Read Apocalyptica (Book 2): Ran for Free Online

were only loosely bound to the chair. Enough to prevent me from getting any leverage with them, but not so tight I couldn’t work the chair out of the bonds if I could stand.
    Not that I could stand, because of how my hands were bound.
    So I worked on that. My gloves were gone, no idea where, and while it pissed me off to lose them, it turned out to be a blessing. Whoever took them probably did so to make sure I didn’t have any weapons tucked away inside them or my sleeves. I totally did—the right glove has a tiny slot for a tiny blade. Having found it, the people rifling through my unconscious body probably hadn’t been thorough. I was packing a fair number of obvious weapons, after all.
    I pulled myself as far back in the chair as possible and arched my fingers through the wooden slats in the back. I fumbled blindly at my belt, managing to slide fingers into it after several painful seconds. I slowly worked the pads of my fingers along the inside of the belt until I found what I was looking for: a thin leather strap wrapped around my belt. Attached to it, on the inner face tucked next to my body, was a small clip.
    It started life as a key chain, but I kept cutting my fingers on the damn thing every time I picked up my keys. It was a gift from Jeff, a single-piece multi-tool made to look like a hair barrette.
    I removed it slowly, with infinite care. If I dropped it, I was boned. I left the tool attached to the leather cord, which I wrapped around two fingers, and twisted my wrists into a painful configuration that allowed me to reach the ropes binding them.
    As I sawed with the sharp edge, I fervently thanked every god and spirit I could think of. The belt wasn’t one I usually wore, and I’d left it on my riot suit by sheer chance. Before realizing I had the tool, my plan had been much less neat and clean. I’m not sure if I’d have been able to snap off a piece of the plastic making up my armor, but I’d have tried. And if it wouldn’t cut the rope, it would definitely cut me. Lubricating my skin with blood might have let me slip the ropes.
    But that would have made twice in my life I’d escaped a cell by cutting my wrists, and I’ve always considered myself a trailblazer. Great artists don’t reuse old works.
    My heart hammered as I cut through my bonds. I became hyper aware of every small sound, though central to my attention was the low slosh of water coming from a tub above me. The run of pipes gave me a pretty good idea where it was. I followed them with my eyes, a little like reading a map of the house. The bathroom was about fifteen feet away from me, diagonally and to the left. The hot water heater sat below it.
    My brain spun through all the errata accumulated about houses and plumbing. It was only when I noted the wires when everything locked into place.
    Fact: water pipes coming into a house are generally grounded. Pipes carrying hot water from the water heater sometimes aren’t. I wasn’t sure about the drains, but in a house this old I felt moderately confident nothing was up to any sort of modern code.
    The plan blossomed in my head fully formed within seconds. There were a lot of unknowns, but you know what? Fuck it. When one of the known factors is a brutal assault and probable death, you throw the dice.
    The ropes parted, freeing my hands. I had to suppress the urge to bolt to my feet. The last thing I wanted was to make noise and draw attention. Instead I stood with care and reached down to pull the chair up through the coiled bonds around my ankles. It wasn’t as easy as I thought; the chair had curved feet that required a lot of wiggling to pull free. After thirty seconds I almost gave up and pulled my feet free of the boots, but got the damn thing free before it became necessary.
    After shaking the loose rope off my feet, I stepped silently over to the water heater. Not needing to worry about anything but function, whoever installed it had chosen to put it directly below the