Up in Smoke (King #8)

Thinking you’re going to die one minute and live the next is downright exhausting. I’m emotionally and mentally drained when I hear doors open, and I’m pulled from the vehicle. The blindfold is ripped away. The bright light that’s creating a halo in my vision. Once my eyes focus, I can see the vehicle I was traveling in is an unmarked black van. Not the soccer-mom kind, but the industrial kind plumbers or electricians use. I’m set on my feet, but my legs are wobbly and my feet are still tethered at the ankles. I stumble but don’t fall, held up by the large warm palm of my captor.

Smoke braces my bicep with one hand and bends to cut away my restraints with the other.

“Are you this rough with everyone you kidnap?” I bite out. I realize it’s not smart to insult him. The Dr. Ida of my imagination is slapping a ruler against my palms.

“Sorry, I’m out of touch dealing with the living. Most people I encounter stop breathing after a few seconds. I’ll try to be more fucking gentle next time,” he says.

He’s being sarcastic, but it’s the truth in his words that hit me in the gut. He doesn’t usually kidnap people. He kills them.

There’s no aftercare involved in killing.

We’re in the middle of a field in front of a large U-shaped building with broken windows that looks as if it’s an abandoned school of some sort. Weeds, vines, and graffiti take up most of the chipped brick exterior. A dilapidated metal fence around the perimeter is missing entire sections I assume are somewhere under the thick brush growing between the chain links. The parts that are still standing have a metal slinky looking wire sitting at the top. Barbed wire. It’s not a school at all.

It’s a prison.

Or at least, it was.

There’s no sign of life. No sounds except the crunching of the brush under our feet as Smoke leads me over thick woven brush at least a foot high. I get caught up in it several times. My foot sinking to the bottom of the tangled vines and holding me there until Smoke cuts them away with a long, serrated knife from his belt, urging me forward into the building.

We enter through a car-sized hole in the side of the building. We climb over a steep pile of crumbled brick in order to get inside.

I stumble, my foot slipping on the brick several times until Smoke picks me up with ease, setting me back on my feet on the other side of the pile.

He nudges my shoulders, and I slowly move forward into the prison, his heavy footsteps follow closely behind, echoing off the walls as if there is more than one of him behind me.

We move deeper into the cellblock down a wide hall. The building is two stories. One row of cells on top of the other. A corroded staircase stands in the very middle of the large room. Furry brown dust and mold clings to the air ducts running the length of the ceiling. Rust peeks out through the dozens of layers of prison green paint peeling from the walls. Graffiti is everywhere, even high above the cells where I’m left wondering how on earth the artist got all the way up there.

Broken windows let in an occasional breeze that can’t be felt in the stagnant heat outside. A torn piece of paper floats across the floor in front of us like a prison tumbleweed. Warm air hits my sweaty skin. I shiver, the warmth doing nothing to stop the chill from stabbing its way through my skin down into my bones like an ice pick. My lower jaw vibrates. My teeth chatter so loudly the sound echoes around in my brain. To make it stop I clamp my jaw so tight I’m sure my teeth are about to crack.

It smells like death.

My stomach rolls.

Decay thickens the air and makes it hard to breathe. It’s more than just a smell. It’s a feeling. A feeling I fear I’ll never be able to rid from my nostrils or my thoughts. It sticks with me, covers me, cages me in as if I need a reminder that, like the many who’ve been here before, I am a prisoner.

Bits of paper and clothing are strewn about the cracked concrete floor. Thin dirty mattresses are everywhere except on the iron bed frames, the welds thick at the joints from multiple repairs. Some of the mattresses are leaning against the bottom of the stairs. Some are stacked in the middle of the hallway. Some just lay about at various angles with tears exposing their springs like corpses left in the very spot they died in.

There’s more graffiti here than on the outside of the building. Painted on the floor is a large red satanic star. I shut my eyes tightly as I cross over it. When I’m sure I’m clear I open my eyes again and look up to where an entire doorway of a cell appears to be stained in blood. A large splatter covers the right side, turning into thinner and thinner drip marks the further down the wall I look before turning into a black pool stain on the concrete.

Bile rises in my throat.

I can see the violence of the past all around me. It flutters in the air like ghosts surrounding me, making their presence known. They whisper in my ear, sliding across my prickly skin.

The breeze turns from warm to cold as the sun sets and the prison glows with a deep blue as the moon lights our way. I can hear the screams of the past. Banging against the bars. A last cry of whoever met their unfortunate end in that blood-stained cell.

“I’m not afraid,” I say out loud. I’m not sure if I’m talking to Smoke or myself. But even I don’t believe my own words.

Smoke chuckles, guiding me into a cell and slides the metal bars shut with a bang, creating a never-ending echo. He produces an ancient-looking key and locks the cell with a click that makes my heart jump in my chest.

The sun’s almost completely set now and the light through the windows is dim at best.

“No lights?” I ask.

The second the words leave my lips I know it’s a stupid question. The place barely has standing walls. Of course, it doesn’t have electricity.

“Don’t tell me you’re afraid of the dark,” Smoke says, tucking the key into his back pocket.

“No,” I lie. “I’m not afraid of anything. Not even the likes of you.”

The corner of his lip curls up into an evil, half-smile. He leans forward with his hands on the bars right above his head. He looks me up and down. His eyes widen. He looks hungry. Angry. Feral.

“Oh, hellion. I very much doubt that.”

I take a step back to gain more distance even though there are bars separating us.

“I've seen fear a million times in a thousand different ways,” Smoke says.

He pulls out the key once more and turns it in the lock. He’s inside the cell now.

I’m backing up and backing up until I’m trapped against the far wall.

Smoke approaches and leans down. He’s so close his nose is almost touching the place between my neck and ear.

“You can’t tell me you’re not afraid. I know fear when I see it.”

I’m trembling as he closes his eyes and inhales deeply running the tip of his nose runs across my skin.

“Fuck, I can smell it on you, kid.”

“Don’t call me a kid,” I seethe through my teeth.