Midnight

Chapter 3

     "Why won't you drip?" Pierce whispered under his breath as he stared at the cracked ceiling of his cell. A frozen splotch, of what once had been water, was nestled in the corner of the cell and one of the drips had frozen mid-drip. For days, Pierce had stared at the phenomenon with much interest; his utter terror had transitioned into boredom.

     He had no idea how long he had been in the possession of the Black Dragon. Desmond guessed that it might have been a week or more, and he had counted about five days since his last "treatment" by Dr. Harrison. His days had been spent staring out the window, at the admittedly beautiful mountain range, and laying on the cot huddling for warmth. Although it somehow seemed much warmer inside the cell than outside, the window at the far end was practically a gateway inviting all the cold in. Desmond's hands had turned a pale-white and some feeling had been lost in most of his fingers. In order to keep them warm, he would rub them together or stick them between his legs; a method he had learned while watching a wilderness survival T.V. show.

     There was a creak and the daily morsels of sour-tasting food were thrown in. Desmond got up and, with his vastly-deteriorating strength, crawled over to the far wall and made himself eat the disgusting grub. It had taken awhile but he had decided that, since it was the only food he had access to, eating the sour particles was better than starving to death. Desmond suppressed himself from throwing up while he wolfed down the last piece and drank the cup of water that had been provided. It tasted unusual, but Desmond did not care because he was so thirsty. When he was done, he crawled back onto his cot and closed his heavy eyes. His mind drifted back to the leader of the Black Dragon and he wondered what their true intentions were.

     "Let me go!" a muffled voice said down the hall.

     "Shut up!" one of the guards yelled. "Where do I put her? There's no room!"

     "Throw her in with Pierce," another guard answered. "I heard his cell would be vacating shortly."

     Desmond's stomach turned into a knot at the words from the guard. There was some scuffling and the iron door was thrown open. A figure was tossed in and then the door abruptly closed again; accompanied by several clicks as locks were slid in place. The figure squirmed on the ground against bondages and what appeared to be a brown bag thrown over their head. Desmond lifted his head as his new partner tore through the bondages with difficulty and threw off the sack.

     "Who are..." Desmond started, but stopped when a mess of tangled brown hair tumbled out of the sack and down to the prisoner's mid-back.

     "Oh, that is so much better," the woman remarked,  rubbing her eyes.

     Desmond blinked back surprise, "Uh, hello?"

     The woman looked over at Desmond and immediately threw herself backward.

     Desmond sat up in his cot, cradling his frost-bitten hands, "So, what's your story?"

     The woman shook her head, "You? It can't be you..."

     He raised his eyebrows, "Why? Excited to see me?"

     "Desmond Pierce," she whispered, "was killed two weeks ago. Platinum Tower was bombed...he issued the threat."

     "Two weeks?" Desmond moaned. "I thought it had only been one!"

     "You...you..." the woman mumbled, "idiot!"

     "What?" Desmond asked.

     "Your playboy fanatics made you a target!" the woman hissed. "You're here because you angered the world. You're the reason he hates America."