Water dripped in steady rhythms against the cement floor. The rusted pipes overhead hummed and groaned with age. Dank must permeated the air, faint traces of mold lingering in corners. Slivers of light fell into the shadowed room from a high up window.
His head pounded, sledgehammers being rammed mercilessly in his skull. His body felt raw and beaten, protesting with the slightest movement. He sucked in a deep breath only to have his ribs cry out; a few were broken, but he wasn't healing. His tongue was as rough as sandpaper, throat arid and on fire. He couldn't recall the last time he'd drank or eaten anything at all, and the hollowness in his stomach was painful.
He lifted his head weakly, groaning against the leather gag in his mouth. His hands were chained up above his head, wrapped around one of the stronger pipes on the ceiling. Thin blue and red cords circled down his arm, twisting around his abdomen and connecting to a small metal box sitting delicately on a wooden table. His clothes were tattered from being kept in the hell hole for days, maybe even weeks; who knew how long he'd been unconscious?
His eyes felt heavy and burned from the acrid air. It was hard to breathe properly in such a filthy place, the chemicals and waste far too strong. He sputtered against his binds, jerking his arms halfheartedly. His body sluggishly cooperated, as if numbed and immobilized. Had he been drugged? Kidnapped? That didn't make any since to him, not in the slightest. What motive could anyone have of taking him? Ransom? Or could someone possibly know….
He dismissed the thought. If anyone knew what he really was he'd be dead already…unless they wanted something from him. He didn't want to accept that that was the reason, but as the minutes ticked by it became more and more likely. He closed his eyes and let his chin rest against his chest again, breathing slowly to remain calm. He needed to assess the situation.
Somewhere above his head people walked and chatted idly; none of which was connected to him. Based on the nauseating smell of urine and ammonia, he was somewhere underground, an old tunnel perhaps. The people above had no idea that he was down there, let alone starving and partially dehydrated. He was chained up pretty tight and for some chilling reason unable to break the binds; his mouth was gagged, stopping him from howling for help or simply yelling. It struck him that his scent would probably be masked fairly well, the longer he was down here. Whoever had kidnapped him had been very smart…
Jackson grunted in frustration and squeezed his eyes shut against the dizziness that suddenly swept through his bones. He couldn't remember anything. The last thing he could recall was hugging the little sister he never knew existed. He had just pulled her into his arms, had been running his hand through her silky blonde hair and scenting her when…when… the black van jumped the curb and he jumped back, clutching the little girl to his chest. Her skinny arms encircled his neck, somewhat constricting his airflow. He pushed the frightened fourteen year old behind his back, shielding her from the unknown threat. "Jackson…" her voice quivered.
Then the door of the van slid open and his chest exploded in agony. He felt like he was being shredded piece by piece, his bones splintering. His vision swam and he crumpled to his knees. Rebecca was gripping his arm, shaking and calling his name. He could sense her there, but his body was going numb, his mind falling under the surface. Then her hands were being torn from him and he crumpled, his face bouncing off the cement. Her screams ricocheting off the very confines of his brain. He wanted to reach out to her, to save her, but instead he coughed up blood. He gritted his teeth against the pain but he felt himself sinking beneath the surface. But before the darkness overtook him he heard the deafening pang of a gunshot.
Rebecca…no, no she couldn't be dead. She was too young, she'd been innocent. His mind raced through the possibilities. She could have survived, could be in a hospital. Or maybe she'd escaped altogether and the gunshot had been a poor attempt to subdue her. Yes, he would hold on to that until he got out of there- if he ever got out.
A large metal door creaked and he fixed his eyes warily upon it. Dust billowed out as it was forced open, reaffirming his suspicion that he'd been left down here for some days. Harsh light flooded his eyes, but worse of all was the mixture of mountain ash, death, and aconite. It was repulsive, making him whimper as the figure shuffled in. He turned his head, exposing his neck in submission and squeezing his eyes yet again. Talon like fingers grabbed his jaw and snapped his head front and center again.
"Look at me boy or the girl will suffer." His breath was rancid and smelled of blood and decay. Jackson unwillingly pried his eyes open and stared into hard, gray ones, tinged a sickly yellow. The man's lips curled in a sneer, revealing cracked and yellowing teeth. "Well good afternoon Mr. Whittemore…we have much to discuss." His voice came out as a spine tingling hiss and Jackson felt true fear grip his heart.