Being Enslaved 4 Chapter 4

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My breath catches in my throat when I wake. I squeeze my eyes shut, not wanting to let them know I'm up. Is anyone even watching? There's no way to know — I can't even say where I am right now, or how I got here. Instinct has taken over.

Memories of being whipped surface as I feel the throb from my backside. Recollections of what happened after are hazy: I stood still, locked in the stock, for a long, long time. Did I pa.s.s out that way? It's hard to imagine. They dragged me away from that thing, I'm pretty sure — I can still feel the cold sc.r.a.ping of a dry cement floor beneath my toes. Then the sound of clanking, followed by a crash…

Hearing nothing, I open my eyes and see metal bars — a prison cell. Beneath me is a hard, bare mattress on a creaky wire cot. I'm still naked, curled into a ball. Shivering, I sit up and notice a set of gray, folded clothes at the foot of the cot — my prison uniform.

When I look up, there's another jail cell across from me — a girl inside sleeps soundly, wrapped up in a blue blanket. Why does she have one but not me? In fact, her cell boasts a variety of comforts: beneath her head is a big pillow, while a shelf on the wall holds books, a hairbrush and a package of crackers. Where did all that come from? Did her family send it? Do they know what this place is?

I don't care about personal belongings, but why don't I have at least a pillow and blanket? Is that Prescott's doing? I may be their prisoner, but I still have to sleep.

Lying back down, I spot the gla.s.s dome of a security camera in the corner above. They can see me.

My stomach turns at the thought of Prescott, Ashworth or Reed watching me in my sleep. All of them make my skin crawl. If I saw Reed out in public, maybe I'd think he's hot, but not if I knew who he is and what he does to women. I glare at the security camera as I get dressed — there's no way to know if anyone's watching now, but if they are, I want them to know I'm not going to take this.

I have to get out of here. Going to jail, having none of the freedoms and comforts I took for granted before — that's bad enough. Getting stripped and whipped by s.a.d.i.s.tic monsters isn't supposed to happen to people. I'm not a killer, no matter what they say — this is wrong, and I don't care what I have to do — I'm going to escape, and take down everyone involved.

Yeah, sure you will, Quinn.

I sigh, forcing a sob back into my chest. How am I supposed to fight a congressman as powerful as Prescott? He's beyond connected — it's hopeless. There's no way I'm the first woman in this place to dream about revenge on these a.s.sholes — and they're still here.

The woman across the cell from me yawns, stretching her arms, then opens her eyes. Her breath hitches when she sees me, but then she seems to relax, her body loosening. Throwing off her blanket reveals she's slept in the nude; I should look away immediately, but I don't, stunned by the sight. Tattoos decorate her arms and abdomen: playing cards with burnt corners; coiling snakes baring hooked fangs; a woman on her knees, weeping, her back b.l.o.o.d.y — beside her, on the ground, a pair of severed angel wings.

Good lord.

The imagery on her front, however, can't compare to what I see when she turns around. Dozens of ugly scars mar her milky skin, rising all the way up her spine. Below them all, across her lower back, a message in an elegant script font reads, "You did this."

Whippings, I realize. Bad ones. Lots of them.

Even in the murky morning light sneaking through the narrow cell windows, I can see the b.u.mps and discolorations. I cringe, imagining how they must look up close.

"The f.u.c.k you staring at?" she growls, her empty expression contorting angrily.

"Sorry," I mumble, finally turning to give her some privacy. "I'm Quinn."

I hear the rustling of her dressing, but she doesn't reply. After a minute, I start to wonder if maybe that's for the best. Considering Byron promised to punish the first girl to speak to me, I'm surprised she said anything at all. Maybe she doesn't care about a little punishment, but what if the security cameras don't pick up audio? That would be good to know.

For a while I try to fall back asleep, but there's too many questions floating through my head. A few times I look back to my neighbor, but she's staring through her window. Outside, the skies are still gray, and scatterings of raindrops dot the gla.s.s.

