Chapter 22 Brek
brEK
The car bounces, and something hard digs into my hip. My head is still fuzzy, and the loud clanging isn’t helping. It feels like we’re driving on a rough road, which makes no sense. It’s all highways and paved roads that lead home.
The tire falls into a hole. Metal scrapes on metal.
The sound is so loud and sharp that my jaw hurts.
The metal bars slap into my ass and back and shoulder.
I try to brace myself, but can’t move my hands.
Something is wrapped around them tightly.
It stings in a way I’ve never felt before. Bad enough that tears fill my eyes.
I squint and nearly pass out again. This isn’t the car. I’m surrounded by bars, which makes sense since it felt as if bars dug into me. Fear covers me like a cold blanket, and I shiver.
Once again, I try to move my hands, but the sharp bite cuts into them again. I shift and find that my hands are zip-tied together. Oh my god. What the fuck happened? What is this? Where am I?
I struggle to sit up. The cage I’m in is just big enough to do so. My body aches as if I’ve been punched all over. Kicked. Thrown off a building or shoved in front of a speeding truck. Everything hurts. Everywhere feels bruised.
My glasses are askew, but somehow they’re still on my face and not broken. That doesn’t mean I can see anything, though. They’re too fucking dirty to get a good look.
From what I can see, I’m in a long box. It’s not difficult to figure out that this is a tractor-trailer truck. I’m inside the trailer. There’s a length of large-bulbed string lights hanging from one end to the other—the kind that are hung in backyards or on decks.
Kept in a cage but given a light. That’s… oddly considerate.
I’m not alone. There are a dozen other cages just like mine, lining each side of the trailer. Someone is in each. Most are guys, from what I can tell. There’s a single woman at the very end.
I lift my tied hands and try to rub my glasses with my sleeve.
It only helps a little. Mostly, I smudge the shit already there, but I somehow manage to clean part of them.
Inconveniently, the clean parts are in different sections on the glass in front of each eye.
This is going to give me a quick headache if I continue trying to look around.
So I don’t. I lean back and close my eyes. I’ve seen all I need to see. I’m in a fucking cage like an animal. I’m not the only one.
With my eyes closed, I feel around for my phone. I’m not in the least bit surprised to find it missing. “Anyone have their phone?” I ask, already anticipating the response.
A quiet chorus of no answers my question.
“That would be too easy,” someone mutters.
I nod in agreement. “I didn’t want to be a cheesy meme and not ask,” I say.
“Did you restart your computer?” someone else says. It’s not difficult to hear the mocking in his tone.
“Are you seriously joking around right now?” someone else snaps. “We’re being fucking trafficked, and you’re joking about memes and restarting computers?”
“Is panicking or sitting here in silence going to change the situation?” the man mocking a restart asks. “No. And neither is being a dick because you’re scared.”
“We don’t know our situation right now, other than we’re being kept like dogs. While I think we can all assume this isn’t a surprise secret society induction ceremony we’re being brought to, sitting here letting our fear get the better of us isn’t going to help.”
No one answers. He’s right, of course. Meaningless chatter is a distraction from the seriousness of the situation we’re in. Sitting here with nothing but my terror to think about is only going to amplify my anxiety, and I may miss something important.
Not that I actually have any hopes that I’ll be able to get myself free. I’m not that kind of person. I have no fighting skills, no street smarts. Fuck, I don’t even know how I ended up in this situation! Wasn’t I in a damn Shuttled feeling carsick? How did I go from the Shuttled to a cage?
The answer is probably obvious, but I hate to think that the driver actually kidnapped me. And then… sold me? Wow. What the fuck?
Also, am I really the kind of person that someone wants to sell? I crack my eyes again and look down the row of cages. It’s interesting that they’re almost all men. You hear about traffickers, and it’s usually women and children. Not a single child here, and only one woman.
I don’t know if that’s promising. This isn’t your typical sex trafficking, I suppose. With homophobia running rampant in the world, I would seriously be surprised if that’s what this is.
“Anyone hear anything about where we’re going?” I ask.
“Reserve,” someone answers.
“I’ve also heard game refuge,” someone else says.
“We’re heading northeast.”
Huh. Reserve. Refuge. I don’t know what that means. The only thing I can think of is wildlife reserves. That can also coincide with a game refuge. Are they feeding us to the animals?
“The cages are full,” someone says quietly. “I anticipate we’ll find out where we’re heading at the next stop when we’re let out.”
That’s the last thing said. I try to find a position where all my bruises don’t scream at me with every bump and jostle.
There’s no sleeping. Every bounce has my head slamming off the bars.
I feel sick. The longer our silence stretches on, the more tense I become. The deeper the claws of fear dig in.
In the back of my mind, I wonder if my parents will view this death as not good enough. I know that I’m going to die when I face whatever lies ahead. People in this position don’t survive long enough to tell the story. My parents will forever condemn my death as not striving for martyrdom.
With nothing else to do in the back of the truck, I notice when we slow down. The grinding of the brakes. The groaning of the engine. I feel the way the truck leans as it drives around an exit ramp.
The next road isn’t as smooth as the highway.
I don’t stop being shaken around. My bruises’ bruises have bruises.
I almost cry when the truck turns onto what is unmistakably a dirt road.
We can hear gravel being kicked up and knocking against the underside of the trailer.
The bumps here are horrible. I grip the side of the cage tightly, trying to keep myself still.
When it finally stops, I’m nearly relieved. I don’t even care what comes next if it means I can get out of this stupid cage. It hurts. Everything inside me hurts. I’ve never felt so sore in my life.
We’re left alone for a long time. Still, no one talks. The guy complaining that we were talking about memes in a time like this got his wish. Now we’re all stewing in our fear and anxiety.
