Ensnared (Enchained Trilogy Book 2)

by Janet McNulty

  “Thank you,” I say, but my mind is on Amal and his brutish behavior.

  I jump from my seat and race across the pavement, knocking people out of my, while a crowd gathers around Amal to see why he chose to pick on the two children. I knock the hat off of one woman, apologizing for my actions, while tripping another by accident, in my efforts to get to Amal before he does irreparable harm. The crowd around him grows, but a small sliver of space remains, allowing me to watch in horror as he raises his fist and punches the girl in the face. No one stops him. No one says anything. But I am not no one. I ram my way through the crowd, yelling at people to move out of my way. At first, a few challenge me, until they see my uniform and jump out of my way, not wanting to be on the receiving end of my anger. I shove the last of those between me and Amal out of my way, bursting onto the scene just in time to see Amal raise his baton, preparing to bring it down upon the girl in the blue uniform. She watches in fear, as tears stream down her dark face, and her the curls from her ebony hair outlines her terrified eyes.

  My hand seizes Amal’s wrist, and I wrench the baton away from him, striking him in the face before swooping down and ramming it into the back of his knees, causing him to fall backward. He glares back at me, cursing me with his eyes as he wishes me harm for stopping him, but I remain firm, towering over him with his baton in my hand, ready to strike him again and daring him to give me a reason, while the crowd backs away, unsure of what to make of this scene as two arbiters challenge each other.

  “What is the meaning of this?” I demand, not caring that I am not Amal’s superior officer. His attack on the two children is unwarranted, and he did something that even Arel frowns upon: he didn’t just reprimand a citizen who is a minor; he intended to kill her without cause and without the authority of the ministry of justice.

  “None of your business,” spits Amal.

  “Statute 72369 clearly states that no citizen is to be detained unless there is proof of a crime having been committed. Statute 72369A states that all minors who are detained are not to be physically harmed, but sent straight to the ministry of justice for detainment. You have violated bother statutes.”

  It may seem odd to be quoting the law in the middle of a square, surrounded by a crowd of citizens and plebeians, but from the moment we can talk, we are taught the law, and expected to recite it word for word. Failure means death. Failure to uphold it means death. What Amal has done, can get him sent straight to the crematoriums, and as we glare at one another, the small notion that something isn’t right, creeps into my mind, but before I let it grow into a full-fledged thought, he charges me.

  Amal rams his head into my stomach and forces me onto my back, causing me to grunt as the wind is knocked out of me. He sits up, preparing to strike, but I kick him in the chest, forcing him off me, before jumping to my feet. Amal rises to his full height with murderous intent in his eyes. If he wanted an excuse to try and kill me, I have just given it to him.

  He rushes me, and I step back, blocking his left fist with his baton, but as I bring the baton to block his right fist, he snatches it from my grip and punches me in the face with a counter swing. Stunned, I take two steps back as blood trickles from my nose, but I haven’t time to regain my senses, as runs for me, swinging his baton. In one swift action, I jump back, releasing my baton, and the two metal rods clang as they meet in midair. Seconds tick by as the ringing sound of our batons striking one another echoes around us in a morbid melody as we try to harm one another, with me backing up while Amal pushes forward. He feigns a swing, and I fall for it, cursing when he kicks me in the chest, causing me to stumble backward again. Thinking he has won, Amal swings his baton at me again, but I jump over it, somersaulting on the ground when I land, and twist myself around so that I can wrap my legs around his. He falls face first into the ground. I pounce on him, ramming my fist into the middle of his back. Fury overtakes me as my blood boils over his actions, and my fists develop a mind of their own, pounding his back as he tries in vain to escape my wrath, but I refuse to stop until…

  A single gunshot rings out, silencing the entire plaza.

  I crawl off Amal, and we both look up into the stern face of an arbiter I have only met once, the same one that Renal had introduced me to during my first day within the eastern sector, and all of my anger dissipates, replaced by fear as I look into the man’s face, knowing just why Renal had warned me to not be on the receiving end of his wrath.

  “Explain yourselves!” he demands as three other arbiters walk up behind him.

  “She attacked me without cause,” Amal says.

  I open my mouth to protest, but the senior arbiter before us silences us both. He walks up to Amal, bearing down upon him, and Amal shrinks underneath his gaze. Heat rises up, enveloping me in its anxiety as the man moves over to me and looks me up and down. “Speak,” he says, pointing at me, and Amal is wise enough to not challenge him.

  “I witnessed Arbiter Amal strike a citizen without cause,”—I spot Faya’s and Joel’s faces and can only imagine what they think of my rash actions, and I wish they haven’t had to witness my failure—“and continue to beat her until the point of death.”

  The senior arbiter glances behind me and notices the girl on the ground bruised and crying with the plebeian boy trying to help calm her. He walks over to them, and both Amal and I know better than to move, and in a gentler voice asks, “Is that what happened?”

  “Yes,” says the girl in a meek voice through her tears.

