Chapter 1: Wrong Place, Wrong Time
Mike had pulled over to check his GPS when he heard the gravel crunch behind him. Three men in orange jumpsuits approached his van, and his stomach dropped. Escaped convicts.
"Out of the van, now!" The tallest one yanked open his door.
Mike swung hard, his fist connecting with the man's jaw, but the other two were already on him. They dragged him from the cab as he fought, his boots scraping against the asphalt.
"Get him in the back," the tall one spat, blood trickling from his split lip. "Make sure he understands what happens when you fight back."
They hauled him around to the rear of the van and threw open the doors. Mike's heart sank as he saw his own cargo area - the rags he used for cleaning, coils of rope from his last job, rolls of duct tape.
"Well, look at that," one of them grinned. "Christmas morning."
Mike tried to bolt, but they slammed him face-first into the van floor. The tall one pressed his knee into Mike's back while the other gathered supplies.
"Hold him steady."
The first rope went around his wrists, yanked tight enough to burn. Mike bucked and twisted, earning a vicious elbow to his ribs that left him gasping.
"Keep fighting, kid. Makes it more fun."
They pulled his arms high up his back until his shoulders screamed. More rope - around his elbows, forcing his forearms together. His white t-shirt was already soaked with sweat and fear.
"Please," Mike choked out. "Just take the van. I won't—"
A fist crashed into his kidney, and he doubled over in agony.
"Nobody asked you to talk."
They forced his legs up, bending his knees until his ankles touched his shins. The rope cut deep as they bound his ankles to his calves. Cramps immediately shot through his hamstrings.
"Gag him."
Old rags were stuffed deep into his mouth, triggering his gag reflex. Duct tape wrapped around his head, sealing them in. Mike's eyes watered as he fought not to vomit.
"Can't have him seeing where we're going."
More tape across his eyes, pressing his eyeballs back into his skull. Darkness.
The van doors slammed shut. Mike lay there, hog-tied and helpless, as the engine started and they drove off into the unknown.
This can't be happening. This can't be happening.
But it was.
Chapter 2: First Hours
The van had stopped. Voices outside, then footsteps crunching on gravel. The doors opened and hands grabbed him, dragging him across the metal floor. Mike's bound legs scraped against the van's edge as they hauled him out.
"Dump him inside. We got places to be."
They carried him like a sack of grain - one at his shoulders, another at his knees. Mike heard a door creak open, smelled musty air and decay. Then he was falling, his body hitting something soft but unforgiving.
Old carpet. Moldy and damp.
The door slammed. An engine started. Tires on gravel, growing fainter, then nothing.
They're gone. They're actually gone.
Mike lay still, listening. Wind through broken windows. The house groaning around him. No traffic sounds, no neighbors, no signs of life anywhere.
He tested his bonds. The rope around his wrists had only gotten tighter during the ride, his hands already going numb. His shoulders burned from the unnatural position, arms wrenched high up his back. Every breath was a struggle against the gag.
Okay. Think. You can get out of this.
He rolled onto his side, gasping as the movement sent fire through his cramped legs. His knees were bent double, ankles tied tight to his thighs. The position forced his legs into a painful fetal curl that he couldn't straighten.
Mike tried to extend his legs, fighting against the rope. His hamstrings screamed in protest, locked in permanent contraction. The circulation in his calves was already compromised, a tingling numbness spreading down to his feet.
Stop. Breathe. Think.
But thinking was becoming harder. The gag triggered his reflex every few minutes, making him retch and fight for air through his nose. His vision behind the tape was completely black, disorienting him further.
Hours passed. Maybe four, maybe six. Mike had tried everything - rolling across the floor to find something sharp, working his wrists raw trying to slip the ropes, attempting to straighten his legs until the muscles felt like they would tear.
Nothing worked.
Dad will notice I'm missing. He'll call. He'll look for me.
But where? Mike had been checking his GPS because he was lost himself, miles from anywhere he was supposed to be. His father would check his apartment, his usual hangouts, maybe call his work. But who would think to look for him in some abandoned house in the middle of nowhere?
The house settled with a loud crack, making Mike flinch. Something scurried across the floor near his head.
How long can a person survive without water? Three days? Four?
That thought broke something inside him. Mike began to thrash against the ropes, his body moving purely on instinct. The carpet burned against his face as he writhed. The ropes cut deeper into his wrists, drawing blood. His legs cramped so violently he screamed into the gag.
I'm going to die here. I'm going to die here and no one will ever find me.
The panic attack hit him like a physical blow. His heart hammered against his ribs. The gag seemed to swell in his mouth, choking him. He couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but fight uselessly against the ropes that held him.
