In The Wreckage: A Tale of Two Brothers by Simon J. Townley Page B

 
    Conall lifted himself off his knees, the palms of his hands pressing into the floor. He stood up straight, legs shaking. Stretching his arms he felt wooden beams and above them corrugated metal, ancient and loose. A way out but noisy. If guards were close by, they’d surely hear.  
    “Settle yourself down, there’s no escape, I’ve looked,” Jonah said.  
    Conall ached from feet to head. He felt his neck and face, shoulders and arms, assessing damage. Nothing broken, but he couldn’t fight or run. Not like this. And what of Jonah? “Do you have your cane?”  
    “Didn’t bring it, left it on the ship. Stupid, we could use a hidden weapon right about now. Didn’t think I’d need it, not carrying a gun.”  
    “Would the townsfolk help us? The mayor, the council?”
    “Might, if they knew, hard to say,” Jonah said. “Can’t all be slavers. But are these a few bad men? Or are they in power? Got a lot of people behind them, I’d say, taking us like that in broad daylight, public place. Didn’t see anyone rushing from the inn to help us. And the women upstairs, they’d have seen. Must’ve known, all along.” He cursed under his breath and spat on the floor.  
    Conall put his hands in front of his face and walked until he found the wall. He moved along it tracing the outline of the room. Ten foot square, with a metal door in one corner. He listened, his ear pressed against the cold iron. Jonah rustled, sat on the floor on the far side, shuffling his position, grumbling under his breath. Conall urged him to be quiet. “Voices, someone’s coming.”
    Gruff voices, mean and business-like, rumbled on the other side of the door. “They’re here. Do we try?”  
    “Bide your time. They’re not fools.”  
    A key turned in the lock. Conall stepped to one side, lurking in the darkness. The door swung open and a bright light blinded him. The door was kicked wide. Four men stood there, two holding guns.  
    “No trouble or you die here, understand?”  
    “Aye, right enough,” Jonah said.  
    “Where’s the young one? Forward.”  
    Conall hesitated, looked to Jonah for direction, but no word came. The light through the door showed Argent’s face, set hard, proud but defeated, a rage simmering deep down, helpless.  
    “Hold your hands in front of you, wrists together, step forward. Now,” one of the slavers said. He spoke English, but with a strong accent.  
    Conall looked again to Jonah, his heart racing, ready for action. The first mate refused to look at him, but gave a nod of the head. There would be no last-ditch fight for freedom. They’d walk tamely into slavery.  
    Conall stepped into the light and two of the men grasped his arms, pulled him forward, knocked him to his knees. They put a metal collar round his neck, cold and hard against his skin. He struggled to break free. One of the men kicked him in the back, another held a gun against his forehead and told him to keep still. One twitch from death, a bullet would shatter his brains before he heard the sound. There’d be no time for pain or fear. Instant. Slavery would be a long, slow torment, a constant regret for a life lost. But there was hope, and Conall wasn’t ready to give up. He’d stay alive, bide his time, as Jonah said.  
    A padlock clicked shut and the metal collar was fixed. The men passed a metal chain through a hoop on the collar, then called Jonah forward. The first mate didn’t try to fight or resist. He knelt beside Conall, face stern, showing little emotion. This was his act of defiance, to show no fear or suffering. To accept his fate, for now.  
    The men chained Jonah’s collar so the two of them were joined, then yanked them to their feet.  
    “No trouble, it won’t help you none,” one of the men said.  
    They stood in a courtyard outside the brick shed that had been their prison. In front of them stood a gateway and a road beyond. “Keep walking. Meet us at the headland,” one of the slavers