Free The Captive by Robert Stallman

to the edge of the pit with my unbroken arm.
    "Help me!"
    They reach down, grasp my arm and pull with all their might as I scramble with my one good leg to get out of the hole. They are doing very well, but clumsily. They are strong for their size, and then I realize I am ordering them to strain to their utmost, and I relax the hold somewhat. No use injuring one of them. They would be of no help if I forced one of their muscles to lock or break a bone by  overpowering the body's regulators. My necessity for survival is very strong. I order my own reactions to tone down somewhat.  We have a lot of time, at least. Take it slowly. They each put a shoulder under one of my arms and help me up to my one good leg. It is very painful, but at last I am upright for the first time in many days and nights. I do not have any idea how many. My head is muggy with pain and there are bloody places opening up on my body. I pause for an internal inspection and find nothing immediately fatal letting go,  apparently. The locked muscles in my leg and chest are painful,  of course, but holding well. It is even possible to put a bit of weight on the broken leg if it is exerted straight  downward. I feel the young people staggering beneath me as we drag and hop toward their car. I command them with all my will to hold my weight, not to drop me, to assist me as if I were a beloved parent, using every image of help, love,  affection, duty that I can recall from my human lives. They do so well that the girl is even murmuring words of  encouragement to me as she staggers with the weight of my left arm over her shoulder. I feel the arms of these young humans  around my middle, getting bloody with my own blood as they almost carry me to their car. It seems immaterial to me at that moment that I am controlling them. They are assisting me, and it gives me a good feeling.
    At the car comes the delicate job of hoisting my bulk into the back seat. I thank the luck that they have a back seat, that the car is not a coupe or something unmanageable. As it is, the task of getting me into the rear seat is almost  superhuman, as I am stiff, larger than an adult human being, and not made for getting in and out of automobiles in the best of circumstances. I get a brief flash of that horrible moment just before the train hit when I got out of the car's windshield. That car must have been larger than this one, or else I was more desperate than I had supposed. At last I am lying in the back of their sedan, half on the seat, my shoulders against the driver's side, my one leg still protruding  from the other door. I cannot bend it much because of the muscles holding the bone in place, so I have to crumple at the waist. It is painful and awkward, but at last I seem to be all inside the car. The girl shuts the door very carefully.
    After they are in the front seat of the car, I begin my questions.
    Where do you live?
    About three miles from here, across the highway.
    Is there a secret place where I can hide and get well?
    (A pause.) The girl answers, I know! In the cellar of the old McKinley place. Yeah, the boy says. That's a swell place, and nobody goes there.
    Take me there.
    I lie back as well as I can, bracing my body against the bumps that make me bleed and send lightning jabs of pain through my chest and leg. The boy is driving carefully, slowly over the railroad tracks. I wonder how much of my hold on them will last if I relax it. I have never tried  permanently influencing a human. But that one time I crept into Mrs. Stumway's house and whispered to her as she slept. Was that what made her take Charles in? If these young people can be so influenced, I will not have to kill them. But I am a horrible object to them now in my natural form. Still, I must try and hope they will not betray me to people with guns. As the car bumps along through the cool night air, I see the girl has her head turned, watching me over the back of the seat.
    Do not be afraid. I will