The Soul Collectors

16

Mark Rizzo started to drift back from the darkness of his mind only to encounter a new kind of darkness, one that was pitch black and smelled dank and musty. Something cold and hard and flat pressed up against the bare skin of his chest, thighs and arms. Every inch of his skin felt cold. Then he knew: he had been stripped of his clothes.

He turned his hand and his fingers felt rough stone.

A stone floor, damp and dirty.

Chilly air.

Dark air that smelled dank and musty.

No… Oh dear God in heaven please don't let this be true.

Adrenalin shot through his weary heart, flushing his skin and then… then it died. His muscles were unresponsive, and, while his mind felt thick and clogged, his thoughts sluggish, he had memories, fragments of them, and he remembered choking on the tear gas filling his bedroom and watching SWAT officers rush in and thinking, Thank God, oh thank God it's over. But one of the SWAT officers had a syringe and he remembered feeling the needle sink deep into his neck. Remembered trying to break free of the restraints binding him to the chair when he heard the first gunshot -

Mark Rizzo blinked the image away. He knew who had him now — and they were somewhere here in this pitch-black darkness. He could hear breathing.

A voice boomed through the darkness:

'Welcome home, Thomas.'