"Wake up!" one of the guards calls before too long, rousing the rest of the inmates. Pressing my face against the bars of my cell I can get enough of an angle to see across to more of my neighbors; I catch a few glimpses of them as they get ready. The tattooed woman stands at the center of her cell, arms crossed behind her back, until the doors slide open.

As I watch, the girls all exit, marching down the hall single-file.

"Move," one the guards says, banging a baton against the bars of my cell. Heavyset, with a short, scraggly beard, his scalp shines through the greasy remnants of his hair.

I don't argue, quickly scampering to catch up to the line. Many of the girls in it are dressed, but some are not — naked, they hold onto their uniforms instead of wearing them. Thankfully, I don't have to wonder about this for very long, as we emerge into a large, communal bathroom and shower. Once we reach it, the other women start undressing before forming a line in the shower area.

Considering what I went through yesterday — the abduction, being bound in the stocks and whipped — the idea of a hot shower appeals too much to turn it down, so I get in line.

Metal wrist cuffs hang from the ceiling by long, dark chains. However, I don't see any spigot above me, or a stall where each of us can take a turn. Once the line finishes forming, I get what's about to happen with a sickening hollowness in my chest: three guards have drawn hoses out and are aiming them at us. I hear a hiss, and then the water sprays out, soaking us with frigid streams.

"Holy f.u.c.k!" I shout, trying to cover myself, immediately quaking in icy shock.

The guards laugh, training all three of the hoses on me, then the ugly one shouts something.

"What?" I shriek, acting on pure, animal instinct.

The hoses go dry for a merciful second, and the guard repeats, "Hands on your head!"

Seeing the other girls with their hands pressed flat over their hair, I comply, and then the washing resumes. With my eyes pulled shut, I try not to cry as they spray us all down. My teeth chatter harder than I've ever experienced and my heart races from the sudden shock.

"Turn around!"

As one, the girls obey, so I do too, letting the men wash our backs. All I can think about is my neighbor, and her tattoos, telling myself that this can't be as bad as what she's been through.

Just wait, I bet she'd say. You've barely been here a day.

By the time they're finished, I feel colder than I ever have in my life — being clean brings little consolation. The guards toss us towels, but only give us a few minutes to dry off. Then we put our uniforms back on and file out.

Throughout all of this, none of the other girls utter a word. I often catch them glancing over at me, likely curious about the new arrival, but they flinch when I look back. How afraid are these girls? What has been done to them? Was my ordeal in the stocks yesterday just the tip of the iceberg? I can't imagine it won't get worse than that, considering their skittishness.

I'm not going to dwell on that prospect.

After the shower, the girls once again form a single-file line and march into the next room: a cafeteria where we're each given a bowl of plain bran cereal, a plastic spoon and a paper cup of water. We eat in silence, unsurprisingly. When I sit down next to a few of the girls, they don't get up to leave, but they keep their heads down, focusing on eating. I'd like to think they're just hungry, but I know better.

My nose wrinkles at the aroma of coffee, eggs and toast, but I don't see any; perhaps the guards had them earlier. I would kill for some bacon and orange juice right now — I've not had cereal since high school — but I'm hungry, so I shovel down the soggy lumps. At first I can't imagine having an appet.i.te at a time like this, but my body takes over, needing the nourishment. I don't fight it.

Finally, once we've finished, we march down a long, dull corridor. Filing through a door at the end of the hall, we enter a long room with several tables and desks, many of them featuring some kind of machinery. Each girl splits off from the line and takes a seat, some running to take a specific place but others just sitting at the first available.

Tiny windows, like those in our jail cells, offer a meager glimpse into the outside world. Bright, white fluorescent light radiates from the ceiling, making me feel like I'm in some kind of laboratory, rather than a workshop. Cool air circulates the room, but from the lingering scent of sweat, I expect the s.p.a.ce will heat up soon enough.

Looking around, not knowing what to do, I notice Byron Ashworth waiting at the head of the room.

