67
Summer Goes to Market
Summer and Derek had been taken without a fight, handcuffed and chained. The Aryan Nation—at least that’s who Summer thought they looked like based on their tattoos—handled the prisoners like pros. She’d seen enough old prison shows to recognize an Aryan. Of course, they didn’t make prison documentaries anymore. They weren’t much fun without psychopaths.
The Aryans had the numbers, but they also had weapons and handcuffs and zip ties. They had long chains that they ran under the crotches of their prisoners and over their bound hands. They connected about fifty people to a chain, creating over twenty chain gangs. By chaining groups together, nobody could escape.
Now, like a cattle drive, they were forced to walk through the streets of San Juan. The city looked like a war zone. Rusted-out hunks of metal that used to be cars. Dilapidated buildings, reduced to rubble by hurricanes, the heaps overtaken by vines and trees and vegetation. Cracked and heaving asphalt, also partially reclaimed by Mother Nature and her tree roots.
The man in front of Summer glanced over his shoulder and said, “Damn girl, you’re fine.”
Summer looked down.
“Your tits are wet,” he said.
He was right. Her breasts were leaking, wetting the prison-issued bra, and the bra wetting the prison-issued top. Her belly still showed, but it had shrunk over the past four days, probably faster than was healthy. The bleeding, sweating, and her lack of an appetite all contributed to the shrinkage.
“Turn around,” Derek said to the man. Derek was directly behind Summer in the chain gang.
“What’re you gonna do about it?” replied the man. “Punk-ass bitch.”
“When we get these cuffs off, maybe you’ll find out.” Derek spoke in an even, calm tone.
Derek definitely belongs here.
“Look at me,” the man said to Summer, looking over his shoulder while still walking forward.
Summer looked up at the man. He was slender, average height, his dark hair cut tight to his scalp. He had a neck tat, a large nose, and scruffy facial hair.
He said, “I’m Aaron. What’s your name, baby?”
“Leave her alone,” Derek said.
“Shut the fuck up. I ain’t talkin’ to you.”
Aaron spoke loud enough to draw an Aryan who pointed and said, “Not another fuckin’ word.”
As soon as the Aryan moved away from them, the man mouthed a kiss to Summer, then faced forward.
Derek asked in a low voice, “Are you okay?”
But Summer didn’t answer, not wanting to be beholden to Derek, not sure if he wanted her for himself. Derek went silent after that. Summer didn’t know what to think of him. He helped me, but why was he here in the first place? Summer didn’t belong here. Neither did Mark or Connor or Zoe. But most of these people did belong. They were psychopaths. Derek looked like he belonged. He had this swarthy look with a wild beard and dark disheveled hair. Maybe he’s a terrorist. Summer silently chided herself for being racist.
During the walk, they took a few breaks in the shade, the obese prisoners huffing and puffing. The Aryans gave the obese prisoners water. Summer was surprised by the apparent kindness. Even though she’d stopped running two months ago, and she’d just given birth, the walk wasn’t too strenuous for Summer.
They walked for about two miles in the humidity, with mosquitoes drinking their blood and Aryans watching them, sizing them up like pieces of meat. Other men watched them too from farther away. Apart from the female prisoners she’d landed with, she’d yet to see a woman or a child.
The other men kept their distance from the Aryans, but they watched. Black men, Asians, Latinos. Just like her prison shows. Gangs grouped by race. Nearly every man that she passed looked like he wanted to devour her, to dominate her, and to own her in every possible way. Then the other men followed them, walking alongside the captives, but far enough away not to draw the ire of the Aryans. As they walked, the all-male crowd around them grew. It seemed everyone on the island was going to the same place. They ended up at a baseball stadium. Groups of men huddled in the parking lot, hooting and posturing, drinking and smoking, the smell of marijuana in the air.
Two seemingly fully functioning military trucks were parked, surrounded by men in fatigues with rifles slung across their chests. The trucks had off-road tires, armor, four doors with tiny windows, and a turret on top. Everyone, including the Aryans, gave these uniformed men a wide berth.
Inside the stadium, the stands were already packed with people. The Aryans and the prisoners were the only ones allowed on the field. Handmade signs read No Fighting. The grass was sparse and weedy, the sand compacted from billions of footfalls. No trees grew in the outfield or the infield. The metal seats were intact, but the roof that once partially covered fans behind home plate was gone, only the pillars remaining.
One of the Aryans explained their situation. “This here is a market. Most of y’all will be bought and sold into one of these gangs.” The Aryan motioned to the crowd in the bleachers. “What they do with you is up to them. They own yer asses. If you wanna survive, make yerself useful to yer new family.” He paused for a beat. “Some of you will be used for the games.” The Aryan walked away.
Summer didn’t like the idea of being “used” for the games, whatever that meant, much less being sold into a gang.
After that brief orientation, an Aryan they referred to as The Reaper, walked along the chain gangs, every once in a while stopping and pointing to a prisoner, then continuing his walk. The Reaper was tall and built, tattoos covering every inch of his body, including his face and shaved head.
After The Reaper pointed to a prisoner, the prisoner was detached from the chain gang and taken to a holding area beneath the bleachers. The Reaper stopped in front of Summer, her heart pounding in her chest. But he pointed at Derek and that creep Aaron.
“You don’t want her?” an Aryan guard asked The Reaper.
The Reaper glared at the guard. “You questionin’ me?”
The Aryan guard showed his palms in surrender. “No, sir. I just think Wade would like her.”
The Reaper returned his attention to Summer, looking her up and down, while still conversing with the guard. “This bitch just had a child. I’d rather trade her while she still has value.” The Reaper gestured to the stands. “Look at ’em. These dumb fucks are desperate for her.” The Reaper then moved into the Aryan guard’s personal space. “Question me again, and I’ll kill you.” The Reaper made the threat as if he were talking about the weather.
The Aryan guard took a step back, his head bowed.
The Reaper moved decisively down the line.
The crowd was restless, some encouraging The Reaper by shouting, “Hurry up, asshole,” and, “We’re runnin’ outta daylight, fuck face.”
The sun was dropping in the distance. Summer estimated that they only had two, maybe three hours of light left. Approximately one hundred prisoners were taken to the holding area, Connor and Mark among them. Connor gazed at Summer and mouthed, I love you, before being shoved into the holding area.
Zoe was also taken by the Aryans, but she wasn’t put in the holding area. She was escorted from the stadium through the outfield bleachers. Summer had been surprised by the diversity among the prisoners chosen by The Reaper. Why would an Aryan gang want nonwhites?