Time & Date Unknown

       It was the pinging and banging of water pipes that finally roused Joe Hardy from a deep, prolonged sleep, the constant stream of sound penetrated the fog that lay over the younger Hardy boy.  He blinked several times up into a darkness that wasn’t much less dense than the darkness in his sleep state had been.  Joe reached up to scratch an itch on his nose but found that he couldn’t.  His arm refused to answer the signal from his brain to lift.

       Joe waited patiently, sure that if he but waited and built up a little more energy he would be able to raise his arm.  His nose really itched now but no amount of tugging got his hand to his nose.

       Even worse, his bed felt a hundred times harder than it ever had before.  Joe shifted and frowned and wondered, for a moment if that rat, Maidlin, managed to put sheet metal in his bed while he slept.  Joe vowed that if he got his hands on Maidlin, he was going to rip Maidlin’s arms off and feed them to the BU Knights offensive line.  Yes, that would be a most satisfactory revenge and he would do it, just as soon as he could move.

       Why can’t I move? Joe tugged and tugged on both arms and legs but this time he felt the cool metallic feeling around his wrists and ankles and the bite into his hands and feet when the metal shackles bit into them. Joe struggled in earnest in a vain effort to free himself – all he managed to do was wear himself out.

       Joe panted as he tried to take stock of his situation.  First, he was clad in what felt like his swim trunks.  He was quite seriously chained to a metal table that felt a lot harder than the floor in his dorm room.  He was no closer to why, though and that bothered him.

       OK, Hardy, he told himself quite seriously.  What’s the last thing you remember?

       It took a minute to remember anything at all, then he remembered the football game in Albany.  He blinked several times as he tried to see around him.  He swallowed too – his mouth felt very dry, probably from whatever was used to knock him out.  No, perhaps not, he wasn’t sure what knocked him out.

       After Albany he was momentarily blank and it took him a few minutes to remember further.  The drive home, with a lot of merriment and singing to celebrate their win, and a stop at a restaurant for dinner.  Joe vaguely remembered eating three cheeseburgers, two large orders of fries, sixteen celery and carrot sticks and three apples.  Vanessa asked him where he put all the food.

       After that it took even longer to remember.  Joe struggled with his memory as much as with his chains.  He shivered, the cold in the dark room affected him more than he wished to admit.  He swallowed and forced himself, again, to concentrate and to remember.

       The snack bar at the SU, where he, Frank and Mandy often got together, where Frank told him of his near miss with a…

       VANESSA!

       Joe made the mistake of trying to sit up and tears streamed down his cheeks when he nearly wrenched his shoulder out of it socket.  He collapsed back against the table as he thought of Vanessa.  Last he saw her or heard anything about her, she went into a coma and now… was she still alive?

       “I’m sorry, Van,” he whispered.  “I’m sorry you got into this because of me.  You have to make it, Van, you have to.”

       Joe once again closed his eyes and breathed in deeply to try, once more, to call his memories to the fore again.  Andrea Bender, scared but brave, forced him out of the hospital.  He remembered that he left and drove back to his dorm.  He got his swim trunks from his drawer and a tank top from a shelf in his closet.  He had gotten his CD carrier as well – they didn’t have any good CDs left at home.

       He went back down to his car, somewhat excited about seeing Biff and Tony again.  He laughed a lot about some vivid memories, for instance, when he, Tony and Biff convinced Frank that his hair turned blonde and even made it more realistic by using a temporary hair dye on Frank’s hair.  Or when Tony and Biff had the ‘cool man’ wars and strutted (there was no other word for it) up and down the main corridor at Bayport High School.  Joe smiled reflexively in memory and then he chuckled.  The chuckle faded a moment later when the cold seeped in even deeper.  He shivered and tugged a few more times, then subsided, going back to his memories.

