Page 76 of Ensnared

The man who chucked the beer can at me tosses a rope around my neck and drags me until I fall forward on my hands and face. He barely gives me five seconds to get up before he’s pulling again. Blood’s dripping down the right side of my face, but no one else seems to care.

I cry, but the tears make my cheek hurt more. I clench my fists, but the hamburger-like parts of my palms sting too badly to do it long. Finally, I start to think about all the ways I’ll inflict pain on the bad people who are dragging me along like one of those bobbing duck-on-a-string toys I used to pull.

“When I get home, I promise I’ll cut that string and free you,” I mutter. “No one should make you move when you want to sit still.”

But no one else even notices that I’m talking.

I start to sing Mary Had a Little Lamb. No one cares about that either, but it makes me feel a little better. I launch into Twinkle Twinkle next, but I never paid much attention in music class so I’m rapidly exhausting my repertoire. A few songs later, I’m forced to start tapping into Christmas songs, like Jingle Bells and Rudolph.

My horrible captors don’t seem to notice that I’m singing, much less care what I’m saying or why. As long as I keep moving, they’re indifferent. If I stumble, fall, or stop, they start shouting and yanking.

The sun sets, but we keep right on stumbling along. That’s when I realize that, even though the sun has set, the sky’s still bright.

Not a normal bright. It’s red.

It’s unnaturally red. “Why is the sky like that?” I ask.

“Eyjafjallajökull,” the woman says.

“Why’s the sky red?” I ask again. “I can’t understand you.”

She points at the brightest part. “Lava. Hot.”

The place she’s pointing? That’s where we’re climbing. That can’t be good. If that’s a volcano—it must be. The sky’s red, she said lava, and then she pointed. . . If it is a volcano, I do not want anything to do with it. These crazy people can go there without me.

I stop and sit down.

Beer Can laughs. He mutters something. He yanks on my rope. The fibers of the rope hurt my neck. I’m pretty sure it’s bleeding, but that’s better than letting them walk me right up to a volcano.

“Come.” The man yanks again, this time loosening the tension and then whipping the rope as hard as he can.

It collapses my throat, or that’s how it feels. I can’t breathe at all, and then I can’t stop coughing. “No,” I wheeze. “I will not go.” That makes me cough again, but the man’s done caring.

“Up. Move.” He yanks, and yanks, and yanks. Not as hard, but more persistently, and finally, another hard pull. Bleeding skin, I can ignore. Chafing burns. But a snapped neck can’t be fixed. I stumble back to my feet and start walking.

The higher we get, the hotter the ground gets.

“Why are we going there?” I ask, my voice raspy.

No one answers me, of course, and no matter how many times I repeat my question, they still say nothing back. I try grabbing rocks and throwing them. I wrap my hands around the rope and yank when it looks like Beer Can isn’t paying attention. Once, I even manage to pull the rope free from his hands, but a half dozen steps away, Beer Can steps on the rope and knocks me back on my rear.

I stop trying to escape after that.

But I keep watching them, and I keep my eyes open. By the time we reach the top, there’s a group waiting, and I have a few ideas. The men seem to be the stronger ones, but I think the woman’s in charge.

“Why am I here?” I ask. “Why me?”

I know they’ll ignore me, but I can’t seem to keep from asking.

“Tattoo,” the woman says.

Her response surprises me, and I just blink at first. “Tattoo?” I ask. “I don’t understand.”

She points at the spot just above her breast on her left side. “Tattoo.”

“Do you mean my birthmark? It’s not a tattoo. I’ve always had it.” I frown. “What does that have to do with?—”

But Beer Can’s as impatient as ever. “Go in.” He yanks again, and this time, it’s from the side. I fall to my left, hitting the woman on her left side.