He stops in front of a wooden door, which does not belong in a city full of automatic entrances and constructions made of steel and glass, yet here it is, an ode to times past, or a reminder that some things never change, no matter how hidden society pretends it to be. But it isn’t just the door that is odd. It’s the darkened color that stands out among the white brick, not stark white, but grayed a little, soiled by dust and debris, and the sinister happenings that my intuition tells me takes place behind such an innocuous setting. No windows, no signs, just a black door with a curved handled, nestled between bricks of false purity.
Molers raps on the door, and a solid, yet somewhat hollow, sound fills the area around me, causing a chilled sensation to work its way up my spine until perspiration overtakes me, making my uniform stick to my skin like an uncomfortable second skin that needs to be shed. The idea that he has been here before and made use of the diabolical offerings behind that door, swarms over me, warning me that I will not like what I find, and that this is a test—not Arel’s, but his.
The door opens, with no sounds, not even the slightest bit of a squeak from the hinges, telling me that they are oiled each day. A face, paler than most of the dark-skinned in Arel, telling me that this man never sees sunlight, peeks out from behind the barrier. His yellowed eyes take in Molers and me, and without a single word, he opens the door wider, allowing us passage into an underbelly of filth. I refuse to move, but Molers’ iniquitous glare forces me to do as I am told, without question; so, I walk through the dark hole in a structure of fraudulent piety, and disappear behind the barrier that seals me inside.
Seconds pass as my eyes adjust to the darker atmosphere, and the horrors within. Lamps are dispersed throughout the main room, illuminating couches and benches covered in silks and pillows and adorned with—children! Dark-skinned, fair-skinned, or in between, children of every age, ranging from four years old to sixteen sit poised, clad in such scant clothing that they might as well have been naked, line the room, all of them staring at me with hollow eyes, devoid of emotion, having had their innocence, their humanity, ripped away from them just so they could provide entertainment to the sickness of Arel’s citizenry. Behind them all, stand shapes, stiff, unmoving, doing their best to pretend that they do not exist, but as I study them and force my eyes to focus on them, to see through the shadows they hide behind, I realize that they are older, yet still under 30: men and women, dressed in the same see-through material so as to showcase what they have to offer, and with the same eyes devoid of any emotion, of any sign of life. Behind them are armed guards, each in a black uniform, similar to an arbiter’s, but unlike an arbiter’s, their chests bore triangles and circles woven together, forming a never-ending web of sickness, and each holds a baton, ready to strike should anyone in the room dare disobey.
Heavy boots stomp across the breezeway, as a man exits a room, leaving its door open, and stomps down the stairs that are tucked away on the left side of the room. I almost didn’t see them as the long shadows of the lamp covered them. Each thump rings in my ears, and I turn, watching as an arbiter, male, and older than me, descends, straightening his jacket, and zipping his pants closed as he reaches the bottom step. He strolls past me, pausing for just a moment to look at me, not appreciating my censorious scowl, as the knowledge of what he has done in that room contaminates my mind, and I commit his face to memory before he leaves. I’ve never seen him before, but Arel isn’t that big of a city.
“Master Arbiter,” says a deep voice, somewhat scrappy, as though its owner had the misfortune of breathing in mustard gas for long periods of time at some point in his life, and a man jumps out of whatever hiding hole he was in, and stands in front of us, “I didn’t expect to see you here so soon.”
So soon? The fact that Molers not only knows of this place, but frequents it as well, does not surprise me.
“I brought a guest,” Molers says, pointing at me. “I thought it best that she learn what happens to those deemed to have other qualities when they prove too troublesome.”
The man, whom I assume runs this place, turns toward me, his soiled shirt twisting around his protruding belly as he does, showcasing the tears in it, giving me the impression that he cannot be bothered to put on clothes with no rips or holes in them, much less ones that are clean. “You have come to the right place, if you are looking to have certain needs fulfilled. We serve everyone,” he boasts, “from arbiters, to the average Arelian, from the presidential manor to the council. I don’t mean to brag, but I do think we offer better merchandise than some of the other houses in Arel. I always make sure to have a fresh supply.”
