Strange Queens Ch. 02: Kidnapped Love

'My mother taught me,' the reply came. 'She was a massage therapist specializing in emotional therapy. She helped people to feel better physically while she helped them feel better mentally. Eventually, the two became somewhat mixed.' Ah, Jordan thought. Though it explained her very considerable skill, bringing it up might have aroused some memories. If the girl was upset over the memory, however, she didn't let it show in her voice. Jordan decided to ask a little more.

'Your mother.. How did she look?' She asked tentatively. Amele replied after only a moment's silence.

'She was beautiful. Long fire read hair, skin like milk. Tall and thin. She taught me all she knew.'

'Why do you refer to her in past tense?' Jordan asked, curious. 'Don't you believe you'll see her again?'

'I don't know how I could. She's dead. She died nine years ago.'

Oh.

Jordan hadn't even realized the girl might have already lost her mother. In a corner of her mind, she wondered if the girl was a little more independent than she had first thought.

'I'm sorry if I brought anything unpleasant up, Amele.' She said simply.

'You didn't,' came the reply. 'In fact, I rather like talking about her. She was my greatest inspiration.' Jordan had to agree. Most mothers were, especially to daughters. And Amele's sounded like a truly caring one.

Some time passed with both girls questioning the other, often interspersed with lapses of silence as the two simply sat side by side. A while passed and Jordan found herself telling the unseen young girl about herself, her old self, the life she'd led before she'd met Chelsea. Planning on a five-year intensive course studying something, perhaps medicine or sciences, or maybe artistic direction or applicative law, she'd been in the process of finding a new job - her old one had been split in half, literally, by a freak storm that forced a two-hundred and sixty year old tree down on the roof of the place, completely squashing the kitchens and demolishing half their tables - so that she could pay for the course. It was in that sweet spot of unemployment, when her life was unsettled, that she'd been whisked away and dropped in Chelsea's loving lap. Before she'd realized it, she found herself in the process of telling Amele about her solitary days with Chelsea in the lead up to her recreation. She paused for a moment, but soon realized she could hardly take it back now. So she threw her long standing vow of silence to the wind and went on, for the first time ever, detailing her new life's bizarre starting to the stranger she'd never even seen before in the darkness on the shipping container beside her.

When she had finished, Jordan took a breath and said, 'And, now I'm here. Alone, a prisoner, and having let the one girl that means the world to me down in the worst way possible.' Several moments passed, what was probably minutes, before anyone spoke. Then, so quietly that Jordan had to ask her to repeat it, Amele spoke.

'You're not alone.' She said again in a whisper. Jordan didn't know what to say, so for a moment, she didn't. She simply sat there, staring forwards, knowing that the girl had just paid what was likely a bigger compliment than she knew. Having no reply, Amele continued.

'You're not alone. I'm here. I'm here with you. I'll help you get out. I'll help you get back to her.' Though she couldn't see her, Jordan turned to face the darkness where the French teen was sitting. She almost - almost - thought she could make out a soft face silhouetted there.

'But you're just as helpless as I am.. We're both stuck in here until we're let out. We're both trapped.' Jordan said, forgetting herself for a moment and letting her own desperation get the better of her. Amele, however, wasn't letting it happen.

'No, that's what they want you to think. But you're never trapped. Never locked up, never powerless. As long as you have some strength left in you you have your own spirit and no one can break that, no matter where they lock you or how they do it. And now we have each other, and we can work together to get out of here and then let the right people know about this place so that anyone else here can get out too.'

Jordan was silenced. For her age, the girl was incredibly mature. Perhaps the loss of her mother had forced her to stand up, to become the adult she had to be. Whatever had done it, she was strong and she wasn't giving up. She'd given Jordan, temporarily losing to her desperation, a resonating shock back to the present and taught her a thing or two. For their age difference, one essentially an adult and the other, to some, just a big kid, the kid had for once taught the adult a lesson.

'You're right,' Jordan said after some moments. Roused from her state, she was ticking over again. Amele was right, and part of Jordan applauded her for her strength and willpower. 'You're right. We can get out of here. We just need to be ready.'

