The Long Escape from Raven Brooks

Mr. Peterson reluctantly opened his eyes when a sunbeam emerged from a hole in the curtain. Frowning, the man shook his head and tried to lie down on his side to doze off again, when he suddenly jumped up on the spot. His hands were tightly pinched by a rope. Of course, someone took care of his well-being and stretched a cloth under the rope so that he would not get blood on his wrists. The legs were also tied to the bed, giving no room for movement. Theodore twitched in his bonds, creaking the bed. His heart, which had been calm since he woke up, beat so fast that his chest began to hurt. Peterson remembered what happened before he fell asleep, and he broke out in a cold sweat. He remembered little, but he still remembered something: a fallen metal crow, the frightened tear-stained eyes of his son, a hated journalist, an obvious assistant to the guardians of the forest… He clearly brought with him someone who neutralized Theodore by throwing a steel effigy on him. And while he was unconscious, these creatures took Aaron! And they tied him up, so that later, after dragging the boy away, they could blackmail him, forcing him to be soft and obedient! Theodore growled in rage, but immediately broke into a quiet, hoarse cough. His throat was dry and itchy, his lips were chapped and needed water. Peterson chuckled humorlessly. Well, yes, also torture. Surely he will need to earn water, as well as a meeting with his son. Eh, Aaron, your father has let you down again… Peterson fell onto the bed, breathing spasmodically through clenched teeth. He didn’t know what to do, his soul was drowned in confusion. Try to escape? What if they hurt Aaron? Wait for someone to come? But precious time will slip through your fingers. Theodore remembered everything he knew about this Guest, whom the guardians of the forest revered, and groaned, fearing the worst. Quiet, hurried steps were heard outside the door. The person there was clearly trying to walk more quietly, but nevertheless he constantly gave himself away by tripping over various objects or shuffling his shoes. Theodore ground his teeth, immediately recognizing that awkward ostrich gait. Well, of course, the journalist needs to prove his loyalty to the sect, and that’s why he was probably left to watch the immobilized prisoner. As Quentin slowly approached, Theodore came up with a plan. Since he was tied up, the rest of the guardians of the forest were most likely located somewhere else. This means he can deceive the journalist and escape. Thinking of this, Theodore fell onto the bed and tried to relax his entire body. It was not so difficult — the exhausted body was not satisfied with an hour of dreams and gladly stretched out all the muscles, helping Theodore to spread out helplessly on the bed. Peterson tilted his head to the side, hanging it slightly off the bed and, just before opening the door, held his breath, reducing it to a minimum, trying not to pay attention to the light drops of blood that appeared on his wrists from excessive pressure earlier. Theodora didn’t have to wait long. Opening the door with his shoulder, Quentin carefully made his way into the room. Throwing a cautious glance at the patient, he swallowed and hesitated for a split second on the threshold. In the corridor, he thought he heard the creaking of the bed and Peterson’s panicked breathing, but he seemed to continue to sleep peacefully. Quentin was in no hurry to approach, carefully peering at the lying man. The experienced look of the journalist clearly told him that something was wrong here… But just what? Finally, having managed to overcome his uncertainty, Quentin quietly crept up to the bed and sat down on its edge. Theodore felt a strange presence near him. This unnerved him so much that he was ready to give a damn about the plan and rush at the enemy just like that. But what’s the point? The ropes will prevent him from harming the journalist. Therefore, he continued to pretend to be lifeless, thanks to swimming lessons, to which Diana, having listened to all sorts of newfangled doctors, dragged him. Because of these activities, his lungs were powerful and did not allow him to become out of breath for a long time. Holding his breath, the journalist unconsciously listened to the sound of someone else’s breathing, which… was not there? To make sure of what he had heard, the man, disregarding all precautions, leaned a little lower towards the captive and even put his palm on his chest. It didn’t rise. This discovery was quite unexpected. After all, by Quentin’s standards, the “neighbor” was quite good, so what happened? Frowning, the man bent over someone else’s chest and listened to the rhythmic beating of his neighbor’s heart. It was beating slowly, but it was beating at all, which meant that he, Quentin, still had a chance! So, how was it taught there in a special medical program? Sitting as close to Theodore as possible, Quentin, with one deft movement of his hand, pinched Peterson’s nose and, taking more air into his mouth, “inhaled” it into the man’s instinctively parted lips.

