Total pages in book: 74
Estimated words: 67663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 67663 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 338(@200wpm)___ 271(@250wpm)___ 226(@300wpm)
Some of them must have given trouble of some sort as they have a ball gag strapped across their mouths, and their hands have been moved behind their backs. The lethargy is evident in the body language of each of these girls, making me wonder if they are not being fed, if they have given up, or worse, if they are drugged like the two women we bought from Sandoval. The evidence of their bodily functions is visible on the blankets laid over the cement flooring inside the cages. They are naked, collared, chained, gagged, and helpless to escape the disgust in which they are trapped.
My questions are soon answered when one girls begins to shift in her cage. Her lips move as if she is calling out. Having no audio, we can’t tell what she is saying, making each of us feel more helpless.
A large man in a suit comes over to her cage. We watch as he pulls out a vile and needle and injects the girl with an unknown substance.
“Fuck!” I roar out my frustration as the girl immediately succumbs to the drug overtaking her system.
“Using the tattoos of some of the girls, I have been able to identify two of them. The camera is stationary, so my visibility inside the facility is currently limited.” Screech points to a blinking light in the corner of the computer monitor. “There are more cameras in the room. I have to hack into their feeds, and then we may be able to match up more girls. This shit takes time, but I’ll get in.”
“We don’t have fuckin’ time. They don’t have time. We need to know where they are as of yesterday!” Hammer states the obvious.
Staring at the gritty images in front of me, for the first time in my life, I am worried about failing. Because, if I do, these women will be thrust into the depths of an unescapable hell I wouldn’t wish upon anyone.
Morgan
The walls are closing in. At least, that is what it feels like as I look around my condo. Feeling overwhelmed at the loss of my sister, the panic creeps up more. Is she ever going to come back? Although I know I can’t lose hope, it is hard to hold on with each passing day. At this point, I can’t help wondering if she is even still alive.
Needing to do something, anything, to feel productive, I head out to search more. Maybe she stupidly went to the docks. Teenage years are hard. Add the pressure from my parents, maybe she tried drugs and got ahold of something bad.
Looking around, a shiver of unease goes through me. These are not the nice or newer docks of Bayfront Park. No, these are the old, abandoned ones that are no longer being used to receive ships or merchandise. Everything about this area is rundown… and scary.
I have to be careful about where I step because the old, gray, crumbling bricks beneath my feet could cause me to trip and fall. Graffiti covers the abandoned buildings. Every window in these dark and forbidding buildings are either so dirty you can’t see through them or broken. The jagged glass feels like a warning of just how dangerous being here is for me.
This area is a known spot for junkies and homeless people. I hope like hell Madyson is not here. Part of me really doesn’t think she would come here, simply because she wouldn’t want to be surrounded by some place that is so… dirty. However, I have quickly run out of places to search for her, and desperate times call for desperate measures.
Lord knows, by now, I am way beyond being a desperate woman.
I am one step away from being a defeated woman.
“Excuse me,” I try to approach a woman with a shopping cart of odds and ends in her collection of life.
“I don’t know nothin’,” she replies before turning her cart and taking off.
Mentally, I try to keep coaching myself. I will not be deterred.
Finding a shirtless man crouched down against a wall with his head against his knees, I think he is a safe place to try again.
“Excuse me,” I begin. He doesn’t move. “Hello, sir,” I try again.
No response.
Tentatively, I reach out and touch his shoulder. He is cool to the touch. No response.
I grip his shoulder and shake slightly, “Mister.”
His body slumps over to the side, and it is only then I can see his face. The dried blood coming out of his nose and mouth are one clue to the lifelessness of the body I just touched. His eyes are rolled back into his sunken face. The meth blisters covering his cheeks do nothing to hide the scars from his long term drug use.
My body shakes in anxiety. Faintly, I hear the rumble of what I think to be a loud truck or motorcycle coming. My hands tremble as I stand here, immobile in shock.