The jail was so cold. You could practically smell the fear; over the blood, tears, and plain filth, anyway.
I sat scared and shivering on the metal floors, hugging my legs, hungry and thirsty. I missed my parents to death. Heck, I missed my life. I didn't know how long ago I was placed here, but I missed the moments right before when I was wearing paint-splattered jeans, a blue tee, and an olive bomber jacket, painting away my high school years. Now I was wearing an ugly striped prison jumpsuit. I'd already cried myself dry. The only thing I could do was breathe, shiver, relive my free moments, and wait for the guards to fling some grotesque meat-resembling food into my cell.
"Cass?" Mallory croaked from her cell. "The guards are gone..."
"Huh?" I stumbled to get up and see. Usually, the guards were there to beat us when we stood; but here we were, talking, and they were nowhere to be found. I turned to my left, opposite to where they had brought me in, and there were flames. The guards were there, looking stunned, awkwardly trying to do something. Then the fire alarms roared, and each cell door popped open.
"Run! Get out of here!" A female voice yelled. I searched to where it came from, and I came to a startling conclusion:
There was a person in the heart of flames.
And they were running around and clicking locks open like it was no big deal!
I tried to shake that idea out of my mind, and dashed down the prison hall, following all of the other kids. People hugged, cried out whatever they had left, cheered, danced; whatever you could do to celebrate while running from a brutal prison, we did.
The pit in my stomach shrunk, and was filled by the adrenaline racing through me.
Freedom!
I was so grateful, I could cry if I wasn't so dehydrated. But awful questions struck me on the mad dash: where was home? Where were my parents? Why were we imprisoned? What cruel creature would do this to kids?
And as usual, Mallory didn't care. "How do we get home from here?" She smiled, hopefully, and tears made streaks on her dirty cheeks.
"Home is gone." A weaselish boy informed us. "It's been bombed, burned, evacuated; whatever the dase, it's unsafe and you're not going back. We'll explain later, but we're taking you to the safest place."
"Where?" I asked, breathlessly and heartbroken.
"Garfunkel's."
That fancy department store?