***

Peterson became nervous when someone else’s hand gently laid on his chest. For some reason, he only now noticed the disappearance of his favorite sweater, which he could not take off for days and weeks on end. Is this some kind of attempt to demobilize him with nudity? Well at least they left the trousers on! The journalist was in no hurry to act. He leaned lower and listened to his breathing. Theodore almost snorted with anger and tension — after all, his lungs were not limitless! Just as Theodore was about to give up on the plan and take a breath of air, Quentin stirred. He crouched closer. The bed creaked under his weight. Peterson became more nervous when he felt someone else’s body looming over him, trapping his thighs between his knees. The alien hand was still absentmindedly squeezing his chest. The journalist pressed his face against his body, causing Peterson to freeze in bewilderment. What is he doing? Never seen a man’s breasts? Although, why should he, he’s not a man himself, apparently… And then, as if reading his thoughts, Quentin suddenly became either angry or simply plucked up courage. He jerked forward sharply, pinched his nose and, waiting for an instinctive breath, pressed his wet lips against his lips. Peterson felt a shiver run through his body. Someone else’s knees squeezed closer to his hips, and Theodore, without realizing it, jerked away sharply. He viciously bit someone else’s lip and, growling, grabbed Quentin by the shirt, not caring about his hands tied with rope. He growled and hissed, tearing someone else’s clothes and trying to get to someone else’s face. So that’s why he was shackled? So as not to resist? They didn’t know him well! Blood spilled onto the blanket from the wiped limbs, but Peterson did not pay attention to it. Coughing from a dry mouth, he pulled Quentin to him and viciously crushed him in a chokehold, looking with hatred into his wide brown eyes. This scum first took his child away, and now she decided that he would give up so easily?!

***

When Peterson jerked sharply in the grip, Quentin realized with a belated reaction that most likely the man was not dying at all, but had simply decided to deceive him. Well, or fell fast asleep. It’s one of two things here. The patient was unexpectedly strong for a man who had recently been unconscious. Apparently, he was worried about Aaron, so he was much more furious. Quentin understood this, he really did. But everything came to an end. Even his pain threshold. To avoid serious capture by the enemy, Quentin used the well-known tactic of all the best journalists, namely, he ran away from problems. Taking advantage of Peterson’s hesitation, the man deftly slipped out of his hands and hastily jumped to the side, slightly putting his hands out in front of him in a protective gesture. “Mr. Peterson! It’s okay, Aaron is right here!” shared Quentin just in case, to calm his raging neighbor. Hearing his son’s name, Peterson, contrary to expectations, became even more furious. Grunting, he clenched his hands into fists and tensed his biceps, pressing so hard on the ropes that the blood increased and the old museum bonds that held the strong man cracked. Or was it the bed? It doesn’t matter. Peterson’s bloodshot eyes remained fixed on Quentin. He was like a captive predator, ready to grab his throat upon release. His whole plan was ruined, and in theory, it was time for him to become obedient and humbly ask for forgiveness. But Peterson couldn’t do it. He was often wrong and felt guilty for not being able to characterize his emotions more adequately, but he couldn’t help it. And here he didn’t want to do anything with himself. “Where is my son?” he growled inaudibly, feeling the metallic taste on his tongue. Damn, it seems he bit his tongue when he fought against the enemy… “What did you do to him?! Don’t you dare touch him, DO YOU HEAR?! DON’T YOU DARE!” “He’s here in the kitchen,” Quentin shared in confusion, stepping back and carefully examining the twitching man in front of him. “He won’t listen to me. Maybe a sleeping pill? He needs to get some sleep and improve his health. Then he will listen to me,” the journalist sensibly assessed. “Now, I can bring him!” With that, Quentin walked out into the hallway to wait for Peterson Jr. His lower lip tingled a little from the painful bite, but the man hardly paid any attention to it, only lightly licking the wound with his tongue. “No! No, come back! Come back now, bitch! Don’t you dare touch him, you freak!” Peterson roared and started coughing desperately. It seems he lost his voice. Shit. Aaron flew up to the second floor, his eyes widening in fear. There was no clean glass in the kitchen, and he had to struggle to find the one in which he had taken water the previous day. Hmmm, it seemed like not much time had passed — just one day — but it felt like that evening was a hundred years ago. Suddenly a strange noise was heard from above. Aaron’s heart immediately began to leap. Rushing up, he almost ran