Number Four

                It seemed to Number Four that everything ended much as it began, with bloodshed, wailing, and some smiling. Here, at the end of all things for her, everything seemed illuminated as if her spirit had already left her body and was somehow transcending all humanly things. Number Four knew this could not be true as the numbing coldness that at one time felt damp, was know burning her toes. Here, at the end she pondered the descent.

         Number Four had joined the Army National Guard to make extra money for her husband and herself, and her degree in nursing brought a bonus for them. All that was needed was Basic Military Training and the Army’s version of a trade school. Number Four would be a medic and serve one weekend a month with an annual tour of two weeks once a year. Whenever Brett and she had a baby, which hopefully was soon, they would have extra income and Number Four would be able to get out once in a while.

         Basic Military Training, or Bootcamp as everyone called it, was long. Intensive labor, followed by tireless yelling, and Number Four eagerly awaited the letters that came everyday from her Brett.  At night, huddled with her flashlight by her bunk Number Four read every word and scribble he wrote to her. It seemed to Number Four that the first letters were sadness, phrases like “the bed seems so cold without you,” or  “I wish you could’ve been here,” plagued her. Yet, she felt blessed that someone somewhere wanted her. Sometimes Number Four would wake up before Revele played and sit in the abandoned showers and imagine how they would greet each other at graduation. Would he be proud to see her in her dress uniform? Would he even notice the uniform at all, or just have eyes for her? In her more grand imaginings he would sweep her off her feet into an embrace and kiss her face, and declare that they never part again. Number Four giggled at that one, for it seemed so romantic for someone sitting in a shower stall.

         Then, the letters stopped coming. Well, that isn’t exactly true they just stopped coming everyday. Once a week, seemed to be adequate attention to Brett and Number Four tried not let this bother her. Perhaps things at work got hectic. Yeah, that had to be it. Why else would the letters come so infrequently? And let’s face it, everyday is a lot of pressure on writing letters. But, Number Four could not help but notice the letters were also shorter.

         Not soon enough graduation came. Proud of her Class A’s Number Four eagerly waited in formation for Brett to claim her. When he did he just stared at her. Number Four stared back at him, his face, his build, and his…essence. She took in everything she could of him: the long lean legs, his coffee brown hair, and the warm eyes that crinkled around the edges when he smiled. Finally, overwhelmed she closed the distance between them and embraced him.

         Brett smelled differently, but Number Four cast the thought aside for without her he must have chosen a different fabric softener. Brett’s embrace was kind, not the passionate embrace she imagined in the early morning hours, but not unwelcome. He smiled a simple smile and together they used Number Four’s much deserved Town Pass to have lunch off base.

         Technical School, where the Military teaches its people a trade, was easy as Number Four spent four years at a University and two in a nursing program previously. The favorite part of her day was when Brett would call. Before Number Four left they had made an agreement that he be the one to initiate phone calls since he was from an earlier time zone and his work sometimes kept in meetings into the evening. The system worked. Then it didn’t.

         Some nights Number Four fell asleep in her bed cell phone in hand, and when she woke up there might be a text message of apology. “SRY, GOT CAUGHT UP.” Or  “GOT OFF LATE DIDN’T WANT TO WAKE YOU.” They made sense and were considerate, and Number Four tried to feel lucky to be married to such a considerate man. Other nights he would call and recount his day, and she would smile and say, “That sounds like one heck of a day.” Then, she would try to speak playfully to him, dropping hints of what her plans were to do to him once she got back. Brett rebuffed the advances and would ask about the weather. After those nights Number Four would cry silently as she remembered when all he wanted to do was talk about what they would do to each other after they were married. Number Four’s constant Jiminy Cricket was, “Remember he is still in the old life, your training has made you raw.” She would recite this, chant it, and would feel better. Sometimes.

         Technical School Graduation came as a relief to Number Four. Perhaps, things would calm down once she was home. At the front of the conference room she stood dressed in her Class A’s with the new insignia to denote her specialty. Number Four watched as her colleague’s partners showed up early to sneak a peak of them. A wisened Sergeant got a text from his wife and they flirted until it was time for the ceremony to begin. Right on time Brett showed up and gave a wave. Number Four smiled, it must have been a parking issue. It seemed to her that she was more sensitive now than she ever was before when it came to Brett. “Remember he is still in the old life, your training has made you raw,” she chanted to herself as she was presented with a certificate of training.

