with the music. He couldn’t wait to get home, show her all the things he’d bought for her, and then put the ball in her mouth and lead her to the basement in chains. He didn’t want to keep her there, but she was the furthest thing from housebroken, and it would be easiest to keep her chained up down there with the gag in her mouth, especially while he built the rack. He could picture her fastened to it in his mind, and the mental images were wonderful. She was his little bird, and he couldn’t wait to admire her plumage.
    As he drove down suburban streets, he couldn’t help but feel a little proud of himself. How many of the men who occupied these homes could say that they had accomplished what he had in life? He was a man’s man, a veteran injured in war, a man who took what he wanted, the rules of society be damned. Sure, he didn’t have much money, or a job, but he had what few else did: a real sense of freedom, freedom he had earned in a trial by fire. The world might not have planned much for Matt Hooper, but that didn’t mean he couldn’t tear off a big old hunk of living when God wasn’t looking.
    He parked in the driveway, beaming, the plain brown paper bag from the fuck store in one hand, a bag of food from Meijer in the other. He opened the door awkwardly and slipped through it, looking to his left for Amy. She was gone.
    Hooper dropped the bag and slammed the door behind him. Oh fuck oh fuck oh fuck , the thoughts a cadence, his headache immediate.
    He ran to the kitchen and found her struggling with the sliding door, dressed in a pair of his shorts and a T-shirt. He crossed the house to her, moving fast as hell, but she slipped through the