Bentley was not having a good day.

He reflected on this – the ultimate shittiness of it – as he lay on the floor, neck cranked to one side with hands cuffed mercilessly to an ancient radiator. He gave the bracelet another yank and the raw flesh under unforgiving metal screamed at him. Blood trickled into the sleeve of his flannel shirt. Who the fuck wore flannel anyway, he steamed. Loggers, maybe. Hipsters who wanted to look like loggers. And Bentley now too, apparently.

Fucking thanks, Becca.

This would be the ugly shirt he died in; some piece of shit Timberland knockoff Becca gave him for Christmas. Bitch, he thought, and then felt guilty when he remembered her hopeful look when she’d suggested a getaway in the mountains where no one would intrude, where they could work on being present.

Yeah, well, someone intruded alright. Someone intruded mightily.

He shook the cuff again and whimpered. His own sounds embarrassed him. He never whimpered before. He didn’t always whine. He’d never actually wept openly, not even when his mom died, not until he’d heard the chainsaw firing up outside the cabin where he’d been held captive for three days. That’s when the weeping had started, a sound so deep and painful that he first thought it was coming from someone else until the snot rolled down his face, racing a torrent of tears.

And poor Becca…well she hadn’t made a peep when the chainsaw roared to life either. He hoped she was already dead by then.

Stop it, he told himself. He wasn’t a crier. He wasn’t a quitter. He hadn’t even quit – well, not entirely – when the man arrived at their door in the middle of the night, looking lost. He’d let him in – Bentley, of all people! – even as Becca stood behind him, her satiny robe gathered around her, whispering, “Don’t! What if it’s an axe murderer?”  Of course, he hadn’t been an axe murderer. He’d murdered her with a hammer. And the chainsaw.

And that would be Bentley’s fate too. All for Becca’s getaway.

Fuck that and fuck her, he thought. He was almost glad she was dead.

Well, maybe not entirely glad. Maybe she’d escaped the bearded maniac with bad teeth and worse breath, who rumbled nonsensically for two days that they were in his cabin. Maybe she’d escaped him somehow, even blinded with the blood cascading down her face from the single hammer blow that had knocked her off her feet when the madman had finally had enough of her yapping like an angry little dog. And, of course, there was that alarming dent in her forehead which seemed to undulate as the intruder had dragged her across the floor by her foot, gown hiked up around her hips and showing off her new lacy panties he would never have the chance to peel off.

Yeah. The likelihood of her escaping was a fantasy that shattered when he’d heard the hut-hut-hut-hut of the chainsaw coughing to life.

It had all happened so fast and without warning. The madman had said repeatedly it was his cabin as he’d pushed his way in. He’d been so insistent that Bentley had even started to look for their Airbnb reservation. Maybe somehow, they’d entered the wrong place, maybe there was some computer mix-up, maybe –

And that was when the first blow came, the one that sent him flying. Becca had screamed, a long wail of shock that turned into shrill, frantic bitching, even as the mountain man – some escapee from a low-rate Grizzly Dynasty cable show – beat her into silence.

“Baby, help me!” she’d screeched. “I told you not to –”

Thankfully, her cries had been cut off before she could blame him for her surprise weekend trip that would undoubtedly lead to their very own episode of MISSING BUT NOT FORGOTTEN on Murder TV.

He was also not proud of the fact that he’d been whimpering like a small child and frantically crawling to the door when Grizzly grabbed his ankles and hauled him back. Where he got the cuffs, Bentley had no idea. Maybe from a cop he’d eaten one day, he’d thought as he was being attached to a hissing radiator.

Becca, never one to surrender the last word, screeched for nearly two days until old Griz silenced her with a hammer from his pack, while the things he’d collected spilled out around them. A book, dog-eared, and bloated with water damage. Exodus. What the fuck, thought Bentley, as he’d lain in his own sweat, fear and filth. Who reads that? A screwdriver. That would make a fine weapon, if only he could reach it. A flashlight, batteries that rolled petulantly under the sofa, and a moist ball of something. Bentley thought it must have been an eyeball at one time. Now it was just a lump of soggy matter that rolled precariously near him and watched his suffering with the ultimate disinterest.