         After graduation Brett took her home, and upon entering the house Number Four felt that something had changed. The home smelled differently, not unpleasant and Number Four chalked it up to Brett’s cleaning style. After dinner they headed to the bedroom and made love, and it was polite.

         As predicted, the old routine came back into play yet Number Four knew Brett was not the old Brett. Work days lasted longer and Number Four soon learned to put his dinner plate in the microwave since he would need to reheat it by the time he came home. When he would finally crawl into bed instead of pulling her into him, as he used to do, he would quietly turn off the light and fall asleep on his side. Number Four felt cheated by the tears that silently fell down her face on those nights.

         Laying in the cold snow Number Four scoffed the woman she remembered crying silently in her own bed. But, remembered she had tried to pick his brain and find out what was going on in his mind. As blood seeped out of her body Number Four played his words in her mind like a record, “Nothing is going on.  Just busy, I guess.”

         After months of nothingness the coup de gras was finding the classic lipstick on the collar of his shirt while doing laundry. Number Four, at first thought it was a joke and showed him laughingly, since only a great fool would hand over to his wife the most textbook evidence of an affair. Brett’s demeanor was indifferent neither confirming nor denying, nor laughing at the matter. After three days Number Four finally asked him straight out.

“Babe, I don’t mean to be sensitive about this but about the lipstick on your shirt. But, what was it from?” Number Four asked over dinner. Honestly thinking there was a simple explanation.

         “How could you ask me that?” Brett shot at her angrily, “I’m offended you would even ask.”

“Well, you have been acting sort of out of it lately,” she replied, “Should I be worried?”

“I don’t know should you?” He said hotly.

         That was the extent of the conversation, or argument, as he left the room and did not speak to her for three days. Number Four was baffled was she to blame or was he?

         On the third day she called him on his cell phone knowing that he was staying late at work.

                  “What?” He asked not bothering to give a greeting.

                  “I know you’re at work but, Lydia called and wanted to know if we’re still coming up for New Years?”

                    “You can tell your sister whatever you want but I’m not going to Alaska with you.” With that the line was disconnected. Number Four, not for the first time wondered who she had married.

Fall came proceeded by winter, and the silent feud between husband and wife continued. Number Four sometimes questioned which was colder, Brett or the snow?

                  Things got better when Number Four met Lydia and her husband, Michael, at the Fairbanks Airport. Lydia and Michael, Brett used to joke, were the kind of couple that would get matching cowboy shirts and visit the Grand Canyon together. It was annoying when Lydia and Number Four were roommates in college, but now Number Four was truly grateful for it. Seeing Lydia and Michael so in love and in sync was good for Number Four’s now diminished heart. Of course, they were sorry that Brett had to work, not knowing Number Four was merely making an excuse. Number Four promised them to take pictures of everything and get souvenir’s so he wouldn’t feel left out. Never realizing that their guest was the one left out.

                On the way to lunch Lydia announced that Michael and she had made reservations at a hot spring resort for the four, now three, of them.  They could go see the Aurora Borealis, bathe in the hot spring, get messages, and get fixed right up. It would be great. To Number Four it seemed that this might be a good thing, relax and gain a little perspective. Perhaps, this break was what Brett and she needed.

                After lunch the trio embarked on a two hour drive north and Number Four shivered watching the sun set at three o’clock in the afternoon. Michael playfully boasted that a negative thirty temperature was forecasted for the night. Lydia reassured them an extra two parkas had been packed.

         Upon arrival at the resort Number Four was shown to her room with a bed big enough for two, and unpacked a few toiletries. Everything seemed hazy and distant.  A knock came at the door, an underpaid maid handed her a pair of slippers, thank you, a tip, thank you, close the door, lock the door, and once again, alone in the room. Another knock at the door, Lydia, wanna go to the hot spring? Sure, sounds good, let me get changed. We’ll meet you there. Close the door, and lock the door.

         Number Four exhaled and crossed the room and picked up her black and white bikini. It was an odd item to see in the email Lydia had sent her on what to pack, now she was glad for it. A nice soak could do her good. Number Four changed into the suit, covered herself in layers of clothing, a parka, three layers of gloves, and set out for the hot spring. Surely, good surprises awaited her there.

