Sweet Dreams (WJA Series Book 1)

Chapter 22

He laughed.

Stop over-thinking this, Appleton. You’re here, and your family is alive. But then, maybe they weren’t. Maybe his mind was so broken he’d imagined K and Sam were alive, but he was really asleep somewhere, lost in a dream world of his own making.

The radio played in the background, filling the car with the distinctive voice of Glenn Beck, who was rattling on about gas prices. He sounded real enough. Mark stopped by a small coffee shop and found a parking spot right in front, which was a rare, if not unheard-of, experience. Maybe he was dreaming, after all. He ordered a coconut mocha, picked up a newspaper, and found a comfortable chair.

“Cindy, are you there?” The morning news sounded from a television that hung in the corner.

“Yes, Tom. I’m here at the New York City maximum-security prison on David’s Island. We don’t know what exactly is going on at this point, but we’ve been told some inmates have suffered from food poisoning. The Center for Disease Control is already at the prison investigating the apparent outbreak.”

Mark stared at the screen, mouth open. He’d heard the same report a year ago while stalled in traffic. He remembered how he’d anticipated his date with K all day and how anxious he was to get home to her.

This can’t be. It was a dream. Or was this the dream?

He looked back at the paper in his hand and saw a “buy one, get one free” ad for Campbell’s latest chunky soup at the Super Mart.

He jumped to his feet and ran for the door. He hit the fob button and climbed into his Honda Accord, trying to remember all the details of that day. He’d gone to work, returned home, took K out to dinner—and then they went to the hotel.

Nothing unusual on Friday. What happened next? He had to think.

We got up late, then we picked up Samantha, then…then went to the Super Mart…

“Pat. I have to find Pat Rotter.”

* * *

KIRK RUBBED HIS HEAD, which felt twice its normal size and throbbed as if a thunderstorm was brewing between his ears. When he tried to sit up, a bolt of pain shot across his left side. Feeling under his shirt, he could tell several ribs had been broken.

But he didn’t remember how—or why. All he could remember was going to bed, then waking up here, wherever here was. He looked around. Light was coming from under a door in front of him.

He swore. Kidnapped for a second time. Either he was an easy target or he was making someone nervous. These WJA people were beginning to get on his nerves.

He could tell from the primitive cell that he was in an old prison. The floor was concrete and the walls were made of rough bricks. The thick wooden door was wrapped with metal around the edges.

He grunted and sat up, ignoring the pain in his side. Was this a WJA prison? Couldn’t be. This wasn’t their style. Too rugged and out-of-date. No magnets. No flying saucers.

He heard a key slide into the lock, then a click, and the door was shoved open. He covered his face with his hand to shield his eyes from the bright light to see who was standing in front of him. But all he saw were dark shadows.

Two masked men yanked him to his feet. He almost passed out from the pain as he was dragged out of his cell and down a hallway. He kicked his feet and fought for footing without success.

Other doors lined the wide hallway. Most of them were shut. Who knew how many more victims were waiting for their fate with broken ribs or worse, in a cold, dark cell, wondering if they would ever see the blue sky again.