Left to Kill (Adele Sharp #4) - Blake Pierce Page 0,40

he said, tentatively, his voice creaking. “Juergen? Michael?”

Frightened eyes from grimy faces turned to look at him. Everyone in the other cages surrounding the room had room to stand as well if they had wanted to. But none of them were. They all leaned against the back of their cage, their shoulders pressed to the wall, as if trying to keep as much distance between themselves and the cage doors as possible. A simple latch held the cage in place. Diedrich was pretty sure, if he tried, he could undo the latch from within.

Fumbling, he reached his hands toward the cage door and tried to poke a finger through.

The moment he did, someone said, in a weak voice, “Careful, don’t.”

But then his flesh touched the metal of the gate, and a pulse of vibrant pain shot through him. He was knocked back, his teeth jarred.

“The doors are rigged,” said another voice in the dark.

Still wincing against the sudden shock, Diedrich now peered around at the other cages, gasping, his chest heaving where he leaned against the back mesh. His hand was numb, tingling.

In the other cages, he spotted two other boys, young men, though it was hard to discern their ages from the grime and dust. He spotted six girls also surrounding the basement, also trapped in cages.

Everyone had their hands bound. Besides the cages, and the pipes above, the only items in the room were small, coarse pillows on the cold hard ground, and a single, thin blanket next to the buckets.

“Where are we?” Diedrich said, softly.

Just then, he heard a creaking sound, and the others in the room began whispering fiercely and pulling in on themselves, curling into defensive positions.

Diedrich spotted the door opening at the top of the wooden staircase. A thin shaft of orange light stretched into the room. Diedrich spotted someone’s feet—booted feet, with a thin glaze of mud—reach the top step. More creaking, and then the person began to descend the stairs, heading into the basement one cautious step at a time.

Diedrich stared as the person appeared. An older man. Gray-haired. Kind eyes. The same man he’d encountered on the side of the road. But he was no longer smiling. Now, what Diedrich had taken for laugh lines seemed more like a leer. In this strange, veiled light of the dark basement, the man almost had plastic features. His skin was like candle wax, or like a snake. As if his face itself were a mask.

The gray-haired man approached the cages, and he reached out on the wall and flicked a breaker switch. There was a quiet buzz and then a fading hum. The man called out, in a short, barking voice, “Roll call!”

Diedrich watched as hesitantly, the eight others crowded in the basement, pushed their hands against the front of their gate now, pushing open the small hinge lock and stepping into the dark room. They moved with tentative, shuffling steps. Their shoulders were hunched, their bodies thin and frail. Diedrich spotted cuts and bruises on everyone. Everyone seemed half clothed. All their shoes were gone, socks too. No one wore gloves. They seemed to have been intentionally given thin clothing, and, with a sudden realization, he realized he was only in his undershirt and boxers.

He shivered at the thought of someone undressing him while he was unconscious. He glanced at the others and saw the way they huddled together for warmth.

He thought of running in the forest, half naked, without shoes, without gloves. A slow dawning sense of horror settled on him as he realized they were dressed in a way that prevented escape.

“Roll call,” the man shouted. “Children, obey your father.”

One at a time, the prisoners in the basement lined up next to each other, their bound hands jutting in front of them. Diedrich noticed their wrists were so chafed they had scabbed, and he spotted infections on some of the wrists. As if perhaps they been bound for weeks without reprieve, maybe longer.

His own wrists hurt and the rope was rough and brittle. One at a time, though, the captives called out a number.

“One, present,” said a wiry, gaunt-faced boy, furthest from Diedrich on the other side of the room.

“Two,” said a girl, “present.” Her shirt barely covered the tops of her thighs, and her legs had scars up and down them—old wounds that had healed.

One at a time, each of the people in the room called out their number: three, four, five. Present!

At last, the person closest to Diedrich