The Unimaginable

by Dina Silver

  I began to shake. I didn’t want to get hit again, but I couldn’t control myself. My brain and body were in such a state of shock they didn’t know what else to do. Grant shook his head slowly; his gaze was intent and heartbreaking. He wanted to die for putting me in this position. I knew it.

  “Where is the money?” one of them shouted. “Get it now!”

  Grant looked up at him. “We have very little money on board.”

  “Where is this money?” He slammed the butt of his gun to the floor. “Find this ‘little’ money,” he said to some of the others, and then turned back to Grant. “Where is it? You have American dollars and jewelry?”

  Grant gestured toward his cabin. “All I have is in there, top drawer.”

  The man disappeared and came back with three thousand dollars. All the cash that Grant had on board. “Where is more?” He shook the envelope in Grant’s face. “Cash!”

  “We carry plastic. Charge cards. That is all the cash.”

  He spat. “You lie!”

  The conversation went back and forth until the man was screaming at Grant and shouting for the others to ransack the boat—which they did. They threw our life jackets overboard; they destroyed our emergency equipment and flares; they emptied drawers and shelves and changed into Grant’s and Quinn’s clothes.

  I turned my head to the wall and did my best to hide my tears. Ten of the pirates were still crammed in the salon with us, menacingly cocking their guns and devoid of compassion. The body odor was debilitating.

  Quinn eventually stopped moving and spitting, and either fell asleep or lost consciousness. When the human body endures such trauma, it’s literally exhausting to its system. I myself could barely keep my eyes open, but I was scared to close them. Grant attempted to stretch his legs, but there was little room. Just then two of the men started to hit our feet and legs with the tips of their guns, carelessly swinging AK-47 rifles around in that small space and slamming us with them in an effort to get us to move.

  Grant nodded at me to get up, then he nudged Quinn with his shoulder. Quinn lifted his eyes as best he could, but it looked as though his neck was incapable of supporting his head. One of the men smacked him in the knees with his rifle, and Quinn winced. Then the man did it again and kept repeatedly hitting Quinn in the knees even after he’d stood.

  “Get up now! Move!” they were screaming in heavily accented English.

  I stumbled to my feet along with the guys, and the pirates ushered us with their guns into my cabin of all places. The smallest room on the boat. They forced us all into the bottom bunk, and the three of us were soon crammed into a space that a day before was barely large enough to hold me alone. I was in the middle, and when I tried to make space for Quinn, he retracted. I looked at his face. There were tears in his eyes and a look of despair. I pleaded with my own eyes for him not to lose hope.

  I need you. Please stay with me, I tried to convey.

  He nodded, then looked at my left eye and the side of my face and shook his head.

  What had they done to him? Quinn’s spark had gone out. I could see it with one look. I tried to touch him, but my hands wouldn’t reach.

  My left eye was in bad shape. My hands were tied, but I could feel my lid swelling with a prickly burn, and it stung like hell. The pain was more bearable when my eyes were closed, so I shut them and put my head back. Grant pressed his leg into mine, so I turned my face to his. His lips parted when he saw my eye, and he threw his head back against the wall, shaking it back and forth. I silently begged him to stop. I was so worried one of us would be punished for doing anything but lying still. I opened my mouth to say something. He shook his head and silenced me.

  Our situation was truly unthinkable. The worst possible scenario—the thing we’d all assured ourselves could happen but never would—had happened. The speed at which our fate had changed was inconceivable. One night I’d gone to sleep dreaming of happy endings, and the next I was being held captive, my air supply limited, my throat dry and raw, my body poked and prodded with machine guns. Machine guns! I’d never even been in the same room with a gun of any kind, and now there were military-grade assault rifles in my face.

  My head was filled with a combination of conflicting images. On one hand, I pictured every possible horrific scenario that could happen, and on the other, I was picturing things that had nothing to do with what was happening to me. Things like the tomato plants in the Knights’ backyard and the broken chalk I’d meant to replace at school and the air in my bicycle tires. It was low. I’d promised to fill the tires before I left, in case Mrs. Knight wanted to use the bike while I was away, but I’d forgotten.

  I closed my eyes again, rested my head on Grant’s shoulder, then quickly felt his head press against the top of mine. I must have fallen asleep, because there was a young boy, maybe in his late teens, sitting in the doorway when I opened my eyes. He was heavily armed. Quinn and Grant were both still next to me with their eyes shut. I stared at the boy. His face was not like the others’ and despite his weapons, he didn’t pose a serious threat. After a second or two, he looked at me. He didn’t smile—none of them ever smiled—but he stood and walked toward me with some ice, which he then held against the side of my head. Grant slowly opened his eyes and stared at me wildly as the boy stood in front of me, as if I had any choice in the matter.

  A few minutes later a man came in and pointed at me. “Come.”

  Grant immediately stood and shook his head. “No. She stays here with me.”

  His defiance was met with a wicked slap to the face that sent him back onto the bunk. I winced and began to shake but could not will myself to stand.

  “Come!” he yelled.

  I slowly got up and walked toward him. He clamped onto my forearm and ushered me into the galley, where he freed my hands.

