Christ. What’s happened to me?

Jack was holding onto his sanity. But just...

He lifted toward consciousness, like peeling an onion— layer by layer— up— up toward the surface. His mind was so boggled, he forgot to swear. But he made up for it a moment later.

Lord Jesus fuckin’ Christ. Where the fuck am I?

It took a physical effort but he managed to open his eyes and with a start, he realized he wasn’t alone. A woman with her back against the wall, her legs tucked under, sat on a cot across the room. And she was watching.

Room? What room?

It was overwhelming. Far too much for Jack to comprehend. His eyes slid south and he drifted.

It was the sound of movement that brought him back. She was still there, on her cot but swinging her legs around, sliding toward the edge of the mattress. Jack watched her with slit-eyes, through the bars of his eyelashes. Nice knees, he dully realized as her skirt rose dangerously high. The woman’s eyes were angled down and Jack watched a toe wiggle, seeking out the high-heels that were positioned next to her cot.

One shoe, like its owner, stood tall and elegant. The other, scuffed and scraped, lay tumbled onto its side.

That one’s me, Jack thought, studying the shoes’ owner more carefully.

She looked nice.

Even rumpled, the fit of her business suit suggested impeccable tailoring. Her hair was trimmed stylishly short and her fine, sculptured features had Jack supposing the woman was cultured and refined. But her beauty was cold and distant— the type of strident woman that with the simple arch of a brow, would cause a man to back off and think “way outta my league” but still had that same man yearning to hold her down in the dirt and fuck the pickle outta her ass.

Her toe, having met its target, caused her to lift a trim ankle and as she twisted for the shoe, her knees drifted apart obliging Jack with a puffy wedge of blue satin. Jacks eyes widened as he visually probed the spot where the fabric squeezed into the crevice, a hint of buttock either side.

Moisture gathered beneath each arm and his throat felt constricted and dry. She would be devastated, he thought— she being that type of woman— if she knew what she was reveling to his eyes. But to Jack’s relief, she continued to struggle with her heels and her legs remained open to him.

Getting settled into her shoes, she rose like a kite into the sky. She was tall, and he didn’t see anything he didn’t like— slim thighs, narrow hips but a good set of shoulders. And her breasts were smallish but had a jaunty set and were positioned high on her chest. Just right, he thought. On her athletic build the bulge of a set of D-cups would look silly, and worse, fake.

She glanced in his direction, but he kept his eyes still and she didn’t notice. She moved— moved like slow, molten, glass. With all the grace and tawniness of a mountain cat, she turned and slipped away, her long legs stretching the fabric of her skirt.

He lifted his head to see the backside of her, see if it was as tempting as the front. He moved too quickly and his brain sloshed. The pain sliced through like his head had been cleaved-in with an ax blade. He gasped, burying his eyes in the balls of his thumbs. “Holy shit!”

She turned, claws out. “You bastard. Sneaking in on me. If you’d given me a bigger cot you would have crawled right in on top. Wouldn’t you have?”

Jack was still trying to deal with a throbbing head and now felt sweaty and nauseated. “Wha-a-a...”

“Get out. You hearing me?” Her eyes had turned stormy, dark and foreboding and struck by a sudden fear, Jack mentally took a step back. Her lips curled in disgust. “Get out. I’d starve before letting the likes of you anywhere near my bed.”

She was menacing and Jack, still wresting with his stomach, felt blindsided. “Lady. Please. I don’t know what you’re talking about. I never came near your bed.”

“But you want to, bastard. You were watching me all last week. Stalking me, waiting for a chance. Then you caught up with me at the filling station. You bastard.”

Gas station! Then it all came rushing back.

“The gas station? Please. I was at the same station. Had to be. I remember now.”

She stopped mid-step. “What...”

“The gas station. I was there too. State Road 6. I was on my way to Atlantic Fisheries.”

“Fisheries. You don’t look like a damned fisherman.”

“I’m not. I work for Detroit Diesel. The Northern Star, installed new engines and I was on my way to the coast.”

“You’re a mechanic?”

“Mechanical Engineer. I graduated MIT. Company policy requires a technician to be present for the initial start-up. I’m him, the technician.”

His story had the ring of truth. “You stopped for gas? It’s the kind of stunt they’d pull.”