       He parked his cark in the driveway of the house on the corner of Elm and High Streets.  His home for over sixteen years, he went to the front door and up to his room for just a minute.  He took out his portable stereo from the closet and took that outside.  He remembered to check out the barbecue grill.  It was clean, probably because of the diligence of Aunt Gertrude rather than anything he, Frank or Mandy did.  He didn’t light it yet, that could wait.  He decided to move the swimming towels out by the pool and he upped the heat on the water.  It wouldn’t have long enough to make a lot of difference but even a couple of degrees would make a difference in the October weather.

       That was the end of his memories.  No matter how hard he tried to remember anything after that point he couldn’t.  His memory was a haze, just behind his reach.  Joe sighed, tried to scratch his head and grimaced when he hurt his arm again.

       “Hello?” he called out, finally.  “Hello!”

       The young detective sighed and struggled more.  The shackles about his wrists were just too tight.  He followed them up to where they were fastened to the walls.  He could tug and pull until he was forty and all he would do is bloody his wrists and dislocate his shoulders.  Joe grimaced and lay back again in frustration.  What was going on?

       “Hello!” a little louder this time.

       Joe blinked, glad he as more adjusted to the darkness now.  He knew he lay on a table of some kind, perhaps a surgical table?  That sent chills up and down his spine and he shivered again.

Not a surgical table, he told himself firmly.  Not a surgical table.  Just a cold, metallic table.  That’s all.  Not surgical.

Joe continued his cursory examination of the room in which he was being held, though there were several very dark areas in his line of sight.  He saw something that looked like a chandelier on the ceiling over him.  He wasn’t sure what he saw on the wall opposite, besides the places where his leg chains were attached to the wall.  It looked, oddly enough, like a coat of arms?  Was he imagining that? 

Joe shook his head again and closed his eyes again.  So far, nobody came to tell him what was up.  His stomach roiled with hunger and he wondered if that was the purpose of holding him here, without benefit of warmth, food, drink or speech.  Was this someone’s sadistic way of trying to kill him? 

His spirits sank in that moment and he willed himself not to break down and cry like a helpless child.  He felt like a helpless child but he wasn’t about to give his mysterious captor the benefit of the doubt.  Joe steadied himself with deep breathing, very similar to the exercises that his brother taught him a few years ago.  He felt the tension ebb and his emotions came under control again.  No crying, he reminded himself firmly.

Now, how do I get out of this?

Not easily.  Is there a way?

Joe opened his eyes again and looked up at the shackle right around his right wrist.  Metallic, which he knew without looking at it, and snug.  If he tried to pull it off he wouldn’t be able to do more than wrench his wrist and bloody it.  He wondered about that, though.  If he bloodied it, would it get slick enough for him to slide his hand out?  No, not unless he figured out how to chop off about a quarter of his hand.

Joe switched his gaze to the left manacle.  It felt a hair looser than the one on his right hand but all things considered that didn’t mean a whole lot.  Whoever held him didn’t mean to let him go and Joe felt his anger rising.  This time he didn’t feel the urge to cry, now he wanted to kick, scream, hit and hurt someone!

“WHAT’S GOING ON!” he yelled as loudly as he could and then paused for breath.  “TALK TO ME!”

Joe glared into the different dark areas about his table as he waited for whomever to come out and talk to him.  He wasn’t about to let them get the better of him here.  Not even.  He was going to find out what the hell was going on and now.

“HELLO!” he yelled again.  “HELLO!”

Joe stopped and glared again.  Was someone watching him?  Were there cameras in the darkness watching his every action?  Trust some perverted sob to get their jollies off of watching him struggle with futility with the chains and listening to him yell.

Perverted sob.

“I know it’s you, Derak,” Joe said in a normal voice. 

If someone was watching him from a camera he didn’t have to yell.  They probably had microphones hidden somewhere around him.

“So come out.  You have me where you want me.  I’m not a scared ten-year-old anymore, Derak.”

That sounded like false bravado.  Right now, Joe was more helpless than he had been at ten. At least at ten he could kick.  Hard.

