Every Thursday here at http://www.iamliberty.wordpress.com stay tuned for another exciting chapter in Tom Locke’s story. Its not dystopian but, have mercy, its one man’s survival
His was a mind of mud, thick, like sludge sloshing back and forth in his brain. Before he opened his eyes his own body began to speak to him. Pain cried out from his leg. His lips were dry and cracked, dehydration. His neck was tight and sore as though it had been cricked in one position for a month. Most of all though his brain was lost. It was like a car traveling some dangerous cliff side road in a stifling fog. He wasn’t sure if perhaps he had been drugged or if the concussions and the blow from his captures hadn’t permanently knocked something loose.
As fuzzy as his mind so was his vision. He gathered himself slowly and sat up against the sturdiest thing in his vicinity. The world spun wildly. Almost simultaneously he felt the burning lump over his right eye and reached up to touch it. The weight and rattling of his chain startled him. His chain. One manacle tight around his right hand on a short, thick chain that was drilled into the wooden floor beneath him.
Tom Locke was now a prisoner. Before today he was a father, a business owner, a son and much more. Today had been very unfamiliar to him. He was a victim, a survivor, a prisoner. More than anything Tom had never spent more of his life in such imminent danger. A cadaver, that was the one thing he would not become.
He was also not alone. As he probed the dark room his eyes were drawn to the stray light of early morning coming through two windows that on either side of the structure. It was made of wood. This was some cabin in the woods. The hills of West Virginia home to a prison for scarf headed militants that were either posing as Jihadists, Islamists or ISIS henchmen. The only other explanation was that this was a group of wannabes trying to walk a similar path for Allah.
The figures around him were in the shadows. Shackled like them and he heard their rattling as they moaned a bit at his expression.
“Where are we? What is this?”
A voice came from the corner of the room. It was tired but audible.
“Keep your voice down. They will torture us if we are too loud. We are here for their pleasure whether that means using the women or beating and cutting the men. So please just keep it down. Our silence is the only peace we get.”
That familiar sensation of adrenaline pumped through his body again this time it was followed not by fear but by anger.
Tom spoke in a whisper, “Who are they?”
The worn voice from the darkness responded, “They are everything….everything we were warned about.”
At the far end of this old cabin in the West Virginian hills sat a door. The door. The pathway to their only vestige of freedom. At this point, however, that handle began to rattle and the beast on the other side was about to rear its ugly head.