Some fingers brushed her arm lightly and Amele's hand came into focus. Reaching for it, Jordan found it and their fingers wormed together. They both held tightly. A handshake, a promise.

It turned out their waiting time wouldn't be that long. Agreeing that nothing could be done for a while, the girls spent their time discussing each other's life to keep their minds occupied. Jordan was in the middle of hearing about Amele's sister, Veronica, who had run off with a boy three years ago and was the reason Amele had moved to this city. Apparently, Veronica had fallen in love and, after seeing him for three weeks, had brought him home. Amele, living with her older sister after their mother had passed away, their father being lost to the bottle at the same time, had had little joy from her, but she gave her a roof and food. She didn't like her sister's new boyfriend, thought he was sly and using her. But Veronica couldn't shut up about him. Night after night she'd talk on the phone, and when she wasn't talking to him, she was talking about him. His body was so strong, she'd say, his eyes so bright, so handsome, so kind, so dominant, blah, blah. One night however after coming home to find her sister still not there, and subsequently going without any dinner, Amele had been quietly reading in her room when, at nearly midnight, her door had burst open and her sister, drunk, had stumbled in, giggling, her top hanging from her fingers, her shoes off and her stockings rolled down. By the looks of things her sister had had more clothes off than this, but Amele said nothing. Ordering her out of her own room, Veronica had slammed the door behind her and locked it, hers being the only locking room in the house.

One rule managed to stay afloat their whole time together. One rule, not the no-wet-towels-on-the-floor, or the dishes-in-the-sink rule, or even the home-by-9 rule that most families of any kind have. No, the one rule had been no locked doors. Locked doors meant secrecy, and secrecy meant no trust. Two sisters, alone in the world, have to trust each other. When Veronica had locked Amele's own bedroom door between her, taking her boyfriend in with her, she had broken a promise. Of course, Veronica hadn't drunkenly taken her lover into the only lockable room in the house and locked it so she could explain fine knitting in intricate detail. The two could be heard fucking from the laundry. Turned out Veronica grunted like a whore during sex and her boyfriend liked to bitch talk, and Amele had to sit in the cold kitchen and listen as the drunk fucking bitch and her asshole boyfriend rutted each other on her own damn bed while she sat up, and to top it all off, on a goddamn school night. Oh, what a hot little bitch-whore indeed.

The next day, Veronica woke up alone. Her panties were still around her ankles and she couldn't find her bra. What she did find, after stumbling out of the mess of a room she'd made the night before, was a note. Not from her boyfriend, who would later inform her that he was leaving her for a girl he'd met two weeks ago in the local red light district, a blonde who went, rather aptly, by the stage name "Dick Stealer", but from her sister. Amele was leaving for a new home. No address, no farewell, just that she would be alright and not to come looking. Perhaps it spoke more of Amele's skills at finding a new home, but if Veronica had bothered to try to find her, she had never come close. Amele had taken her credit card, used it to get out of the city and then ditched it after drawing out enough cash to get the rest of the way.

Jordan was about to ask what happened next when there was a screeching sound from the other end of the container. Almost forgetting her surroundings, Jordan was shocked back into the present, spinning to face the doors. As she did so, they crashed open and white light flooded into the confined space, blinding her instantly. She flinched and screwed her eyes shut, shielding them, Amele doing a similar thing beside her. Despite turning to face the girl, even when she opened her eyes, all she could see was white. She thought she could make out Amele's general position from the differently coloured whiteness, but beyond that all was just light and blinking. Forcefully, Jordan was grabbed under her arms and thrown to her feet. She stumbled as she was catapulted up and towards the doors, but she still couldn't see properly. Turning and looking back with a cry, not wanting to leave Amele alone, she lost her balance on the edge of the crate and crashed to another metal surface, this one ridged like corrugated iron. Still blinking, Jordan could make out a red-ish metal and knew she must now be on top of a container. Behind her, she heard Amele struggling as she too was man-handled up and out. The girl fought bravely, scratching and scrabbling, but whoever was grabbing them was strong and quickly forced his hands around her arms and body and walked her out himself. As she was half carried, half dragged in his arms and stood by Jordan, Jordan was roughly lifted and made to stand next to her. It was then that Jordan took in her surroundings, and what she saw made her throat knot and her stomach decide to run away from home and join the Olympic aerobics team.