Joe glared again.  He hoped his glare was having the effect he wanted it to have because he was getting truly angry.  Either that or he was so scared he didn’t know how else to act.  He wasn’t going to take the time for self-analysis. He wasn’t Doctor Joyce Brothers.  Or Doctor Spock.

“Come out and fight like a man, Derak!” he yelled again.  “Or do you have to hide in the shadows?  Is this the only way you can fight?”

At least when he spoke he wasn’t scared.  He didn’t have time to worry about what might spring out of the darkness.  Joseph David Hardy was not scared of the dark.  He hadn’t really been scared of the dark since he was six or seven.  He was, however, scared witless of his uncle Derak, though he didn’t want to admit that to himself right now either.

“Come out, Derak!” he called again.  “Let’s get on with it!”

He nearly choked when he said that.

“Manners, Joseph.”

Joe gave a start when he heard that voice.  It sounded like, and it took him a minute to figure out what it sounded like, someone talking in front of a fan.  The Cylon from Battlestar Galactica effect, as Joe liked to call it.  He’d only seen that show like three times.  It was just too hokey for him. 

“Still hiding, Uncle Derak?” Joe demanded.

“Little you know, young man,” the disembodied voice said.

“What’s going on?” Joe asked.  He already knew the answer to that question but it was just easier to ask than to guess.

“What is going on, young Joseph, is a lesson,” the voice explained to him.

The voice came from all around, probably, Joe suspected, from speakers set into the ceiling.  He was pretty sure it wasn’t a spectral ghost or anything trying to spook him.  For one, the voice was too mechanical sounding.  For another, he didn’t believe in ghosts. 

“A lesson in what?” Joe seemed to enjoy feeding Derak’s delusions.  Then again, he wasn’t sure.  Again, it was easier to ask than to guess.

“A lesson, my boy,” the voice explained to him.  “In paying for the sins of your past.”

Say huh? Joe thought.

“Why don’t you quit playing games with me, Derak and just get right to the point.  We both know why I’m here.  Why don’t you just admit it?” Joe demanded.

“This isn’t a game!” the voice yelled.  “This is justice!  This is payback for what you have taken from a man.  This is payback for ruining lives, Joseph.”

Joe inhaled sharply.  This was even worse than he thought.  He always knew that Derak was insane, always suspected that his Uncle was several fries short of a Happy Meal but this was worse.  The hatred he heard in that voice wasn’t like anything he ever heard before.  He swallowed again, even more nervous than before.

“Before we have our fun, my dear boy,” the voice continued.  “Let me tell you what’s in store for you.  Let me tell you what you have to look forward to.”

Before we have our fun?  Joe stared up, his mouth open before he remembered to snap it shut.

“I am going to take from you everything and everyone you cared about,” the voice explained.  “I’ve already taken your home from you. Right after I took you your lovely house became not much more than a pile of rubble.  The bombs I set about the house were very effective.”

“NO!” Joe exclaimed and he struggled again, this time meaning to get away and smash his fist into his uncle’s face.

“I’m not done,” the voice was softer now.  Joe didn’t stop struggling.  “I am going to finish the job I started on your pretty girlfriend.  Your twin is going to have a fatal accident with one of her arrows, very soon.  Your parents are going to meet their end, maybe in a car crash, maybe I’ll just shoot them both.  Your brother, he’ll just walk off a cliff. Your Aunt Gertrude I can take care of without much problem.  She’s old, I’m sure I can come up with something convenient for her.”

“NO!!!!” Joe screamed in desperation.  “NO!”

“I am going to take from you everyone and everything you care about,” the voice repeated.  “I am going to make sure that you are completely and totally alone in this world, that you have no one to turn to and then…

“…then, with nothing to come between us, we’ll have our fun.”

The Hardy Boys belong to Simon and Schuster and the Stratemeyer Foundation. I've only borrowed them to play with for a while but I promise to return them whenever I've finished with them.  (I make no promises as to condition, that's entirely up to them).  I promise, I'm only writing for fun and I'm not making a single dime off of this (unless you count personal fulfillment).