into Quentin, and then he heard his father scream. “Oh no! What’s wrong with him?!” The boy squeaked in panic, gripping the glass of water tighter and nearly spilling it. “He woke up and remembered me and why he passed out. I think he’s worried that I hurt you,” Quentin admitted honestly, carefully taking the glass from the child’s trembling hands. Aaron swallowed and walked not very confidently into the room. There, Peterson, closing his eyes, tried either to saw off his hand with a rope, or to break the bed to which he was tied. So far, the first thing has been more successful — both the rope and the bed were made well and did not want to die. “Father…” Aaron called quietly, cringing as Peterson froze, spinning wildly like a yo-yo. “Aaron?” he whispered in a broken voice and abruptly opened his eyes. “It’s you?” Aaron nodded frantically and slowly walked towards the bed. Climbing onto the blanket, he looked at his father with concern. Peterson, meanwhile, saw Quentin at the door and became furious again. “Untie me, son,” he thundered in a quiet and not at all brutal voice. “I’ll break this bastard’s neck!” Aaron cringed. Just the sight of Peterson made Quentin feel himself begin to tremble. This man knew how to look very convincing and scary when necessary. But at the same time, Quentin understood that he was not as dangerous as he wanted to show. The fever, the stress and the rope had enough of an impact on the neighbor that he was weakened. But for some reason this suddenly gave the journalist a strange feeling of pity and understanding for this broken man. Quentin felt even more sorry for Aaron. After all, he was just a defenseless child. Now looking so scared and lost. The baby clearly did not deserve such suffering. “Mr. Peterson,” Quentin finally said softly, but at the same time firmly (and how did he do it?) to slightly lower the temperature of the situation. “I did not intend and do not intend to harm either you or Aaron. Please, calm down and listen to me. You can see that your son is afraid. There is no need to give him a reason to stress.” Peterson nearly choked on air. “What?! Are you suggesting that I trust you? You, a cunning journalistic fox? DO YOU THINK I’M COMPLETELY nuts?!” he coughed again and, casting a quick glance at Aaron, who was frightened by his condition, he added much more calmly, muttering contemptuously: “I won’t trust an arrogant, thieving, corrosive, sticking his nose everywhere man, who has NOTHING to do here, unless he’s a dark horse and doesn’t work for serious guys! Aaron, ropes!” Aaron shook his head. “Father, he’s harmless,” he whispered, and flinched when Peterson bared his teeth. “I know better, son! Come on, quickly!” “I’m not asking you to trust me. After all, after what happened to you, this is quite natural,” Quentin noted, holding his hands out in front of him in a protective gesture and smiling slightly nervously. “I ask you to at least just calm down. Your throat hurts. If you scream, you may lose your voice altogether.” Catching Aaron’s gaze, Quentin gave him an encouraging half-nod and handed him the glass. “Aaron, did you want to get dad some water? I’ll go check the door.” Aaron took the glass and sat closer to his father. He narrowed his eyes and looked at Quentin like a predator, after which, frowning, he turned his gaze to Aaron. Aaron silently held out the glass and held his father’s head, helping him drink. When Peterson stopped greedily gulping down the liquid, he wiped a couple of drops that had flowed down his chin. All this time they did not say a word. In fact, over the past year they have barely exchanged three or four dozen words. Both preferred to remain silent, because conversation would inevitably lead them to Mia. Only with the appearance of Quentin in their lives was such an unspoken agreement broken. Aaron put the half-empty glass on the dresser. Theodore raised his eyebrows, noticing his son’s intense gaze, and raised his hands, as if hinting to untie them. However, to his surprise, Aaron shook his head and backed away. “Son?” Peterson could not contain his surprise and even shock. He pulled the rope more demandingly, and Aaron sobbed, but did not move from his place. “Don’t be stupid!” “No,” Aaron took another step towards the door. “I believe him.” “Who? This lousy…” Peterson remembered who he was talking to and bit his tongue. “He could have brought others with him,” he spat. “But he didn’t bring it!” “You stupid child!” “And you… you… you’re just stupid!” Aaron stubbornly raised his chin and flashed his wet eyes angrily. “You’re always paranoid, you see enemies everywhere!.. Aren’t you tired? I don’t want you to kill Quentin because he’s helping us!” “It helps, but not from a good heart! There are no good people in Raven Brooks,” Peterson Sr. growled dully. “I believe him,” Aaron repeated decisively and left. The father shouted something after him, but the boy no longer listened to him. He sat down on a staircase nearby and thought, resting his chin on his palms.