Other houses? There is more than one place like this?
“Do you have any preferences?” he asks me
I remain silent, thinking of what I could do to him if left alone with him.
“Come now,” he prods, “you must have some idea of what you like.” He waves two children over—they look to be around twelve—a boy and a girl, and forces them to stand in front of me, their sheer clothing allowing me to see something I wish to erase from my mind, but for the first time, I notice the brand on their right cheeks: a triangle and circle woven together. They keep their eyes focused on the floor, on their grubby little feet as their bare toes curl underneath them; each of them aware of what awaits them should I choose either of them.
The proprietor of this filthy establishment steps behind them, placing his gnarled hands underneath the pointed chin of the girl, digging his yellowed, mishappen nails into her skin forcing it into the light. “Do you prefer something delicate and soft?” he asks, moving on to the boy, rubbing his black hand down the child’s side, making my stomach churn in multiple directions as the desire to vomit, as well as rip the man’s face off, rises within me, as I imagine myself breaking every bone in his rotund body.
“Or”—the man sends the two children away and strolls over to a five year old boy, whose wide eyes fill with terror, lifting him from his seat and dragging him in front of me—“do you prefer something a little younger, more untested?”
My fists clench, but before I can follow through on my desire to beat this man to a pulp, Molers places his muscular hand on the back of my neck, squeezing just enough to let me know what he will do, should I act upon impulse. “You might want to rethink that decision,” he whispers into my ear, as his moist breath coats it.
I unclench my fists.
“You’ll have to forgive her,” Molers says. “This is her first time.”
“Ah, yes…well,” replies the proprietor, “perhaps you should look around. I have some stock in the rooms upstairs too, should you find nothing here.” He hurries away, giddy and excited at having a new customer.
With his hand still on the back of my neck, Molers steers me toward the main part of the room. “I suggest,” he says, “that you make good use of this, and remember, the crematoriums, the fields, and the mines are not the only place undesirables can find themselves.”
He snatches a male, who looks to be fifteen, and pulls him over to me. “State where you were before you ended up here,” Molers demands of him.
“The training facility,” says the boy in a small voice.
“What training facility?”
“The Martial Diplomatic Corps.”
Molers shoves him back to his place next to a couch, before pushing me into the middle of the room.
Words are not needed to tell me what is expected of me. I know what I am supposed to do, and that I cannot win this battle. My boots send up hollow taps as I pace the perimeter of the room, with my arms behind my back, doing my best to play the part that is expected of me, while swallowing down the bile that creeps into my throat. As I move closer to the ones with batons, I spot the same brand on their right cheeks: the triangle with a circle woven together. Were they forced to work here as sex slaves, before being allowed to be an enforcer? The sickening thought that they would volunteer to force others into this life strikes me, before I remind myself that I am n
o better. I am an arbiter. Bred to be one. Trained to be one since infancy. And I uphold the laws of Arel, including the more sinister ones. Why should I expect the enforcers here to be any different? If they were brought here at a young age, forced to allow others to touch them in reprehensible ways, how can I blame them for taking the only way out of such a life, when they know no other way? Yet, I can blame them. They know better than anyone the cost of being here, just as I blame any arbiter who abuses their power for their own gain.
A young girl quivers in her sheer gown, doing her best to not cry, but a few tears escape her eyes as a puddle of urine forms beneath her. In an instant, one of the enforcers steps forward, ready to punish the girl, but I stand between them, ready to stop the admonishment that is to be dealt to her. The enforcer studies me for a moment before stepping back into the shadows, deciding it best to not test me.
“Clean her up,” I say to another sitting next to the girl, and after she receives an approving nod form the proprietor, she takes the girl who had soiled herself away from the main area and to the bathroom.
