“Now!”
Ivy and Mia are dragged from the tent behind me, still holding on to one another. The men whisper amongst themselves, gesturing to them as I pull the dark abaya over my head. It hides my body from my neck to my feet, the sleeves easily four inches too long.
Our attackers pull two more abayas from a duffel bag and thrust them at Ivy and Mia. The girls look to me, and I wish I could offer them some sort of comfort. But I can’t. “Do what they say.”
One by one, they grab our hands and secure our wrists in front of us with duct tape, then tug the sleeves of our abayas lower so no one can see the dark gray bindings. Tears stream down my cheeks, and the tallest of our attackers uses a thick strip of scratchy, black material to gag me, then covers my entire head with a full-face scarf. The boshiya’s material is only sheer enough to see through over my eyes, and to anyone looking, I’m nothing more than a native woman in full, traditional dress. One who’s unable to talk or move her arms.
They’re hiding us. So no one will know we’re in trouble.
Dr. Philips, Mark, one of the physician’s assistants, and our two bodyguards lie dead, bullet wounds to their heads and chests leaving dark pools of blood oozing into the sandy soil.
As I’m dragged down the road away from our makeshift camp, my sobs and my heartbeat roaring in my ears obliterate all other sounds.
My thoughts race all the way to a waiting van, a good two kilometers away.
They didn’t kill us. Because we’re women. Because…they’re going to sell us.
Panic locks my muscles, and as I’m shoved onto a bench in the back, I can do nothing but cry silently, and wonder if this time, I could find a way to die rather than endure the horrors of being brutalized yet again.
I don’t know how long we’ve been in this van. Sun streams through the front windshield now, high in the sky, so we’ve been driving for at least eight or nine hours.
Ivy and Mia are huddled together across from me. We’ve all stopped crying—though the occasional sob breaks through the drone of the engine. One of our captors is next to me, the other next to Ivy, and the last two in the front seats.
My bladder sends sharp pains from my stomach down my legs, my shoulders ache, and my eyes are swollen and gritty. There’s no air conditioning, but the front windows are open, so at least there’s a hint of a breeze. I’m covered in sweat, dehydrated, and dizzy. Ivy and Mia wriggle, apparently also desperate to relieve themselves, and whimper softly.
The man in the passenger seat says something in a language I don’t understand, and the driver grunts an agreement. It’s not Turkmen. I think…maybe it’s Pashto, which given that we’re driving south, probably means they’re from Afghanistan.
A few minutes later, the van rolls to a stop, and the man at my side gets to his feet, opens the back door, and motions to me to exit.
Oh God.
So many different possibilities run through my mind as I scoot to the edge of the bench and try not to fall on my face as I climb out. Ivy and Mia follow. Full-Beard—what I’ve named the man—yanks my sleeves up and then cuts the tape around my wrists. He points to a stand of sad trees maybe fifty feet away. “Piss. You run, they die.” No-Beard, the driver, holds a pistol to Ivy’s head—at least I think that’s Ivy. With their faces covered, I can’t be sure. They’re almost the same height.
Stumbling over the rocks and dried grasses, I make it to the trees, hike up my abaya, pull down my pants, and squat. My God, I’ve never felt anything so wonderful except maybe my first shower after the police rescued me from Jefe.
But when I get back to the road, Full-Beard tapes my wrists again before letting Ivy, then Mia visit the tree. As they usher us back towards the van, I pantomime water—or try—and Full-Beard grumbles something to No-Beard, who rummages up front and returns with three bottles.
“In the back,” Full Beard says. He doesn’t say another word until we’re all seated again and the doors have sealed us inside. Only then does he pull off my boshiya, remove my gag, and hand me the bottle. “Quick, quick, quick.”
Afraid this is the only chance I’ll have to drink for another half a day, I suck down the whole bottle. It’s warm, but I don’t care. Please don’t let me get sick, I pray as Full-Beard slaps the empty bottle out of my bound hands, gags me again, and re-covers my head. The van doesn’t start moving until Ivy and Mia have had their water, and then we’re bouncing down the rutted road, and I can only focus on one question.
What happens when we get to where we’re going?
Not more than an hour later, we reach some sort of checkpoint. The van slows to a stop, and No-Beard exchanges words with someone out the driver’s side window. Their voices turn angry, and next to me, Full-Beard jabs a pistol into my side. “You make a sound, you will pay.”
The back doors open, and a man in a light brown uniform with a pistol strapped to his hip peers inside. “Who are they?” he asks in Turkmen, gesturing to us.
Full-Beard replies with a string of words I don’t understand, and I wish the uniformed man could see my eyes. I’m pleading silently with him to realize something is off. In English, probably to reinforce just how helpless we are in this state, Full-Beard announces that we are on our way to arranged marriages with village elders near Batash. The uniformed man nods, accepting Full-Beard’s words immediately, and the doors slam shut.
If they hadn’t gagged us…if they hadn’t forced these dark boshiyas over our heads…if we’d just all screamed… My tears start anew, and I dig my fingernails into my palms. I want to break the skin. To feel something besides pure terror. But then the van starts to move again, and I’m too scared to move at all.
Night brings pure terror. I’m practically hyperventilating around the gag, and my heart feels like it’s about to explode out of my chest. Or stop beating entirely. We’re up in the mountains now, and it’s cold. Or maybe that’s just the adrenaline crash.
Ivy fell asleep against Mia a few hours ago, but I can’t rest. Can’t even close my eyes. If I do, I won’t be able to prepare myself for anything that’s coming. Full-Beard keeps leering at me, and he’s gradually moved closer.
A few lights—small houses, I think, brighten the interior of the van through the windshield, and we make several turns, then stop. The barrel of a pistol presses to my side, and I yelp, which only makes Full-Beard jab me harder. “Quiet.”
Nodding, I swallow my whimpers, and then they drag us out of the van and into a small, clay-walled house. We move so quickly, the rooms are a blur until a trapdoor in the floor opens, and we’re shoved down a set of stairs into total darkness. But it doesn’t stay dark for long. Full-Beard brings a small, bare-bulb lamp, and once he’s plugged the light in, I get my first good look at our surroundings.