         The burning in her toes had spread up to her ankles like water into a leaking boat. The burning overwhelmed her senses and she looked at the red snow as her life fluid drained ever so surely from her body. If only the woman from that moment could speak with the woman laying in the snow at this moment, for she would not leave the room she would’ve feigned a headache. But, ruefully, Number Four acknowledged the simple fact nothing could change her fate not even time travel.

         Leaving her room and heading towards the sign for the hot spring Number Four never her turned her gaze to the right, where the two men waited for her. As the first assailant came upon her the Army combatives course came back to her, and Number Four elbowed him in the kidneys followed by a heel-palm strike to his nose. If only there was only one assailant because she may have gotten away, but the second assailant replaced the first as he tried to recover. The second assailant growled something in a strange language as he grabbed her from behind and Number Four allowed him to lift her as she screamed for help. No one came and she let her body go limp, the second assailant made to carry her and turned. Number four knew that he would be off balance as he turned and pushed into his turn and fell to the snow. Without another thought she began to run for the nearest building.

         The first assailant, enraged by her earlier defenses tackled her from behind and both landed with a muffled thud into the snow twenty feet from the door to the common gymnasium. He turned her over and held her fast. No resistance from her as she waited for his next move. Too late, she realized he was waiting for the second man. Quickly, she thrust her hips up into him at the same time as throwing her hands as far from her head as possible. Knocking him to one side as his balance was overthrown, she twisted on top of him, stomped on his ankle and turned to run. Not before she felt an electric jolt take over her body and Number Four was powerless as she fell to the snow. Taser tentacles unwound themselves from her body into the remote box the second man held.  The last thing Number Four can remember before waking up in a cold metal cell was the first assailant walking over her know powerless body and kicking her cruelly in the ribs.

         Clank. Clank. Clank. Thoughts of Brett waking up early on Saturdays to tinker in the garage came to Number Four’s mind, except the soft warmness of their bed was absent. Struggling to open her eyes she felt rather than saw: biting metal dug into her wrists where handcuffs bound her to one of the bars in her cell door. She was wearing only the bikini from earlier and sat on cold cement floor, and shakily she tried to stretch her neck to see the rest of her cell. Cinderblock walls on each side and a canvas cot at the back wall next to a concrete wall. A bucket lay next to the cot and with the exception of herself that was all inside of the tiny cell. Number Four’s entire body hurt and she inspected her ribs where a blackish purple bruise reminded her of the attackers’ kick. She smiled as the thought that she might have broken his nose crossed her mind, and she vowed if she ever saw him again she would name him Ugly. For if she were to die the satisfaction of injurying and insulting him seemed right.

         Moving her hips at the soreness of her bottom on the cold floor she felt the two teeth marks of the tasers’ bite on her. That’s where the other man, the leader Number Four guessed, had set his weapon to use. Images of what she would like to do to him flooded her mind and overwhelmed her. Perhaps, if she ever saw him again she would have the contentment of using the taser on his ass.

         As the thought crossed her mind a giggle escaped her lips, and then a hysterical laugh. Number Four felt herself losing her sanity as an almost certainty of death shrouded her and once again darkness greeted her.

         A sting in her right arm awoke her this time. Opening her eyes she saw Ugly and the Ass Man over her, and Ugly smirked at her proudly. A hot tear tread its’ way down her cheek and she charged him, and the smirk left his face as he took a step backwards. The cuffs pulled her treacherously back to the cell door, and Number Four fell back. Ugly looked to Ass Man who nodded, and Ugly took a tentative step towards her.

         “You are Number Four,” Ugly said with a thick accent.

         Number Four’s eyes drooped and slurred, “And you are Ugly.”

         Ass Man stifled a laugh and said, “This is not a game.”

         “And you are Ass Man.” Number Four pointed to Ass Man, “I think I’ll call you Ass for short. So, I guess we have Ugly Ass.” Drugged Number Four pointed to the two.

         “You will die if you do not behave, Number Four,” Ass said. Number Four nodded, that made sense. She wasn’t sure if it was whatever they gave her or the shock of being kidnapped but, it clicked in her mind with a sense of ease. A prisoner misbehaving would be punished with death.

