Hans Meijer - The slave girl

"We get away." Amrah?s whisper was both urgent and demanding. "You better trust Amrah or we get caught."

She emphasized her demand by a firm tug on the leash she had prudently fastened to Corey?s slave neck iron. Dazed, the three helpless girls followed where they were led.

Should she have struggled, kicked, resisted this nocturnal rescue? Perhaps! But Achmed had left the two of them sufficiently helpless to enable Amrah to handle them with ease. There had been little choice. And suppose Amrah was a friend! Suppose she was leading them to freedom! The method of her doing so was not illogical. Three dubious and argumentative girls would have been far more difficult than the three gagged nudities now slipping so silently into the night. They were a package Amrah could control. She herself would be fleeing her enslavement as an unpaid whore. But the keys! Where had Amrah got the keys by which to take them from their prison? Corey rejected the stress of speculation as she strove to appease the pressure on her neck. If they were being led to freedom by this unorthodox handling, so be it! Freedom, by any means, was vital. Nothing else mattered.

Eight padding bare feet, the clink of chain. Whispers of sound in the desert night. Amrah led them along the great wall to the door. When it closed behind them the sound spoke of no return. Beyond them now was limitless space, but in the foreground the dark shadow of a truck.

Two men in desert garb. Then the incredible! Amrah passed to them keys, like coins in payment understood. She broke a string from her bare waist and gave them the handcuffs it had borne. She turned her back to present them with her wrists. She looked back across her shoulder with a wide grin as the cuffs clicked to make her captive too. Corey?s leash was padlocked to Amrah?s collar so that now it was four naked girls who stood in line to await the convenience of men. One by one they were lifted into the truck by strong male hands. The tailgate was raised and fastened, the engine whispered into life. Corey looked back at the rapidly diminishing immensity of Amphala, a place she had known only as a prison cell. Somewhere within the walls the brigand who intended to take her to wife would be fast asleep.

It was a miserable ride of snubbed necks and tangled female flesh. Amrah was the only one with speech but she used it little. The others could ask no questions. "Now we get sold in slave market." She informed her companions with an immense and beaming complacency. "Rich man buy. We have fine life. Much better than whore to army."

She giggled happily. "They want you too or won?t take me. Now we all set." The innocently naive admission explained much. Now, Amrah?s proud satisfaction with an astute deal added more. "Men buy our keys. In Amphala they pay much money in bribes to make us free. We lucky girls."

Corey supposed it depended on the way a girl looked at it!

Conversation languished. The truck rumbled and jolted. It was hard to find comfort. She suspected that girls chained together by their collars might easily become irritated with each other. There was a constant snubbing and jerking and the tossing of angry heads. The four prisoners did the best they could by sitting on the bed of the truck and leaning against one unstable side. Three jaws ached from gags, four sets of handcuffs irked eight slender wrists. "Is nice long ride to safe place." Amrah informed brightly.

Corey would have liked to kick her.

It was indeed a long ride. It took them into dawn and a country of scattered brush and trees. It took them to a tent and five more girls. Lovely girls in varying shades of coffee, and linked as they were linked. With the truck in view they were marshaled into a waiting line, sullenly curious, enticingly nude. Two sets of chain were joined to make a slave coffle of nine girls. One end of it was padlocked to a tree. Gags were taken from three grateful mouths. Handcuffs were unlocked from thankful wrists. The collars and linking chain would deny escape.

Three men in quiet discussion. The passing of money. One of the trio returned to the truck and drove off in the way they had come. The remaining two turned their attention to their chained merchandise.

Corey was fingering the metal circlet on her neck. It was heavy with chain. Even with her limbs free she had never felt more helpless. But her main concern was the men. They were rangy masculine types, one bearded, one clean shaven. They wore the desert haik. Un hurriedly, they took inventory.

Strangely, no girl spoke. They were prodded and positioned but maintained the silence of resignation. The finality of their enslavement and the obvious intent of their condition left nothing to say. They had been captured into slavery and would be sold. There were no protests. The girls were frightened. Their new owners had steely eyes and a no nonsense approach to their abasement of nine girls. They commented to each other in the desert dialect, pointing out salient features on each slave. There was no other communion.

Corey was made to stand with her hands clasped behind her neck. Their satisfaction with her body was all too evident. She was costly merchandise. Grim lipped, she endured the fingerings and probings. Her fortitude was shattered by a mid-western voice.

"Some sort of an heiress, aren?t you?"

A Yankee slave trader! Why not, they did everything else! Sudden hope wilted under the sardonic gaze. Her response was forestalled by Audrey?s angry outburst.

"You idiot! She?s Corey Gibson… The Plant Corporation. Neither she or I belong on this damn chain. You can get ransom for us. Tomorrow you could be rich and us on the way home."

An amused and interested regard swung upon the girl?s heaving breasts. The voice was tolerant. "Shut your trap, kid."

"But, I tell you…!"

"You don?t tell us nothing we don't ask! You want that little ass of your?s whipped?"

Audrey Cotswold subsided into hurt silence. The sardonic eyes returned to Corey. "M?name?s Seth Burdett, and I asked you a question."

"Yes, I am Corey Gibson."

A rapid exchange in Arabic. Burdett nodded at her and winked. Attention turned to the next in line. Corey felt piqued. She exchanged a cocked eyebrow. But what could they do! The were helpless.

It was Seth Burdett who gave them their set of rules. Like recruits in boot camp they stood attentively in line. His mention of a whip had earned respect. "We march at night, sleep by day. We?ll cross country where a truck won?t go. That means there?s no one chasing us." He grinned up and down the naked line. "Don?t any of you girls aim to be rescued or escape. That ain?t going to happen. Any of you want to give trouble she gets her back sliced good with a whip. Any questions?"

A long silence was terminated by a pale feminine voice. "Are we slaves… Mr. Burdett?"

"Thought that went without saying, kid. In case you don?t know, that way you?re chained?s called a slave coffle." He guffawed. "Keeps you in line."

"Are we going to be sold?"

"Of course. And let me tell you, you?re damned expensive stuff."

Corey took her chance. "Will you arrange ransom for Audrey and me, Mr. Burdett?"

"Too much hassle, Miss Gibson. Sorry."

"The sum could be huge."

"Miss Gibson, when you stand up on that auction block you?re going to be shocked out of your socks by the price some guy?s going to pay for you. We?re taking you to where the money is."

The chain seemed heavier. Their value as merchandise made them doubly captive. Corey tried another approach.

"Please, must we be chained? We can?t run away in this wilderness. You could control us without all this hardware on our necks."

"You?re dreaming, kid. We take these little coffee colored cuties off the coffle, they?d melt into that brush like they weren?t even there." He guffawed again. "You probably wouldn?t be far behind, but your white ass would be easier to follow."