  “Cook rice,” he ordered, and walked away, leaving three men seated on the couch behind me in the salon with their weapons drawn at my back.

  I stood, frozen, staring at the tiny stove top, afraid to move a muscle. I blinked, trying to organize my thoughts. I didn’t want to do anything that would cause alarm. I slowly glanced over my shoulder and lifted my arm, pointing to a cupboard above me.

  “Pot,” I said with no idea of whether they understood me or not, then reached for the largest pot we had. It was just big enough to cook rice or pasta for four people. I kept my feet in the same location and just leaned over to the rice canister. It was barely half full. Once I was done, I placed the small amount on the stove and waited.

  And waited.

  I think I stood there while the rice cooled for at least twenty minutes before anyone bothered with me. Eventually, the man who’d told me to make rice came back and ordered me to make sandwiches. This time he stood and watched me as I made nine cheese sandwiches, hands trembling. Once I was through, he tied my arms behind me, shoved a cloth rag in my mouth, and put me back in the cabin.

  DAY TWO

  My own vomiting awakened me. The rag must have come from the engine room because it tasted like diesel fuel. I used my right shoulder to try and release it from under the tourniquet covering my mouth and spat onto the floor under the bunk. I bent forward as best I could and felt Grant try to place his hand on my back. I was able to dislodge the rag enough to clear my mouth and leave it hanging on my chin. I wanted to talk to Grant, but I was too scared, so I kept my body forward and tried to piece together how the hell we ended up there.

  I could hear my mother’s voice telling me everything I’d done wrong, just like when I was young. Back then too much chatter would land me in the “prayer chair,” facing the corner, with two rosaries around my neck. Jesus loved peace and quiet, and so did mother. I’d sit there as long or as short as I wanted, scraping paint chips off the wall, because she’d never check on me. Ever.

  In high school I had a curfew of 10 p.m. At exactly thirty seconds past ten, Caroline would begin calling around looking for me, trying not to let Mom get wind of my defiance. Then
one night around midnight my friend Sarah and I were at Hardee’s, splitting an order of fries and watching the door, hoping some boys our age would walk through. When a few boys did walk in, Sarah and I followed them outside to the back of the restaurant and watched them light a joint.

  “No, thanks.” I shook my head.

  One of the boys, Matt Anderson, narrowed his eyes and inhaled. “Take it,” he said, thrusting it to me again.

  “My mother would kill me if I got caught.” The words just came out, and Sarah rolled her eyes, expressing my embarrassment.

  He looked around and laughed. “Is she here?”

  Sarah reached over and took the joint from him. She held it gently to the edge of her lips and smoked. “Go ahead, Jess,” she said. “You know you want to. Your mom would kill you for much less, so you may as well have some fun with us.”

  Matt got it back from her and then offered it to me again, so I took it.

  “If you can’t do anything right, then why not do everything wrong?” he said with a wink.

  A moment later the cops pulled up.

  Everyone ran except for the marijuana and me, and all I could think was that there wasn’t a “prayer chair” big enough to hold this mess.

  Caroline accompanied my mother—in her Velcro rollers—to the police station. At least she’d shown up. Caroline stood silently as Mom cursed me up, down, and sideways on behalf of the entire family, community, and God in heaven. She was so brutal in her admonition of me that the arresting officer literally jumped to my defense, saying he didn’t actually see me smoking and that it looked like my friends ran and deserted me. He even applauded me for doing the right thing by not fleeing.

  The worst part was seeing the disappointment on my sister’s face. Letting her down was worse than whatever corner of hell my mother had just assured me I was going to.

  I looked down at the dried blood on my hands and thought, Maybe this is my corner of hell.

  I sat back between the guys, whose necks were crammed due to the bunk above us. Quinn was facing the wall on his right, and away from me.

  “Are you okay?” I whispered to Grant.

  He stared straight through me for a moment, then nodded.

  “Is there anything we should do?” I asked.

  He shook his head. The room smelled like urine. Likely any one of us had peed our pants over the course of those two days. I closed my eyes again, and we waited in silence.

  Some time later the young boy came in with an AK-47 hanging across his chest and a bottle of water. His eyes were kind and not as dark as the others’. He approached Grant first and removed the rope that was holding the sock in his mouth. Grant spat it to the floor and began to cough and spew out what little saliva he had. The boy lifted the water bottle to Grant’s lips and let him drink. I swallowed the dry air in my throat as my brain begged for a sip like a junkie begs for heroin. My throat tightened at the mere sight of someone else drinking water. Next it was my turn. I made eye contact with the boy before guzzling down as much as he would allow. After I’d finished, the boy gently tapped Quinn on the shoulder, causing him to flinch.

  “Humnmnh?” Quinn mumbled an unintelligible word, then saw the boy. Neither of them moved at first, and then the boy relieved Quinn of his gag.

  “Take it,” Grant said, his voice hoarse.

  Quinn looked like he wanted to kill the boy standing there with a peace offering but instead drank the water. What other choice did he have? He emptied the bottle and laid his head back against the wall.