When it finally passed, Mike lay motionless, completely spent. His white t-shirt was soaked with sweat and blood from his torn wrists. Every muscle in his body ached.
Outside, the wind picked up, rattling something loose against the house.
Mike closed his eyes behind the tape and tried not to think about tomorrow.
Chapter 3: Hope and Despair
Mike had lost track of time. The darkness behind the tape made everything blur together - panic, exhaustion, brief moments of forced calm. His throat was raw from breathing through his nose, his tongue swollen and dry.
Water. God, I need water.
He shifted his weight, trying to find a position that didn't send daggers through his shoulders. That's when he felt it - a hard rectangular shape pressing against his lower back.
His phone.
Oh God. My phone.
The realization hit him like electricity. It was there, right there in his back pocket, but it might as well have been on the moon. His hands were bound high up his back, fingers barely able to wiggle. The phone was inches away from his fingertips.
Think. Think. You can do this.
Mike rolled onto his side, then his stomach, trying to position himself so his bound hands could reach his pocket. The movement sent fresh agony through his cramped legs. His ankles, tied to his thighs, made every adjustment torture.
He twisted his torso, arching his back until his spine felt like it would snap. His fingertips brushed the edge of his pocket.
Almost. Come on.
Mike strained harder, his face pressed into the musty carpet. The rope around his wrists cut deeper as he fought for those extra inches. His elbows scraped against the rough carpet, the skin tearing. Blood seeped through his shirt where the rope binding his forearms had rubbed them raw. His shoulders popped and creaked.
There. His middle finger caught the corner of the phone.
Please don't drop it. Please.
Working with just his fingertips, Mike slowly worked the phone up and out of his pocket. Sweat poured down his face as he concentrated. One wrong move and it would fall where he'd never reach it.
The phone slipped free and clattered to the floor behind him.
No no no.
Mike twisted around, his bound body writhing like a snake. He had to get to it, had to reach it. His face scraped against the rough carpet as he maneuvered his body, following the sound of where it had landed. The rope around his elbows dug deeper, opening fresh wounds.
His fingers found smooth plastic.
Please have battery. Please.
The phone had been off for hours, maybe a full day. But it had been fully charged when this started. Mike felt around the edges with his fingertips, searching for the power button.
There - a small raised circle on the side.
He pressed it and held it, his bound hands shaking from the strain. Was it working? He couldn't see, couldn't hear any startup sounds over his own ragged breathing.
Come on. Turn on. Please turn on.
Mike held the button for what felt like forever, then released it. His hands were cramping from the awkward position, but he didn't dare move away from the phone.
Was it on? Was it searching for signal? Was anyone looking for him?
Dad, please. Check your phone. See that I'm online. Find me.
But there was no way to know. No way to tell if it had worked or if he'd just wasted his strength on a dead battery. Mike lay there in the darkness, his face pressed against the moldy carpet, listening to his own breathing.
The silence was deafening.
What if no one's looking? What if they think I just took off somewhere?
Hours seemed to pass. Or maybe minutes. Time had lost all meaning in the blackness. Mike's body ached everywhere now - his wrists raw and bleeding, his elbows torn and seeping blood through his shirt, his forearms burning where the rope had scraped them raw. His legs were on fire from the constant cramping, his shoulders screaming.
But worst of all was the not knowing.
Is it working? Is anyone coming?
The house groaned around him, settling deeper into decay. Somewhere in the walls, something scratched and scurried.
Mike closed his eyes behind the tape and tried to hold onto hope.
Please. Someone. Please.
Chapter 4: Breaking Point
Mike's world had shrunk to nothing but pain and darkness. His body was failing him in ways he'd never imagined possible. The rope around his wrists had cut so deep he could feel warm blood pooling beneath his bound hands. His elbows were raw meat now, every movement grinding torn skin against the rough carpet.
How long has it been? Days? Weeks?
His thoughts came in fragments now, disconnected and desperate. The dehydration was making his head pound, his vision swimming even in the blackness behind the tape. His tongue had swollen so much it pressed against the gag, making it even harder to breathe.
Dad... where are you? Why aren't you coming?
Mike tried to shift position, but his body barely responded. His legs had gone beyond cramping into something worse - a constant burning agony that made him want to scream. The circulation in his calves was nearly gone, his feet completely numb.
The phone. Did it work? Is anyone coming?
The questions cycled through his mind endlessly, but the hope was fading. If someone was coming, they would have been here by now. Wouldn't they?
Maybe they don't care. Maybe they're glad I'm gone.
The thought hit him like a physical blow. Where had that come from? His family loved him. They had to be looking. They had to be.