Once they are gone, I wander to the stairs and go to the second floor. No one stops me. Perhaps the proprietor figures that I am interested in seeing all that he has to offer before making a decision. In reality, I just want out of here, away from this putrid stench of depravity, this black hole of misery, and the feeling that I will never be clean again. Once at the top of the stairs, the someone knocks on the door. I turn. The same man who had let Molers and me inside, allows a woman dressed in a blue silk shirt, that drapes over silk pants of burgundy orange inside. She smiles and laughs with the proprietor about needing some relaxation from the grueling duties she has had to perform the last few days. As she talks, her curls bob from the motion of her head, breaking free from the multi-colored scarf tied around her head. It takes a few moments, but as she and the proprietor chat, I realize that the expensive dress and her mannerisms indicate that she is a member of the Arelian council. It is rare for someone of such background to come to the eastern sector, which means the proprietor had told me the truth about the people he services, and that she must have used a private transport to come here in secrecy. I watch as she stalks to a young boy and motions for him to follow her. Before she reaches the stairs, I slip into a room, the very room that the arbiter from earlier had been in when I first arrived, and shut the door.
Gurgled breathing, as though someone is trying to breathe through a straw just under the surface of water pulls me from the door, and I whirl around, finding a bloody mound on the bed. As the gurgled breathing continues, I approach it, my face scrunching up in horror as I realize that the bloody mound is a nine-year-old kid having been beaten to the verge of death. His jaw hangs at an odd angle, while his chest remains very still, unable to expand with each desperate attempt at a breath. I sit on the bed next to him as the blood pooling in the sheets seep into my pants, matching the blood stains on my jacket, looking for a place to go, unsure of what to do, as he stares at me in fear with his one good eye. I want to tell him that it will be okay, that no harm will come to him, but I can’t when the truth is the opposite. No medical center will take him. He has been deemed expendable. Memories of the woman Commandant Pascal had beaten and how I relieved her of her suffering flood my mind, only to mingle with those of the girl from the inquiry that I was forced to execute in order to prove my loyalty; but she, too, had been beaten. I saw the same look in both of their eyes that I see in this kid’s. He knows he is dying. He cannot tell me, but he doesn’t need to. A sickening feeling envelops me as two choices are presented to me: relieve his suffering, or leave him here to die an agonizing death. His end will be the same, either way.
Grinding my teeth, and hardening my resolve, forcing myself to do the only merciful thing I can think of, I place the heel of my palm on his throat. It slips a little from the blood coating it, but I do not let that stop me from doing what must be done. I press down.
His one eye widens with fear, while the other remains sealed shut.
“It’s okay,” I say to him in a soft voice. “Just close your eyes. Death is not to be feared. Just go to sleep.” My voice chokes in the end, and I swallow a lump that has formed, doing my best to remain strong.
He closes his only eye as I press harder on his throat, cutting off his air, until he no longer moves. Unable to move myself, as grief over the loss of someone so young, so defenseless, overwhelms me, I remain seated in a pool of blood, not caring if I am forced to throw this uniform away later.
Just then, the door opens and the same woman from before pops her head in. I glare at her, but before I can scream at her to leave, she gives me a whimsical smile, and leaves, shutting the door behind her. Pulled from my stupor, I place a blanket over the boy’s face, bending down to his ear to whisper, “I’m sorry.” Jumping from the bed, I hurry to the door and open it with care, not wanting to make a sound, and peek into the hallway just in time to see the woman disappear into another room with a boy about the same age as the one whose suffering I just ended. I creep down the hallway, not allowing my boots to make a sound on the hard wood, hoping that it doesn’t creak from my movements, and pause at the door the woman disappeared behind. I grasp the knob, its cold exterior cooling the sweat coating my palm, and twist it, mimicking a snail with my movements. Once the latch clicks free, I ease the door open, making no sound. The woman stands in front of a dresser with a mirror attached to it with her silk blouse unbuttoned, revealing her breasts, while rearranging her hair, ignoring the boy seated on the bed with his head bowed low. One step at a time, I sneak up behind the woman. She never sees me, nor does she hear me. With one swift motion, I grab the back of her head and slam her face into the mirror, breaking it, and allow her unconscious form to slump over the dresser with the bits of broken glass that now lay scattered across it, not caring if its sharp edges slice her. The boy stares at me with frightened eyes, but he never screams.
“Is there a way out of here?” I demand. There is no time to waste. I cannot save all of them, but I might be able to get him out of here.
He doesn’t respond.
“Is there any way out of here besides the front door?” I say again.
