by L. E. Horn
Why not us? Lianndra thought. Is it worse or better to be left behind?
Although twenty bunks lined the wall of her room, only six women lived with her. There was Muriel, a tiny blonde woman strong for her stature. Lacey matched Lianndra’s height but appeared built like an athlete—her shoulders and arms bulging with muscle. Beth, almost as tall as Andrea, moved with grace and loved to talk. Michelle, a small woman, struggled daily with the exercise regimen set out for them. The last woman, Chia, barely spoke English, but she was always ready to flash a smile.
Lianndra questioned her cellmates, trying to find at least one common denominator. It turned out they had little in common. The women were from different areas of North America, possessed different ethnic backgrounds, physical characteristics, and interests.
Other than being female, there seemed only three things they shared: the situation, the collars, and the fact they refused to let captivity overwhelm them. At night, Lianndra could sometimes hear soft sobbing muffled by the blankets. During the day, they all kept their game faces intact. No tears. No hysterics. They complied with the guards’ wishes because they had no choice. The women followed Andrea’s lead—chins up, faces impassive no matter what the day held in store for them.
At three months, Andrea had been imprisoned the longest. In the nine weeks since Lianndra’s capture, she learned little about her eventual fate, but a lot about her sisters in slavery. All her cellmates stood up to the hulking man and his companion during processing rather than succumbing to their fear. Three women tried to attack the men, not that it had done them much good. The men forcibly stripped two of them. A seventh woman hadn’t even made it to the cage but died during the collaring procedure. Another woman witnessed the gory accident: the new captive moved at the wrong time, and the metal bored right through her neck.
Her fellow captives debated the collars’ mysteries, spending hours discussing how they worked. The devices lacked buttons or controls and the metal appeared inscribed with indecipherable etchings. Some etchings were common to all the collars, but each possessed unique characters, indicating they acted as a visual identification. Every woman exhibited a spidery network of raised lines beneath the skin, just behind the left ear. The lines penetrated deeper into the flesh where their skull met the necks. The collar felt warm to the touch, alive against the skin, as if it flexed and contracted with each breath they took. An eerie sensation, one that made the hair on the back of Lianndra’s neck stand on end. At night, the collar’s constraint led to many nightmares about choking to death.
It soon appeared as though the collars performed another function—they prevented ovulation. None of the woman had experienced a menstrual cycle since their collaring. At first, each captive ignored the issue, considering the interruption as a sign of the trauma they’d suffered. Then the women compared notes, initiating a flurry of discussion about the collars and how they could have such an effect. The sophisticated pieces of technology seemed out of place in this otherwise low-tech outfit.
The collars instilled obedience, the immediate and incapacitating pain brought dissidents to their knees. Even knowing they wouldn’t permanently harm them was no help. No one could fight the agony.
MICHAEL SLASHED AT TRENT WITH the blunt training sword, making the smaller man leap back in an awkward parry. Over the duration of their long friendship, Michael had seen Trent absorb many new skills. Sword fighting wasn’t one of them.
Not that I’m any Knight of the Round Table, Michael thought, but my control over the sword is miles ahead of Trent’s.
Both young men sported bruises over most of their bodies. Michael didn’t want to learn how to fight, but the collar convinced him otherwise. The guards shocked him four times before he gave in and picked up the sword.
He told himself the skill might be useful if he could ever bust out of here. In the mornings, their captors escorted the male captives to a room where they exercised using machines. They rested over the midday. In the late afternoon, they transferred to another area which was large enough for fight practice.
“What modern war uses swords?” Michael asked, but the expressionless men who stood at the edges of the room weren’t interested in conversation. The four of them carried revolvers, dart guns, and the collar remotes. More than enough to keep six men under control, especially as their fifth man was the fighting coach. He possessed a real sword plus a long knife and watched the men as they sparred. The man moved like a martial arts expert, and Michael had little doubt he was a lethal weapon, even when unarmed.
Each reluctant student received corrections from the collars more than once, and two even required darting. So far, the real guns had stayed in their holsters.
I guess shooting the merchandise is frowned upon, Michael thought.
He struck again, ducking under Trent’s swing, feeling another twinge of worry at his friend’s blank face. Something within Trent couldn’t cope with enslavement. He didn’t sleep and only ate or exercised under threat of being shocked. Despite Michael’s efforts to keep his friend’s spirits up, Trent only spoke when asked a question. He also suffered from shaking fits, during which he seemed to tune out his new reality. Even more disturbing were the increasing fits of rage. These often ended with Trent screaming when the guards activated his collar.
Trent flirted with death, and it drove Michael to distraction. He’s concerned about Cassidy. But it’s more than that.
While Michael kept his thoughts occupied with the potential for escape, Trent just appeared defeated by the situation. As the days passed, Michael grew increasingly frustrated. Why is he giving up? Why won’t he fight to stay alive? Michael had many reasons to live, and Lianndra was one of them. In the short time they’d spent together, he felt something life-changing taking place between them. He thought of her constantly and feared for her.