* * * * *

PART 3

"After all, what good is a million-dollar Hollywood action movie without a dashing heroine, a life-or-death fight and a happy ending to cap it off?"

~Matthew Reilly, in a live radio interview

* * * * *

Jordan looked about her, still blinking and doing her best not to squint too hard, and took in the very, very worrying sight around her. In a space around ten meters wide and five or seven long, a space made entirely of the door-sides of several shipping containers, stood a line of girls, all naked like she was, most blinking or rubbing their eyes, and a couple simply hunched and downcast, not even seeming to care that they were out of their rusted homes. From their backs it was hard to tell, but to Jordan, some looked as old as she was, some younger, and a few older. The theme was clear - appropriate girls, girls with the right accessories, had been collected, no doubt just like she had been, and taken here until their fate had been decided for them.

Casting her eyes past the like of females Jordan saw three men, one tall, lanky man with brown skin that was likely once white but had been tanned by many, many long years in the sun. His facial hair was salty and scraggly, the type a fisherman would be seen best with. That fitted their location - the sea salt in the air, the shipping containers, and the privacy.

A little way away from him was a younger boy, of likely few years older than Jordan herself, who, with gloves on, was busy bustling another girl up and into line like he had with her. With the same salty look, she guessed he might be the older man's son, or perhaps a relative. The two obviously ran the place, as well as this slightly less above-board operation.

Besides them, however, was the third man, clearly the most important one of them all. If the older tall man looked salty and mischievous, even slick and nasty, then this man exuded power. Tall, thick, visibly strong, the man stood straight and still. Where his sea-worthy friends were moving, looking about and gleefully holding his hands before himself in the case of the older man or bustling girls out of containers for the younger, this man stood still, hands behind his back, content watching the parade. Even when all the women were lined up and the younger boy stood back by who had to be his father, still he did not speak. Instead he just cast his eyes over them all, analyzing, perusing, taking in all the details he could. He didn't seem to mind those girls that tried to hide their privates away, nor when the hiding hands were swatted back by the younger boy. Jordan noticed, with some slight disgust, that the boy's pants were visibly tented.

After a while, the older seaman spoke with a cough. Jordan couldn't quite make it out, but she thought she heard something about a reward. The tall, powerful man said nothing for a moment, before slightly inclining his head and, without looking at the smaller old man, said;

'Choose one.'

With a gleeful clap of his hands, the older seaman stepped forward and, suddenly a businessman searching windows for the exact item he wanted to spend his money on, he bent forward and peered at them closely. Jordan watched from her end as some of the girls shied away from him, but most simply stood and watched or tried not to look at anything. Jordan wished that he wouldn't come down their end, but he did, and several times he passed his eyes over both herself and Amele beside her. Jordan dug her nails into her palm, desperately trying not to smash her fist into the lined face. If she did, she'd only get herself locked up again or even worse, picked. The big one, by the only exit, was obviously the ringleader; knocking out this cronie wouldn't make him easier to get to. In fact, it would make him acutely aware of her.

Finally, he stepped back and clapped his hands again, a wide, yellow-stained grin plastered all over his face. 'That one!' He said happily, and Jordan's face fell, her heart taking a sudden sky-diving lesson down to her toes with no parachute, as she saw the finger, bent and knobbly, pointing directly at-

-Amele. His finger was pointed straight at the bare chest of Amele, who's whole body had gone tense and who's fingers had clenched into fists. Jordan stared at her, couldn't believe it. Amele glared at the ground, her breathing coming sharply, not acknowledging his gaze which was locked gleefully on her. In seconds, the boy had strode round behind her and just like that Amele was shoved roughly forward. She lost her balance and stumbled forward, bending to catch herself, and the boy simply grabbed her round the hips and hoisted her entirely off the ground. She struggled and kicked straight away, screaming, turning in his hands to face Jordan, reaching out to her. Jordan let out a yell and stepped forward but the old man, his joy gone, a dark, smile-less, menacing stare in his eyes, stepped forward with lightning speed and shoved her roughly back with a firm palm right to the chest. Jordan crumpled back and had to save her fall with her hands, but by then it was all over. His gloved hand clamped over her mouth, her head held tightly into his shoulder, the boy carried Amele bodily through the hallway of colorful shipping containers and the strawberry haired girl was lost from sight. The last thing Jordan saw of her, twisted on the ground on all fours, was Amele's eyes, full, wide, fearful, locked, staring, on hers. Then she was gone.

