The single lightbulb hanging from the ceiling switches off, and the room plunges into complete darkness, just as Max starts for a box.
Ugh.. this room simply can’t get any worse.
Unable to see a thing, Max begins feeling the air around him, trying to locate the boxes. He feels sticky blood all over his hands as he touches the wall, and he winces.
He manages to reach for a box, and opens it up. He digs into the box, and retrieves something that looks familiarly like..
A mask! Max sighs in relief. He hasn’t seen something so comforting in a long while. The mask reminds him of the Circus. Max wonders how everyone is doing, and if they realize he’s gone, and snaps out of it.
Focus. Okay. Fabulous.
Along with the mask, Max feels a thin wire. Hey, this could come in handy. Picking the lock on the door, maybe. Was there even a lock?
And then he feels it. The explosives. Max gulps.
Just when Rhoda was about to take one of the boxes, the lights go out.
.. Well, let’s see what we can still do.
She feels around for the box, which Neil is holding. She reaches in with her slightly sticky hands, and feels something thin. It’s curved, and has two holes.
Ah, a mask.
Max points out about the wire.
Hmm.. Good thinking. But we can’t see anything, how are we going to pick the lock?
She starts to look for something else in the box. She found something. It feels like.. A cylinder shape. With a thin.. Thing on the end.
Wire ta pick the lock, eh? Plumb fine thinkin’, y’all—reckon we can skedaddle faster ‘fore the bull charges.
Kidnappings, corpses, and blood—Neil had had enough, and a glimpse of light in the darkness was enough to fully lift his spirits. He really just wanted to get out of here and launch into a full investigation of this incident, so he can bring that bastard to the electric chair. He’d do whatever it took, and somehow, that old drive from the Joe Dark Murders was back, except with a difference: the guilty was nothing but, and Justice will be served.
Oh, we’ll think of somethin’, he replied to Rhoda as he took the coil of metal. First, where’s that damn door?
With his arm extended, the prosecutor blindly trudged through the blood, its volume and thickness enough to slow him down—it felt like walking through sand—but even that wasn’t enough to stop him.