Dead Water Zone - Kenneth Oppel [42]
“Paul, he’s gone crazy with the water.”
He felt hollow, like some gutted machine slumped in a junk heap.
“We’re getting out of here,” she said fiercely. “Give me your belt.”
“What for?”
“I might be able to use the pin to pick these locks.”
He made a halfhearted attempt to reach his belt with his manacled hands. “Can’t do it.”
“Try again.”
“There’s no point.”
“Paul, give me the belt!”
Even in the near dark he could see the flash of her tears. “Don’t do this, Paul. Please don’t give up like this. Give me the belt. I need you to do this for me. I need you.”
He stretched out his arms as far as the chains would allow, but his hands still couldn’t quite reach the belt. He was disgusted by his self-pity. He arched his back, wrenching his hips up higher, grunting with the effort.
With two fingers he caught the end of the belt and tried to pull it loose. The strain was too much. He had to rest. He tried again; this time the pin popped out of the belt. He flicked the pin away so it wouldn’t snag in any of the other holes and slowly pulled away the buckle.
“Good, you’re doing it,” said Monica.
He took another rest before taking hold of the belt and starting to ease it through the loops in his jeans. It slid out smoothly at first, then caught halfway. He yanked hard, and his jeans bunched up around the waist. He took a deep breath, trying to ignore the hot pain in his armpits and lower back, and with gentle tugs pulled the belt through the rest of the way.
He handed it over to Monica and sank back, sweating. He couldn’t watch her as she worked, clutching the pin between two slender fingers and bending her wrist, almost to snapping, to fiddle with the keyhole in the manacle. Her neck was twisted up and around so she could catch a glimpse of what she was doing. Sometimes the pin slipped out, and it took a long time to get it back into the keyhole; other times, she gave up with a growl of rage. But she always went back to it.
Finally, there was a metal clink, and the first manacle popped open, releasing Monica’s right hand. She was pale with the effort.
“That’s one,” she panted. “I’ve never done locks before. The others should be faster.”
Paul heard the sound of a bolt being shot back in the cell door. Monica quickly put her wrist back in the manacle. The door creaked open
13
“HOW DOES IT feel to be shackled?”
On deck, Paul shuddered in the night air. Without speaking a word, Sam had unlocked the chains that tethered him to the wall, leaving his wrists and legs manacled. “Where are we going?” Paul had asked as he shambled through the doorway, guided by Sam’s viselike grip. But Sam made no reply. Paul was afraid, but what he felt most was utter loneliness. At least Sam hadn’t noticed Monica’s unlocked manacle or the belt, which she’d shoved behind her back.
“I’ve been shackled all my life,” Sam went on, “inside my body, rotting away.”
Paul looked around the deck, confused. He’d assumed he was being led back to the forge, to Sturm and the Cityweb men. But he and Sam were alone.
“Look how strong I am now!” Sam cried out. He darted to the ship’s railing, ripping away thick wooden struts, heaving them into the water.
“And look how high I can jump!”
Paul watched Sam leap into the air, to the top of the severed mast, dangling from the jagged tip by his fingers, then letting himself fall slowly to the ground, landing lightly on two feet, knees barely bending.
“I’m stronger than you now, Paul. Faster, too.”
Paul frowned. A part of him couldn’t accept this. It was Sam who had always been the weak one, not him. Sam had the brains, Paul the strength. It wasn’t right that Sam now had both. It made Paul redundant.
“You want to arm wrestle, Paul? I think I’ll hold out longer than last time! I’ll try not to twist your wrist off.”
“Why’d you bring me up here?”
“You know me better than anyone