Bloodbath–Missing Scene–Starsky

Starsky’s thoughts as he waits for Hutch’s rescue from the Marcos cult.

He was alone.

They had finally, finally left him alone.

When he no longer heard them or felt their presence, he had pried his eyes open to see what was going on. He had quickly squeezed them shut again—Marcus’ goons were gone, but the walls of the cave or wherever he was were moving, pulsing in and out in time with his pounding heart. The flames from the torches scattered throughout the cavern seemed to jump and dance, racing toward him, trying to burn him again. But the freaks were all gone, at least for the time being. They obviously felt he was no threat, would be unable to run or get away—‘didn’t even leave a girl to guard me this time,’ he thought. Taking inventory of the way he felt, he knew they were right. He hurt too much. He lay curled on his side where the freak had shoved him, knees still drawn to his chest, his stomach still feeling as though it was trying to digest shards of broken glass. ‘Whatever was in that water really did a number on me’–attacking his gut, distorting his vision and other senses, and leaving him too weak to move. The beatings he had suffered earlier didn’t help much, either. His head ached, vying for attention with the pain in his wrists, arms and shoulders from being tied for so long.

They had played with him. From the bath to the bear to waiting for him at the top of the steps of the cave, they had played with him, like a cat plays with a mouse. Just for a moment, after fighting with the “keeper of the flame,” he had allowed himself to think maybe he would make it, maybe he could get away, but it was all a set-up. Two of them had grabbed him again, and both were armed, so he’d had no choice but to go with them, back down into the bowels of this hell.

He was going to die. The “keeper” had told him so, grabbing him by the hair and forcing him to look into his face. That face, like the pulsing walls, had been distorted, huge in the middle, fading into blackness around the edges. ‘Like that whacko’s mug isn’t already ugly enough.’ But it was his eyes that scared the hell out of Starsky. They were dark, cold, dead and bottomless, just like the eyes of all the losers Marcus had made disciples of. They were dead to this world, living only to fulfill the sadistic dreams of their demented leader. He had seen Marcus’ handiwork, what these freaks were capable of, and it had given him nightmares. He hoped he could hang on, keep it together—he’d be damned if he’d give them the satisfaction of seeing his pain or his fear.

He was scared, God, he was scared. For hours and hours, he had held out hope, kept fighting, waiting for Hutch to arrive with the cavalry, to come and take him home. Now as he lay here, face in the sand, fighting to stay conscious, his hope was starting to fade, his bravado gone. They had taken him too far away, hidden him too well. ‘Hutch is the brains of the partnership’, he though wryly, but there was only so much even he could do. There wasn’t much time left–at sunrise, they were coming back for him, and then everything was ending.

Starsky could feel the poison moving through him, felt himself beginning to drift, to dream. ‘Probably gave me some of the same junk that fried their brains’—as he began to slip, to fall, as the dream finally claimed him he had one last, coherent thought: ‘Hurry, Hutch. Oh God, please hurry.’