Men clustered in the bleachers, jockeying for a vantage point to ogle their object of affection. More than once Summer heard from the crowd, “I’m gonna fuck her,” and, “I’m buyin’ that bitch.” More than once, men exposed themselves to her, a few so bold as to masturbate with their eyes locked on her.
The Aryans allowed thirty or so non-Aryans on the field. These men were mostly older, more mature, a few holding notepads and pencils, bargaining with the Aryans, taking orders from the crowd, and making offers. It appeared that they represented their gangs for the purpose of bartering for people.
Most of the male prisoners were purchased for a song. A copper ring for a man. A half-empty bottle of rum for a man. A few plastic bags filled with fruit for a man. Two live chickens for a man. A handful of shotgun shells for a man. A pair of binoculars for a man. The gangs purchased male prisoners who looked like them. The defining characteristic was skin color.
However, the morbidly obese prisoners were often purchased by gangs who didn’t look like them. Black gangs purchased obese whites and vice versa. These obese men had barely survived the two-mile walk to the stadium, needing multiple breaks in the shade along the way. For some reason, obese men had multiple bidders and garnered payments twice as large as average-size men.
Female prisoners garnered the most bids and the highest bids, bids commensurate with the beauty of the female. The laws of supply and demand in action. Summer was surrounded by bidders. Men groped and touched her and checked her teeth, like she was a prized heifer at a farm show. One man offered a pair of used boots and a box of bullets. Another offered eight live chicks and dried iguana meat and fruit.
A young man wearing a backpack pushed his way into the bidding war. He looked more like a college student than a hardened psychopath. He hoisted a plastic box in the air and said, “A Glock nine-millimeter for the woman.”
The crowd gasped.
The Aryan auctioneer approached the young man with narrowed eyes. “Let’s see it.”
The young man opened the box, displaying the handgun.
The Aryan looked around and said, “Any other bids?”
The crowd was silent and dejected.
“Sold.” The Aryan snatched the box from the young man, handing it off to another Aryan who whisked away the handgun to wherever they stored their wealth. The Aryan unlocked Summer’s handcuffs, releasing her from the chain gang.
The young man gripped Summer’s upper arm and pulled her close. He whispered into her ear. “My name’s Gavin. Don’t worry. I won’t hurt you. We’re going someplace safe. Javier’s here.”
Summer turned to Gavin, her eyes like saucers. “Javier Munoz?”
Gavin nodded. “We have to go now. We’re running out of time.”
They fast-walked toward the outfield. An Aryan guard escorted them through a door in the outfield wall. Another guard nodded to them as they left the stadium. Javier was in the parking lot, waiting for them. Normally tall and thin, he was even skinnier, his bushy black hair wild and his cheeks sunken.
“Javier!” Summer said, hugging him tight, her hands gripping his backpack.
“Are you okay?” Javier asked.
Summer let go, looking Javier in his eyes. “They have Connor and Mark and Zoe.”
“I know. I’m sorry. We were gonna buy ’em if they made it into the auction, but the Aryans take whoever they want for the games or for their own use.”
“We have to go,” Gavin said, interrupting.
“I’ll fill you in when we get to the fort,” Javier said.
“We can’t leave them,” Summer said.
“We’ll talk about it.”
Gavin frowned at Javier.
A group of men approached, carrying machetes, their eyes locked on Summer.
“Let’s go!” Gavin said.
They ran from the parking lot, Summer struggling to keep pace. Gavin removed a handgun from his waistband, turned, and waved it at the men. The men stopped in their tracks, deciding it wasn’t worth the effort or the risk.
Gavin, Summer, and Javier jogged north, through parking lots, trees growing between the cracked asphalt, and the buildings reduced to piles of debris. They crossed the remnants of superhighways, with rusty cars and trucks parked on the shoulders.
Gavin was a great runner. Small and thin with muscular legs, his long brown hair bouncing with each stride. Periodically, he ran ahead and checked for threats, then waited for Summer and Javier to catch up. Gavin led them toward the jungle, through a narrow footpath. The path took a hard right, a river on their left. Gavin slowed to a walk, looking for something on his left. Summer and Javier slowed and walked behind Gavin.
“I think we’re okay,” Javier said.
Gavin found a rusted soda can hanging on a branch. At that point he turned and walked into the heavy brush, carefully pulling aside branches and vines as he went. “Found it,” Gavin said.
Gavin and Javier removed the branches that covered a canoe and two paddles. They lugged the canoe into the river, Summer holding the paddles. Summer sat in the middle, feeling useless, as Gavin paddled in front and Javier behind her. They didn’t have to paddle too hard. The canoe floated on the river, going with the current, dense jungle on either side. For a brief moment, Summer thought it was beautiful, until she saw alligators basking on the banks.
Summer must’ve been staring because Javier said, “They’re caiman.”
“They look like alligators,” Summer replied over her shoulder.
“In the same family. Just smaller. They’re all over the bay and the river. Territorial too.”
After one-quarter mile, the river opened into a bay, an old shipyard on their right with thousands of rusty sea containers.
“Shit,” Gavin said, turning around. “The Netas.”
“Fuck,” Javier replied.
Gavin pointed to the shipyard. “We can hide in a sea container.”
Javier nodded and helped Gavin paddle toward the shipyard. Summer caught a glimpse of a small boat in the distance. As they beached the canoe, a few green iguanas with long striped tails scattered a safe distance from the humans. Gavin and Javier grabbed the canoe, Summer took the paddles.
“What happened?” Summer asked, as they walked toward the shipyard.
“The Netas are patrolling the bay,” Javier said.
“We’ll have to wait until early morning to cross the bay,” Gavin said. “They always sleep in.”
“Who are the Netas?” Summer asked.
“They’re a gang. Native to Puerto Rico,” Javier said. “The most powerful gang on the island.”
“They weren’t sent here like everyone else,” Gavin said. “They just never evacuated. They planned to loot the whole city. When the hurricanes came, they hunkered down at the army base. They scavenged as much as they could before prisoners started coming here, so they took all the good weapons and vehicles in San Juan and the nearby areas. Almost everything was destroyed, but supposedly the army stored some stuff underground or in a mountain. I don’t know if that’s true, but I do know the Netas have those electric trucks and those machine guns.”
“Are you guys part of a gang?” Summer asked, as they approached a cemetery of rusty sea containers.
“Sort of,” Gavin said. “We call ourselves 1776. We’re mostly antigovernment activists. They don’t just send the psychos down here.”
“Roger Kroenig is kind of like our leader,” Javier said.
“We don’t have masters.”
“Wait, Roger Kroenig?” Summer asked. “Like the congressman who quit and then disappeared?”
Javier nodded. “I knew they fuckin’ sent him here.”
They found an empty sea container out of sight of the bay. Gavin opened the door, heat radiating outward.
“Damn it’s hot,” Javier said.