Hostage

Three

The realization of what was happening dawned on Allison as she heard the car engine start with a low rumble.

She was being kidnapped. The stuff from movies and sad news stories was happening to her. Thoughts of her mother's smiling face, her best friend's wild laugh, and her boss's mean glare all flooded her brain. Would she ever see these people again?

What she once dismissed as normal, day to day occurrences, she now longed for. Laying on her now-aching shoulder in the hot, pitch-black of the trunk, she smelled coffee brewing in her tiny apartment kitchen, felt the buttons of her office keyboard on her fingertips, tasted the smooth, rich wine on her lips from a night in.

A crushing sense of hopelessness washed over her helpless form. She crumpled into herself as loud, violent sobs racked her body. She cried and yelled for help for what felt like hours, until her tears ran dry and she felt drained of all energy.

Her whole body ached from the unnatural position, and the shoulder baring all her weight screamed in pain. The plastic restraints had rubbed the skin around her wrists raw, and her head ached from weeping.

Along with this, the temperature in the small, dark space was swealtering. The Texas summer heat was magnified when encased in the unventilated casket. Sweat accumulated on her body, dripping down her forehead and plastering her clothes to her slender frame. The heat dried her mouth, parched lips panting, begging to be quenched.

As the heat and dehydration drained her body of what little energy it had left, Allison began to drift out of consciousness. Finally escaping this torturous nightmare, the girl drifted into an empty, dreamless sleep.

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The first thing she felt was cold, wet liquid on her face. Pouring into her parted lips, the water moistened the dehydrated tongue and throat it met. Like magic, the potion lured her conciseness, back from the depths of her brain.

Allison's eyes opened slowly, her vision blurry before adjusting and scanning her surroundings. She was laying on the floor in a small, dark room. The walls were of old, red brick and the floor was hard concrete. The only source of light came from a dim bulb hanging from the low ceiling, casting an amber glow throughout the space.

"An the sleepin' beauty finally wakes."

Her eyes shot up where a grimy man with a thin, spotty beard and a balding head stood holding a water bottle. He wore a stained, white shirt under faded overalls and he smiled a menacing, toothless grin.

Suddenly, the memory of recent events came flooding back to her, jolting throughout her body like a shock of electricity. Instinctively, Allison attempted to cross the room, but soon realized her efforts would be useless, as her ankle was shackled to a thick pipe stretching to the ceiling.

The ratty man cackled like a hyena, taking a step closer, "You aint' goin' no where, Honey Bun. That is, until the boss man wants you to."

Her body quivered with fear but she forced her voice to be steady, "Where am I?"

The grungy country man ignored her question and instead strolled across the room to where a latter was situated under a trap door in the ceiling.

She must be in a cellar somewhere.

"Speekin' a the boss. I should let him know you're up. He's been wantin' to talk to ya," he paused and chuckled at what he was about to say, "You stay right there.

He turned to leave before pausing to add,"Oh, an don't you bother hollerin', ain't no one around for miles to hear ya and you just gonna anger the ole boss, an trust me," his face turned serious, "you do not wanna anger that man."

He turned his back to the girl and began to climb up the short latter. The old wood moaned in protest as he pushed up the trap door, letting bright light pour into the room, before it slammed shut upon his exit.

Allison immediately began to examine her restraints. A thick, metal band was clasped tightly around her right ankle, with a long chain attached, wrapping several times around the upright pole before being held in place by a sturdy lock. She spent several minutes yanking and tugging on every inch of the manacle, hoping, by some miracle, there would be a weak link. To her crushing dismay, the shackle was unyielding.

"You won't have much luck with that."

Startled, she whipped around to see the man from the club positioned in the center of the cellar. His wide frame and sharp demeanor made the whole room seem smaller. Including herself.

The girl was speechless, stricken with a fear and anxiety like she had never experienced before.

"Let's have a little chat, shall we?" He asked, a wide, wicked smile stretching across his face.

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