Ep1

"Ouch!" Officer Shamira Carswell of the Atlanta Police Department had just bashed her head against something harder than itself, something both she, her immediate family, and fellow officers would have claimed was impossible. She had awoken with a start in this darkened little bit of nowhere and instinctively tried to sit up. She had about five inches of clearance. In her addled state, she confirmed her first finding by trying again, increasing the ache in her forehead.

'Yep,' she thought. 'Five inches.' Stretching out with her arms, she actually found less room there, barely able to move her massive arms. The problem with having competed as a female bodybuilder was that she took up more space than she should. Her shoulders were brushing up against the edges of . . . whatever the hell it was she was in. 'Trunk of a car? No way. If it was, then it is, then I've got to get me one because its really . . . comfortable?' Yes, it was comfortable. It felt like padded silk, cool against her skin.

"Okay," she said, trying to calm her suddenly electric nerves. "What were you doing?" She couldn't remember. "No, I can. I was . . . damn, I was down off of Commerce Drive," she said, remembering the landmarks flashing past her police cruiser. "Got out to get a drink . . . stopped and talked to that homeless girl. She was too damn young to be on the streets."

Shamira didn't think the girl could be a day over eighteen, but she had a look about her that made her seem older. Slim girl . . . looked like a Native American. Must be what life is like for her. She seemed awfully nervous, even though Shamira wasn't the type to hassle someone for being down on their luck. She'd told the girl how to find a shelter and even gave her five bucks to buy something to eat. Her mother always told her that was one of her problems and why she still lived at home. Charity was all well and good, but "throwing her money away on those good-for-nothing dregs" was something else. Finally she just left the girl alone.

She was almost back in her car when the call came in that gunshots had been reported at the Casa De Sade, a club of "interesting" repute. She was easily going to be the first officer on the scene.

She had shown up at the club (it was right next door) and had marveled at the interior. Probably not appropriate for what she should be doing, but she couldn't really help it. Everything in the place was black. Black leather sofas, black hardwood floor, black curtains, a black bar, black leather . . . a lot of black leather. It looked like an office party in hell. But there were some things that weren't black. The cages were gold. The chains and shackles hanging from the walls appeared to be gold as well. There were people in black leather chained to black walls with gold chains.

Her attention had been pulled back to what was important, namely the five men and women with guns who had drawn down on a small group of revelers. The intended victims looked strangely defiant. One of them, a far-too-handsome man with blond hair and frigid blue eyes stood in front of the others, almost daring the would-be assailants. For a moment, she had looked at him and he looked back. He smiled. Then her attention was back on the guys with guns.

Five of them, one of her; no backup for considerably longer than it would them to pull all their triggers at least once. She had told them to freeze, told them to drop their weapons, put their hands on the wall. She got their attention anyway. They didn't freeze. They didn't drop their weapons. Guess what they did when she told them to put their hands on the wall? They didn't do that either. They did shoot at her though. That was nice of them. Nice because it gave everyone else a chance to run while she dove for cover.

She glanced around the sofa she had taken shelter behind and saw that all the intended victims had vanished without a trace. Other patrons of the club were cowering or sneaking out the front door. Shamira got a look at the face of a big guy holding a 44-caliber revolver. He really didn't look happy.

He had said something about "taking care of the witnesses" and that had turned Shamira's blood to ice. And to make matters worse, she had noticed that there was a girl chained to the wall who was so scared she'd pissed herself. Whoever was supposed to be responsible for her was nowhere to be seen.

Shamira was a crack shot. She'd actually qualified for S.W.A.T., but that glass ceiling was as solid for her as whatever she'd just nailed her head against. Her bosses were intent that the overly muscled female stayed writing parking tickets and breaking up keggers for the remainder of her natural life. But accolades didn't mean as much as skill at that moment, so she'd rolled and blasted the chains off the wall. The girl ducked. The bad guys saw Shamira. The bad guys shot Shamira.

"No," she whispered. "They had to have missed." But they hadn't missed. Shoulder . . . face . . . both arms . . . finally, a chunk of her neck. Then the darkness had come, but not just for Shamira Carswell. Darkness came down from the ceiling and ate most of the bad guys, but the big one made a run for it. He paused long enough to point his gun straight down at what was left of Shamira's head. Something had tackled him . . . something that smelled of dirt and whiskey . . . something street. The last bad guy was gone, but Shamira's last gaze fell on an old-young face. She had given that girl five dollars . . . why was she there in the club? The girl looked towards something out of view, then smiled. She pulled out of sight as the darkness caressed Shamira's eyes. Then her neck shifted . . . started to tingle.

