Chapter 3: The Prisoner

Morgan had a little less than an hour and a half left in her shift, but she wasn't sure.

In fact, she wasn't sure about anything other than she was panicking.

Shit shit shit shit shit. What do I do? What do I do? How do I get out of here? Shit shit shit

There were only two ways out of the room she was sitting in. She could either go out through the porch, where the two soldiers were standing, or go downstairs and face whatever else was waiting for her. Neither option was ideal. She was just a girl, an average girl who liked Netflix and Chinese take-out way too much to have any athletic prowess. She couldn't outrun them, and she couldn't fight them. She didn't know who they were or why they were there or what would happen if they found her.

She decided that hiding was her best option.

Morgan slunk across the wall, finding one of the workbenches. She slid down and sat, shoving the chair away from the bench. She scooted across the ground and wedged herself underneath the bench, her head down and her legs tucked up to her chest. She wrapped her arms around her knees, feeling them tap together with nervous tremors. She figured she could stay there for as long as she needed to and nobody would even notice her. She hoped that they wouldn't stay long, maybe just rest or rob the place, and then go. They could do or take whatever they wanted, just as long as they left as soon as possible and didn't bother coming up the stairs.

Morgan extended one of her feet, feeling her shoe hit something metal. She reached her hand down, recoiling at the feeling of something sharp. She reached down again, this time more gingerly, and found her hands wrapped around a pair of clippers. Her own clippers were downstairs, probably still sitting on the table, used for trimming stems and dead leaves. This pair must not have been used much, for it was relatively clean and still very sharp. Morgan counted herself lucky, for if she had put her hand down an inch to the left, there would probably be blood. She held the clippers tightly to her chest.

Well, I guess if I have to fight someone, I'm armed.

Sound came flying up from the first floor. Morgan immediately froze, forcing every muscle in her body to remain still. She took slow breaths, trying to be quiet. Her head leaned on the wall that held the stairs, and she was able to hear some things from downstairs. She heard a flurry of boot steps, muffled talking, and a few other noises. She couldn't count the people, but she knew there were a lot of them and all of the voices were male. The sounds continued for a while, combining together, noisy and difficult to decipher. Then suddenly, the boots stopped. She could hear one of the chairs being moved, its legs scraping across the hard floor, landing on its desired spot with a loud thud. The boot steps began again, only this time fewer of them moved. They went quieter, as if they left the room, those who remained in the room dropped their voices, whispering amongst themselves. The footsteps returned, accompanied by a scraping sound, as if something was being dragged across the floor. There was another thud and another flurry of movement, the chair legs digging in and scratching across the floor with an ear-piercing shriek. The murmuring rose for a few moments before dropping off, going quiet. Despite the amount of people downstairs, it was perfectly still. Morgan could swear she could hear her own heart beat.

"Well, well, we finally have you."

A male voice, dark, deep, and full of venom, rang out in the silent shop. Morgan straightened her legs, her feet extending out into the light. She slid sideways, trying to get closer to the entrance of the stairs. Her curiosity was overriding her fright, the need to know more important than self-protection.

There was some laughter after his statement. Morgan shuddered, realizing what was going on.

They have a prisoner. Morgan gulped, the fear rising. There is an army with a prisoner in my flower shop. What the actual hell…

"You thought you could get away from us. We chased you all over Oz, and yet somehow we kept losing you. We got so tired of finding you and you evading us, or us capturing you and you escaping. But now—" His voice brimmed with satisfaction, "— we are in a different world entirely. You can't get away from us this time."

It took Morgan a moment to realize what he had said.

Oz? Did he really just say Oz? Like the Wizard of Oz? Really?

She pondered for a moment, remembering the pattern that was embroidered on the back of the soldier's uniforms. Morgan had assumed it was a zero, but now that she really thought about, she could see the O and the Z.

That's insane. Oz isn't real. Unless there is some city named Oz that I don't know about. Yeah, that's it, there has to be a city or a town or something named Oz, although I don't know of one in this state…

"So I get nothing then?" the voice continued. "No harsh words, no sarcastic remarks, nothing? Pity, I was growing fond of your sharp tongue."

Morgan heard another laugh, one that caused her to stop her racing thoughts and really focus. This laugh was different, higher, cutting through the air like a knife. This one was—

Morgan swallowed hard.

- female.

"I was just waiting patiently." The female voice was sharp and rough, speaking with fire and defiance. Morgan couldn't see her, but could almost feel the glare the soldier was getting from her.

"It's not my fault that you wouldn't shut up long enough for me to get a word in."

Morgan jumped, ramming into the wall at the sudden percussive sound that halted the conversation. The silence returned only for a brief second before the female voice began to laugh again.

"Really Captain, didn't you ever learn that it's not polite to strike a lady?"

