Free The Chosen by Sharon Sala Page B

there.”
    â€œSame to you,” January said, and sighed when she heard him disconnect.
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    Bart Scofield woke up in total confusion. He had no idea where he was or how he’d gotten there. The last thing he remembered, he’d been on his way to the office. His head was reeling, and his thoughts were fuzzy. He rolled from his side to his back and had started to stand up when he realized his movements were hindered. But by what?
    It wasn’t until he raised his hands that he began to panic. Iron bracelets encircled his wrists. Attached to the bracelets were two lengths of heavy chain, which in turn were attached to iron rings in the wall.
    â€œWhat the—”
    He scrambled to his feet and began yanking at the chains. The harder he yanked, the more frightened he became.
    â€œHelp!” he yelled. “Help! Help! Somebody help!”
    To his shock, he began hearing voices—laughing, crying, shouting. The cacophony was too confusing to sort out what they were saying. All he knew was that he wasn’t alone.
    â€œWho are you?” he called. “Somebody…anybody…tell me your names.”
    There was a brief silence, then a man spoke.
    â€œMy name is Simon…Simon Peters. What month is this?”
    â€œLate July,” Bart said.
    â€œDear Lord,” he said. “It’s been almost a month.”
    â€œHello,” another voice said.
    â€œWho are you?” Bart called.
    â€œMy name is Andrew Warren Williams, but Mother calls me Andy.”
    Bart frowned. The man sounded simple. What the hell was going on here that could explain this madness?
    â€œWho is that?” he yelled. “Who’s crying? Come on, man…talk to us. What’s your name?”
    â€œJames, but everyone calls me Jim. Andy is my friend.”
    â€œWho else is here?” Bart called out.
    â€œMatthew Farmer…Airman First Class…799442013.”
    â€œDon’t bother him,” Simon said. “He’s having a tough time here.” Then his voice broke, and he, too, began to cry. “Hell, we’re all having a tough time.”
    â€œWho did this?” Bart asked.
    â€œThe cabbie. It was the cab driver,” Simon said.
    Bart frowned, trying to recall the man’s face, but all he could remember was a long ponytail and a beard.
    â€œBut why?” Bart called out.
    â€œHe calls us his disciples,” Simon said. “He thinks he’s Jesus.”
    â€œWhat’s going to happen to us?” Bart asked.
    â€œMatthew Farmer…Airman First Class…799442013. Matthew Farmer…Airman First Class…799442013.”
    The hair on the back of Bart’s neck stood on end as he listened to the captive repeating his name, rank and serial number. Obviously the man had once been a POW. What irony that he’d come back to the States, only to be subjected to what must, for him, amount to a living nightmare.
    Bart didn’t want to think about what was going to happen. He kept telling himself that people would surely be looking for them, and that they would surely be found before long. Then he remembered Simon’s remark. He’d been here almost a month. Why hadn’t they been found? Bart was religious about watching local and national news, and not once had he heard a mention of any missing men.
    Slowly he turned, for the first time surveying his surroundings. The portable commode was obvious, as was a small table. He moved toward the only door in the room but was stopped by the chains at least six feet from the exit. There was a tiny window mounted up near the sixteen-foot-high ceiling, but it was so grime encrusted that only minimal light came in.
    When Bart heard a rustling sound behind the commode, he flinched, then watched in horror as a large rat ambled out from behind the pot. Bart could see its nose twitching as it tested the air for scents, and wondered how in the name of God he was going to get out of this place