And, too, a bar of soap, just barely out of reach.

It was the soap Bentley thought most about during his ordeal. Griz stunk to high heaven. A mixture of body odor, deep woods pine (the real kind, not the shitty air freshener kind), mud, and shit. It had probably been at least a year since he’d bathed, and he didn’t seem to care about that – or anything else – as he went through their things, grinning at each pair of lacy panties Becca had brought to surprise him.

Surprise, thought Bentley.  You’re dead!

I told you not to –

This is all your fault, he thought, not for the first time. Her crying, and then the dreadful, sickening wet thunk of the hammer silencing her, forever ringing in his ears making him feel surprisingly guilty.

“Stop it,” Bentley said aloud.  “She’s gone. You’re not.”

The chainsaw outside hiccupped, and he moaned. If only he could find a way out of the handcuffs, maybe he could grab the fireplace poker and end this madman. He’d be a hero, a true superstar on Murder TV and the cable shows. They’d line up to hear his death-defying tale of terror in the deep woods! If only he had a way to slither free…

 The soap!

His thoughts whirled wildly. He could use it, lather it on his wrist, make his thumb small – break the goddamn thing if he needed to! – and get free of the cuffs. Then, the poker was right there, right beside him. Snap that up, wait until old Griz comes back in, and then batter up! A swing, not a miss, and a thunk of his very own.

Just get the soap, before it’s your turn under the blade’s teeth, he told himself.

He stretched his foot, reaching, reaching. If he could only draw it near, he’d be able to soap up just enough to pull his mangled hand through the links. It was possible – he’d seen it on TV and that meant it had to be somewhat real, right? The hero would always escape by pulling some deep MacGyver shit. True, he was no MacGyver, but he was in deep shit, and if a bar of soap dug him out, then he would try it.

His hip twinged as he flexed. The soap whispered against the skin of his big toe. He could almost smell the fresh Ivory scent – guaranteed to float, not sink!  If only it floated over to him.

Just a bit more, he told himself, and the metal chewed into him. His shoulder ached angrily, but he told himself it would be better to have a dislocated shoulder than a disarticulated one buried in the woods.

Would Griz even bury him? Oh, god, thought Bentley. What if he ate them?  Oh god!

Bentley stretched harder.

The chainsaw coughed again. The mountain man made some kind of sound. Was it anger? Did the chainsaw break? Was it satisfaction? Had he finished already?

Oh fuck, oh fuck, oh fuck!

The soap, thought Bentley, willing it toward him. I can do it! I can reach that tiny bar some cheap asshole probably bought from the grocery store before Griz killed and ate him.

“Please…”

He felt the coolness of the bar against his toes. It was almost there. He began to draw it toward him.

A creak on the porch froze Bentley. Blood dripped from his mangled wrist, hand purpled from lack of circulation, every joint screaming. His insides turned cold. He felt his pounding heart slow so much he could hear it, each thud matching Griz’s steps.

There was a pause, then the door swung open with a bang, and despite himself, Bentley jumped. His foot jerked, kicking out reflexively, and he wailed as the soap – his first, last, and only hope of escape – skidded away, forever out of reach.

***

Shelagh Smith (she/her) teaches writing at Massachusetts Maritime Academy and Bridgewater State University. Her previous publications include Burn (Hearth & Coffin Literary), Tales of Sley House 2022, New England’s Best Crime Fiction 2017 and 2018, Embracing Writing, Don’t Forget About the Adjuncts, and Tempest. She is the winner of the PEN New England Susan P. Bloom Discovery award, and lives in a tiny village on Cape Cod with her husband and two ungovernable dogs.