The hooded, single-bulb light swung back and forth slowly. The creak it made, as it hung from the chain, was the only sound in the dim room, other than a soft whimper or a periodic sniffing sound coming from the shadows. The light only lit the center of the room, a dirt-floored building that had seen much better days. Like a slow-moving pendulum, the light was pushed by the unseen fingers of the slight breeze, temporarily dispelling some shadows as it swayed.
The door in the center of the long wall banged open, bouncing back as it was thrust open with too much force.
Shuffling sounds come from the dark corners: a louder whimper, a voice whispering “hush.”
He steps into the circle of light. Tall and lean with shoulder-length hair tied back in a simple ponytail, he was an imposing figure, and all knew he was as strong – emotionally and physically – as he looked.
A short, full-bosomed woman with a pixie cut showing off the sharp angles of her face, stepped into the building behind him.
“43,” he said, his deep voice was confident and clear.
She nodded. Sliding past him into the room, she moved with fluid grace to the wall and flipped a switch. Harsh fluorescent lights flickered to life above, casting the room in a strong, sterile light. Illuminated along the walls are cages, some tall and narrow, some shorter and longer. In many of the cages are figures. Women: women standing, women lying down, women sitting. All cowering, all afraid.
They blink, almost in unison as the bright, harsh light floods the room with brightness. Pixie-cut reaches out to pull the hose from the wall-mount, giving it a good tug to pull free lots of hose. Turning the tap on, she pulls the hose over to a cage with a cowering figure in it. The number 43 is written in chalk on a black square of wood hanging from the front of the cage.
Pixie-cut squeezes the hose nozzle, spraying forth a stream of cold water. Number 43 shrieks and scampers back against the far wall of her cage in a vain attempt to escape the fiercely cold water. Pixie-cut is unrelenting, hosing the woman from top to bottom, then moving to the side to aim the jet of water toward number 43’s back.
Blank stares from the other cages, each occupant secretly glad her number wasn’t called. Each also well aware of what could, or would, happen next. Almost as if sensing this thought, Pixie-cut turns off the water, drops the hose, and pulls from her back pocket a leash. Unlocking the front of the cage, she snaps her fingers, and 43 reluctantly, and shivering from head to toe, moves slowly forward. Pixie-cut snaps the leash onto 43’s collar and pulls her out of the cage.
He’s watching all of this, eyes only on 43. 43 struggles to stand once free of her cage, reaching out to catch herself as her unsteady legs wobble from unaccustomed motion. He narrows his eyes at this show of weakness and steps forward to take the leash from Pixie-cut.
Pixie-cut turns off the overhead light, and closes the door behind her as she follows him out of the building, with 43 following submissively behind.
The swinging of the single light slows as the door is closed. The drafty room is once again cast in shadows, obscuring the dozen or so faces of the women in cages as they huddle for meager warmth.