Free Dead Ringers by Christopher Golden

said. “Neither am I.”

 
    FOUR
    In the gloom of his basement, Frank woke with a start. He whipped his head around, suddenly afraid that rats might get at him, there on the floor with his wrists cuffed behind the support column. Had he heard something in his sleep? Yes, there had been something—a skittering whisper that had chased him up out of his dreams and lingered in his thoughts now. His throat was dry and he wetted his parched lips with his tongue.
    Rats. So stupid . He’d never seen rats in the basement. A couple of times he had needed to set traps for mice, but never rats.
    Exhaling, he sagged against the post. His cheeks were stiff with dried tears and the memory of his breakdown this morning brought a fresh wave of humiliation crashing over him. The only saving grace was that nobody had been there to see it, not even the man who had his face. The impossible creature. The bastard.
    The muscles in his shoulders burned, not just from his hands being cuffed behind him all the time but from the way his arms had been twisted into uncomfortable positions while he slept against the post. The blanket underneath him did not keep the cold of the concrete floor from seeping through and the stink of the waste bucket permeated the entire basement, making his stomach roil. The stench clung to the inside of his nostrils and mouth like the yellow coating of pollen that blanketed everything in springtime. He’d never be rid of it.
    He’d die first.
    The truth and the pain and humiliation made him tremble. His lips pressed into a thin line and he felt his eyes welling with fresh tears of exhaustion and fury.
    Frank exhaled and then slipped back against the post so unexpectedly that his head struck the metal hard enough to clang. Pain echoed through his skull but suddenly he no longer had the energy to react to it. For several seconds he felt a pull inside him, an awful suction as if something had crept up into his chest cavity and begun to tug on his heart or draw the blood from it.
    Like a leech, he thought. Inside .
    His eyelids grew impossibly heavy, his limbs like lead. He almost surrendered to that dreadful, sudden weakness, almost lost consciousness entirely, but the sound of the basement door opening made him force himself to sit up. He blinked and shook his head, breathing deeply, and some of his meager strength returned.
    The light clicked on and the man with his face came down the steps. He wore the tailored suit Frank had bought to wear at his mother’s funeral and what looked like a brand-new tie, brighter and more stylish than anything Frank would ever have put around his neck. Clean-shaven and with a neat haircut, eyes bright and smile wide, he approached to within a few feet and tossed the keys against Frank’s chest. They fell onto his bare leg, then slid down to rest against his scrotum. The cold reminder of his vulnerability forced him to sit up straighter, but his flagging strength did not return.
    â€œYou don’t look well, Frank,” the man said with an air of false concern. “Very pale.”
    â€œLet me go.”
    The man cocked his head. “It’s an odd combination of pitiful and adorable that you’d still be asking me that. I’ve told you, it’s going to be awhile. When the time comes, you’ll know.”
    Frank wanted to spit at him but couldn’t muster the strength or the saliva.
    â€œI’m going to be late with dinner for you,” the man said, “but I figured you’d need to use the bucket, so I came down.”
    Mustering up what little energy he had, limbs heavy as lead, Frank drew his legs under him and began to slide around the pole until his cuffed hands could snag the keys that his captor had tossed his way. The bastard must have seen how much difficulty he was having and could have helped him, but no help was forthcoming.
    When Frank had unlocked his cuffs and gone over to relieve himself in the bucket, the