“The gar… garbage chute.”
“Where is it?”
He points to the door.
“Do you wish to leave this place?’ I ask.
He nods.
“Arbiter Noni!” Molers’ voice echoes through the building, resonating off the walls, and filling me with dread. He has grown tired of waiting for me.
I grab the boy and drag him to the door and into the hallway. “Where?” I ask him.
He points to a slim, metal handle sticking out of the wall. Of course, they would have tucked it away, but it is convenient for my purposes.
“Do you know where it leads?” I ask.
“To the dumpsters outside.”
“Don’t make a sound,” I tell him.
Straight to the dumpsters. Makes sense. This way, no one leaves this place, and they have every one so scared, that no one would dare try to escape, not to mention the penalty for doing so. I carry him to the garbage chute as Molers yells for me again, open it up, and dump the boy inside before closing it behind him. With no time to hope for the best or think about how things can go wrong in an instant, I march down the corridor, as Molers yells my name for a third time. I tromp down the stairs, ignoring his irate face and the threats spewing from his mouth as I pass him, heading for the door. The man who had allowed us entrance, tries to stop me, but I toss him into Molers, not daring to stop, open the door, and slam it shut behind me as I step outside into the twilight.
Once free of that suffocating place of desecration, I run down the street and hide before Molers steps outside. He looks around, but I remain crouched, willing him to go away. Relief floods over me as he runs in the opposite direction. I step out of my place of hiding and circle the alleyway, searching for a dumpster, growing anxious for every minute that passes, and the nause
ating thought of having failed percolates in my brain, growing stronger with each second, but dissipates the moment I spot it. I race for the dumpster and fling open its top, revealing the boy inside, and help him out. With no time to waste, I hold him close as I dart through the narrow street, glad that it is devoid of people; they are all heading home by now, not that anyone was here when Molers and I first came through. I need someplace to hide him. But where? Panic rises within me as my frantic search turns up nothing and the ever-growing possibility of being captured turns into a reality. A flapping sound reaches me. Following the noise, I dart around another corner and find black tape stretched across the door to a residence: arbiter tape, left there after a raid had been performed. When the raid took place, I cannot say, nor does it matter. No new residents have been assigned there, yet, and no one will dare enter a place that has been searched by arbiters, meaning that I have found a safe place to hide the boy, for the moment at least.
I carry him over to the door, and glance around for any prying eyes, but am not surprised when I find nothing. No one ever strays near a place that has been the site of a raid. The punishment for doing so is severe. I test the door. It opens. Relieved, I put the boy down and tell him to go inside, but he refuses to budge.
“I need you to go in there. Don’t make a sound. I will send someone for you tonight. His name is Chase. You can trust him.”
The boy’s worried and frightened eyes stare into mine.
“Go!”
He ducks under the tape and slips inside. I just hope he remains undiscovered.
Knowing that I cannot stay here, and I will need to face Molers at some point, I leave the marked off residence and navigate my way back to the main part of the eastern sector, hoping that the boy stays where he is. I run through the maze of narrow streets and alleyways as I head back to the plaza, hoping to get here before Molers does. Darkness creeps around me, warning me that the sun has set, and curfew will be soon; all citizens and plebeians are expected to be inside an hour after sunset. Familiar sounds reach my ears, and relief hits me as the trolly speeds past ringing its bell as it carries its passengers to their destination. A plebeian almost bumps into me, but veers to the side just in time to miss me, as she hurries away with her arms full of packages while a bulging red bag slams against her hip as she runs off. I am almost to the plaza, and some semblance of normalcy to wash away the stain of decrepitness that Molers forced onto me. As I watch the girl, wondering why she is in such a hurry, besides the impending approach of curfew, and who her master is, a broad shoulder rams into me, almost knocking me over as the man it belongs to stalks away, without bothering to give me so much as a side glance or even an abrupt apology. My eyes stay fixed on him as I consider his behavior to be odd. Most people do anything they can to avoid bumping into an arbiter, but this man acts as though he never saw me, as though his mind is focused on something else.
Ensnared (Enchained Trilogy Book 2) Page 37