[In the Delta, Ash’s head dips. His body progressively sags back against his seat, his legs nearly sprawled on the car floor, as the tinny voice in his hand continues to buzz up at him. Quentin could be calling from the bottom of the ocean for as close as he sounds right now, but Ash can make out the framework of a question, something about the cabin… and something else. His stomach roils with nausea, as much from dark, abstract thoughts as blood loss. His body trembles, has been more or less continuously since he pulled himself up off the driveway leading up to the cabin and into the enclosed confines of the Delta, but the distant realization that Quentin could be talking about someone else makes his muscles lock up in borderline paralytic fear.]
Ch-Cheryl…
[The phone finally slides out of his slack fingers, landing somewhere on the ground with a soft thud.
“Ashley? You know Ashley?”
Rapid footsteps echo downstairs as the girl runs to the front of the cellar and quickly ascends the staircase. She appears under the trap door in the corner of the living room a few seconds later. She’s exactly as young as she sounds — fresh out of high school by the looks of it — with a sharp profile and dark, morose eyes. Her long chestnut hair falls over her face in tangles as she peers up at Quentin from the gloom with suspicion and something dangerously close to hope, holding the door open as far as it will go against the heavy wrought iron chains locking it down, about fifteen inches off the ground.
“Get him— no, just— just get me out of here.” The chains rattle and bounce as she pushes against the door, grunting with effort. “Before it comes back, PLEASE!”]
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Ch-Cheryl…
[The phone finally slides out of his slack fingers, landing somewhere on the ground with a soft thud.
“Ashley? You know Ashley?”
Rapid footsteps echo downstairs as the girl runs to the front of the cellar and quickly ascends the staircase. She appears under the trap door in the corner of the living room a few seconds later. She’s exactly as young as she sounds — fresh out of high school by the looks of it — with a sharp profile and dark, morose eyes. Her long chestnut hair falls over her face in tangles as she peers up at Quentin from the gloom with suspicion and something dangerously close to hope, holding the door open as far as it will go against the heavy wrought iron chains locking it down, about fifteen inches off the ground.
“Get him— no, just— just get me out of here.” The chains rattle and bounce as she pushes against the door, grunting with effort. “Before it comes back, PLEASE!”]