The Forsaken (The Chosen Series Book 2), Patricia Bell [e textbook reader .txt] 📗

scared and hungry. Her face throbbed from where the High Prophet had struck her, and her ankle was now chained to a pole in the center of the room.

Filled with fear, she called out to God. Please, God, I don’t want to die. Please help me.

Immediately a bright light glowed throughout the room. She shut her eyes to ward off the sting. A warmth comforted her.

“Do not fear, Abigail Pence. I am a messenger from God.”

Abigail opened her eyes. The light was so bright that she could only see an outline of a person. “Help me,” she whispered.

“Be patient. God has plans for you.”

“I do not want to die.”

“You will not die. Soon you and your sister will be reunited.”

“She is alive?” She’d been told that but until she saw her, she refused to truly believe it.

“She lives.”

As quickly as it was there, it was gone. The room darkened, and Abigail was alone once again. She was seeing things. Hallucinating. She’d heard of it before. Being out in the desert, others of her people suffered from strange occurrences when they did not intake enough water. Especially during the cotton season. They were always being warned to drink lots of water. A rustling sound startled her. Groggily, she sat up and looked around.

Could it be the boy had come back? She didn’t think so. He’d been caught by his father. She’d heard the commotion from on the other side of the door as the High Prophet had dragged him away. Most likely he’d been severely punished. He would not be back for her.

Another sound. The shuffling of feet?

“Hello?” she whispered. “Is someone out there?”

More rustling.

Abigail stood and put her head closer to the vent, her only contact with the outside world. “Hello?”

A face sprung out at her from the other side, and she stepped back, throwing her hand to her chest.

“Malachi? Is that you?”

“It is I. Are you well?”

“I have been sentenced to die. Do you think I am well?”

“Sorry. Are you hungry? I brought you some bread.”

Abigail’s mouth watered. “Yes, please.”

Malachi pulled out the loaf of bread from inside his shirt. He ripped off a small piece and pushed it through the dirty slats in the vent. “Sorry. I don’t have anything to clean it with.” The bread fell to the ground.

Abigail stared at it. She didn’t want to eat the soiled bread, but she would if she had to.

“Wait.” Malachi unbuttoned his shirt and pulled off the t-shirt from underneath. His hard muscles bulged as he cleaned the slats of the vent with his shirt.

“Here.” He broke off another piece and slipped it through the slat.

Abigail took the bread. Only a little dirty, she placed it in her mouth. Saliva instantly grew as her stomach reacted with the news that it would soon have sustenance.

Malachi fed her through the slats of the vent until the loaf was half gone.

“Did you bring any water?” She hated to ask, but she was horribly thirsty, and the bread wasn’t helping.

“I did not. I am sorry.” He gave her a sad smile. “Wait. I will be right back.”

“Don’t leave me.” Abigail had never been so scared and alone in her entire life. It was the worst feeling she’d ever felt. And her face, where the High Prophet had hit her, hurt to even chew the bread.

“I will be right back. I saw a spigot on the side of the house.”

“A what?”

“They have them at the market. When you turn the handle, water is released.”

Abigail was doubtful. She’d never heard of such a thing. “But what about the High Prophet? What if he comes back?”

“I saw him leave in his car. I will know when he returns. We will hear him before we see him.”

“Okay, go quickly.”

Abigail sat down on the ground. Even without an education, she knew that Malachi was doing nothing but prolonging her life for a little while longer. He couldn’t get her out of there, so what did it matter? It would just take longer for her to . . .

“I am back. I have water.” Malachi held up a bucket. Water slopped out of it and onto the vent. “Only I have no idea how to get it to you.” He frowned.

Although she understood her predicament, just the thought of water made her thirstier than ever. “Pour it through.”

Malachi shrugged, lifted the bucket, and poured it through the vent. Abigail opened her mouth and let the water pour into it. She gulped wildly to get as much as she could. Much of it went by the wayside or splashed onto her face, but even that felt good on her bruised and battered face. When it was depleted, Malachi set the bucket down and sat next to the grate. Water soaked the dirt beneath her, but she didn’t care.

He peeled off pieces of bread and passed it to her through the grate. “Save some for later. I don’t know how often I can come out here.”

Abigail nodded. “I’m scared,” she whispered through tears.

“I know. me too. But I am going to get you out of here.”

“How? The door is locked, and there is no way I can fit through this small hole.”

“I will figure something out. I promise.”

“The Chosen do not make promises, Malachi.” It was biblical, the elders spoke of it often. Let your yea be yea, and your nay be nay.

“I no longer consider myself Chosen. If this is how God treats His so-called Chosen, I want no part of it.”

As her hallucination came back to her, she felt foolish. Still, she told him about the Angel that visited her. “He said Rachel is alive. And that God will be with me. I know it was just a dream, but it was so real. Do you think it meant something?” The High Prophet got instructions from God in visions all the time. And what about Joseph from the Old Testament? Hadn’t God given him the message to give to Pharaoh?”

“I don’t know Abigail. I hope so.”

The hum of