Total pages in book: 60
Estimated words: 56078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 56078 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 280(@200wpm)___ 224(@250wpm)___ 187(@300wpm)
Rolling down my window, I say, “What are you doing outside?”
She twists her head to look at the trailer she calls home. She then stares at me and shrugs.
“How old are you?”
She puts up five fingers.
“Where is your mommy? Your daddy?”
She shrugs. Her eyes grow even bigger as if they are screaming louder. So loud.
“Are you alone?”
She nods.
“How long have you been alone?”
She shrugs.
Those eyes of her demand. They command me to get out of the truck and walk over to where she still sits. She smells of urine and neglect.
“What’s your name?”
“Ember,” she answers with a slight whistle of air escaping from her two missing front teeth.
“Can you show me inside your house?” I say as I extend my hand for her to take.
Without pause, because why would a five-year-old fear anything at all, she places her tiny palm into mine. We walk to the trailer, and I wonder why I am. What do I expect to see? The front door is wide open, but I could see that from my truck.
“Where is your mommy?” I ask again as we enter the dirty tin can.
“She’s not here. She left a long time ago. She said her boyfriend was taking her on a trip. I wanted to go, but she said no. She said no kids allowed.” Her voice is fragile and so delicate that the timbre nearly splinters my soul.
I glance around the front room. Empty beer cans and discarded needles scatter the stained floor. Flies swarm around crusty plates painted with dried food. I walk straight to the refrigerator and open the door. It’s empty although I don’t expect to see anything but. I open the cabinets and find them bare as well.
“When is the last time you ate?” I ask.
She shrugs again. Her eyes beg to be fed. Her eyes… her eyes…
“Are you hungry?”
“Yes, please.” She’s not old enough to be afraid of me, but old enough to have manners. Although by the looks of her upbringing, she was never taught how to behave. It just shows that children are born good and pure until corrupted by the evil ways of man.
“Are you all alone?” I already know the answer, but I suppose I need to hear the reply from her tiny, chapped lips.
“Mommy said someone would come and get me soon. She said to just sit outside every day and a person would come.” She walks up to me and takes my hand again and squeezes tightly. So tight that I doubted I would ever be able to free my hand again. “She was right. You came.”
Dear Lord, drown the bells in my heart. Silence the whispers in my mind.
“Yes, child. I’ve come.”
4
Christopher
Heat floods my muscles as I struggle against the confines. A metal, cold shackle surrounds my ankle as if I’m cast back in the days of medieval times. I stifle the urge to scream but don’t want to waste the sound without knowing my surroundings. My pulse speeds and alarms blare.
The room is dimly lit by an oil lamp in the furthest corner, too far for me to reach with the short length of chain hooked to the iron cuff holding me captive. I can see a door, a small window toward the ceiling that with my six-foot height I can maybe peer out of if I can get the chain to extend, which based on how long I have tried to free myself, seems unlikely. There is no sunlight shining through the dirty glass, which tells me I have been knocked out for hours and night has already fallen. There are crates against the wall opposite of me, but still too far for me to utilize in any way to aid in my escape. The dank, dusty air, the dirt-covered floor, and the cool temperature of the room leads me to believe I’m in a cellar or a basement. The painful pounding on the back of my head reveals the story of how I ended up chained to the floor in a foreign place.
But where is my attacker?
Why am I here?
The unknown answers are nearly as terrifying as my current situation.
I can stand and take two steps before the chain stops me. I sit down and tug on the chain some more, but it is anchored into concrete. My ankle is bloody from all the fruitless effort rubbing it raw.
I need to regain my senses. I need to stay level-headed and focused. It’s clear that I won’t be able to break free from my constraints on my own, so I need to find another solution.
Footsteps approach the other side of the aged and discolored wooden door. Standing again, I widen my stance to prepare. When the door opens, I ready myself for war. A man walks in who, after a few moments, I recognize as the ranger of Hallelujah Junction. He’s the last man I spoke to before… before…