"Jesus --Christ" Zach spat as he dry heaved in the corner of his make shift cell, having just had the severed forearm of his mother tossed in his lap. He sat there coiled against himself on the floor, rocking back and forth while trying to gather his wits about him.
His body felt like a punching bag, bruised and bloody from the constant blows he's suffered at the hands of this so called cop. This was like some kind of nightmare out of some horror flick.
Minutes, he didn't know how many, had passed since his last encounter with the cop. He pulled himself together and listened. There was silence, except for the slow trickle of water coming from somewhere inside his cold cell. He got to his feet, carefully, and moved toward the door. The light that had come from underneath it earlier was no longer there. Zach put his ear to the door and listened--nothing, only silence, a deafening silence.
Something like panic, but more intense, swept over Zach. He was alone down here. The cop had gone. But would he come back? If he came back what would he bring to torture Zach with this time--a severed leg, a head? He fought back the urge to vomit again. What if the cop weren't coming back at all? What if he just planned to leave Zach down here, whereever here was, to rot, to eventually decay into the damp mud floors under his feet?
No, Zach, reasoned, he had to stay calm, had to pull himself together. He had to take advantage of this and try to find a way out of this tomb. There had to be a way out. If not the door then a weak spot in the wall. If only he could see the room, to get some idea of how big it was, or how high the ceiling-anything. But he was like a blind man in a dark room. He had nothing but his hands to work with, and what was left of his mind at this point.
He wasn't even sure of the time of day. It could be night time, or even the next day, for that matter. What he did know was that he needed to move fast. Just in case his friend form the other side of the door did decide to return, Zach did not want to be there when he did.
As Zach felt his way along the cold walls of his make shift cell, a tow truck driver in blue everalls was hooking up his silver BMW to the back of his truck.
In a nearby patrol car, lights flashing, an officer was placing a call to dispatch. Arrangement were being made for the car to be delivered to the local impound lot and its owner notified.
In a ditch nearby, the identification of the car's missing driver lay wet and mud stained until a black boot suddenly stepped into the mud beside them, the imprint around the boot quickly filling in with brown water. Another footstep and the picture ID of Zachary Mallory disappeared into a muddy, watery grave.
The driver of the truck called to the officer who responded in kind with a salutory gesture. The driver climbed into his truck and drove away with the silver car.
The officer climbed out of the ditch, shading his eyes as he looked into the midday sun. He put his sunglasses on, wiped the mud from his boots into the grass, then climbed back into his cruiser and drove off.