Page 5 of UnTrained: Volume One
Celia scrambles to her feet beside me, her hand brushing against my arm as she steadies herself.
From the small intake of breath, I can tell that she takes in the scene about a half second after I do.
Four men stand in a loose semicircle facing the van. Behind them, rows of cages line the warehouse walls—metal enclosures with padlocks, each just large enough for a person to sit or lie down. None of them seem to be occupied, at least from what I can see.
I step down from the van, my bare feet hitting cold concrete. My legs nearly buckle beneath me after being cramped for so long. Celia follows, her movements stiff and uncertain.
"Stand there." The man points to a spot marked with yellow paint on the floor.
We shuffle to the designated area. The fluorescent lights overhead cast harsh shadows across the warehouse floor, making everything look flat and unreal. Like a nightmare that keeps stretching on and on.
"These are the two?"
I focus on the speaker, one of the men lined up around the van. He’s tall, but not as tall as two of the other men. Dark hair, almost black, cut close to his scalp. His strong jaw is clean-shaven, large biceps flexing as he crosses his arms over his chest.
With piercing blue eyes, he’d be attractive if it weren’t for the steely cold in his gaze.
“Yep. Want to inspect the merchandise?” The man who drove us here shoves at me, causing me to stumble forward.
The blue-eyed man lifts a brow. “Did you bring us faulty merchandise?”
“Of course not.” The driver seems flustered. “I just wanted to?—”
One of the other men lifts a hand. He’s one of the taller ones, with sandy brown hair. “That’s enough. Put them in the two units in the center. We’ll conduct our own inspection later.”
A chill goes through me at the words. As bad as things were, I’m well aware that they can always be worse.
“127. Go.” The driver points.
I obey, keeping my eyes on the floor as I cross the large room. I hesitate for only a second before I drop to my knees and crawl into the crate.
The space is large enough to sit and to turn around on my hands and knees, but not much else. I curl into a ball at the back as the door is shut and locked.
Do what they say, I mentally telegraph to Celia, but she’s too new.
She doesn’t make any move toward the crates, and when the driver repeats the instruction, I cringe when she shakes her head.
Do what they say. I repeat the phrase in my head, like a mantra, because I know what happens when girls don’t obey.
The sound that follows will haunt me forever. The crack of flesh against flesh, then Celia's sharp cry as she hits the concrete floor. Her knees scrape against the rough surface as she tries to scramble away, but there's nowhere to go.
"I said move," the driver growls, grabbing a handful of her hair.
I squeeze my eyes shut, pressing my face against the cold metal bars of my cage. My fingers curl around the wire mesh until my knuckles go white.
Every instinct screams at me to help her, but I've learned that lesson already. Interfering only makes it worse for everyone. Besides, I’m trapped in a cage. I have no way to help, even if I could.
Celia's sobs echo through the warehouse as they force her across the floor. My stomach twists as the metallic clang of her cage door slamming shut rings through the space.
The blue-eyed man sweeps his gaze over the two of us, then turns to the driver. “The payment has been transmitted. You can go.”
He pulls a phone from his pocket, checks something, and then slips it back into his pants with a nod.
The four men—Blue Eyes, Sandy Hair, and the two others—watch silently as he climbs back into the van. They don’t move as a garage door opens, the van rumbles to life and pulls out of the warehouse, or as the door comes back down.
It’s only when the door closes, shutting out any bit of daylight, that they turn to me and Celia.
4