         At her nod the two men left her to her ruminations in the cold, dark cell. Number Four followed them as they walked down the aisle of cells. By her count she was the fourth one down from what looked like a security desk. Monitors, M16’s, and a guard looked back at her. Steeling herself back into the cell she looked for a camera inside the cell. Nothing, no cameras, which meant the monitors must be linked to cameras outside of the building or wherever they are. Then, with a sickening realization Number Four realized she was not the only woman being held by Ugly and Ass.

         Time passed either quickly or slowly, Number Four couldn’t tell which, as captive to Ugly and Ass. In the early morning hours Number Four could hear screams echoing off the walls from some far off room, and during the day she would see Ugly and some other man arbitrarily take a woman and beat her in front of everyone else. Number Four would cry out for them to stop, but they would not. Not until the woman was unconscious on the floor. Then Ugly would point down to her and to the next days’ victim. Mid morning was the most quiet and Number Four used the time to do push-ups or jog in place, for she was determined to survive. Home. She would make it home.

         In the afternoons she would go over Ugly’s moves on the victim of the day and run defensive moves in her head. Whenever the men walked down the hall it seemed to them Number Four was in a daze as there was no longer any fight in her, she just sat most of the day saying nothing. Eventually, they stopped coming into her cell to give her a dosage of sedatives. Little did they know that the war raged on inside of the head of prisoner Number Four.

         Number Four would repeat the words and phrases she heard the men use. No linguist she was at a loss for which language it was. During the daily beatings she stopped looking at the woman but instead at Ugly, taking in his features. High cheekbones, black hair, broad shoulders, and wide set eyes. Eastern European descent she guessed. The other men who helped with the beatings echoed the same heritage and considering she was taken from Alaska it seemed logical to conclude these men were from the Eastern Block.

         When the beatings were concluded she watched Ugly and whoever assisted him go to a closet door and pull parkas and boots from it then leave. Number Four also noted that each man carried a carving knife on their hips, and wondered if they were issued these by an employer.

         The next puzzle that occupied her mind was the purpose of taking women and holding them here in a prison. The sex slave industry, she knew, survived on mobility and quick turn-over. If she were to be sold she guessed that the drugs wouldn’t have stopped coming. Why allow prisoners alone time wherein she is not drugged or inured in some way? The purpose of her and her fellow prisoners presence evaded her.

         Number Four called this first period of time the First Allotment, as she had no other way to judge time. The First Allotment was ended suddenly one day as Ugly finished beating the woman of the day and pointed to her. A chill ran up her spine as apprehension built up in her chest. When the next day came she did not fight as Ugly and Ass, who she had not seen for some time, dragged her from her cell into the aisle for all to see. Ugly began to pound her and against every instinct in her body Number Four did not put up her hands to ward of the blows. Ugly would only become more enraged and the beating would last longer. As she felt blood squirt across her face she thought of Brett. Not the Brett of late, but the Brett who courted and wooed her.

         The Valentine’s Day he asked her on their first date to a restaurant where they make their own pizza. Brett ended up making a big mess trying to impress her by throwing the dough into the air, and have it rip and fly as two doughy frisbee’s in opposite directions. In the end a pre-made pizza is what they ate. Number Four remembered the end of that date. Brett walked her across the University campus toward her dorm and slyly looked at her and asked, “Can I hold your hand?” As Brett’s bigger hand brushed hers a jolt of electricity passed through her, and Number Four asked God how he could bless her.

         Ugly’s large fists bore down on her back and Number Four felt herself losing consciousness and almost sighed in relief. The assault would soon be over. Suddenly, the pounding fists stopped and Number Four looked to Ass who looked deep into her eyes. A special torture awaited her, and she resigned herself to her fate when Ugly took a fistful of her hair and dragged her down the aisle and through a hallway into a room with a garden hose.

         There Ugly and Ass, with the help of another man, stretched her on a table and bound her wrists and ankles. The men proceeded to water board her, and Number Four had never felt anything quite so horrible. At one moment needing to vomit, at another she thought she would drown, and always the image of her captors laughing at the struggle. Number Four fought to breathe.

         When they grew tired of it a bottle of vodka was produced and they began the same torture with it. Until Ugly said in heavy English, “What a waste of vodka.” A blunt of marijuana was lit and Number Four lay on the table as the men got stoned and drunk. 

