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I count at least four men surging into the container. I may not be able to walk out of here, but if I can get the blade and my hands untied, I might have a chance of taking at least one of them out with me.
Three of them descend on me, shoving me onto my front and pinning me to the floor. I scream in agony as the blade is pushed deeper into my muscle and twisted viciously before being ripped out. Two men yank me to my feet and hot, sticky blood drips down my ankle.
I’m dragged out, the men holding my arms taking no great care to let me adapt to hopping on one foot. Each time my wounded leg drags against the ground, searing pain shoots all the way up the limb. It’s only when we’re outside that I realize the guards aren’t wearing black hoods pulled low down their faces. Instead, their faces are completely obscured by what look like Guy Fawkes masks in solid black.
“Cute costume,” I taunt. The one holding my left arm lets go, but before I can react, his elbow slams into my nose. The hit makes my eyes water and my already aching head pound. I lick my upper lip, wiping coppery blood with my tongue.
I remain quiet the rest of the way to wherever they are leading me, letting them think they’ve tamed me while I observe as much as I can. The ground is an unexpected mix of sand and dirt covered with thin, wiry shrubbery and tall, untrimmed pine trees. We pass a couple more shipping containers, red and weathered, and when there’s a part in the trees, I see that we are surrounded by water.
The fact that we’re on an island doesn’t bode well for me, but I’m comforted by the isolation. Reggie won’t be able to find me here, and I want her as far away from this place as possible.
The trees clear to an open sandy circle, wooden stands wrapping around half of it like an amphitheater. More people in black masks fill them, and my stomach twists as I notice a row of women.1
They’re lined up along one side of the pit, dressed in dirty white dresses that look like night gowns. Their feet are shackled and attached to a ball and chain. They all look to be in various stages of abuse and neglect. A few are only dirty, but still healthy looking with full cheeks and few bruises. Others look like they’ve been starved in one of those shipping containers without seeing the sun for weeks. Their skin is gaunt and gray, their hair matted or thinning. All of them have cuts and bruises on their limbs and faces.
Seeing them makes me seethe, and harsh breaths skate in and out of my nose. The sense of being useless to help them cripples my lungs. I am led across the pit to two wood piles sticking out of the earth. Rusty chains hang off the sides of them. The iron wristlets attached to the chains are clasped around my wrists, and my zip ties are cut so that my arms are stretched out between the two poles.
A man steps into the center of the circle wearing the same mask as everyone else, but in a matte silver. I recognize him as Daniel by his voice and clothes. “Welcome to the post-hunt festivities. Let us celebrate our bounties.”
The men in the stands stomp their feet in hollow beat as Daniel welcomes one of them down by the code name Hunter 421. Cowards, hiding behind masks and anonymity. The only thing worse than reveling in depravity is not being man enough to own up to it. Only weak men need to harm and hurt women, and only the weakest need to do it behind a mask.
Two men push one of the women forward. I deduce the men in simple black clothes are the guards, and then men with the same masks but dressed in various styles are the hunters. One of the guards kneels down to unlock one of her ankles, but keeps the one attached to the ball in place. He stands and kicks the ball into the center of the circle, and the woman stumbles to catch up with it.
She stands dejected and broken, chin lowered and eyes barely open, as the hunter stalks back and forth in front of her. He takes a switchblade from his coat pocket, and she flinches when he flicks it open. The men in the stands have stopped their stomping, and it’s quiet enough that I can hear her soft crying and the sound of crashing waves in the distance.
My chest burns with the need to do something other than stand here, useless and lame. I remember something Reggie said after we met with the priestess.
There wasn’t a single gunshot wound. If they’re hunting for sport or entertainment, it would explain choosing a weapon with more personal involvement like a bow and arrow or strangulation.
I mentally note that I haven’t seen guns on any of the guards either, and Daniel stabbed me rather than shot me…
“Takes a big man to fight a woman in shackles,” I jeer, and the stands sound behind me with heckling laughs.
The hunter’s head whips around toward his peers that are now laughing at him and barks at the guard to uncuff her other ankle. Life returns to her eyes, and they flit around like she’s looking for an escape route. Her gaze lands on mine, and I try to give her an encouraging, but subtle, nod.
My heart pounds in anticipation as the guard returns to his position on the edge of the circle. She looks like a deer in headlights as she notes the distance between herself and the nearest guard. Come on, come on, you can do it. My chest rustles with agitation, wanting to shout at her to run.
The hunter lunges for her. She jumps out of the way, and he trips, falling to the sand.
“Run!” The order is ripped from me without conscious decision, but it spurs her into action and she sprints away. Excitement floods my bloodstream watching her bare feet fly and her tattered dress whip behind her.
It happens so fast. I don’t even see who fired but a gunshot rings out, a flock of birds taking off from the surrounding trees in a flurry of wings.
“No!” My yell is guttural, my arms thrashing in my chains.
The bullet hits her between the shoulder blades, red exploding against the white fabric. Her knees give out first, and she topples face down.
“No, no. Goddamn it,” I cry out and hang my head. Her body lies still and sprawled on the forest floor, and it’s all my fucking fault.
Someone behind me barks at me to shut up, and then kicks my good leg out from under me. All my weight comes crashing down on my torn-up leg.
The pain is excruciating, but I welcome it. I deserve it.
I did worse than fail her.
I killed her.
It feels like time has stopped moving, but I know the hours are passing by the sun’s path overhead and the woman’s lips turning purple. After they shot her, they dragged her lifeless body through the pit, her heels leaving tracks, and propped her up against one of the poles chaining me. At one point, her body tipped over and she fell across the ground in front of me. They left her there for a while, her hollow eyes staring up at me like bridges into the underworld.