The other four men who shared their incarceration seemed to cope. The daily fight sessions appeared to help, giving them an opportunity to vent their anger and frustration. Yet Trent mechanically went through the paces, slipping further away day by day. Michael noticed that although of average height and in good physical shape, Trent remained the smallest of the captives. From his early teenage years, Michael had become accustomed to being taller than average, yet the other four men in their group were just as tall and shared his build despite having different hair, coloring, and features. The five men were also naturals at fighting whereas Trent struggled.
There is a selection process at work here, although I have no idea what it involves, Michael thought. How do they prejudge fighting ability? It disturbed him to think he could have been the kidnappers’ principal target. Was I responsible for us getting grabbed? Were the others collateral damage? It made him even more determined to help Trent through this ordeal.
Their fight master blew a whistle, telling the men to shift partners. This time, they picked up a training knife in one hand while keeping the sword in the other. Max now sparred with Trent which relieved Michael; Max would pull his punches enough so Trent could cope. The trick involved doing it subtly, so neither got zapped from the watching guards.
Michael looked across to Tyler, his new sparring partner. A large bruise spread along the side of Tyler’s face, resulting in the left eye swelling shut.
Feint right, strike left. Michael dropped to a crouch, watching for the telltale eye movements and muscle shifts showing which way Tyler would strike.
The mechanics of the fighting came easily, and it shocked him. Whether I want to admit it or not, these bastards are tapping into a talent I would rather not be developing. What scares me is how will I have to use this new skill. I do not want to become a killer.
Out of the corner of his eye, Michael saw a guard watching him. The man’s hand never strayed from the pain button on the remote. The tendons of Michael’s throat tensed beneath the collar, bracing against the coming onslaught.
As things stand, I might not have much choice.
RIGHT ON TIME, A HARSH c
lank interrupted Lianndra’s meditation. The metal door leading to the hallway opened, revealing Brown.
They didn’t know the men’s real names, so the women labeled them with nicknames corresponding to a physical characteristic. Eye color designated Brown and Blue. Hulk remained the burly man who processed the women. His associate became Mouse because of his comparative small size. The others included Goldie, who possessed a gold canine tooth, and Pug, who featured a snub nose.
“Get moving.” Brown waved the remote in the air.
Andrea sighed, unfolding her long legs.
Brown remained fair despite being a man of few words and zero sense of humor—no one got zapped unless they disobeyed. Blue tended to be nasty, his finger never far from the pain button.
As they entered the hall, Goldie accompanied Brown as his partner for the day. Both men carried remotes and dart guns. The men fell in behind to follow the slaves to the gym.
Although daily activity made sense if confining people for any length of time, it seemed about more than just keeping them fit. The women could never back off, so they now spent a minimum of three hours in the room. Their captors made it clear they must work out the entire time. The exercises increased in intensity and aptitude, using different equipment. Besides being a life coach, Andrea was a trained fitness instructor. The men chose the equipment they must use, but before long allowed Andrea to coach the other women, and only meddled occasionally with her program.
With the intensity of the training, Lianndra moved so stiffly some mornings she looked like an old woman. Captured after Lianndra, poor Michelle had a difficult time keeping up; she’d lived a sedentary life doing bookwork for a small business. The woman struggled every day to complete her regimen.
Still, Lianndra became more fit than she’d been in her entire life, even with the farm chores she used to do. She would feel better if she understood the reason they must master certain exercises. What are they preparing us for?
Today, as she moved into the gym ahead of Lianndra, Andrea paused in the entryway. Peering past her friend, Lianndra’s heart froze. Blood saturated the sawdust just inside the door. The women stopped in shock.
“Get moving.” Brown gave one woman a shove.
Andrea folded her fingers into fists before planting them on her hips. “What happened here?”
Goldie moved into the room. “Nothin’ involvin’ you.”
For the first time, Lianndra noticed both he and Brown showed signs of having been in a scuffle. They had abrasions on their knuckles, and there were dark specks on their clothing resembling dried blood.
Goldie waved his remote at Andrea. “No questions. Get going with your exercisin’.”
Goaded by the remotes, the women moved into the room, stepping wide to avoid the stained sawdust. Lianndra stepped onto a treadmill and walked to warm up, but her mind remained in turmoil. This was the first sign of real violence she’d seen since arriving. Her thoughts roiled with questions, searching for an answer.
The collar shocks are brutal but don’t draw blood. Do all the slaves have collars? Do they ever fail? Without the debilitating effects of the pain, she wondered how they would keep control of captives if they revolted. Please tell me the blood isn’t Cassidy’s, or Trent’s, or please not Michael’s. The amount made her wonder if the person survived the assault. Not Michael. The thought of his young body, broken and bleeding, made her frantic.
The images stayed fixed in her mind, torturing her during the workout. After the three-hour allotment, they moved on to the showers. Lianndra normally hated this time of day because she couldn’t adjust to taking a shower in full view of their captors. As usual, the guards occupied themselves by heckling.
“Mighty fine asses on these women,” Goldie said as he walked along the line of showers. He stopped to slap Chia’s rear.
Brown ran a hand along Michelle’s back. The woman flinched, but didn’t meet his eyes. Getting shocked while under water wasn’t a pleasant experience.