         It seemed fitting to her that she was now called Number Four. Number Four of four children in her family, all girls, of course. Number Four girl Brett had ever slept with, and according to him the only one he ever wanted to for the rest of his life. Now, Number Four cell in Hell. She could scarcely remember being called anything else. Number Four had always been her name right? Her life with in the sunlight had been brief, like a wonderful dream best forgotten, and now Number Four was her past, present, and future. She was dead and there was nothing else worth surviving for, she would exercise in her cell no more.  The echoes of Ugly, Ass, and their troup of miscreants eventually died down and thus ended the First Allotment.

         The Second Allotment found  Number Four in the early morning being slapped awake, and then thrown back into cell number four. Then, instead of closing the cell door behind her Ass stood in the threshold as Ugly  grabbed someone from a neighboring cell. There was nothing else the men could do to her, she was a wraith in the vacuum of cold cement. Neither living or dead, but existing only to exist.

         Ugly emerged in the aisle with a little girl who had to be nine years of age. Number Four felt herself sink lower into the pit Ugly and Ass had created. What nightmare could man not condescend to create? Number Four was wrong, she had not died yet she was live until this very moment. This was a moment to change everything. Life is full of moments and what makes those moments so important the decisions we make in those moments. Number Four knew this moment was hers; to die attempting something foolish or live as a wraith in cell number four. Forever this moment would replay in her mind no matter the decision. Perhaps, this was the key to regaining what she had lost.

         In the aisle Ugly anticipated his fist connecting with the soft flesh of the little stolen girl. Instead of following the movement from the corner of his eye, Ugly was completely focused on the prize before him. Refusing to glance up as a figure drew nearer to him he drew his arm back for maximum power. These were his mistakes.

         In an instant Number Four made the decision to do something foolish and bolted for the cell door. Ass stood in the way, not caring to concede any attention to him Number Four pushed a savage kick into his groin and pulled the knife from his hip and stabbed his neck. Without the heavy realization of death weighing on her mind, Number Four made for Ugly and aimed the knife, still slick with Ass’ blood, at his midsection.

         Ugly, poised to strike never realized the last image he would ever see was a crouched stolen girl on the floor. He exhaled involuntarily as he slumped to his knees, confusion blurred his vision. Number Four stalked over to him and pulled the knife from his gut and intended to stab him again but, he quickly sprawled towards the desk at the end of the aisle where the M16s hung. Grabbing the small girl, Number Four threw her into her own abandoned cell and charged Ugly. He grabbed a weapon and ran through an exit into the snow. Clothed only in a bikini Number Four looked around and was horrified by what she took in. A long aisle of at least thirty cells each with a female inhabitant. Quickly, she made another decision. If she was to die then let it be so.

         Number Four looked at each monitor and saw men scrambling towards Ugly and him furiously giving orders. Underneath the monitors were a series of buttons. Uncertain she pushed each one and was rewarded with women coming out of their cells one by one. They too were clothed only in their under things, and she pointed towards a door with Parkas in it. Nodding an older woman, who looked related to their captors, she said a strange word and the women followed.

         Number Four was thrown a parka and boots by the woman, and she said something. Number Four didn’t understand but thought it was a question. She pointed to the monitor showing the men scrambling for what she guessed was their building. The woman nodded and said in broken English, “go to car?” and pointed to a monitor where a large covered truck was parked. Number Four smiled and motioned for each woman to grab a weapon, praying they would make it to the large truck.

         Together more than thirty women and small girls made for the parked truck, and coughed as the frozen air reached their lungs. Number Four, remembering the hazy yells of her Army trainers of a life long passed, would at every few minutes look around to make sure it was safe. Soon, like a monstrous beacon the truck was in sight. Number Four wondered if the men had set a trap and yelled as loud as she could, “STOP!”

         Confused the women and girls looked back at her and froze. To the woman, who had become her partner of sorts, she motioned to lay down. Some of the women understood and quickly dropped to their bellies. The others imitated the motion as Number Four crawled to the front and seeing Ugly advanced further only to be blown back by an explosion.  Screams tore through the air as the roar of the fire deafened Number Four. She scrambled up but couldn’t quite get her bearings. Glancing around she saw some of the girls running back towards the building where their cells where. The irony of the situation was not lost on Number Four, the illusion that they would be safe in their cells and at the hands of Ugly and his minions. She yelled in her native tongue, “Don’t go back! We can get free!”

