Trapped Souls Ch. 02

Troy laid in the dirt and filth as he watched the two bothers climb the step steps out of the cellar. He tested the strength of the steel chains as he yanked and snapped at the loose links, but the durability was still intact. What was left for him to try? Maybe he could pick the sturdy locks? He looked around the dreggy floor of the cellar, two inches of dust and dirt and soot toppled the concrete flooring. He filtered through what he could feel with his hands but nothing was to be found within the fine mist of debris. He couldn't see much with the dimness of the poor lighting. He heard voices as Bruce and Juan appeared at the cellar entrance with a large crate, much like the ones he saw in the room across from him. They carried the box over to the same room and stacked it on top of the others.

"Ah ... amigo, I know you like filthy little holes, but man, that's crazy, you should find a cleaner hole to sleep in." Juan badgered him as he walked past. "I think I'm going to sleep in you other filthy hole tonight, yeah, maybe I'll let her suck my disk too, after I fuck her real good."

Troy cursed under his breath; he tried not to listen but the words pierced through his ear drums. What did they do with Sandra, is she ok? He could picture her crying, heartbroken at what they had done to her. He pulled on the chains again, still too tough to break. The men took eight trips into the cellar, as they stacked the boxes one at a time. The last one slipped off the stack and crashed to the floor. The top jarred loose as it busted open, spilling out five or six machine guns onto the floor. The Mexican quickly picked up the weapons and placed them neatly in the crate as he stuffed the straw into place and pounded the top back on. Troy pretended not to see, but he knew now who these men were, smugglers, and gun smugglers at that. He had to get Sandra out of here before they both get killed.

After the men finished, they closed the cellar doors and climbed the stairs up to the house. Now the lighting was worse, but he could still see his hands, which meant, he could still hunt for something to pick these locks with. Troy started to sift through the filthy muck as he dug his hands through the powdery grim. He coughed and hacked as the fine dust purged within his breathing air, coating his throat and lungs. He rolled over on his back to try and find cleaner air as his lungs got heavy, making it very hard to take in oxygen. He closed his eyes and for a moment, he could breathe again. He remained still and let the dust settle back to the floor, maybe he should wait, he felt tired from the mental stress of the day, and it wasn't even noon yet.

He sensed a delicate draft sweep over his body as he turned toward the direction it appeared from. He squinted his eyes as a haze filled the air beside the large crates. It swirled in a slow circle as it intensified, gathering mass as it formed into a figure. He closed his eyes as he trembled in fear, attempting to will the delusion away. "It's not real, it's just my imagination." He thought to himself as he slowly opened his eyes. The figure was now a man, standing near the heavy boxes as he swooped from side to side, inspecting the crates of guns. He turned toward Troy as he peered into his eyes. He was furious with the sight of people and things invading his dwelling. Troy yanked at the chains as he tried to flee from the ghostly form. Then, as quickly as it appeared, the phantom vanished, as the air around it swallowed it whole. Troy shook his head in disbelief as he closed his eyes again. He was going mad, his fears had beaten him. He shook his head again as he tried to shake the vision from his mind. He was tired, beaten and thirsty. The dust stirred as he felt his lungs struggle to take in air. He laid his head on the dirty floor as he felt his mind escape. He was drugged, drugged with some type of hallucinate narcotic. He was going insane; he sensed his thoughts fading away. Troy fell asleep.