Page 18 of Into Hell: Prelude (Holding Cell: Return to the Island)
G aren Bedrossian woke up in a strange and unfamiliar setting; he was lying on a narrow cot covered with a thin blanket, in a darkened room.
It had the plain, bare feel of a dormitory or similar shared space.
As the teen yawned and stretched his arms upward, he wiped the sleep from his eyes and tried to look around.
But the heavy darkness blocked his view, leaving only shadows and obscurity.
He blinked repeatedly, trying to see through the blackness, his eyes fixed straight ahead in a hopeless attempt to make out the shapes of the room.
A growl from his stomach sharply refocused Garen on himself.
He instinctively placed a hand on his abdomen, a common gesture when hunger clawed at him long before mealtime.
Frowning, he realized how much time had passed since his last meal.
His tongue brushed his lips as he remembered the delicious burger the guards—or whoever they were—had offered him.
Garen strained to hear his surroundings more clearly.
The soft, steady breaths of those nearby suggested they were sleeping peacefully, which made him smile slightly.
He thought to himself that, so far, they hadn’t mistreated them—no pushing, shoving, or hitting.
In fact, they hadn't even raised their voices, and this thought comforted him.
Based on the heartbreaking stories shared by the child trafficking victims that his father, Arman Bedrossian, had bravely rescued from the ruthless captors, Garen expected something much more horrifying.
The survivors described their dark, cramped, and suffocating confinement in filthy cells.
The air was heavy with despair, and the scarce food and water supplies meant many of the young captives, especially those with fragile health or pre-existing conditions, never survived to reach the dreaded auction block.
Garen wondered if Evon betrayed him to their father, Hayrik, whom he believed could orchestrate such a scheme as a stern lesson for his defiant firstborn.
Garen, nearly twenty, mused with a shake of his head that he was still seen as just a young boy.
A mix of disappointment and bitterness filled him, causing his lips to tighten into a pale, thin line.
He sighed, thinking it was best to try sleeping since nothing could be done until the cavalry arrived to resolve the situation.
Garen shifted onto his back, his usual sleeping position, and let sleep gently take over him. However, faint sounds from outside made him open his eyes and sit up suddenly. He listened carefully, gradually tuning out the pounding of his heart.
He recognized the sound of heavy combat boots, similar to those Hayrik wore during rescues or confrontations.
Garen was certain that at least two people were outside, focusing intently.
They've paused; they're probably just beyond the door .
Then, he heard a faint click, and a soft light began to seep into the room.
“Damn,” a gruff voice pierced the stillness, causing Garen to flinch. “That little bitch was incredible! Tight as a drum, just how I like 'em.” The man released a throaty, self-satisfied laugh. “Just thinking about how she squeezed my cock gets me hard all over again.”
“I'd exercise more restraint if I were you,” another voice cut through the air, its tone as cold as ice. “Some clients don't fuss much over spoiled goods, but even they prefer their merchandise undamaged.”
“So what?” the first man retorted, his voice rising with indignation.
“I work like a damn beast, I think I deserve to indulge in a tight little pussy now and then, the boss himself said so.” He cleared his throat, his tone dropping to a conspiratorial whisper.
“And don't forget, we've got the specialist who patches them up, good as new.”
“No, I haven't forgotten,” the icy voice responded immediately, “but it's you who never remembers the important details, like the fact that the cost of repairs is deducted from your share of the profits if it's too complicated.
But why should I care? It's your money, spend it how you like.” A brief silence enveloped them before he continued.
“Let's move. Our sweet princes and princesses still have two hours of beauty sleep left; we wouldn't want to disturb their slumber, now would we?”
“Spoiled brats,” the first man spat. “I'd rather fuck them than treat them like fucking royalty.”
“You can't afford it,” came the cold reply. “Not at a hundred grand each.”
“What?” he questioned, then lowered his voice. “Who'd pay so much for a kid? I wouldn't spend that when I could have them for practically free. Do they have other uses?”
“The clients have more money than we could earn in a lifetime,” the reply was emotionless. “What they do with them is their business. Your job is to keep them happy until collection, and mine is to ensure you don't harm them.”
“Yeah, I understand,” he replied, slightly irritated. “I'm not stupid.”
“I wouldn’t bet a cent on it,” the cold-voiced man muttered. “Go check the merch down below. I’ll handle our special guests here. Have fun; they’re just cattle.”
The first guy started to protest but stopped. “How generous,” he said instead with a tinge of sarcasm.
The other man didn’t reply, and his partner left. Garen, pretending to sleep, heard the man enter and walk through the rows of cots. With half-closed eyes, Garen watched him pause at each cot, scan the sleeping child, check his watch, jot notes, and move on.
The process took fifteen minutes, but for Garen, trying to breathe evenly, it felt like an eternity. As the man reached his cot, Garen began to sweat. The man frowned and placed a hand on Garen’s forehead.
After a moment, the man shrugged, left the room, and closed the door, much to Garen's relief. Exhaling a pent-up breath, Garen waited until the footsteps faded before sliding off the cot to explore. He felt a little lightheaded as he moved between the cots.
Twenty teens, including Garen, slept on cots arranged in two precise rows. The walls were thin, cold, and smooth, suggesting the room was a large metallic container like those on cargo ships.
Garen returned to his bed, trying to make sense of his surroundings. At least he knew this wasn't a lesson his father had staged. Resting his elbows on his thighs and cupping his face, he rubbed his temples as if preparing to form a plan.
Exhaling deeply, he hoped for a clue to their whereabouts.
He remembered the phone and touched his chest, experiencing a rush of relief.
He wondered why they hadn’t searched him and came up with no answers.
Carefully, he lifted his shirt, detached the duct-taped phone from his chest, and powered it on.
The battery was nearly full, as expected, since only a day had passed since he infiltrated the trafficked kids' transport.
However, there was no signal, which seemed strange.
The security chief assured Garen the device could catch any signal, regardless of provider.
Garen remained calm, thinking it just needed time since it hadn't been used in over a day.
But anxiety grew as the device failed to detect a signal after several minutes.
He rationalized the issue, noting thick walls, distance, and the metallic container.
A shift and mumble from a sleeping person drew his attention, and silence returned, distracting him from the phone issue and leading his thoughts elsewhere.
Garen watched the teens sleeping peacefully, and something felt off.
Why were they all asleep? Shouldn’t some be awake, like him?
Maybe they’re drugged. A method to keep them subdued?
Even Garen felt a bit groggy. He’d taken it to be the residue of sleep, but it wasn’t wearing off the way sleep does.
He stood again—and toppled onto the cot when the entire room swayed, then rocked back the other way in an almost fluid motion.
For a moment, confusion gripped him, then sensed the familiarity of the motion.
He’d only been on the ocean a few times, but he remembered the way it had caused the boat to sway and rock when the wave grew choppy—even the large yacht his father had leased.
We’re on the ocean.
Panic seized him; they were being transported out of the country.
Someplace far away, isolated even… beyond the reach of rescue.
Garen curled up on the cot, drawing the blanket up over his shoulders.
He lay his head on the flat pillow and stared across the metal room as the waves rocked the ship, hauling the large containers.
Tears formed as he pressed his hand to the phone beneath his shirt, now useless, and thought about his little brother and Hayrik…
wondering with a deep, consuming fear if he would ever see his family again.