Deep Freeze (West Coast 1)

“In here fighting crime?” Wes asked, winking a steely blue eye.

Rinda let out a nervous little laugh.

“Wherever I can find it,” Carter said, refusing to be baited. No more. There had been a time when he’d wanted to bash in Wes Allen’s face and he’d given it a good shot one night, jeopardizing his job for a chance to pummel the man who had seduced his wife. But that had been years ago, before Carter accepted the fact that Carolyn had probably done the seducing and that he, Carter, had been instrumental in pushing her away. Maybe those years of therapy hadn’t been wasted after all. He nodded toward Jenna Hughes. “I’ll stop by later.”

Was it his imagination, or did her green eyes brighten just a fraction? “Do that.”

“I will,” he promised, and for the first time in over two weeks, Carter felt as if there was light at the end of the tunnel. “See ya around,” he said to Rinda and clapped a stunned Wes Allen on his shoulder.

Why is it so dark?

And cold…so damned cold.

Pain screamed up her arms.

Groggily, she opened one eye.

Where am I?

Roxie’s head was thick, her thoughts unconnected, her memory fragmented. Her mouth ached. Her teeth felt weird.

Shivering violently, her painful teeth chattering so hard they rattled in her skull, she tried to think.

Frigid air swirled around her, whispering over her bare skin.

Was she naked?

She forced her other eye open and saw that she was in some kind of chamber…or laboratory, a dark, cylindrical room that was so cold that her breath fogged in shallow wisps. Suspended over a large tank.

What! Suspended?

Jesus, Roxie, think! Where the hell are you?

Little bits of memory emerged. The accident. The stun gun. The needle. Oh, God, some pervert had her!

She tried to scream but couldn’t force a sound. Her arms were stretched over her head, her wrists bound to a crossbar, her legs, too, strapped against a long, steel beam that pressed against her spine.

Looking down, she saw that the vat was glass and filled with a clear liquid.

Oh, God, it’s acid, she thought wildly, trying to struggle, as she remembered the horror movies she’d watched so avidly. Panic squeezed through her insides. Ice-cold air swirled around her. She had to escape. Now! Frantically, she searched the large, frigid chamber. The ceiling was twenty feet above her, the rounded walls far away and darkened, but there were people in one corner. No, not people, but the faceless mannequins she’d seen earlier, all dressed in weird clothes…or costumes…clothes she was certain she’d seen somewhere, but that couldn’t be…She swallowed back her fear as she spied posters plastered upon the walls surrounding the macabre stage, posters from movies she’d seen:

Resurrection.

Beneath the Shadows.

Innocence Lost.

Summer’s End.

Movies starring Jenna Hughes…and her pictures were everywhere, tacked to the ceiling and walls. This was some kind of, what—macabre shrine to her? What the hell kind of madness was this?

This is a dream. A nightmare. That’s all. Calm down.

But her heart was racing, thundering in her ears. Though she was frigidly cold, she began to sweat, the thin, wet drops of pure fear.

Was she alone?

“Help!” she yelled. “Oh, God, please, someone help me!” But her voice was garbled and muted, even to her own ears. Fear and desperation clawed through her.