Blood of the Ancient - The Helix Rebellion saga #1

Chapter 19

Part four: Voice of confusion

It was a longer drive to Malik Castle than Logan had expected. He couldn't see a great deal from the enclosed cell he'd been thrust into - his view limited to a thin window slit, and it felt like they'd been going around in huge circles. He was certain they were in a different zone to the Slums, though, as the stale and putrid air being drawn into his lungs no longer felt like it was burning.

Every so often, he'd hear the unintelligible ramblings of Rabb and Boris from the front seats, complimented by an occasion laugh, or a mocking cheer. They'd abandoned any conversation with Logan shortly after the journey began, leaving him to speculate his predicament in solitary confinement.

Their chattering ceased as the truck slowed, and cautiously approached a security post. Rabb leant from the window, muttering a few words to the armed guard. The guard turned his back, and gestured to his companion in the warmth of his control booth to raise the barrier.

Where the fuck are we?

The truck moved twenty yards beyond the barrier then came to a sudden stop. The rear doors flew open like it was a hijacking, and Logan was escorted from the truck by four grizzly security guards. Their rough beards made them look unprofessional, and each was tightly squeezed into a security vest. The reality of his situation had finally sunk in, and Logan realised he wasn't on his way to meet President Malik at all, there was certainly no presidential castle here. He was hefted with cuffed arms into a small guardhouse; used to keep temporary prisoners secure before transported elsewhere.

"Well, well, well. Who've we got 'ere then?" asked the desk guard.

"This is Logan." answered a beard.

The desk guard raised a bushy eyebrow, "Logan, eh?" He stood from his chair and walked over to the new prisoner. "So you're the one causin' all this trouble..." he thrust a heavy fist into Logan's kidney, laughing as he doubled over, the other beards held him up. Another blow - this time crunching his ribs. The beards let him slump to the floor, writhing in pain. "Take the fucker to number three." ordered Bushy Brows, flexing his hand.

Logan was yanked along the corridor by his ankles, through the grime and shit and piss and other festering grossness, then launched into an empty, steel-barred cell. He landed with a splash; the puddle looked and tasted like old urine. The beards laughed in unison, locking the cell door on their way back.

Logan lifted himself from the wet floor, and sat on a plank of wood suspended by two chains, swinging awkwardly. Bushy Brows had left a sickly pain in his stomach, making it difficult to breathe and sit upright. He took a few deep breaths; easing the pain, then glanced at his grim surroundings. It was cold and wet, with a meagre offering of light buzzing from a lamp by the gathering of beards along the corridor. Until his eyes adjusted, Logan was in the dark.

Other than the swinging bench, the only other furniture Logan could see was a cold, concrete slab on the ground. Great Lunis... He shuddered at the uncomfortable-looking bed, terrified by the prospect of tomorrows broken back.

"Don't worry, you won't need it."

The voice came from nearby, an adjacent cell perhaps, and seemed to read his mind as he frowned at the bed. Logan searched the room, his eyes fighting the darkness to pick out a figure. As the penetrating flicker burned through the gloom, a shadow emerged, swinging on its own bench. He should have been frightened by the scene – but wasn't. If anything he felt reassured, safe, warmed by the familiarity of it. I've been here...before? He shook his confused head, even the voice sounded familiar.