Taken

6

That night crackled with chaos and noise: revving truck engines, spinning tires, flashes of gunfire, and blue-white lights sweeping the brush. The man with night goggles hit Jack across the back, driving him into Krista. Jack tried to shield her from the blows, and shoved at the man with the rifle.

“We’re Americans. We’re not-”

The man hit him harder.

“We were just fucking around. We don’t-”

The man hit him so hard a tingling flash blew up his back to the top of his head, and Jack staggered to his knees.

Krista whispered frantically as she helped him to his feet.

“Stop it. They’ll kill you.”

“They think we’re with these people.”

“They’re bajadores. They’ll kill us.”

“What?”

“Stop fighting-”

Men with baseball bats and shock prods swarmed like furious wasps, herding the growing crowd back to the box truck. Jack fell into step behind Krista, shuffling along with the crowd. Most of the people around them were Asian, though a few were Latin and Middle Eastern. Krista spoke Spanish to a frightened woman beside them as Jack caught a glimpse of men in the brush lifting a body. Then Krista leaned into him, whispering-

“This lady is from Guatemala. Most of these people are from Korea. She says we’re being kidnapped.”

“That’s crazy. This is America.”

“A man named Sanchez brought them across, but the bajadores just killed him. Give me your wallet.”

“Why do-?”

“Shh.”

She traded more Spanish with the woman before turning back.

“We have to get rid of it-anything with your name. Please, baby, trust me. Don’t draw their attention.”

Jack slipped her the wallet, but did not see what she did with it.

They were herded toward the box truck as if the guards were under a clock. When the bunching crowd slowed, the guards beat them harder, and cried out when they were shocked. The people around Jack pleaded in languages he did not understand, their faces lost and afraid even in the dim starlight.

As they got closer to the truck, and the crowd pressed tighter, Jack wanted to run. He wanted to push through all these crying people, and run hard out into the desert, just get gone and dodge and dart from bush to cactus, and run all the way back to Los Angeles. His heart pounded, and he felt sick, like he might throw up. He felt more scared than he had ever been, even when his parents died.

Instead, Jack slipped his arms around Krista, and whispered into her hair.

“They’ll find my car out here. That’s how they’ll find us. They’ll see my car.”

The waiting cargo hold was a black cavern guarded by men with guns. The gunmen searched each person before pushing them aboard. Hands moved over Krista in ways that made Jack feel ashamed, then the same hands moved over his pockets and under his jacket. They took his cell phone and keys, then pushed him up into the truck. Hands reached from within to help, then Jack was in, too.

“Jack!”

“I’m here. Where are you?”

They were forced deeper into the cavern as more people boarded until the container was crowded with sweating bodies. Then the big sliding door rattled down to chop off the last faint shreds of light. The darkness was a deep, pure black, and the close air rich with the bad smells of body odor and urine. Jack saw nothing, not even a shape or line or shadow. He heard a lock being snapped into place, and whispered.

“They locked us in.”

Krista pressed herself closer, invisible in the blackness. Outside, the cab doors slammed shut, and the engine rumbled. The big truck lurched, and moved.

Jack didn’t know what to do. All around them, people wept, and others spoke in voices too low to hear. A woman on the other side of the truck wailed, then Jack decided he wasn’t sure if it was a woman or not. The body odor smells were so strong, Jack tried not to breathe. He held Krista tight, and spoke into her hair.

“Anyone here know where they’re taking us?”

Krista spoke more Spanish, and this time a man’s voice answered. A woman joined in, but their conversation was short, and then Krista switched to English.

“They say we’re going to be sold. That’s what bajadores do, and they’ve heard stories about the bajadores.”

“What does that mean, sold? Like slaves?”

“No, more like ransomed. I think he meant ransomed. They kidnap people, and try to get ransom.”

“Where are they taking us?”

She spoke more Spanish, and translated as the man answered.

“A house, a camp, a barn. He doesn’t know. We might even be kept in this truck. He’s worried because he has no money to pay. He gave all his money to the coyote.”

The truck lurched as it rolled over brush and dropped off up-thrust rocks. Five minutes ago, Jack had been freezing. Now, trapped with thirty frightened people in the black belly of the truck, he was sweating, and thought he might throw up.

Krista traded more Spanish, then switched to English.

“They’ll want to know who we are. Don’t tell them, baby. Lie. We can’t tell them who you are.”

“Maybe they’ll let us go.”

“Just don’t. You can’t.”

“I can pay them.”

“Don’t. Promise me, Jack. Don’t even try.”

Jack put his arms around her, and held on as they bounced slowly across the desert. A few minutes later, they were on a road, and the truck picked up speed. Jack checked the time on his digital watch. Fifteen minutes later, the road became paved. Twenty-two minutes after they reached pavement, the truck slowed, backed up, then stopped. A drive this short meant they were still in the desert.

The lock was removed, and the door rose with a ratcheting clatter, filling the truck with grim red shadows. Jack checked the time. 2:55 A.M. The people ahead of them started to move.

Krista’s whisper drifted over her shoulder.

“Don’t tell them who you are.”

Jack and Krista followed the others into a world the color of blood.

Elvis Cole: six days after they were taken