“Where am I?”, Mitchell O. Pinnock said to himself. “It’s dark as hell here! And that stench!”
Pinnock began dry heaving, but nothing came out of his stomach. “Have I fallen down some kind of elevator shaft? I don’t feel like any of my bones are broken. Am I standing — or am I on my back? I don’t know — I’m so disoriented.”
“I’ve got to think.” Pinnock pushed in the button on his watch that illuminated the dial. Nothing happened. He pushed harder. No light. Not even a little blue glow. Nothing. Pitch dark.
“That awful smell. What is that? It smells like rotting meat. I’ve got to sit down and get a hold of myself.”
As Pinnock started to sit down, he jumped up and said, “Gosh, what was that? That’s hot! Am I in some kind of furnace? Every object he touched felt like a burner set on high. “Focus! FOCUS! What do I remember?”
The darkness and the putrid odor and the stifling heat were not, to say the least, conducive to reasoned reflection. He stood there for what seemed like an hour trying to put his thoughts together. But he found himself jumping from his gag reflex to his darkness-induced panic, to a sense that his own body was going to spontaneously combust.
“This must be some kind of dream, a nightmare that I can awake out of,” he said to himself. He tried to pinch himself, but as he touched his arm, his fingers immediately withdrew. “My arm feels like it’s on fire!”
“I wonder if anyone knows I’m missing? Surely someone will organize a search party to look for me. But where am I? And how did I get here?” (to be continued)