Early Thursday evening, Michael had been to the Mini-Mart around the corner for provisions and was carrying a six-pack of Narragansett Lager and some sandwich makings, and he was in no mood for anything tonight but his shitty little TV and a couple of ’Gansetts.
Two weeks had passed since he’d replied to that email, and nothing, not another word. No work either, no volunteer gigs, his old jacket was no match for the icy wind and it was starting to snow.
Happy days.
It was dark, several lights broken, and the street looked deserted as he approached his building and heard a sound behind him.
He paused, started to turn and was grabbed from behind, something – a bag or maybe a sack – pulled down hard over his head, and Michael freaked, his shopping hitting the sidewalk as his arms were pinioned behind him.
‘Help!’ he yelled and kicked out, but his voice was muffled by the thing over his head, and he was being dragged, struggling like crazy, hauled up into some kind of vehicle – a van, maybe, his voice echoing, the floor beneath him hard – and his wrists were being tied with something, and he kept on yelling, but his jackhammer heart sounded louder to him now than his voice, and he doubted that anyone would hear him, or that they’d take much notice if they did.
‘You’re OK,’ a voice said.
A deep, rough voice, belonging to a strong man.
‘I’m a friend.’
Friend.
‘If you’re a friend, let me the fuck go,’ Michael said through the bag.
‘Soon,’ the voice said.
And suddenly Michael knew – he just knew – that this had something to do with those goddamned emails, with him having said yes.
That probability made him no less afraid.
The man pulled Michael out of the van, cautioned him to watch his step and told him again that he was a friend.
‘If we’re friends,’ Michael repeated, ‘take this fucking thing off my head.’
‘It’s for your protection,’ the voice said.
He heard a door open, creaking loudly, and then they were inside, out of the icy wind, though it was still cold and damp, and Michael figured they were in a warehouse, maybe a workshop, and he could smell gasoline, so maybe a garage.
‘Sit,’ the deep voice said, and hands pressed him down.
Not on to a chair – something hard, wooden, maybe a crate.
The bag was pulled up off his head and he saw a cone of brightness coming from a flashlight on the ground ahead of him, started to get up.
‘Please stay where you are,’ someone said.
Another male voice, lower, quieter, coming from a shadowy figure sitting dead ahead, a few feet past the light.
‘What the hell is this?’ Michael said, shakily.
‘Welcome to Whirlwind, Isaiah,’ the new voice said.
Isaiah?
What the fuck?