He stepped back and noticed the pack had appeared in his hand again—a motion of habit. Over the last few hours, the pack appeared several times as he absentmindedly paced the room. He pulled the cheap Bic lighter from his other pocket and worked up the courage to slide a cigarette from the pack.
“Whatever,” he muttered. The cigarette hung from his lips as he sparked the lighter and lifted it to light the smoke. His body shook with anticipation as he saw the end light with that beautiful amber glow, and he took a long, deep pull. His eyes rolled back in pleasure.
The door at the end of the hallway slammed and Dewey nearly jumped out of his shoes. The cigarette fell from his lips and he tried to catch it on the way down, fumbling with the hot ember as it hit the floor. He fell to his knees and tamped out the scattered embers with his bare hands, then pulled his shirt up and blew the smoke through it to dissipate the smell.
Dewey heard someone coming down the hall. It must be a guard. How in the hell did they know that fast I lit a smoke? He looked around the room again for a hidden camera but saw none. He waited on the floor on his knees, his head drooped in resignation. If ABCs planned to beat him to death like he did John, then he should have at least had the balls to finish his last smoke. But no one came to his door. He heard another door open and close, nothing else. His imagination ran wild again. Dammit, I am freaking out.
𓂓
As he marched down the hall, ABCs thought about paying Dewey a visit, “Maybe take out some aggression on him.” He paused for a moment. A wicked smile spread on his face. He remembered how the pot belly idiot had begged. He could do worse to the skinny gringo. Rethinking, he decided it would be best to channel his anger into the task at hand.
ABCs entered the torture room and closed the door. The room had been cleaned, smelling of rusty well water and bleach. A sneer on his face, he breathed deeply and walked over to the closet, sliding open the doors. He removed a small table and unfolded it in front of the two chairs in the center.
With reverence, he removed the Ouija board case from the wall. He leaned it on a chair and opened the glass frame. He gingerly removed the board and set it on the table, then he sat on the edge of the other torture chair and eased the table toward him. Realizing he’d forgotten the planchette, he cursed and got back up, reached into the closet, and pulled it from a shelf. Settling himself back down, he placed the slide in the center of the board.
As he got things set up, The Alphabet King reflected back to the goals mentioned by his Shaman. Remembering those goals would help him set his intentions. First, use his savagery to establish a foothold in America. Done. Utilize that foothold to build a profitable yet feared business. Done. Then expand his platform of intimidation deeper into the states. His pishtaco would help him fuel the unbridled brutality that would give him the reputation of a man who could not be stopped. He was at that point and ready for the next step.
Feeling more empowered than ever before, The Alphabet King sat up straight and closed his eyes, breathing deeply. He slowed his breath and repeated his inhales and exhales 10 times—just as the Shaman taught him. He had channeled the energy of his pishtaco many times and was accustomed to the ritual. But now he intended to delve deeper into the ancient energies. Centered, he rested his fingertips on the planchette and chanted the four-word mantra given to him by his Shaman less than an hour before. After the third repetition, he opened his eyes. Red sparks popped from the bottom of the slide as it moved, guiding his hands from letter to letter, each one emitting a deep red outline of light after a slight pause over it by the planchette, then fading as it moved to the next letter.
The letters spelled... Grasa humana. Human fat.
𓂓
Now that Dewey had what felt like another stay of execution, his mind turned over some more of what he knew about Little Guantanamo. He knew he needed to start thinking about how to get out of this alive. “So, what do you know?” Dewey asked himself. For starters, ABCs was apparently so brazen, he didn’t lock anything. Then, his thoughts drifted to the tunnel system again.
Where is the access door?
Is it a hidden hatch?
Can I use the tunnels to escape?
If he could manage to get out of his cell, maybe he could try a few doors on his hall. But what if it was on the other side of the building? With the guards in place, his options to explore would be limited. He needed another plan.