"Crap," she said, her brain swimming as memories returned. She kicked out, her foot striking a sternly unforgiving surface. Her hands pounded on the roof. She was lying down in a silk lined box in total darkness after being shot multiple times. "A fucking coffin?!" She tried to steady her breathing. They had buried her alive? How had she lived through that? How is it that no one noticed?

She wanted to cry, but nothing came. She wasn't normally the crying type, but being buried alive made for a convenient excuse. She had survived all of that just to die down here? Her parents and her brother and her sister hadn't noticed she wasn't dead? She'd miss watching football on Sunday?!

'Calm down,' she thought. 'Need to get out of here. Brute strength probably won't work.' She felt around the coffin, trying to find anything that might help. 'Damn it, they should build these things like car trunks with convenient escape hatches. What now? Break through somehow? Tunnel to the surface?' She was so thirsty, which shouldn't be too surprising. How long had she been down there?

*skrik skrik skirk*

'What the hell is that?' She placed her ear to the coffin lid. It sounded like scratching, scraping.

*skrik skrik skrik*

Muffled voices. Then the coffin lurched. Someone had found out . . . someone knew. She was going to get out! The coffin was lifted upward and then . . . no one opened it. She tried the lid again, but it was latched shut. She banged against it with both hands.

"I'm in here! I'm alive! Someone let me out!"

She felt the coffin slide over something and then stop suddenly. Next came a low rumbling, and the coffin slid again. She'd been loaded into a truck and was getting moved? Why? Her heart seemed caught in her throat. She'd never been this terrified in her life. She'd been more comfortable when she was back under the earth.

There was an eerie quiet in the coffin, despite the distant murmurs and low rumbling of tires on asphalt. She couldn't put her finger on it. Then she realized that her blood should be pounding in her ears but it wasn't. She put her fingers up to her neck to get a pulse. Nothing. To be more specific, it was nothing over nothing. 'Not possible. This isn't possible.'

After what seemed like an eternity, the vehicle stopped and the coffin was moved again. She heard metal twisting and some wood splintering. Then the coffin lid popped open and staring down at her was --

"Homeless girl?" Shamira whispered.

Sure enough, it was that angelic face with a sly expression looking down from above. Then another face appeared: she'd seen that face before too. He had looked right at her at the club. He had smiled. Shamira took that opportunity to pass out.

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Some time later . . .

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Shamira absolutely did not want to open her eyes. She was still surrounded by silk so she figured that she was still in that coffin. Except that her eyelids seemed warm. She remembered seeing someone or someones . . . a beautiful Native American homeless girl and a lip-bitingly gorgeous blond haired guy.

'Wait. The silk, it's against my skin!' She opened her eyes and saw a lovely crystal chandelier-looking thing. She was in a bedroom the size of her parents' whole house, and it seemed decorated in the same black and gold scheme that the club had been. She was in some superfreak's bedroom. And she was naked. That fact just caught up with her. She was naked between black silk sheets in a strange room.

She yipped and pulled the sheets up around her artificially large bosom. One of the problems when becoming a bodybuilder was loss of breast mass, so she had compensated with fake tits when she turned twenty-one. That left her with a set of measurements that one would think would garner her more attention, namely 38DD-26-34. During competition, she had gotten her body fat down to nine-percent, but otherwise she kept it up at twelve percent.

She had 15-inch arms, 16-inch calves, and 23-inch legs, and she could bench press more than most of the guys she had worked with. When she had been younger, she had encountered a need to grow stronger. She'd admired the way those women looked and how they seemed strong enough to take on anything. Women like that could stand up to anyone; they might have been able to help Jimmy Fisk.

But boys, apparently, didn't like a woman who could out arm wrestle them. They didn't like "barbarian" women. It was not that she was ugly or an eyesore. Not at all. Put a face picture up on the dating website, and she got plenty of responses. She had the high cheekbones, perfect skin, and big amber eyes that got people's attention. She had long black hair that she kept in a single braid most of the time. Her mom thought she was pretty. But getting that second date just never seemed to happen.