“And a sandwich. I was sitting by the window with my lunch when I noticed they were pushing my car inside. I got to my feet and the floor came up to meet my face. That’s the last I remember, until a minute ago. I came to and saw you across the room.” He glanced about. It wasn’t a room. “What the fuck is this?”

“A hole.” The piss and vinegar was gone and she slumped to her cot. “Some sort of tank, I think. My guess is a water purification plant.”

Jack looked about at the concrete walls. “Uh-uh. We’re near the coast. This is the holding tank at an old fish processing plant. At one time it was filled with water. Fish would be delivered from the boats and held in this tank before being sent to the cutting tables.”

“Well that would answer a couple of questions. There’s a drainage grate mounted in the floor below a faucet.”

Jack was suddenly aware of the constant sound of a dripping tap. “That would be for cleaning the tank.”

“So they drugged you.”

“You mean...”

“We’ve been abducted. They put something in your food and after you passed out, you were brought here.”

“But why? And where is here?”

She looked about at the tunnel-like walls. “I can’t tell you. I ended up here the same as you ... stopping for gas.”

“When? How long have you been here?”

“Five days, I think. Five days without food.”

Jack blinked. “Nothing? Nothing to eat?”

She shook her head. “Luckily there’s the facet.” She pointed.

Jack risked turning his head and saw a tap set into the concrete slab about three feet above a floor grate.

She shrugged. “Water to drink, at least. And to keep clean.”

He imagined her squatting naked under the faucet, her nipples hardened with the rush of cold water and for the first time since laying eyes on her, his penis moved beneath the fabric of his suit trousers. “Jesus...”

She gave him a weak smile. “Sorry. Jesus ain’t gonna help you outta this. Pamela, by the way.”

He had to admire her spunk. Any woman, or man, would have been reduced to hysterics after five days. Ignoring the throb behind his eyes, he pushed up from his cot and held out a hand. “Jack Willoughby. I wish we had met under happier circumstances but still ... it’s a pleasure.”

“Thank you,” Pamela whispered softly. “Will someone be looking for you?”

He shrugged. “Someone at Atlantic Fisheries will complain. And my wife, but that might take a few days.” Searching Pamela’s striking, but strained features, his wedding band suddenly felt like dead weight. “Sometimes,” Jack explained, “I’m on the road for a week at a time. But at some point my wife will notice I’m not at the breakfast table, downing my Wheaties. How ‘bout you?”

Pamela shifted her position on the cot, leaning back. “Never married. Got through university on my dad’s dime and with good grades, I landed a position immediately. I was putting in sixty-hour weeks and loving every minute. There wasn’t much time for a social life and I never missed one.”

“No boyfriends?”

“Uh-uh. I had a few friends, mostly work related. It didn’t make for very interesting pillow talk.”

Jack placed her at mid to late thirties and felt a pang of empathy but didn’t have time to dwell on the matter. There was the squeal of parched steel grinding on metal bolts, rust drifted down and a block of light appeared on the floor. Jack watched it elongate, moving steadily toward him. “What the...”

“They’re back,” Pamela was instantly on her feet, “the bastards.”

Jack looked up. He saw a metal hatch cover being thrown open and heard a sharp clatter as it fell back on itself. A number of faces appeared, vying for position in the opening as Pamela stepped forward.

Jack saw her lift a fist and realized she was quaking with rage. “Enjoying the view?” she shouted up. “This how you get your jollies?”

Light laughter floated above and one of them whistled wolfishly. There were eight, Jack counted, men and women both, with heads and shoulders hanging over the lip of the hatch. “C’mon. Let’s have a look at those babies,” a guy coaxed Pamela to remove her top. “You’ve kept us waiting long enough.”

Pamela had moved into the shaft of light and with both fists raised, shouted, “In your dreams...”

Jack reached for her arm. “Pam. Easy.”

She jolted. Tore her arm away. “It’s Pamela,” she screeched into his face. Her eyes were bright with anger and the skin about her mouth, taut and cruel. Jack took a step back.

Pamela whirled, her face lifted. “Nothing for five days, you bastards. Give me some damned food.” She stood seething at the grinning faces above. There was a moment’s hesitation and then a basket appeared, lowered on a string. It descended steadily until it touched the floor. Pamela snatched it up and upended the contents. Jack sucked in. One apple and a condom, still in its plastic sleeve, lay on the dusty concrete.

