His victims were travelers lost in the passes: a Turkish truck driver, a young German backpacker, and most recently, Nino, a Georgian ethnomusicologist who had come to record ancient polyphonic songs.
To her right, on a parallel table, lay the German, Lukas. His eyes were wide with a terror beyond screaming. Between them, a clear plastic tube glistened wetly. Nino tried to turn her head the other way. There was the Turkish driver, Mehmet. His lips had been cut away, stitched into a permanent, weeping O. And behind him, leading from Lukas’s mouth to Mehmet’s anus, was another tube.
Then Nino saw a chance. A shard of glass from a broken window lay near the end of the hall. As Zurab turned to adjust the tubing, she lunged forward, scraping her bound wrists on the sharp edge. The glass cut into her skin, but she didn't care. She sawed. One strand of plastic snapped.
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