Chapter 33: Attempted Escape

A long time later—she had no idea how long—the drug-fogged haze cleared a bit.

One of the side effects of pentothal, she remembered from her training, was that while under the influence of the drug time tended to distort, to either seem like it was passing very quickly or very slowly. She had fuzzy remembrances of this cargo ship stopping several times; the two women who had helped her at the beginning of the trip, cleaning her up and giving her what little food and water they could spare, were gone, probably offloaded at another port somewhere on this nightmarish trip. As she scanned the container now, she saw only dull, empty eyes. There was no life, no spark, as there was with those other two women.

The other occupants of the container were female, and they too were kept chained. The only time they weren't was when Yembe—that was the name of the ship's captain—had them taken out one by one to be hosed down with seawater, and the only ones he took out were those who didn't fight, who cowered and whimpered and cried and were certain not to create a fuss or try to escape. As the door to the shipping container swung open and she saw Yembe and two other men standing there, she made a sudden decision. She would act as if they'd broken her. Maybe then he'd let her up, unchain her, take her outside—and she was desperate enough right now to try to dive over the rail if she could just be free.

So when he came to her, she cringed as best she could, managed a scared little whimper that she remembered hearing from when Cam got lost in one of her PTSD flashbacks. Thank goodness for those; she'd seen how Cam's body reacted and she pulled on those memories now, cringing and shrinking from him, whimpering as the toe of his boot nudged her bruised side. That whimper was only half-feigned; though she couldn't really tell without being able to feel the bones, she suspected that she either had a very mild fracture or a very bad bruise there.

He leaned down to see the dusky blue-black smear on her skin, touched it. She cried out then, it really did hurt. He swore, putting a hand on the rest of her ribcage, feeling her then swore. "Get her up and bring her out. I need to clean her off and check this. If she is badly hurt we may not be paid what we are owed for bringing her in." He smiled as he looked down at her, and she had to fight to not spit in that grinning face, had to fight her own instincts and keep acting broken. Her ruse worked, and all she had to do was wait until they unchained her and got her out.

Hands grabbed her wrists, and for the first time since the whole nightmare started on this ship, the chains were unlocked from the floor, her arms and legs released. She cried, then, as muscles and tendons that had been stretched into one position for far too long were now allowed to come down, to hang at her sides. The sudden change in position was excruciating, and she curled in a fetal position crying for a long time.

They finally grabbed the chains hanging from the shackles and wrapped them around both wrists, tethering her hands in front of her. Yembe grabbed the end of the chain and started to walk, and Shana tried to get her feet under her and walk after him. Her thigh and calf muscles protested, every joint, muscle and bone in her body screaming in pain, and she didn't try to hide her crying, her whimpering, as she was led out of the cargo container. Not that she could even if she'd wanted to; everything in her body just hurt so much…

It was dusk; there was little light here, but she smelled saltwater, the briny tang of the ocean, could see, around her, the dim shapes of other cargo containers on either side of the narrow aisle they were walking. Her legs, unused to walking after the days—how many?—of being chained, didn't want to obey her, and she had to focus her still-drug-blurred mind on lifting first one foot, then the other.

Yembe suddenly yanked hard on the end of the chain, and she lost her balance and crumpled to the deck, then cringed back into the corner provided by two cargo containers as he stepped forward, towering over her. Look defeated. Look broken. Cower. Make him forget you're a trained fighter, make him think he broke you. So she cringed, cowered, cried, keeping in mind all the mannerisms that Cam had displayed whenever she'd gotten lost in one of her PTSD flashbacks.

She wasn't quite the actress that Allie was, but it was apparently good enough. Yembe laughed, a cruel sound, as he brought over a hose. "All right, let's wash her off." And then she didn't have to pretend to cringe and shiver as cold seawater blasted from the nozzle of the hose. "Wash yourself!" he commanded.

It was cold. And it smelled like seawater. But oh, God, the simple luxury of being able to scrape the crusted filth off her skin! The men hooted and hollered, clearly enjoying the spectacle, and tears flowed down her face, mixing with the water on her cheeks, but she didn't stop scrubbing until the water stopped coming out of the hose. And she fixed her eyes on the narrow aisle between the cargo containers and tensed, getting ready to run for it the minute one of the three men moved from that narrow aisle.

Yembe took a step forward, grinning. And Shana made her move.