"Ms. Harris, over here," he says, pointing to a desk. I do as told, trying to forget the creepy grin on his face. When I take my seat, I discover the equipment in front of me is an old sewing machine.

"Cuff yourself, Quinn," Byron adds.

I almost ask what he's talking about, but then I find a pair of manacles attached to the desk by a chain. All around me, the other girls are locking the cuffs around their wrists. Holding back a sob, I do the same, refusing to look at Byron.

"Ladies, I have an announcement," he says, raising his voice to carry throughout the room. He picks up a white shirt from a stack of them on a nearby table. Holding it out and looking at it with a surprising amount of pride, I see it reads "Liberty. Family. Weaponry." Accompanying each word are red outlines: a waving flag, figures of adults and children, and a machine gun. When he turns it around, it says "Made in America" in big, bold letters on the back.

"Aren't these nice?" Byron asks. "I think they are, and so do Congressman Prescott's const.i.tuents. We've had an unexpected surge in demand, and have to get our inventory numbers back up. So, today's quota will be eight-hundred units."

Faces fall around me; a few even mutter quiet curses. Clearly that's a lot.

"I understand that's a major increase," Byron says. "Take it as a compliment — you're doing great work. And, with Ms. Harris here you have a new coworker to help. Now get to work."

Jumping into action immediately, they begin to cut fabric, sew and screen press the T-shirts. My jaw hangs loose watching them work: like an oiled machine, they move quickly, and with purpose. I've never seen a sweatshop before, but this must be what it's like.

Somewhere I hear music, some soft pop I can almost recognize, but the hive of activity drowns it out. The guards wander up and down the rows, watching the women work. Byron leaves, and as he exits Reed steps inside.

His eyes immediately hone in on me, crossing his arms in front of his chest. My heart pounds as he stares, as focused on me as I am on him, so I don't hear one of the other guards approaching me from behind.

"Sit your a.s.s down and get to f.u.c.king work," he snarls, spinning me around to face him. It's the ugly, balding one.

"Please," I say, shaking my head and pointing to the sewing machine. "I've never used one of these, I don't know how."

The guard shrugs. "Figure it out."

"How?" I snap, tears starting to sting my eyes. "I don't see any instructions!"

"Oh, for f.u.c.k sake, don't start crying," he says. "Someone show her what to do."

"They're not supposed to talk to her," Reed calls out from across the room as he strides toward us. "Leave her be, Corbin. Resume your patrol."

The ugly guard nods at Reed and moves along.

"Ms. Harris, take a seat," says Reed.

"And do what?"

Around us, many of the girls have stopped working so they can listen to our exchange.
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"That's up to you," he replies. "You're going to be here for the next twelve hours." He clears his throat, and whistles loudly to get everyone's attention. "You all know the rules. If you don't make quota, all of you pay. If you show Quinn what to do, she can help with the work. But no one is supposed to talk to her, or they'll be punished. This is a predicament, isn't it? Do whatever you like."

Reed winks at me, then turns and walks back.

I spin around on my feet, looking to the other women, but they bury themselves in their work, rather than face me. "Really?" I say. "No one's going to help?" I could cry again, but I force myself to take a deep breath instead. "Fine." I take my seat and flatten my hands on the table. "You b.i.t.c.hes better work hard, I don't want to get whipped again."

Reed lets out a sharp laugh. The women exchange looks between each other, many of them turning to the tattooed woman I saw across from my cell.

Teeth bared and nostrils flaring, she sneers at me, then yells, "f.u.c.k her. Work faster."

s.h.i.t.

I thought one of them would come forward. Would the punishment for talking to me really be that bad? Maybe. If so, I hate to imagine it. They could just be more confident that they can get the work done in time — I hope so, for their sake, despite what I said. I've been here a day, and the people who run this place hate me; the last thing I wanted to do was alienate the only people who might actually feel sorry for me, who might be able to help me.

Without them, I'm on my own.