  The arbiter points at someone within the crowd. “Take her to the medical center,” he orders, and a man jumps from the crowd and helps the girl up, disappearing with her as she holds her face, while the plebeian boy follows behind, after having picked up the pieces of her tablet. My hands shake a little as the senior arbiter stalks back to us, but not as much as Amal does, knowing that he has made a terrible mistake.

  “What reason”—the senior arbiter leans in close to Amal, but his words are heard by all—“did you have to harass that child?”

  “She,” begins Amal as he swallows a wad of spit, “stole a tablet.”

  His pathetic excuse stirs up murmurs among the crowd, but they stop the moment the senior arbiter straightens up. “There have been no reports of a theft.”

  Sweat drips down Amal’s face.

  “I’ll ask you again,” says the senior arbiter, “what reason did you have to strike that child?”

  “None, sir,” says Amal.

  “You understand the severity of your actions,” says the man.

  “Yes, sir,” Amal replies.

  The senior arbiter rounds on me.

  “Yes, sir,” I say, knowing what is to come next.

  “Clear the square!” yells he senior arbiter, his voice reverberating off the surrounding buildings.

  One by one, people file out of the square, knowing better than to challenge a direct order from an arbiter.

  “That also means you two,” the senior arbiter says to Faya and Joel.

  They walk away from the crowd, but Faya gives me a sympathetic look. I remain facing forward, but hope she knows that I appreciate her little bit of comfort, even though I am unable to tell her, but as I watch her leave with Joel, I spot a woman observing the proceedings with interest, her gaze fixed upon me, but before I have a chance to ponder it, arbiters seize my shoulders and drag me to an information booth, which also serves as a detainment box; protocol must be followed. One places their hand, with the wristband, on the screen and it scans it, bringing up their information. Next, my hand and wristband are scanned.

  “State the reason for detainment,” says an electronic voice.

  The arbiter lists the infractions I am charged with: disturbing the peace, attacking a fellow officer, and insolence.

  The detainment box opens and fear rises within me, choking me. I have always been the one placing people within the box, but now I am the one being detained. I get to be locked away in the darkness. The arbiter jerks me toward the box,
not caring if I bump into it and end up with a bruised shoulder, and pushes me inside, and the door slides closed, sealing with a small bit of suction, encasing me in total darkness, and leaving me to my fate.

  Chapter 22

  Detainment

  The floor drops out from beneath me, and I plunge downward, unable to see anything, except a blur of metal as I fall faster and faster, until I believe that I will crash on the bottom and be nothing more than a flattened mess of flesh and liquified bones, while air rushes past me from my feet to my head, forcing strands of my hair out to whip me in the face, stinging my eyes, as my bun wobbles and loses it hold. I crash into the side of the metal chute (Or is it the bottom?) as it bends, forming a slide of sorts, as it carries me to my destination despite my pathetic attempts to slow myself down by pressing my hands against the sides, doing my best to ignore the excruciating pain as my palm burn from the friction building between them and the metal chute. For a split second, I wonder how Amal is faring, until I slam into a metallic seat, and come to an abrupt halt. Before I have time to catch my breath, a glass casing covers the transport I am in, reflecting the lights from the console, the only bit light in the dark tunnel, and seals me inside.

  The transport speeds down the tunnel, slamming me into the back of the chair, allowing its edges to dig through my uniform and into my skin, but my mind remains focused on the twisting darkness before me as the car slips up the side of the tunnel. Realizing what is about to happen, I wrap my feet around the bottom of the seat and grip the arm rests with such force, that I am afraid I will tear it away. The transport follows the track until it is upside down and blood rushes to my head, causing it to ache with tremendous pain as my pulse beats against my temple with each pump of my heart, which pumps faster and faster the longer I am forced to grip my seat for dear life in effort to not hit head first into the glass covering. My arms tire and my feet loosen their grip as I continue to plunge, upside down, down the tunnel. This is planned. It has to be, as a way to weaken the detainee so that they will be more compliant when they reach the end.

  Without warning, the track spins down the tunnel until the transport is right side up, but the sudden movement dazes me and my vision blackens just a little as my equilibrium returns to normal, not that I can see much of anything in this tunnel. I see specks up ahead. They grow bigger and bigger, intensifying, until I realize that they are lights, and that I must be nearing the end of this horrific ride. I have never before thought about the ones I had sentenced to detainment, and placed in the box, forcing them to endure this nightmare, but now, I pity them: some, others deserved their fate.

  The car comes to an abrupt halt, forcing me to slam against the console and gasp as the air is knocked out of me, but before I have time to recover and gain my bearings, the glass shield recesses and hands seize me, yanking me out of the transport and throwing me onto the platform. I see no faces. Masks cover them. Of course, they do. This way, any who come through here will have no idea who the arbiters are that drag them away, making it impossible for retaliation later. It also adds to the intimidation, to the feeding of one’s fear, but I refuse to give in to that fear.

