5

The men who pinned me down after my first attempt to escape stood up and picked me up from the ground, holding my wrists behind my back as if I was handcuffed. They pushed me forward to urge me to start walking and I obeyed, only struggling out of instinct. I would've tried to struggle a little harder if I wasn't knocked down by what I just found out. I had been kidnapped by Anton Carmicheal, the bloodthirsty lunatic who gave almost everyone nightmares. Everyone but me. Of course, having always been raised in a coccoon, I had a peaceful sleep and a carefree lifestyle because I was always convinced I was out of evildoers grip thanks to my father's political reputation and the high-tech alarm installed in our house. 

"Come on, bitch!" Urged me one of my captors, his cheap beer-scented breath attacking my nostrills. "Keep going!"

"My name's Joan." I coldly corrected him, thoigh fear made my voice quiet. "Not bitch."

   I first expected him to punch me, but he didn't for some reason. They pushed me forward, my legs suddenly shaking. I paused in my inner thoughts to look up at the building they were taking me to. I was going toward a building which looked like an abandonned house or something. The grey concrete wall blended in efficiantly in the dull grey sky, the windows were closed with planks which seemed not to have been touched in quite a while and the yard was invaded by weed. My high heels screeched against the rocks in the yard, my captor walking toward a heavy wooden door which cringed when they opened it. I straightened up, trying to take in as much as I could. Maybe I could spot somewhere to escape, such as a hidden door, a large hole in a wall or a window left unlocked. I ended up in a hall with clean wooden floor and plain white walls. I was surprised to see how clean it was for a place which looked abandonned from the outside. But I had no time to ponder over it as my captors were pushing me forward again. I started panicking when one of them opened a dark wooden door with a flight of concrete steps.

"Go down there!" Ordered me the other one.

   I was terrified, so I stayed frozen in place for a second. The stairs were cascading down deep into a deep sea of utter blackness. I didn't need to be a genius to know they led to some kind of basement. That was my worst nightmare becoming true: Being trapped inside the typical horror movie basement. They pushed me forward once again, my back straightening as I feared to trip on my high heels and fall down the stairs due to my shaky legs. How we made it downstairs without I collapse was a miracle. Or maybe an anti-miracle, since if I got injured, they'd probably be left with no choice but drive me to a hospital in order not to let Robert MacCarthy's daughter die. My eyes took a few seconds to adapt to the surrounding darkness, allowing me to finally make out the outlines of the only item in the middle of the room: A simple wooden chair.

"No!" I gasped, for once allowing my fear to show.

"Get right in, bitch!" Grunted one of the men as they forced me into the chair, strapping black rubber around my ankles. "The boss's gonna meet you soon."

   I tried to kick his hand away as he was strapping my ankles to the legs of the chair, but I was surprised by the other man who stood behind me, tying my hands together on the back of the chair with rubber. I started to instinctively struggle against my bondages again, feeling like it couldn't get any worst. How wrong I was! The last thing they did before to leave the room was to throw a bag onto my face. Afterward, I heard their footsteps retreating upstairs, accompanied by their laughter and the sound of a door slamming shut. I was left alone in the dark, grieving. The oppressing darkness in the undergroud concrete room was literally suffocating me. I had the feeling to be... I had the feeling to be in a grave!

"Stop!" I whispered to myself, squeezing my eyes shut to hold back my tears of despair. "Don't think like that!"

   But that was difficult not to think like that. Anton Carmicheal! People was talking about him since months on the TV, at the radio or in newspapers. He was exceptionnally good at robbing banks essencially, but also tracking down and kidnapping people and I also heard he was a killer. An extremely sadistic and deranged serial killer at that. Not being the type to believe what was written in the gutter press, even though this one was always avid to provide its readers many rumors about the Carmichael gang and its mysterious leader, I wouldn't have believed any of that if my father hadn't told me himself about the danger this man represented. He had robbed several of the best guarded banks of United States, kidnapped innocent people and murdered them in the most gruesome way. Oh no, was it what he was going to do with me?! What if he tortured me?!?

"Stop!" I repeated to myself, struggling even harder to break free from my rubbery bondages. "Don't think like that!"

   At least, I had heard of how many banks he robbed on the TV, as well as how easy it apparently was for him to leave the police clueless about him. They knew it was him and his gang, but they couldn't catch him and they couldn't find any legal proof to begin a process with. They didn't know where he and his gang were hiding, why they were doing what they did or why those people chosed to follow that madman. In fact, except his name and his actions, nothing was known about the man. CLAC! I immediately stopped wriggling when I heard the basement's door slam shut. I froze, quietly listening through the darkness, as someone suddenly switched the light on. Footsteps were heard, steadily going down the concrete stairs. The visitor paused at the bottom end of the stairs, causing me to tense i  nervous expectation of what my new visitor wanted from me.

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