Walking nervously back and forth, he reviewed what he knew. The door to his holding cell wasn’t locked. John’s cell probably hadn’t been locked either. Whoever was in the room across the hall went through the door without pausing and without the noise of keys. That door was likely left unlocked too. The guard watching the hallway had let him pass twice to go to the bathroom. The only way in/out of the halls were the locked doors watched by the guards. No way out unless the tunnel access was on his side, which, for some reason, he doubted. There was no way ABCs would leave his captors in unlocked rooms near other unlocked rooms, one of them containing a secret passage to escape. No way.
Unless...
Dewey remembered how easily ABCs had kicked in John’s door. Maybe he could kick the hallway door out in a similar way. It did swing away from him as he exited the hall. He dismissed the thought. Didn’t matter. He’d never get past the guards in the main room unless they left their post, which seemed unlikely.
His pacing stopped when, suddenly, he heard a voice coming from the room across the hall. He couldn’t understand the words, but it sounded like... a poem being repeated. Strange crackling sounds preceded a soft red glow that seeped in through the small window and the gap under the door. Dewey watched in dread as the red glow grew more intense. Then the chanting reached a peak, ending suddenly. Dewey took a step back as he watched the glow retreat back through the crack and the window, fading to darkness.
𓂓
ABCs remembered the words of his Shaman. “Your demon will tell you what he needs, poco hefe.” The Shaman had slowed his scratchy speech as he said his nickname. “Summon him. Use the first mantra I just gave you. When he tells you what is required, you must find it, and then use it to summon him again. Do not delay. Lay out the smaller talismans I mentioned. You have them, right?”
“Yes, Viejito.”
“Then chant the second mantra I have just taught you. Only then can you connect without the board. Once your demon accepts your offering, you will be bonded permanently.”
ABCs let go of the planchette and sat back in disgust. “Grasa humana,” he said to himself. “Human fat.” He recalled the revolting legend of the pishtacos and their uncontrollable hunger for it.
“Where will I get...” He muttered to himself.
The Alphabet King sat bolt-upright. Human fat. He’d had a whole bunch of it in the other cell earlier. Leaving behind any inhibition about what he had to do, he barged out of the torture room, pulling the door too hard again but catching it this time before it released and smacked him by surprise. Focused and feeling pleased with himself, he marched back up to the hallway door, arms swinging with purpose, fists tight. He push-kicked at the door and the guard opened it.
“Where is the fat man from earlier.” he demanded.
“We buried him like you said.”
“Where.”
“In the usual spot.”
“Take me. Now.” ABCs motioned to the guard at the other door. “Watch both doors. We’ll be back in a few minutes.”
𓂓
Dewey froze in place as sounds of hasty movement and muffled words came from the room across the hall. Shrinking back, he jerked as he heard the door being wrenched open, followed by rhythmic marching, fading away down the hall, then more thuds followed by hurried and hushed commands. A voice he couldn’t mistake. ABCs had been across the hall the whole time. He had not smelled the smoke. Another close call. Dewey collapsed on the bed, all thoughts of escape leaving him, fear moving in to fill the void. He closed his eyes in exhaustion and fell into a fitful slumber.
𓂓
Jackie sat in silence as Michael explained to Sean how to get to Little Guantanamo. It wasn’t exactly on the phone’s map app. She heard Michael’s device vibrate with a message from Agent Connor. He read it out loud, “Warehouse empty. Confirmed target location at Little Gitmo.”
Jackie leaned back in her seat, slightly relieved at least knowing her daughter’s location. Resting for just a moment, she heard Martha and Clay murmuring in the back seat and turned to tune into the conversation. Clay caught her gaze, nodded, and smiled assuredly. Jackie returned the gesture as Martha continued.
“You see, initially, Evan stayed because he couldn’t let go of his attachment to Jackie and Elena.” Martha paused to look at Jackie, emanating warmth. She smiled back but remained silent.
“But now it seems there is a higher purpose to saving Elena,” Martha continued.