Nowhere near as agile and limber as she usually was, reflexes dulled by the drugs still in her system and stiffness in her muscles from what felt like an eternity spent chained to the floor of that shipping container, her rush still took her past Yembe, past the two men, and propelled her in a run down the narrow aisle. She reached an intersection and took a hard right, reasoning that eventually she would have to reach one side of the boat if she just picked a direction and kept heading that way. Behind her she heard Yembe roar, heard the two men with him babble in African, but she forced herself to keep running.

Adrenaline seemed to have chased the last of the drugged haze from her mind, but she felt her legs tremble. At first she couldn't think of why she'd be feeling wobbly, then it hit her. Withdrawal. She'd apparently been given high enough concentrations of certain drugs for a long enough time to start withdrawal symptoms, and she cursed, bending all of her will into forcing herself not to give in. She had to get off this boat!

And then she ran smack into a slim young man standing in the middle of the next intersection staring at her.

Mathieu had gone in search of the captain to ask about their next destination. He had just turned the corner that led to the stern of the ship when he saw a naked white woman running toward him, her face full of terror and panic, and ran right into him. She stared at him for one second, then blurted, "Help me—hide me—please, get me out of here!"

He saw the shackles on her wrists, the raw sores where the rough, unfiled metal had chafed her skin; saw the heavy chain that ran between the shackles, and realized instantly; it was this cargo ship that the Congolese officials had been looking for, it must be. She was the important cargo that Capítan Yembe was trying to get out of Africa before someone saw her. She was beautiful, milky pale skin and flaming hair, although that fair skin was smeared with horrific bruises and her hair was tangled, matted, and filthy, and now he knew why their 'cargo' had required such frequent inspections—that had been their excuse for why they vanished from the wheelhouse so often and so frequently on this trip.

"Come," he said, and although his English wasn't that good, she apparently understood. He slipped his arm into his, seeing her wince slightly as he hit a bruise but otherwise remained stoic. Pity and fury washed over him; he had known about the human trafficking out of Africa, who hadn't? but he had never thought the traders would have been so bold as to try to snatch and transport a white woman.

He took a hard right, then a left. Although officially he was the navigator, he had also overseen the loading of the containers and knew how they were laid out on deck. Just around this corner, and there was somewhere where he could hide her; a small locker, close to the floor of the deck that they kept all kinds of coiled ropes and other equipment in. Not the most comfortable of places, but he rather got the feeling that she didn't care.

Just one more turn…

And there, standing in front of the equipment locker he had thought to hide her in, he saw one of the other crew; a big burly man. That makes the Capítan and three others. How many more people on this cursed vessel know about this and do nothing?

And then a heavy weight descended on him from above, and he crumpled to the deck, losing his grip on the woman's arm.

She went into action then, and he knew that there was more to her. She moved like a trained fighter, and though she was dazed and slightly uncoordinated, the man who had fallen on Mathieu was yanked off him, spun around, and a bare heel crushed his throat and his life as his spine snapped under her bare foot. She followed it up with a rush that she plainly intended to take out the big man at the rail, but he met her head on, arms reaching out to try a huge bear hug. She danced out of the way, and Mathieu knew that she was a trained fighter; no one he knew could move like that outside of the American Hollywood movies his son liked watching on TV. Smooth, as graceful as a dance.

Then her foot caught a coil of rough rope on the deck and stumbled, went down gracelessly. And then the big man was on her, wrapping his arms around her throat and squeezing effortlessly as he straightened. She was shorter than he was, and lighter, and he held her a few feet off the deck with his hands wrapped around her throat. She clawed at his hands, choking, gagging, retching, but he didn't let go until she was hanging limp from his hands, raspy breathing the only sign that she was alive, then he dropped her to the deck.

"Capítan…it was this ship they were looking for. She is the reason why the closed the ports in two countries! Capítan, we must let her go, they will not stop looking for such a one!"

"All we have to do is get her to Amsterdam, Mathieu, and she is no longer our concern. And we will be paid handsomely. She is worth much money on the international market." Yembe's tone was soft, persuasive. "I know you have a young son in the hospital, and money is tight. I will give you a share of the money we will get for delivering her. A fair share. Look at her. She is worth much, and you can pay all your son's hospital bills with your share of the fee."

Mathieu looked at the unconscious woman gasping for air on the deck; the big African who had strangled her was now locking the end of the chain to a ring set in the side of the wheelhouse of the ship, a ring mean to tie off cargo support straps. The ring was a good eight feet off the deck, and her toes didn't touch the hard surface.

"A fair share, Mathieu. Think about it. And we will let you punish her."

