Page 120 of Sin Like the Devil

I send a silent prayer into the unknown as Elon tugs me up the crumbling stone steps, his head swivelling to ensure no one has followed us.

There isn’t even a padlock on the door. They want it to look inconspicuous and blend in with the other worthless ruins. These people are truly shameless.

“We’ve had plenty of curious inmates wander in here over the years,” he explains conversationally. “Most get bored though. There isn’t much to see upstairs.”

The interior of Kingsman dorms, once a lavish oasis for upper-class, privileged kids packed off by their parents to receive an extortionate education, is now an abandoned wreck.

Sagging wallpaper lines the corridor, yellowing and water-damaged. Bare, cobweb-covered bulbs hang from the ceiling, though they aren’t lit right now. The early afternoon sunlight illuminates the dusty old signage denoting the different floors.

Elon heads in the direction of the basement, causing more dread to bubble inside me. It takes several twists and turns to reach a wrought-iron door protected by a security system. He scans a black keycard, unlike any I’ve seen before.

“Down we go,” he announces jubilantly.

I stare down at the aged, concrete staircase. No fucking chance. People who go down there do not come back up. The fine hairs on the back of my neck stand up, while my skin suddenly feels too tight for my body.

“Please, Elon. Let’s talk about this.”

“Now she wants to talk.” He snickers to himself. “The time for cooperation has passed.”

“No! I’m not going down there!”

“I was hoping you’d make this difficult.”

With a sinister grin fixed in place, he bends his knees and wraps his arms around my legs. I squawk as I’m lifted off my feet and slung over his shoulder like a sack of potatoes.

“Get off me!” I howl.

“Make as much noise as you want.”

Battering my fists against his back, I thrash and shout, trying anything to break his hold. The bruising across my ribcage and stomach screams in protest at his shoulder digging into me.

After slamming the heavy-set door shut behind him, Elon begins to descend. The temperature plummets as we’re devoured by darkness. It’s like all the warmth has been sucked from the world and spat back out as clear, freezing fog.

Thick concrete swallows all sound and light until it feels like we’re following Dante on his quest deeper into the seven circles of hell. I start to shiver violently, trapped by his arm banded across my legs.

“No! Stop!”

“Come now, Ripley,” Elon croons. “You don’t want to see what all your hard work is for?”

The terrain levels out, and I’m yanked back over his shoulder. My joints ache with the force of being dropped back on my feet. All around me, locked cells line a seemingly endless, subterranean hallway.

“Welcome to the Zimbardo wing.”

I spin to face him. “Let me go. I’ll keep my mouth shut, I swear.”

He smothers a chuckle. “When has that ever happened?”

“I don’t belong here!”

“Just walk.”

Shivering, I take a tentative step into the corridor. The floors, walls and ceiling are all made of polished concrete. Thick sheets of steel carve each cell door, fitted with sliding hatches so guards can peer inside.

I’ve barely taken a step when the first yells ring out. Unlike the wails of whoever occupied the adjoining cell to mine in the solitary wing, this sound is guttural, inhuman. Like someone has pulled the very life from the poor bastard’s soul and set it alight.

“While you’re out there, pushing our product and creating a steady supply of material for the team to examine, the real work happens down here.” Elon shoves me forward. “The rest is just an added bonus.”

Half of the cells boast an occupied sign. The sound of someone punching or kicking a metal door reverberates with the continued shrieks. The farther we walk, the louder the cacophony of sounds becomes.

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