CHAPTER 29 LOCKED DOWN #2
He first inspected the unmoving boy, crouching down to peer through the rusted bars.
Light spilled across the child's face, and the cowboy's heart sank like a stone.
The kid's face had a bluish pallor, skin waxy and taut against his cheekbones.
His eyes, half-open, were milky and vacant like frosted marbles.
Dried blood crusted the corners of his mouth and nostrils.
Bile rose in Clint's throat, acid burning at the back of his tongue, as he moved on to the other cages.
“Don't be frightened,” he said quietly, forcing steadiness into his voice. “I'm going to get you out of here.”
The surviving boys flinched at his words.
One pressed against the back wall, knees pulled to his chest like a pill bug.
Another's eyes darted between Clint and the door, pupils dilated into black pools in sunken sockets.
The third trembled visibly, lips moving silently in prayer or plea. None of them believed him.
Clint swept his flashlight beam across the room once more, the harsh light catching on a door with peeling gray paint and a tarnished brass knob.
He crossed the floor in long strides, boots leaving wet impressions on the grime-slicked concrete, and twisted the knob with a metallic grind of neglected mechanisms.
The hinges protested with a rusty whine as he was struck with an unexpected waft of warmth.
The small room appeared to be a makeshift office and living space: a metal desk covered in cigarette burns and coffee rings, three mismatched folding chairs with torn vinyl seats, a stained cot with tangled sheets, and a space heater that glowed orange in the corner, the only source of warmth in this frozen hell.
Against the back wall sat a massive wooden crate, roughly the size of a coffin, constructed of splintered cedar planks darkened with age and moisture.
Clint started to step back when something inside the crate shifted with a dull thud.
“What the fuck...?” Clint whispered, his breath catching in his throat as he slowly moved toward the wooden box.
A large, heavy-duty padlock—the kind used for shipping containers—secured the crate, its brass body gleaming dully in the flashlight beam.
The padlock was attached to thick galvanized metal bands that wrapped around the box like prison bars, secured with bolts driven deep into the wood.
Clint squatted down and leaned closer to the crate, nostrils flaring at the acrid smell of urine and fear seeping through the wooden slats.
“Hello?” he lightly rapped his knuckles on the wood, the hollow sound echoing in the small room. “Is someone in there?”
Another shift from inside—more deliberate this time—followed by what might have been a muffled whimper.
“Shit,” Clint muttered through clenched teeth and rose to his full height, joints cracking in the cold.
He walked back to the other room, eyes scanning the debris-littered floor for anything that might serve as a pry bar.
A jagged length of rusted pipe gleamed dully in his flashlight beam.
As he bent down and his fingers closed around the frigid metal, a gunshot cracked the silence like a bullwhip, the sound reverberating off the concrete walls until it seemed to come from everywhere at once.
White-hot pain exploded through his left shoulder, the impact spinning him like a marionette.
His body slammed against the grimy concrete, the taste of copper flooding his mouth as his teeth clicked together.
Even as he fell, muscle memory took over—his right hand clawed at his holster, yanking his weapon free.
He squeezed off two wild shots toward the exit door, the muzzle flash briefly illuminating a stout silhouette before darkness swallowed it again.
The heavy steel door slammed shut with the finality of a coffin lid, followed by the grinding screech of the external latch being cranked down.
“Fuck!” Blood seeped between Clint's fingers as he pressed his palm against the wound, warm and sticky against his frozen skin.
He staggered to his feet, each movement sending fresh waves of agony through his shoulder, and lurched toward the door.
The handle refused to give under his bloodied grip, cold metal slick beneath his palm.
“Fuck!” His voice echoed in the frozen chamber as he fumbled for his radio with trembling fingers. “Cochise! Come in!”
“I heard shots,” Cochise's voice crackled through static, tension evident in every syllable. “Are you okay? What happened?”
“The fucker got the jump on me,” Clint hissed, watching his breath form clouds in the frigid air. “Clipped me in the shoulder. I’m okay.” He gave the door another futile yank, leaving a crimson smear on the handle. “But he locked me in.”
“I'm headed your way,” Cochise replied, the sound of running footsteps coming through the radio.
Clint’s eyes darted to the terrified faces watching him from the cages, and he murmured, “Be fucking careful .”