Mathieu stared at Yembe in horror. He couldn't have just said what Mathieu thought he said. Punish her? Punish this woman who had fought so valiantly against her captors even when she would have known that fighting was helpless? He had seen his wife, Caimile, look like that. She had died giving birth to his son five years ago, but he still remembered it. She had been dying, knew he was dying, but had still fought to give birth to his son before she died. And he looked at this woman, now, she had the same spirit as his wife; she was starting to regain consciousness, her eyes opening, and he saw they were a deep green, an astonishing emerald of a truer green than any gemstone he'd ever seen come out of the gemstone mines in the south, and he shook his head, almost transfixed. "No. No, this is not right."

He heard the whisper of a gun being pulled out from under a leather belt, and he knew what was going to happen, and he closed his eyes. I am sorry, my son. I told you, once, that I would do anything for you, but I can't. I can't do this. I'm so sorry. He heard the gun cock, and smiled. I'm coming, Caimille.

And the world went dark.

He'd looked at her with those dark eyes, just for a moment, and she saw something she hadn't seen since this whole nightmare began; decency, kindness, resolution, compassion. And then Yembe pulled the trigger and Shana screamed in terror and horror as blood sprayed everywhere, as the top of her would-be rescuer's head came off, came apart. And she felt so sick…she vomited helplessly, retched, gagged, nothing left in her stomach to come up , her throat burning from having been choked into unconsciousness moments ago, still unable to control her heaves as tears flowed unchecked down her face.

He tried to help me—he tried to save me. He wanted to, I could see it in his eyes, and they killed him because he wouldn't hit me. I'm so sorry, oh God, I'm so sorry…

Her choked sobs turned into screams as Yembe struck her with his belt as she hung by her wrists from the ring. With her body stretched taut, muscles hard, the thick leather straps didn't cut her skin as much as it pounded flesh, pounded tight muscle, leaving shocking agony and almost paralyzing bruises. The other two men joined in, and for an eternity she hung there, screaming, as heavy leather belts struck her body. In the back of her mind she realized that they weren't using anything that would cut her skin, scar her and reduce her value, but too much of her mind was taken up with the pain, and she 'screamed' mentally, with every fiber of her being. Snake Eyes! Snake Eyes! Please! Please! "PLEASE!"

Snake Eyes snapped awake, mouth open in a silent scream, completely disoriented in the dark as he fumbled for the switch on the tiny lamp on the night table he knew almost as well as he knew his own. He'd woken up beside Shana too many times not to know where the switch was, and he found it almost by instinct.

Warm golden light flooded the room, and he found himself staring at Shana's closet door, heart pounding, skin slick with sweat, a silent scream still vibrating his throat. That had been the most vivid nightmare/dream he'd ever had—in fact, since Shana had gone missing his dreams of her had been even more vivid than ever. And they were all different, of places and things that he had never personally seen, and he wondered, for the umpteenth time, whether there was some hint of reality to the dreams, whether there actually was some sort of connection between him and Shana that allowed him to be with her, in some way, while she was going through this.

His shoulders twitched at the memory of the 'dream', if dream it had been. He could almost feel the bruises left by the belts, could almost trace every line left by the belt across his/Shana's back, could almost feel the shackles digging into his/Shana's wrists. His wrists hurt, almost a sympathetic throb, and he looked down almost reflexively—and froze.

Visible around his right wrist was a thin red line. No, two red lines, circling his wrists exactly where those rough metal shackles had circled Shana's in his dream. Disbelievingly, he turned his arm, held it up; yes, those lines went all the way around, two inches wide, exactly parallel—just like Shana's.

And the same around his left wrist.

He stared at his wrists for a long moment, unable to make sense of it, then felt his calves throbbing. He swung his feet and legs out of Shana's bed, stood with his back to the full-length mirror hanging on her closet door—and stared in complete befuddlement at the clear red weal left right across his upper calf muscle. As he looked, it was already fading, leaving behind a faint throbbing, almost a ghost pain; but around his wrists, those two parallel lines, exactly spaced two inches apart.

Shana… her name, almost a prayer, a plea to the universe that somehow he hoped would reach her. Shana, please. I'm coming for you…hold on, baby, please! His lips formed the words, and tears streamed unchecked down his cheeks as he lay back down on his side, buried his face in her pillow, breathed in her scent and cried. Hold on, baby, please…!

Hurt. Cold. Muscles hurt. Arms and legs stretched, chained tighter than before. Needle, slipping into her arm. The drugs brought some relief to her brutalized body.

But even as she welcomed the oblivion that the drugs brought, she heard once again, very faint and far away, a familiar voice cry hold on, baby, please…but as she tried to put a name to the voice, darkness cocooned her and she slipped into a soft, velvety darkness where there was no pain, not anymore…