  I began to cry again. I didn’t want to cry. In fact, I tried really, really hard not to, but my emotions were out of my control. The boy left, then came back with a tissue for me and wiped my eyes.

  “Thank you,” I said as he stood there staring at me.

  “You welcome,” he said after a beat or so.

  “Is there more water?” Grant asked quietly, and gestured with his head toward the empty bottle. “Do you think we could have some more water?”

  “I check for you.”

  He left and never came back. Instead, two of the other armed men appeared in the doorway. My head was dizzy and my mind and body were suffering from exhaustion and dehydration. I could barely keep my eyes open.

  “Whose boat?” one of them said aloud. He wore a bright orange shirt and appeared to be in charge. He wasn’t very tall or physically threatening, but everyone on board feared him. His head was shaved, he had a scar on his left cheek, and he looked at us with his dark eyes with complete and utter distaste.

  “Mine,” Grant said.

  “Where is more money?”

  I couldn’t believe he was starting that interrogation again.

  “There is no more money on the boat.”

  The man studied each of us. He wasn’t pleased with Grant’s response. “You give fifty thousand dollar, and we leave.” He shrugged his shoulders like he was our pal.

  Grant, Quinn, and I just stared at him. No cruisers carried that sort of money, and if they did, I’m sure the hijackers would assume there was much more where that came from if someone could easily produce fifty thousand dollars.

  Grant stood. “Let them go, and I will get you the money.”

  The man looked at Grant as though he’d said something amusing. “Now you have it?”

  “I don’t have it on board, but I can get it for you. If you let them go.” He looked at me.

  “If you don’t have money on boat, price goes up.” His eyes settled on Quinn and me. “And they are not going anywhere.” He waved his rifle at Grant. “Come.”

  Grant hesitated.

  “Now!” the man shouted.

  After nearly two days with his lanky body folded up in that tiny space, Grant struggled to stand, and collapsed as soon as he tried.

  He looked at Grant with his dead eyes. “I say move, you move. I say come, you come!”

  Grant didn’t move. “I need to know they will be safe.”

  The man looked at us again before speaking. “You a businessman?”

  Grant said nothing.

  “I’m businessman too.” He turned and shouted something in Somali to the guy next to him, then turned back to Grant. “We do business. Now come!”

  He smacked Grant on the head with his rifle as another one of the men grabbed him by the forearm and led him away.

  My despair grew.

  The boy came back without any water but brought more ice for my eye. “I will untie you so you can hold it.”

  He released my hands and handed me the ice, which was wrapped in toilet paper.

  “Thank you,” I whispered, and immediately placed one of the cubes in my mouth and shoved one in Quinn’s as the boy turned away to seat himself in the doorway. Quinn hadn’t moved.

  I held the ice to my head and stared at the boy. “What is your name?” I asked, and waited about a minute for him to answer.

  “Baashi.”

  “I’m Jessica.”

  “Okay.”

  “Do you know how long we’ll be here?”

  He shook his head.

  “Do you know where we’re going?”

  He shook his head again.

  “Thank you for the ice,” I said as Grant was ushered back in. His eyes went wide when he heard me talking to the boy.

  Baashi left the room soon after.

  “Do not speak to him,” Grant said to me.

  “I was just thanking him for the ice.”

  “Look at me.” He was breathing rapidly.

  I did.

  “They have no intention of being your friend or helping you or showing you an ounce of kindness. They want a ransom. End of story. Please, Jess, do not speak to any of them unless they ask you a question.”

  “Okay.” I said, nodding. “Where did they take you?”

  He looked at the door. “The boat is too sophisticated for them. They have no idea how to work the controls, so they had me do it. I tried to trick the navigation system and put some added strain on the engines so w
e’ll burn a motor and buy some time.” He shook his head in disgust. “They invade our boat with little or no knowledge of how to use it and expect me to comply and be helpful. There’s clearly one guy in charge, but he’s answering to a higher power. He keeps dialing the sat phone and saying God knows what to God knows who on the other end.” He paused. “There’s a kill switch in the master cabin underneath the mattress near the top-right corner. It’s a red dial covered by a small panel. I’m going to try and get in there and kill the motors. They won’t know what’s hit them, and there’s no way to restart the engines without first reengaging the switch. That will at least stall us so the navy can get closer.”

  “Please be careful. They always have someone following you.”

  He shrugged and shook his head. “I don’t even know how I’ll get in there, but I will be careful.”

  “Where are they taking us?”

  “They had me set a course to Somalia. They’re trying to reach their mother ship, which is a few miles off the coast.” He sighed. “And if we reach it before help arrives . . . it’s not good news for us.”

  DAY THREE

  I awoke slowly that morning with not much of a start. It was still only Quinn and me in the room; Grant was gone again.

  The thought of what they might’ve done to him sent a chill down my spine. Was he even still on the boat? Had they tossed him overboard and sped away? Was he beaten and lying in pain somewhere?

  Quinn woke up when I began to stir, and Baashi came in about a minute later. I had no idea what time of day it was, but it was light outside.

  “Where is the man?” I asked eagerly, and looked at the spot where Grant had been. “Where is the other man who was here?”