I’m dozing when the sound of boots on gravel meets my ears. My eyes snap open, but I don’t move. Playing dead isn’t going to get me anywhere, but I stay just as I am. The scraping of metal makes my heart race. It’s as if I’ve heard these sounds a million times before. I can see what they’re doing.
Unlocking the back. Lifting the handle and turning the lever to unlock the back of the truck. One of the doors pops out of its sealed position. I inhale and stare through the grime on my glasses as best I can.
No one is wearing a mask. There are three men.
Two with rifles in their hands. Once again, I’m assured of one thing only—no one is going to live through this.
If there were even a chance, they’d be masked.
Only people who know their victims won’t live long enough to identify them allow their identities to be seen.
The man without a rifle climbs into the back of the truck. I’m not the only one watching him as he unlocks the first cage and flips up the lid. He leans forward and takes the man by his upper arm, pulling him to his feet.
There’s not a lot of rough jostling. No snide remarks. No bullying. It’s almost… civil. The third man he helps out thanks him, and the guy actually says you’re welcome.
I exchange a look with the guy in the cage across from mine. No doubt he’s as confused as I am.
When it’s my turn, I allow the guy to haul me up. It’s difficult to keep the groan in. My entire body hurts. I don’t speak. He helps me out of the cage and then helps me drop to the ground.
I don’t look at the guys with rifles as I pass them to join the others in the back of a pickup.
I’m the last that’ll fit in the back of this one, and one of the guys lifts the tailgate to lock it in place.
He drives away from the rest of the people being unloaded from the back of the tractor-trailer truck.
Through the trees. Deeper and deeper we drive.
I pull my glasses from my face and use my shirt to clean them as best I can with my tied wrists.
I’m thankful that they’re in front of me.
As I’m scratching the hell out of my lenses with my shirt, I remember a short video I once saw about how a little girl demonstrates getting herself out of her zip ties. She uses her shoelace and friction.
Maybe next time we’re left alone. And also not staring down rifles. What good are free hands going to do me if I’m shot in the next second?
We drive through the trees long enough that I know there’s no one around.
The further we drive, seeing nothing but trees, the more sour the pit in my stomach grows.
I hate everything about this. I hang onto the hate of my situation as much as I can because it won’t take much for my fear to overtake me.
What feels like a day later, the truck pulls up in front of what looks like a barn. The wood planking looks burned. As the tailgate is opened, I can smell the fire. Charcoal fire.
The man who helps me down from the back of the truck doesn’t meet my eyes. He urges me toward the barn where, surprise, there are more armed men. Without someone to follow, I guess at where I should be going, knowing that they’ll tell me if I’m wrong. Even if they do so by the barrel of their guns.
“Hands here,” a man says once I’m inside the barn. He points at the anvil.
Yeah, I feel great about this. He doesn’t have anything in his hands. No rifle. No axe. Taking a breath, I place both my hands on top of the anvil since they’re tied together.
“Keep your hands there, or we’ll do this the hard way. Understand?”
I nod. Since I don’t know what’s going on, I’m not as scared as I could be. As he walks toward the fire, I amend my sentence. I wasn’t as scared as I should be. He comes back with short rods locked together that he took out of the fire. There are flat plates on the end that are glowing molten hot.
It takes a lot of convincing myself not to pull my hands away. I don’t want to know what the hard way is. I have a feeling it has to do with guns, and I don’t want to be shot. It might be less painful than being burned to death, but I don’t move.
Time slows as he brings the burning plates down onto the back of my left hand. I try like fucking hell to keep the scream in, but the pain is unlike anything I’ve ever known. My knees go weak. My hands feel glued to the anvil. I can’t pull them away, no matter how much I want to.
Finally, he pulls the rods away, and I’m staring through tears at the back of my hand that’s now marked with 718. Burned. Branded. I’m a fucking number.
My chest heaves as I try to catch my breath. Bile coats my mouth, and it takes a lot to keep from vomiting.
“Outside,” the man says as he detaches one of the plates and replaces it with another.
I pull my hands from the anvil and hold them to my chest as I stumble from the barn. Shaking. I’m a damn animal. I was branded like a farm animal. Numbered like an inmate.
What the fuck is this place?
I’m led back to the truck and climb in to sit in the far corner.
My head rests against the back window, and I close my eyes.
There’s no way to talk myself out of my fear now.
I’m absolutely terrified. This mark is the stripping of everything that makes me human.
People talk about being a number at a doctor’s office or within a company, but they don’t truly understand what that means.
At the end of the day, they’re human. A person. They go home and live their lives with names and identities.
Being transported in cages, herded by armed men, branded with a number that effectively erases everything else about me… that’s what it means to be treated less than human. Yes, being an account number when you call your bank is impersonal. But this? This is inhumane.
With each scream that follows mine, my nerves fray a little more. The others begin to struggle now. The others are fighting. Not wanting to be burned and branded. In the end, they scream as they become a number too.
I keep my eyes closed, not wanting to see the others as they join me in the back of the truck.
I’m on the verge of breaking down in terror at what’s going on, and the more I’m aware of it, the quicker it’ll happen.
There’s no way out right now, so all I can do is sit here and try to keep myself calm.
I can’t lose it right now. They won’t think twice about killing me.
I’m sure their weapons aren’t just props.
The tailgate closes, and I tuck my knees a little tighter to my chest as the engine starts and the truck moves further into the trees.
Deeper, deeper, deeper into the forest we drive.
Wherever we are, there’s no one else here.
There’s no getting out of this. I’m going to die of starvation before I find another living soul if I manage to escape.
This is how I die.