But what if they're not? What if this is it? What if I die here and rot away and nobody ever finds me?
Mike felt the panic building again, that familiar tightness in his chest. But this time was different. This time, he couldn't fight it off.
I can't breathe. I can't breathe. The gag is choking me.
His body convulsed against the ropes, every muscle contracting at once. The rope around his forearms felt like it was cutting through to the bone. His elbows scraped against the carpet, tearing the wounds wider. Blood soaked through his shirt.
Help me. God, please help me. I don't want to die like this.
The panic consumed him completely. Mike thrashed like a wild animal, his bound body writhing across the floor. The gag triggered his reflex over and over, making him retch until his stomach muscles cramped. His heart hammered so hard he thought it might burst.
I'm going to die. I'm going to die right now.
The attack went on and on, longer than any before. Mike's vision exploded into stars behind the tape. His lungs burned as he fought for air through his nose. The ropes bit deeper with every movement, but he couldn't stop. His body had taken over, driven by pure animal terror.
When it finally ended, Mike lay motionless, completely broken. His white t-shirt was soaked with blood and sweat. His breathing came in shallow gasps. Every part of his body screamed in agony.
This is how I die. Alone. In the dark.
The thought should have terrified him, but instead, a strange calm settled over him. The pain was still there, but it felt distant now, like it was happening to someone else.
I'm sorry, Dad. I'm sorry I couldn't hold on.
Outside, the wind had picked up again, rattling the windows. But Mike barely heard it. His mind was drifting, floating away from the broken body on the floor.
Maybe it's better this way. Maybe it's time to let go.
The darkness behind the tape seemed to deepen, pulling him down into something that might have been sleep or might have been something else entirely.
I'm so tired. So tired.
Mike's breathing slowed, his body finally surrendering to the inevitable.
In the distance, so faint it might have been his imagination, he thought he heard something.
Voices.
Chapter 5: Found
Am I dreaming?
The voices were getting closer. Real voices, not the phantom sounds his mind had been playing tricks on him with for hours.
"—GPS shows his phone was last active somewhere around here—"
Dad?
Mike tried to move, tried to make a sound, but his body wouldn't respond. The blood loss, dehydration, and exhaustion had pushed him beyond his limits. He could only lie there, listening.
"Check that house. Windows are all busted out."
Footsteps on gravel. Getting closer.
Please. Please find me.
"Mike? MIKE!"
The voice was right outside now. His father's voice, raw with desperation.
Here. I'm here. I'm in here.
But no sound came out. The gag was still sealed tight with tape, his throat too dry to make more than a whisper anyway.
The front door crashed open.
"Jesus Christ. Mike!"
Footsteps running across the floor. Then his father was there, kneeling beside him.
"Oh God, son. What did they do to you?"
Hands on his shoulders, careful but urgent. Mike felt the tape being peeled away from his eyes first. Light - even the dim light filtering through broken windows - made him squeeze his eyes shut.
"It's okay. You're okay. We found you."
More voices now. His brother Jake's voice: "Call 911. Now."
The tape came off his mouth next, the gag pulled free. Mike retched, his throat raw and burning. He tried to speak but only managed a croak.
"Don't try to talk. Just breathe."
His father's hands were shaking as he worked at the ropes around Mike's wrists. "These are so tight. Jake, get me something to cut these with."
Mike felt the pressure ease as the ropes finally gave way. Blood rushed back into his hands, bringing fresh agony. He gasped, his vision graying.
"Stay with me, Mike. Stay awake."
The ropes around his elbows came off next, then his legs. When they straightened his knees for the first time in what felt like forever, Mike screamed - a raw, broken sound that echoed through the abandoned house.
"I know, I know. It's going to hurt for a while."
His father's face swam into focus above him. Tears were streaming down the older man's cheeks.
"How did you find me?" Mike whispered.
"Your phone. It pinged a cell tower yesterday. We've been searching ever since."
It worked. The phone worked.
"The police are on their way. So is an ambulance."
Mike closed his eyes, finally allowing himself to believe it was over. His body was wrecked, his mind shattered, but he was alive. He was going to live.
"The men who did this—"
"Caught them two states over," Jake said from somewhere nearby. "Crashed your van trying to outrun state police. They're not going anywhere."
Sirens in the distance, growing louder.
"You did good, son," his father said quietly. "You held on. You survived."
Mike felt consciousness slipping away again, but this time it didn't scare him. This time, he knew he was safe.
I made it. I actually made it.
The last thing he heard before the darkness took him was his father's voice, steady and strong:
"I've got you now. You're going home."