***

At first, Quentin wanted to just stand near the door so that, if anything happened, he could help Aaron, but, noticing how the man calmed down alone with his son, he decided not to eavesdrop and actually go check the building. Raven Brooks was a mysterious, dangerous place. Local residents proved to him more than once that trusting someone here was not the wisest thing to do. The hall greeted the journalist with coolness from the wide open door, which seemed to shout to all uninvited guests: “Welcome!” And how come no one took the chance? Shaking his head, Quentin walked towards her. The feathers of a metal crow creaked under his feet, reminding him of recent events and involuntarily making the journalist think about the possible negative consequences that awaited him and Aaron if the stuffed animal had not fallen… “It’s a strange place to hide,” Quentin noted mentally, closing the heavy oak door again and bolting it. “In plain sight… We’ll have to stay together, in plain sight of each other. We need to find Aaron another place to sleep!” Chewing his lip thoughtfully, Quentin carefully looked out the window, slightly moving the thin curtain to the side. Going to the studio during the day and lugging a spare mattress was quite a chore; it was worth holding off on for now. But it was still worth running for food. And when it gets dark, it would be time to take a few necessary things to the museum. “Aaron!” Quentin called, turning around and noticing the boy’s disheveled head, and hurried to him to warn him that he was going to go grocery shopping. But in the heat of joy from a new idea, the man forgot about the broken boards on the stairs and, with a loud crash, fell somewhere down, under it. Fortunately, there were no major injuries. Only his bruised butt hurt, and his sweatshirt tore a little on the side. Aaron jumped when he heard a crash nearby. Even Peterson Sr. fell silent in the room, listening to what was happening. “Quentin?” Aaron followed the cloud of dust that rose from where the journalist had broken the stairs and rushed towards it, carefully stomping down the steps. “You are alive?” Perhaps this was not the highest fall in Quentin’s life. Even if you compare it only with a fall during an investigation. Rising to his feet and brushing himself off, Quentin quickly hurried to reassure Aaron: “It’s okay! It’s not high here!” “But it’s pretty narrow,” Quentin sighed and mechanically leaned against the wall to get more comfortable. But, to my surprise, he did not find any walls at hand. With a short “A-ah!” the man fell forward to his knees. The cold autumn air immediately hit his face, forcing poor Quentin to almost suffocate on it. It was this moment that the long-term dust chose to suddenly rise into the air and force the unfortunate prisoner, among other things, not only to cough, but also to sneeze. Suddenly jumping to his feet, crashing his head into the wall along the way, Quentin jumped out of his captivity like a bullet, leaving whole heaps of dust behind him. Aaron, who had reached the hole and was cautiously looking inside, recoiled and fell on his butt on the step. “What? What’s there?” he whispered in fear, not understanding why Quentin jumped out of there so abruptly. Is there really something dangerous there? Snakes, spiders, poisonous gases or even guardians of the forest? “Cough! Cough!” Clearing his throat, Quentin croaked in response. For some time he did not answer, shaking off the dust from his face and regaining his breathing, after which he also collapsed onto the step and shared his find: “There’s some kind of tunnel there. Apparently, it leads… Cough, cough!.. to the street…” “Tunnel?” Aaron turned even paler, although he already resembled a sad ghost. “This is not good,” he said quietly, backing away from the hole. “It’s very, very bad… Once upon a time, under our house, I found a tunnel, and it… it was…” Aaron shook his head and hid behind a stuffed bear, cowering fearfully. In that tunnel, he saw his father and his once best friend, but did not want to talk about it. That friend was found dead a year later in Golden Apple Park, and Aaron didn’t want to think that his father was involved. Then he left them to sort out their relationship in that tunnel, and since then no one has seen the best friend of the Peterson family. And, by the way, his name was also Quentin… “Damn freak! What are you doing there with my son?!” Peterson Sr. barked hoarsely from the bedroom, unable to stand the hanging silence. Mr. Peterson’s question, alas, never received an answer, as it fell on deaf ears of the journalist, who was slightly stunned by the fall and blow. After wiping the layer of dust off his glasses with the tip of his shirt, Quentin looked around, searching for Aaron. “Tunnel? What do you mean, the basement?” The man wanted to clarify, but, noticing how scared Peterson Jr. was, he decided to hold off on the question for now. Carefully approaching the boy’s hiding place, Quentin squatted down to be level with the child and smiled reassuringly. “It’s okay, Aaron. This is another tunnel. More like… ventilation,” he calmly explained and hesitantly touched the other person’s shoulder