Through The Valley by Yates, B.D. (feel good books .txt) 📕

sustain them as they moved away from the Megahorde to build their new prison camp, he supposed.  All according to Roy’s design.

  "Yeah buddy, I'm still alive.  I'm tied up though.  I'm trying to get loose."

  In his dark corner of the room, Pup began to sniffle and whine.  He sounded like an injured puppy, which was apt given his nickname.  He moaned, the long and pitiful wail of a wounded soldier left behind on the battlefield.  Emmit cringed at the volume of it, then was sorry for expecting a terrified kid to have the presence of mind to remain silent.  Pup knew what was going to happen to him, and had been left in the uncomforting darkness to contemplate it while he waited.

  "I am too," he whimpered, his words breathy and ululating as he slipped them in between sobs.  "And I can't feel my legs."

A hundred thousand different scenarios tried to push and shove their way into Emmit's head, but he blocked them out. Each time he began to form a picture in his mind's eye, a gruesome illustration of why Pup might not be able to feel his legs, he would mouth the word "no" and shake his head. He would do no good for either of them if he panicked and lost his shit now, when things were the direst.

"You just stay still and stay quiet while I work on getting us out of here," Emmit said, flapping his elbows back and forth like some kind of injured bird. He could feel the spearhead slowly working its way down to his waiting hand, but he couldn't yet feel what direction it was facing. His tongue poked out between his teeth as he concentrated, tasting the salty sweat that had collected on his mustache.

  Pup began to moan again, shuddering his clenched teeth. Cocking his head, Emmit could just make out the shape of Pup, writhing in pain and arching his back off the wall he had been slung against.  Each time his body thumped backwards, or one of his legs drummed against the floor, it sounded soggy. It sounded like Pup was sitting in a puddle of something wet and thick.

  Christ, don't lose it man. Don't lose it. You can't help him if you lose it.

  The ropes were beginning to bite into the flesh of his wrists, burning as if they were made of some sort of acidic thread. Emmit fought through the pain, thrashing and squirming, trying desperately to give the spearhead room to slide down.

  He was beginning to feel claustrophobic.  The tip of his nose itched. His shoulders ached, the muscles stretching and over-stretching like hot taffy. Emmit growled and grunted, closing his weak eyes tight to help him concentrate.

  "My feet!" Pup suddenly wailed, scaring Emmit so badly that he jumped and felt the elusive spearhead dislodge from the folds of his sleeve and tumble, tantalizingly, between his raw hands.  It clattered to the floor somewhere behind him.

  "Oh God, something is crushing my feet!"

  Emmit couldn't restrain his frustration; what precious little patience he had left was reserved for somehow finding the spearhead behind him with both hands bound. He kept imagining the door of Roy's meat locker swinging open, soaking them both with freezing air and blowing snow. Then Roy would see what he was trying to do and drive a hard boot right into the center of his face, knock him out cold again, and that would be the end of his story.  Roy would not repeat the mistake of allowing him to live again. Pup's moans grew into warbling screams, reverberating off the dark wooden walls as if taunting Roy to come and investigate.

  "Pup, shut the fuck up before someone hears you!" Emmit bellowed, surprised at how loud he had let himself shout.  It was like those scarce few times he had lost his temper with his son, usually during tantrums and meltdowns or on nights when he fought sleep (which had been daily when Deacon had been a toddler).  First came the slow build up, then the volcanic release— and then the shame.  He immediately regretted yelling at Pup, whose only crime was that he was alone, terrified, and in pain.

  He could hear Pup's breathless sobbing begin again, and then he said something that Emmit Mills never forgot. He was forcefully reminded that the kid was just so... so god damned young.

  "I just want to see my mom," Pup whimpered. He tried to repeat himself, but it was lost in a flurry of guttural breaths. His body shifted around wetly.

  "You will," Emmit said distractedly, rolling over into his back. His weight crushed his hands into the grimy floor, targeting every pressure point he had. One of his knuckles cracked like a miniature firework. Hot tears began to well up in the corners of his eyes, as much for Pup as for the excruciating pain throbbing in his wrists and forearms. "You'll see her soon, Pup."

It was time to stop fucking around. Pain or no pain, he had already wasted too much precious time. Emmit's numbing fingers scratched and scrabbled around on the floor like an injured spider but found nothing. He had begun to cry too, letting his tears out through controlled, shuddery breaths that whistled through his cracked lips.

Come on...

His pinky, bent at an awkward and uncomfortable angle, nudged against something jagged and sharp.  The knuckle of his ring finger snapped.

Please, come on...

His right hand flopped on top of the spearhead and Emmit rolled over on it, thinking nothing of the damage it might do if he landed on it the wrong way. It didn't matter if he got cut; what mattered was that he did not lose track of it again. His aching fingers wrapped around the splintered wooden end, his forearms boiling with lactic acid as he gingerly flipped it so that the sharp edge rested against the