by R E Swirsky
CHAPTER 43
Tuesday 13:20 Somewhere in the Foothills of the Rocky Mountains, Alberta, Canada
Michael’s face was pressed into the carpeted flooring of the SUV, and the feet of at least two men were pushing down on his head and body. The vehicle tilted as it slowed around a tight corner before the engine revved up and accelerated down the next section of road.
It was difficult to breathe. He tried to push himself up so he could turn his head and grab some air.
“Stay down!”
“I can’t breathe,” he tried to say, but it came out muffled and there wasn’t a chance he was understood. Something smelling of an old barn was wrapped over top of his head.
He struggled unremittingly to grab some much-needed air. Whatever it was—a foot or knee—pressed into the back of his head shifted, and Michael managed to rotate his head to the side and a waft of fresh air whooshed its way inside the covering on his head.
“What’s happening!” he shouted, but it came out muffled.
“I think you know very well what’s going on.”
Images from hiding under Lucy’s bed returned as he listened to the man’s voice. Was he one of the very same men? Had they come back for him after all?
“I didn’t see anything,” he shouted. “Let me go.”
The car took a sudden left turn, and rocks pinged the bottom of the car. The car drifted slightly before straightening out onto the gravel road.
Michael stretched out his leg and pressed one of his bare feet up against the far door to leverage himself as he tried to thrust the man off his back and turn over.
“Oomph,” Michael grunted as the boot upon his back suddenly lifted and stomped down hard, landing directly on the tie-wraps that bound his wrists.
“I told you to stay the fuck down! You want another one of those?”
He didn’t want to cry, but he could feel the tears roll away from his eyes and slip sideways down his cheek. All he could fathom was that whoever snatched Lucy had come back for him. His mind began to go foggy. He didn’t want to die.
“Okay, okay…” Michael cried out. “I’ll stop fighting, I will. Please, I can’t breathe.”
“If you’re talking, then you’re breathing.”
Michael gasped for breath. The smell of the dry, dusty gravel road seeped its way in and down his parched throat. “I can’t breathe!” he cried out again.
“What should I do about him?” one of the men called out.
“We’re almost there,” came the reply. “He’s fine. Just keep him down and out of sight until we’re inside.”