with his palm, offering his tactile support. This was reassuring to many people, and Quentin really hoped that Aaron, on the other hand, did not have a trigger in this regard. Aaron, however, hugged him back completely sincerely. Despite all the differences with his father, an evening filled with hugs was their annual tradition. Aaron lacked tactile sensations, and Theodore made up for them as best he could. Usually. Ever since they began to notice the presence of another person in the museum, their hugs became rare. Peterson Sr. began to be overcome by paranoia and mild panic attacks, and Peterson Jr. fell into a slight melancholy and began to remember his dead sister more often. Having received no answer, Theodore swore obscenely and, judging by the loud crash, began to break down the rare bed. Quentin returned the hug readily, carefully wrapping his arms around the boy and patting him on the shoulder in a friendly manner. The man greatly appreciated such expressions of feelings and was always ready for a response. He was also glad that Aaron was willing to make contact. Otherwise everything would have been much more complicated. When the boy pulled away slightly, Quentin quietly asked: “Tell me, do you have a favorite toy?” “Favorite toy?” it seemed that Aaron simply needed to ask everything twice. “No…” he blushed slightly. “Is that bad?” He always carried a Mia doll with him. Even now it was kept in his bosom. But that didn’t mean she was his favorite toy. On the contrary, Aaron literally hated her. But that’s all he has left of Mia. “No, it’s not bad,” Quentin replied good-naturedly. “This is quite normal. I just thought that… We could find ourselves a toy-amulet. In some book I read that they help their human friend become more confident and brave. You know, I didn’t believe in it either. But Then my toy helped me overcome my fear of the dark and even the neighbor’s pony,” the journalist sincerely shared. Memories of the old farm pony still scared the man out of his wits. Aaron didn’t ask about the pony. He remembers his friend Nick being scared out of his wits by the llamas when they stole the sign on the farm, what seemed like years ago. Farm animals could be very scary. “What kind of toy did you have?” he asked with faint interest, tilting his head to the side. “I remember it was a fluffy gray cat,” Quentin shared, remembering his good old friend from childhood. “Of course, now he is no longer fluffy and gray… But once upon a time he definitely was.” After a pause, Quentin asked: “Do you think your dad will eat anything, or should we wait until he calms down a little and make him some health broth?” “Health broth?” Aaron raised his eyebrows. “I don’t know,” he repeated again. “Father hasn’t been eating well lately…” he trailed off, trying to remember the last time Peterson Sr. ate properly. Last month? A year ago? Even before mom died? “He’s generally a bad eater,” the boy got out, not remembering. And the sounds from the bedroom became even louder, only now heavy breathing joined them. After all, Peterson Sr. was no longer young and also had some limits of endurance. “What is health broth?” Aaron clarified, listening intently to these sounds. “Is this something calming?” After a particularly loud sound from the room, Quentin involuntarily flinched and instinctively glanced in his direction. Fortunately, the ropes were doing their job so far, and Peterson was trapped for now. Swallowing, Quentin turned his gaze to Aaron and nodded, looking at him seriously. Judging by the boy’s eyes, he will not be against such medicine. “Health Broth is a warming soup that will help your dad get some sleep and beat his cold.” Rising to his feet, the journalist extended his hand to Aaron, inviting him to come with him. “I need help preparing it… Shall we make it together?” Just like then, a few hours ago in the attic, Aaron looked warily at someone else’s palm before offering his own. He liked Quentin’s hands. They were warm, slightly sweaty, true, but so… soft, or something. And at the same time very tenacious. Unlike his father’s hard and sometimes even cruel hands, Quentin’s limbs did not try to control him. They gently led forward, giving support rather than control. “I don’t know how to cook,” Aaron clarified just in case when they arrived in the kitchen. Peterson Sr. remained upstairs, and some part of Aaron felt sorry for him. But he also understood that if he was released, Theodore would immediately kill Quentin, and he himself would be dragged away by the scruff of the neck and hidden somewhere else. There were reasons for this behavior, but Aaron still didn’t like being a puppy being dragged around. “It’s okay. Me… too. We’ll learn,” Quentin supported, as always optimistically, feeling simply boundless joy that Aaron had trusted him for the second time that day. The only hard thing left is not to ruin the relationship that has arisen between them and to find a way to help the Peterson family by learning the truth. Unfortunately, there was no more food in the kitchen since their last visit. But Quentin conveniently remembered where he could get ingredients for soup without going far enough from the museum…