“I’ll stay in the corner. You won’t even hear me,” I beg.
“Get in the fucking hole.” He waves the gun around in a wide circle and a shot rings out.
I fall to my knees and cover my ears as the blast echoes in the deserted woods. No one from inside comes to inspect the noise, and eventually, Jimmy kicks me in the back, pushing me to the ground completely.
“The next one is for you,” he growls out each word.
“Okay. Okay.” I crawl to the hole and swing my legs out in front of me to slide down into the dark abyss.
With a deep breath, I close my eyes and sink. My feet hit the dirt floor with a slight thud and I pitch forward, sticking my hands out to keep from falling.
CHAPTER FOURTEEN
Light spills from overhead, illuminating a small section of the dirt cellar. It doesn’t help.
“Have fun, sweetheart,” Jimmy says, dropping the door over the tiny opening and plunging me into total blackness.
“Help!” I scream.
Jumping as high as possible with my arms stretched out, I push on the door. It barely budges. My efforts allow a small streak of light to shine through the opening then nothing as the door drops again. “Shit.”
I try a second time with no more success. My feet make contact with the dirt floor unevenly, and I’m forced to step forward. Wet, cold dirt smears over my fingers.
“Ewww.” I hope it’s only dirt.
Thoughts of screaming continue to float in and out of my mind, but it won’t do any good. There’s no one around to hear me but bad guys. Quickly, the silence settles around my feet like a thick fog as I do my best not to move. The adrenaline from my kidnapping and being thrown in a dirt hole fades as my imminent demise is no longer staring me in the face in the form of a gun barrel. Panic replaces it, and my calm demeanor disappears.
A cold-feelingthingruffles the hair on the back of my head, dragging over and around.
“Oh my god.” I turn and bat away at the mystery attacker. Flashbacks from the movie Arachnophobia push me deep down a hole of fear. The silent attacker whacks me in the forehead. I slap it away, but it swings back, hitting me between the eyes.
It swings back?
I stop flailing and let my arms fall. The suspected vicious beast smacks me in the face twice more—softer each time. On the third bounce, it stops, resting against my forehead and nose.
With slow fingers—ready to attack again if I need to—I snatch the cord from my face. The cool, beaded, metal chain reminds me of a light pull cord.
Because it is.
I tug, hopeful the force won’t cause the whole roof to cave in, burying me in the process.
A light flickers.
Turns off.
Flickers again before turning on completely.
Sadly, having light doesn’t improve my view. There’s a lot of dark brown dirt. A few smaller tree roots stick out of the makeshift walls, but they don’t look strong enough to use to hoist myself out, even if I could get the door open.
To the left, someone has installed three shelves. They’re braced against the wall but leaning slightly forward. A few mason jars of canned food rest against the edge of the top shelf. I doubt the criminals upstairs have taken up canning.
The important item is on the bottom shelf of the plastic unit. A wooden crate flipped upside down and dusty from nonuse. Above me the sound of something dragging echoes from the far corner of the ceiling. Muffled yelling seeps through the walls.
I carefully pull the crate from the shelving unit, aware that if I can hear them, they can hear me. A door slams shut, and I freeze, the crate held out in front of me.
“Put him with the nurse until I decide what to do with him,” a deep voice yells above me.
Moving quickly, I drop the crate on the dirt floor and take a few large steps back to the light, pulling on the cord, sending the cellar into darkness. There’s bumping sounds, a door closing again, and then scraping on the cellar door.