Oh Christ in heaven, he just hit her. They have a prisoner and it's a girl and they're hitting her and oh my god…

"That rule only applies if the one I'm striking happens to be a lady."

"And I supposed that rules only applies to gentlemen, which you are most certainly not."

There was another noise, another sound of the prisoner being hit. Morgan curled back up on herself again, feeling sick to her stomach. She was hiding under a table, unable to leave, unable to do anything but try to calm the trembling that seemed to have taken over her body.

Oh my god Oh my god Oh my god

Morgan heard a deep sound, almost like a growl.

"Fine then, if you can't be respectful, then I guess I'll have to teach you."

A hit, this time less sharp, deeper in tone, cut the silence. It lacked the reverberation of a slap; Morgan guessed it was made by a fist. The other guards were laughing now, the raucous noise echoing up the stairs and through the second floor. Another hit, this time followed by a cracking sound and coughing. More laughter. Another hit, then another, and another. More uproarious laughter, now with unintelligible jeers, more coughing, the sound of something wet hitting the floor. The sounds continued on rotation, repeating over and over like a broken record. The beating seemed like it went on for hours. Morgan felt the bile rise and settle in her throat, biting her lip in an effort to keep the urge to vomit down. She was shaking very badly, tremors riding up and down her muscles, her body refusing to sit still and stay quiet. Her stomach tied itself up in knots, her nerves on full alert, shooting fear throughout her limbs and through her brain.

I'm trapped, she thought helplessly. I'm trapped. I can't get out. They're downstairs. They have a prisoner and they're beating her and they're laughing and there are so many of them…and oh no, what will I do if they find me? What will they do if they find me?

Morgan rested her head on her knees, noticing that her eyes were stinging with the tears. She felt paralyzed, like the fear had nailed her to the spot.

What do I do? What do I do? I don't even know what's going on and I don't know what to do! I'm trapped I'm trapped I'm trapped…

Morgan was so far into panic mode that she hadn't noticed that the awful chorus of noises had stopped. She picked her head back up and wiped the tears away on the back of her hand.

"What should we do with her?"

"Leave her. Hopefully she's learned her lesson and will be a bit more cooperative. Make sure someone is guarding her at all times. Do not take your eyes off of her. We're taking no chances."

Morgan heard the flurry of footsteps once again, the sound leaving the workroom. The soldiers, at least, the majority of them, were now elsewhere in the shop. Seeing as the doorbell stayed silent, she figured they were still inside, and weren't leaving anytime soon. She heard a few solitary steps, these slower and more profound. They stopped, and then a shuffle was heard, along with a small grunt.

"You might as well give up," the male voice said, his voice dripping with spite. "The more you fight us, the more pain you will receive. And trust me, there are many things we can do to you."

Morgan felt like her entire body was filled with static. She didn't know if it was nerves, or fear, or something else, but the feeling crawled across her skin, sending goosebumps up and down her arms.

"Remember how this feels, bitch. Remember this and realize that it can be much worse. Be warned, for once I have no use for you, I'll throw you to my men and let them have their way with you. They've been wanting a chance to get their hands on you for some time now."

Morgan's eyes widened, almost bugging out of her head. She put both hands to her mouth, stifling the quick intake of breath and the sound of shock she made. The words of absolute horror that appeared inside her head had almost escaped through her mouth. The soldier's words had shot the fear through her like a bullet and made her feel like throwing up. There was no mistaking that threat.

"There is nothing you can do," the man spat. "No one can help you now."

Morgan suddenly felt as if she was struck by lightning.

She held the clippers in her right hand, her thumb gliding across the handle, opening and closing the razor sharp blades with a few swift motions. She looked up, surveying the handle, feeling an entirely new emotion course through her veins. The fear was still there, still pulsing and swirling in her belly, but it had been pushed down. Adrenaline was now racing through her, igniting a fire under her skin. Her muscles clenched, urging her to get up, to move. Her heart beat thudded, not skittish and nervous, but intent and strong. Her eyes narrowed, her face contorted, suddenly and swiftly overcome by a fiery rage that she had never experienced in her life.

Morgan dangled the clippers between her fingers, a sick smile crossing her lips. She had no idea where this feeling came from, or how it came to her, but she didn't care. It didn't matter who these men were, or what they wanted, or why they were here. It didn't matter where they were from or why they chose her shop to hide in of all places. It didn't matter who this female prisoner was or why they needed almost a dozen men to keep an eye on her. All she knew is that there were intruders in her shop. They had a prisoner, they hurt her, and they were going to do much worse. Morgan had been very afraid, and although she still was, she was now completely and utterly pissed off.

Oh really, no one can help? She thought, almost laughing to herself. We'll see about that.