Page 136 of The Reluctant Hero

Cocaine. Marijuana. Fentanyl. Any drug I can think of is labeled. Even some I’ve never heard of. If cops raided this place everyone would go down from this room alone. It’s empty except for one bin in the very back that has a few bags of pills in it. I’m not touching it.

I leave in a rush and debate on going further. The air has gotten more stale this far in and that rotting scent is getting stronger. More meat-based than vegetable. I don’t know if I’m brave enough to witness the tragedy of another fridge.

“Stop wussing out! You decided to do this, so get it over with!”

The pep talk gets my anger pumping and my feet moving. I pass down an echoing corridor without doors. All the posh decorations have ended. The floor isn’t carpeted or marble. It’s like they gave up after the drug room. Or ran out of money.

It’s dismal this far in, and between the rotting smell, I’m hit with the stench of urine and what I hope is not poop. The lighting looks industrial instead of decorative. If there was electricity, the whole hallway would be flooded with bright light.

“Weird,” I mutter, panting as my chest aches with dread. It’s starting to hurt.

I turn a corner, and another door greets me—another metal one with locks all over it. It’s wide open, but I’m suddenly too scared to step inside.

The smell has become overwhelming. I have to cover my nose with my shirt to pretend I can filter it out, and my eyes are starting to water.

I shuffle to the doorway and shine my light inside.

Metal cages greet me. Each one has a cot inside and a metal toilet—a miniature prison. Chains are in the middle of each one with a single cuff and the end welded into the floor.

My heart starts pumping double time as I walk in. There are twenty cages in all.

There were twenty rooms.

Oh God.

This is bad. This isreallybad.

All those pictures. I recognized a few women, but not all of them.

I gag at the thought as I pass the cages. The wall at the end is covered in tools. Instead of sex toys, these are torture instruments. There’s what looks like a first aid section, too. It’s beyond horrifying.

What’s even worse are the tools I come across lying on the ground between two cages with dried blood on them.

At least, I’m assuming it’s blood. Please let it be an overactive imagination. Let this all be some kind of fucked up dream caused by too many murder documentaries.

I’m an idiot because I move toward it to make sure I’m delusional. Despite the doom feeling, the panic, the horror, I keep going.

A camera smashed into pieces is next to a knife lying in a dried circle of darkness.

It isn’t until I see the tennis shoes that I start gagging.

Whoever this was, they died a while ago. And it’s the source of most of the smells. I catch a glimpse of thin gray hair and a casual running suit that looks like it’s from the seventies. The dried puddle underneath him is convincing. The random knife holes in his back and the slit throat almost look movie worthy.

But this isn’t a movie.

I jerk away from the sight and spin to vomit. I can’t help it. I’ve never seen a dead body in real life before. It’s mostly bile because I can’t remember the last time I ate.

I just contaminated a crime scene.

I’m running before I can process much more than that. I don’t think I’ve ever been this fast before. I almost fall whenI get to the stairs leading to the entrance, suddenly convinced that someone shut the door behind me and I’ll be trapped here forever.

Just like that body.

It’s still open. A shining light I’m desperate to see hits the stairs, urging me on. I’m up them in a snap and out in fresh air where I heave again. I was down there long enough that it’s almost sunset.

My mind is rolling with horror. I throw the door shut with a bang that echoes in the open air.

What do I do?What do I do!?

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