Jordan couldn't let her go like that, couldn't bear to think of what she'd be made to do, but as she tried to stand a firm hand grasped her hair and pulled. She was yanked back so that now she was on her knees, awkwardly bent backwards, off balance, looking straight into the almost maniacal eyes of the older sailor. His other hand cupped her cheeks tightly, pushing her lips out like a kid might do.

'Uh uh uh, little missy, no fraternizing with the other little whores, now,' He said, evilly. 'That wouldn't do well at all for the morale around here, now, would it?' he said. His breath stank and his face was even more ugly up close. With a shake of her head, and a tap of her breast, he let her go suddenly and she fell back onto the hard floor. Jordan felt her cheeks, felt the marks where he'd pressed into them. Looking at the line of girls, she saw all of them, every one, was resolutely staring at the ground. She supposed they thought that was best, and part of them knew it was. As far as they were concerned, they were just lucky none of them had been picked, and would welcome the interior of the dark containers again. But Jordan just couldn't let it go. Amele was the one girl who'd been nice to her, the one kind soul she'd met since Chelsea had left, and had cared for her despite having absolutely no reason to. To top that off, she'd been through a hell of a life, and at only seventeen, to have what horrible fate now lay in store for her was just plain unfair. It made Jordan feel sick.

As she returned to her standing position at the end of the line, Jordan realized the bit one, the leader, was speaking. She only caught the last few words, but they didn't sound very good.

'-Take the rest. You will organize transport, of course?'

To wit the older man replied, 'of course. They shall be at location on time.'

With a curt nod the official man turned on his heel and strode outward, down the makeshift hallway between shipping crates. The older man followed, rubbing his hands happily, and the two passed the boy on his way back in, now empty handed, having obviously disposed of the cargo that was Amele somewhere within the complex. His father passed a few words to him as the two passed each other and with a nod the boy strode purposefully towards the line of girls. As he approached he clapped his hands loudly.

'Alright, ladies, into that crate. Move!' Pointing towards one of the crates the girls had been in, the one that made up the left wall when looking at the room from the hallway entrance - Jordan and Amele's crate - he began ushering and pushing them into it. Jordan, being the closest, stood and didn't move, but within seconds he was roughly shoving her anywhere. She tried to struggle and fight him off but he simply gripped her arm in one hand and her butt in the other and nearly threw her in. She stumbled in and fell to a wall for balance but she was in the crate and by the time she'd turned four girls were already stepping in. She saw, for the first time, into the cold and terrified eyes of the other girls, those that looked at her. She saw pain, saw depression, saw fear. She also saw them stepping around her and standing like mannequins, seeming to accept their fate. Jordan moved, bustled past them to the door, but the boy was just slapping the last ass in and swung the huge metal doors closed as she got to them. She clapped hard against them, banged on them, but no one would be opening them up again now.

Turning, she saw the others, ten girls plus herself. Many were sitting down, some leaned, others just stayed where they were. Several looked at her.

'Why don't you fight?' Jordan asked, a sudden, unbidden rage boiling up her throat like bubbles from a coke with a Mentos in it.

For several seconds, no one spoke, but more glowing points of light appeared - eyes looking at her. Then one, an older girl, coughed. With a hoarse rasp, she replied.

'Why do you?' The question hung in the air for a while, and Jordan let it fill her. Why did she fight? For Chelsea? For Amele? For freedom? For what was right?

After a moment, she spoke again.

'Surely just being locked in a container like this isn't reason to give up. You're alive, and there's got to be something, someone out there worth fighting for. You owe it to yourself, if not to them, to try to be free!' She said, trying to sound positive. Her rage had sunk as quickly as it had risen.