  One of the arbiters tries to lower a black, canvas bag over my head, but I ram the sole of my boot into his knee, relishing in the sound of it breaking as he doubles over in pain. I snatch the bag out of his hands, jump to my feet and round on another, ramming the bag over her masked face, and pulling the cord so tight that she claws at her throat as she struggles for air, but I hold firm. As another rushes for me, I swing the woman by her neck, still holding onto the cords around her throat, placing her between me and my attacker. She grunts as she takes the impact, and I am forced to take three steps back, but before he can force me off the platform, I kick the woman in the chest with all my might, forcing both of them to fly away from me and crash onto the ground. Judging by the odd angle of the woman’s head, and the stillness of her chest, I know that her neck is broken and that her troubles are over. Furious at being forced into this place, even though my own actions brought me here, I stalk over to the arbiter on the ground as he struggles to get up, ready to end him, if need be, but before I reach him, before I can make my move, electrical shocks course through my body as three cattle prods dig into my back, and I collapse, jerking with each jolt, unable to control my spasms. The arbiter on the ground stands up, pleased at my demise. He stalks over to me, and I sense the triumphant smile behind his mask as he raises his left foot and kicks me in the face.

  Stunned, and still crippled from the jolts of electricity that have seized my muscles, I remain limp as two arbiters lift me up and a third places a bag over my head. They drag me from the platform and through a doorway—the tips of my boots smack into a bump as we are forced to step up—and into a tunnel, while my mind struggles to focus, choosing to concentrate on the stinging pain that ripples my body, while my muscles continue to spasm from the residue of electricity still flowing through me. A small tear in the bag allows a little bit of light in from the bulbs above me, and I crane my head in an effort to get a glimpse of my surroundings, but receive a fist in the face for my efforts. Seconds seem like hours as they carry me through the detainment facility, with their feet stomping the metallic floor with such force, that a series of endless echoes reverberate through the tunnel, surrounding us, and spelling out my doom. We stop. Three distinct beeps hit my ears, but my confused mind finds it difficult to process their meaning, until we move again, and I am dragged through another doorway—the tips of my boots get caught in another crack as the flooring changes—and the hands gripping me let go, allowing me to drop onto the ground before stomping away, not caring about what will become of me.

  Still hurting from the jolts of electricity, I manage to pull the hood off my head and look around my cell, noting the camera in an obscure corner with its edges illuminated just enough by the pale green light coming from two rods in one of the walls for me to see its presence. I snort just a little, unsurprised by it; spying on people is common in Arel, and they will want to observe every move I make to assess how well I am taking my confinement. This must be what is done to every individual that is sent here. I scrape my hands along the ground, feeling for anything of use, and my fingers brush against a pebble. I pick it up. After pulling on the cords attached to the bag, I determine that they are stretchy enough for what I want and fashion them into a sling. I hope whomever is monitoring the camera is watching. Taking my makeshift sling and pebble, I aim at the camera and release my shot, striking it, pleased when the lens cracks, but my pleasure is short-lived as the weight of what I have done, crushes me, causing me to lay on the ground and curl up into a ball as my eyes burn from the tears forming there, tears I have not cried in so long, that I have refused to allow to be free for fear of what would happen if I do, but I cannot stop them, just like I was unable to stop them the night the woman died because I tried to help her escape. Faces float in front of my mind’s eye: familiar faces, as the tears pour forth, refusing to be stopped, refusing to be imprisoned, and I think about Chase, about Sheila, and about Gwen, and how I have let them all down. So, I remain curled on the floor, in a pool of crusted urine and feces, unable to stop crying, comforted only by the untouched dust on the floor as it coats my face and uniform.

  A clang rings out, echoing off the rusted metal walls as the latch is released and the door opens, letting in the tiniest sliver of light, but not enough for me to make out the faces of the arbiters that storm inside my cell and seize both my arms, hauling me to my knees before dragging me outside. A third snatches the mangled bag I had left discarded on the floor and rams it over my head, but not before I manage to bite him, tearing a piece of skin away from his wrist. I receive a baton in the stomach in response, causing me to double over. My captors drag me down a corridor, allowing the rough and uneven floor tear a hole in my pants before scraping the skin away from my knees. Biting my lower lip to keep from releasing even the slightest moan, I clench my fists in an effort to take my min
d off the stinging pain that grips my knee caps. I’ll not give these bastards the satisfaction of knowing that they caused me pain. Pain is weakness, and weakness is not allowed, not in this place.

  The clomping of the boots beside me stop, and I am forced to sit on my bleeding knees and endure the pain they bring me, while the arbiters release my arms. Moist vapor from my mouth fills the bag, causing my face to sweat as droplets of moisture drip from the tip of my nose, settling into the canvas around my face, soaking it. Claustrophobia starts to overtake me as I am forced to remain in this forced isolation of not being allowed to see the faces of those who sit in judgement of me.

  “Arbiter Noni,” says a harsh, male voice, the voice of one of those charged with passing judgement over me, “you stand accused of assaulting one of your fellow arbiters.”

  I almost laugh, but catch myself. Such an act will get me executed, but it is ironic that I am being punished for challenging a fellow arbiter, when such challenges are encouraged, to a point. Though, when arbiters fight among themselves in front of civilians, it can prove problematic, and maybe even cause dissent among the public, or make them question the authority of the arbiters.

  “How do you plead?” says the same voice.