         In a devils’ haze Number Four watched the running girls be gunned down by men hidden behind snow mounds and building corners. Their victory was also their defeat and Number Four shot bullets at their position. A sort of sick satisfaction was had when the bullets met the intended targets.

         “Follow me to the truck!” Number Four called to anyone that would listen. The woman with broken English had survived the onslaught, and came to her. Behind her trailed a handful of women and girls. Together they made it to the truck. Quickly, she helped them into the back and motioned to her partner to drive.

         Going around to the passenger seat Number Four took one last look around to make sure no one would shoot out the tires. Number Four felt like crying as she saw Ugly striding towards her weapon aimed. Without hesitation he fired on her, and she felt a force as strong as what she imagined to be lightning pull through her. Behind her the truck was idling and no other thought but being free crossed her mind. Brett’s indifferent face as she left for Alaska, Ass’ smile when Ugly pulled the little stolen girl for a beating, and her own lost place in a family all simultaneously were in her mind. And with what she imagined to be her last breath she aimed her M16 at Ugly’s broken face and squeezed the trigger. Together Ugly and Number Four fell, the only difference was Ugly’s gray matter soiled the pure whiteness of the snow.

         Her descent from civilization, or what passed as civilization, had somehow elevated her to the most elemental human. Number Four was not encumbered by human versions of gender, money, power, hate, or love. Recounting her journey to this moment she realized she was no longer Number Four: fourth daughter, fourth lover, or fourth prisoner. She had earned her self, and while she may not get to live she could greet Death as a friend and confidante.

         It seemed to Number Four that everything ended much as it began, with bloodshed, wailing, and some smiling. Here, at the end of all things for her, everything seemed illuminated as if her spirit had already left her body and was somehow transcending all humanly things. Off somewhere she heard a truck door open and wailing. Her unofficial partner was screaming and there was blood on her hands. Closing her eyes Number Four opened them again and found herself inside the truck at the passenger seat. Someone had tied a tight knot of cloth around her shoulder where she was wounded, and the driver thrust a vodka bottle towards her.

“No worry, I fill with snow,” she said and asked, “What are you called?”

“Erin,” she answered taking the snow filled bottle and drinking.

“You save many lives.”

“No, mine was saved.” Erin answered. She was distinct and would ever be her own person now.

“I’m Eukatarina,” the driver offered as Erin passed her the snow filled bottle.

“You are Russian?” Erin asked.

“Yes, we are in Siberia. I take us to American Embassy you go home.”

“Thank you.” Erin said

“You have a man?” Eukatarina asked eyeing Erin.

“I think so,” Erin asked, “I mean I did. I don’t think he wants me anymore.” A shudder rocked Erin and she gasped at the pain.

“Stay with me,” Eukatarina pleaded, “tell me why a man not want you anymore.”

“He doesn’t love me anymore. I doubt he has even realized I am missing,” Erin said closing her eyes at the dizzy assault on her head.

“Why you say such things? You are hero, and he would be a fool not to love you.”

“You are kind. Thank you,” Erin said and put her hand on Eukatarina’s, “I have lived a life of no import. Not really living.” She paused to take in a labored breath and could feel life draining from her body. She smiled and said, “but at least I am dying a death worth living.”



         In the end ten women and four girls made it to the American Embassy in that truck. All suffered from either frost bite or hypothermia, and one from a gunshot wound to the shoulder. Eukatarina, an accountant and driver of the truck, had tried to keep the woman from loss of fluids by feeding her snow and jerky. By the time the American doctors got to her they battled loss of fluids, hypothermia, as well as lead poisoning. Eukatarina notified them she was an American and had saved them all, and the press descended upon the woman only known as Erin. When a little girl, Anya, recounted for the world Erin’s heroic rescue book publishers hounded the embassy for the story.  A husband, Brett, made it to Moscow where Erin was eventually taken and refused to comment.

         A public outcry for human trafficking was intensified and around the world new laws were passed with harsher punishments. When Erin died a global vigil was held in most major cities and the United States President personally visited Brett to offer his condolences. Before Erin died she laughed at the world’s attempt to fight what she knew would never end. She merely looked over to Brett, whom she regarded as an old friend rather than lover, and said, “Inside each of us is a war. Without knowing the answer to that war we cannot hope to win this one.”