Page 13 of Sigma

I don’t hear anything, and that’s what sends my heart to pounding. Usually, a few birds are up and chirping by this time. Or maybe a few late crickets, or frogs.

Nothing. Dead silence.

And then the world goes dark, something wrapping around my face, occluding my vision. Something sharp and cold touches my throat.

“Don’t move,” a voice hisses. “Don’t move, don’t make a sound. Cooperate and you will not be harmed.” The voice is nothing but a barely audible hiss in the darkness, indeterminate age and gender.

I do nothing, just hold still, frozen, tears of terror and confusion trickling down my cheeks.

“Open your mouth.”

I do as I’m told, and the moment my lips part, something soft and smelling of fabric softener is shoved into my mouth—a sock. Then I feel something pressed over my lips—tape, wrapped around my head several times. Even if I tried, now, any sound I made would be muffled and inaudible unless you were within a few feet of me. The blindfold or hood is left over my eyes.

My hands are bound behind my back with thin, hard cord; whoever it is abducting me doesn’t just tie my wrists together, he—I’m assuming it’s a he, despite no hard evidence either way—forces me to clasp my fingers together like I’m praying, fingertips angled down, shoulders pulled back into an unnatural and uncomfortable position, and then my wrists are bound tightly, the cord wrapping around my fingers to keep my fingers tangled, and then another cord is wrapped tightly around my elbows—I’m trussed into helplessness, unable to move my arms except an inch or two away from my body, and that with increasing discomfort.

I’m hauled to my feet, and a hand wraps into my hair, using it as reins to guide me in a forced march. I’m barefoot, and still dressed in my outfit from yesterday: a short, lime green tennis skirt and a halter top shirt that leaves my entire back bare. I’m not wearing a bra, a tendency of mine that drives Mom nuts. I’m barefoot.

My captor guides me away from the house, into the woods behind it, frog-marching me at a quick clip through the trees. Abruptly, I’m shoved to the ground, tripped off my feet and shoved face-first in the dirt.

“Down—silent.” The hissed commands are directly in my ear.

I can hear the maleness, now. A hint of an accent, maybe, something indeterminate in the formation of the vowel sounds and the harshness of the consonants. The hand stays knotted in my hair, pulling painfully at the roots. I’m too afraid to resist, and I remember the feel of the knife edge at my throat; I’m surprisingly calm, despite my fear. Perhaps it’s shock, or adrenaline, or just something in my nature, but I know somehow that if I were to throw a fit or struggle, I’d be dead before I got a second breath out. I can feel it in my gut, in the way he holds my hair, the brusque efficiency of the way he maneuvers me—this isn’t for pleasure. He’s got no immediate plans of doing anything like raping me. No, this is a kidnapping. This is about Mom and Dad.

They’ll get me back. Mom, Dad, Duke, Uncle Harry—they’ll get me back. I just have to stay alive, and keep my wits about me.

So, I stay down, my cheek biting into the dirt. I smell the earth, the faint musk of rotting vegetation. Something wriggles past my nose, and I force myself to not react.

A long moment passes, and then I’m unceremoniously yanked to my feet by my waist, the hand retakes its hold in my hair, winding my long sheaf of hair around his hand until it’s pulled painfully tight, and then I’m marched forward again, slowly, silently. Whomever it is behind me, abducting me, he’s utterly silent. His feet make barely a crunch in the dirt.

The trip is long, since we go slow, step by step, often halting for long moments—fortunately, I’m not shoved into the dirt on my face again, but several times he does kick at the back of my knees to make me go down to my knees, waiting until—I assume—the security guard has passed us on his rounds through his section of the island.

Slowly, slowly, the shushing of the surf becomes louder. Then I can tell by the damp sand underfoot that we’re at the water’s edge. He lifts me bodily, his hands around my waist, efficient and businesslike, and sets me in what feels like a rubber boat.

I’m jerked forward as he shoves off, and I hear his feet in the water.

Splashing, but quietly. And then the boat rocks as he rolls in. A moment of still silence, and then a rhythmic, nearly silent splashing, and movement—he’s rowing us away from the island.

The rowing lasts for a long time, or so it seems. I have little means of measuring the passage of time except my own heartbeats and the endless chuck of the paddle. Eventually, the boat bumps to a halt. Something is said, far above me, in a language I don’t recognize, and there’s the mechanical whir of a winch or something like that. Something bumps against the rubber of the boat.

I’m lifted by hands under my legs and around my shoulders, transferred to a seat or a basket, and then I’m rising in the air for several long seconds. Then the upward movement stops, and I twist, sway. Hands grab me—again with businesslike impersonality. Set me on my feet.

The same hissing voice, louder now, but not by much. “Walk forward. No sounds. Resist, and this is over quickly but painfully.”

I walk forward—we’re on a boat, and a rather large one, I can tell, by the slow shallow rocking. I’m stopped, hinges creak, a body moves past me, and I’m lifted again, lowered and then dropped. I fall a few feet, hit the deck and topple over. It’s painful, but I’m not injured. Back to my feet, and now I hear our footsteps echoing closely, meaning we’re inside the boat, in the narrow hallways.

Turning this way and that, walking for several minutes. Another drop, more walking.

We’re in the bowels of the boat, now. I can feel and hear the massive engines chugging.

Stop.

A door creaks open, and I’m pushed through. The sharp edge touches my chin. “I’m going to free your hands. Do not move even to breathe or blink until you hear the door close.”

My only answer is to wait, motionless.

“If you continue to cooperate, you will be treated well. We will feed you. Allow you to use the toilet. You will not be harmed.” This voice is low and rough, as if this is as loud as he’s capable of speaking. There’s definitely a hint of an accent. European, somewhere. German, possibly, or Scandinavian. “No screaming. No trying to escape. You’re at sea, so there’s nowhere to go, unless you can swim for days.” The knife presses a little harder, pricking with a hot point of pain. “Understand?”

I nod once.