Pamela screamed in frustration. She picked up the apple and slung it toward the overhead. Her aim was good but ineffective, the onlookers easily stepping aside as the apple disappeared behind. The waves of laughter were still echoing in Pamela’s ears as the hatch was slammed shut.

She was still shaking as she slumped down beside Jack on the edge of the mattress. “Bastards,” she cried, beating her own thighs with small fists.

Jack wanted to comfort Pamela but was afraid to touch her. “I don’t get it,” he muttered.

She turned on him, lips twisted. “You ... you don’t get it?” she screamed into his clouded eyes.

“N-no. What’s with the apple. And a condom?”

She threw up her hands. “Jerk. The condom’s for you.”

“Me?”

“You really are dim.” Pamela turned her face away, her back now racked with sobs. “You asked why you were brought here? You’re my meal ticket, Jack. They’ll feed me ... but only if I go to bed with you. And let them watch it all.”

Jack swallowed hard. “Fuck for food?”

“Exactly,” Pamela said.

Jack was trying to sleep but the damned cot was too short. And they had neglected to give him a pillow. He felt like a wiener in a short bun. He heard a strangled sob and flipped onto his side. “Pamela?” he whispered.

He didn’t receive an answer but he saw she was sitting up and watched her shadowy figure lift a hand to wring the back of her neck. Sometime during the night, her rage had turned to self-pity.

Jack let out a breath and swung his legs around. “Pamela...” he said, getting to his feet. “Can I help?”

“It’s so unfair,” Pamela sobbed. “I don’t know what to do anymore.”

It frightened Jack to see how quickly this tall, proud woman had been reduced to an emotional wreck. She would always be beautiful but the strain was beginning to tell. The fire had left her eyes, leaving them hollowed with the hint of dark smudges beneath. Her features were drawn and gaunt. Jack moved to sit beside her.

He slipped in and put an arm about Pamela’s shoulders. “It’ll be okay,” he tried. Somehow he thought she’d bristle, pull away at his touch and it surprised him when she rested her arm across his thighs and lay a cheek against his chest.

Pamela took a breath to calm herself. “I call them The Watchers,” she whispered into the front of his shirt. “They come each day to look at me. They want me to undress and do things to myself. Not very pretty things ... understand?”

As disturbing as that sounded, Jack couldn’t stave off the images of Pamela standing naked in the block of light cast from the open hatchway and his penis reacted to the feel of a pointy breast pressed against his arm.

It was inadequate but, “I’m sorry,” was all he could think to say.

“And now that you’ve been forced to join me,” Pamela continued with a shudder, “things are different. They’ll want ... want to see us together.”

“I don’t think I could do that,” Jack protested, “not with them watching.”

Pamela sat up, meeting his eyes. “You’d rather watch me starve?”

“Of coarse not. But a display of public nudity?”

Pamela turned her face to the wall. “It may come to that,” she muttered, more for her own ears than his. “What’s your wife like? You got kids?”

The personal questions unbalanced Jack. “Huh...”

She turned back to him. “I like to know a man ... before I go to bed with him. Too personal?”

The thought of bedding this leggy bitch spiked Jack’s pulse. “No ... Of coarse not. Jill’s like you. A career woman. An investment adviser, actually. She’s too busy to raise a family.”

He glanced down at Pamela’s breasts and mentally compared them with Jill’s.

“How do you feel about never seeing her again?”

That question brought Jack back to ground zero. He had not once contemplated that he might never see his wife again— might never again see the sun against a blue, blue sky or hear the sound of a robin’s song. “It c-can’t come to that.”

Pamela studied her fingernails.”You find me desirable, Jack? I mean there’s no guarantee they’ll release us, but if we do this for them, there’s a chance, maybe.”

“Do what, for god’s-sake?”

“Intercourse, Jack. Copulation. You and me, together on my cot. And for them to film it.”

“Film? Like a video— porn?”

“There are cameras...”

“Aw Jesus, Pam.” Jack bounded to his feet. “I can’t. I won’t. I mean you’re an attractive woman, but I’ll be damned if I’m going to hang my dick out for those...”

“For the last time, it’s Pamela. And what’s so special about your dick? You got one, haven’t you?” And she reached for the front of his trousers.

Jack’s stomach lurched as her fingers encircled the shaft of his penis. He was still semi-hard from the touch of her breast and Pamela felt the firmness push beneath her fingers.