Rude and crude the guards may be, but Lianndra noticed they rarely touched Andrea. They confined themselves to lewd suggestions about the tall African-American woman.
Lianndra usually did her best to ignore them as if they were so insignificant they didn’t matter. Today it was no effort to do so—thoughts of Michael preoccupied her.
After they returned from the showers, the last daily meal arrived. Lianndra picked at her food. She noticed the others were much the same, each lost in grim thoughts brought on by the day’s events. That night, she lay in the shelter of her blanket and felt the surge of emotional overload.
Is Michael okay? She wondered at the prevalence of the tall young man in her thoughts. How could he get such a hold on me in such a short time? Lianndra brushed away tears of anxiety. Or is it our shared situation doing this?
She stifled a sob. If she lost control now, she might never regain it. She questioned if it was better to die than to live like this. Did such a decision explain the blood? Was someone desperate enough to push their captors until they made an example of him?
Did they choose to die rather than live in captivity? The thought calmed her. If it was their choice, at least someone didn’t make it for them.
She pulled the thin pillow farther under her chin. The collar pushed into her neck, a continual reminder of what she now was.
A slave. Is it better to be dead? Some might think so. But, please, let it not be Michael making that decision.
THEY WERE LATE. EXCEPT FOR the single day when the hallways went silent, there had been no variation in their routine.
With no clocks in the cell, the women relied on three methods of telling time: the twelve-hour light cycle, their meals, and their own internal clock. Today, all the methods coalesced into one verdict—their captors were late.
It had been three months since Lianndra’s capture. Seven women lived in relative harmony in the isolated room. Considering the cost of feeding them, they must be worth a fair bit. The change in routine made the women uneasy, and they found it hard to sit still. Most were up and pacing in the sawdust. Andrea perched in her usual lotus position on the cot, but Lianndra noticed the tall woman’s breathing wasn’t slow enough for meditation. After a few moments, Andrea obviously sensed Lianndra staring and gave up with a sigh. “I wonder what the hell is up,” she said in her husky voice.
Lianndra could tell her friend had problems disguising the concern she felt.
In one corner, Muriel, Beth, and Chia played a game they’d invented to pass the time. The tokens consisted of sawdust blended with oatmeal salvaged from their breakfasts and sculpted into rough shapes. The women cleared the sawdust from an area of the concrete floor, laying out their chosen tokens in a set pattern. Many spent hours playing games they created themselves. Lianndra would rather meditate, going inward for her entertainment, although sometimes she played the games when boredom overwhelmed her.
Not far from where Lianndra sat, Lacey and Michelle leaned against a wall, discussing the things that might cause their captors to change the routine. The women were now fit, and the delay in their daily exercise made them jittery.
The sound of the lock disengaging on the door made many of them flinch. By the time Hulk entered the room, all seven were on their feet and in a group at the far end.
Hulk’s presence signified change—they’d only seen rare glimpses of the burly man. Whatever position he held must be high enough up the pecking order to allow him absence from the daily routine.
Lianndra’s heart thumped so hard, surely the others could hear it. As Hulk’s gaze traveled over to her, she forced herself to raise her chin and glare back at him. He seemed to find her defiance amusing.
“Well, ladies, our time together is at an end.” He gave them a grin, more a sneer than a genuine smile. “It has been a pleasure.”
He walked back into the hall where Blue, Pug, Brown, and Goldie assumed positions to guide the women out of their room.
Lianndra shook, and she thought she
noticed an answering tremble in Andrea’s legs as the tall woman led the way out. One by one, they followed her.
Their escorts turned them in the opposite direction to the one they traveled every day. The women passed through a reinforced door into the main area of the warehouse. The cages on each side stood empty save for one at the far end. Inside, a small group of women huddled together. Lianndra peered at them. She didn’t think they had collars on, and she didn’t see Cassidy, although she might be hard to recognize under the dirt. The room didn’t smell as overpowering as the first time Lianndra passed through. She noticed the bare concrete floors were still damp as though just washed.
They moved out of the main area. Another heavy metal door led to a corridor opening into a strange room. The metal walls reflected their scared faces, and a floor revealed a series of stainless steel grates placed over a trench. It looked like an animal containment system designed for easy sterilization and the knot in her stomach tightened.
The men ordered them to strip, and the nervous women obeyed. Brown gathered the garments under his arm.
The men backed out of the room. Blue smirked before throwing them one last snide remark. “I’d say have a good time, but I’m afraid that isn’t likely.”
A heavy sliding door closed between the women and their captors. They looked at each other, eyes wide with uncertainty.
Andrea spoke, doing her best to reassure them. “They haven’t kept us all this time to harm us now.”
That’s true. Lianndra fought to slow her pulse even as a faint hiss came from overhead. But it doesn’t mean whatever they have planned will be pleasant.
It wasn’t pleasant. Not at all. The room filled with a noxious substance that caused the women to empty first their stomachs—followed by their bowels—repeatedly. Lianndra thought she would turn inside out. Soon, the emptying changed into nothing more than gut-wrenching contortions as they dry heaved, their bodies refusing to give up any more.
