It was a freezing cold Monday afternoon just after Christmas when they caught me. It had been snowing non-stop for three days and the East Village was almost deserted. I didn’t see a thing. One minute I was scurrying home through the blizzard to my wife and kids, the next I had a gun in my ribs and there was a strange, muffled voice telling me to get into the white van that was parked nearby. Terrified, I clambered in and a small, wiry figure in a black balaclava and black bodysuit sprayed something into my face. That was the last thing I remembered for a long time.
When I woke up I was a prisoner. They’d taken my thick overcoat but I was still wearing the same dark, pinstripe suit that I always wore to the office. My hands were cuffed behind my back, I was wearing a blindfold and my head was incredibly sore. It was hot. There was a primitive fan revolving slowly above my head and I could hear insects buzzing and clicking all around me. God knows where I was but it certainly wasn’t New York.
“This one’s awake,” the voice was harsh but feminine. “What shall we do with him?”
“Take him to Shakra,” another, deeper, but equally feminine voice demanded, “she’ll decide whether we should keep him or not.”
They hauled me to my feet and pushed me out into the open air where I could feel a hot sun blazing down on me. The blindfold was suddenly ripped away and I blinked in near terror at the sudden burst of light. When my eyes finally became adjusted I could see that I was in some kind of rough village made up of dozens of large, wooden huts. My captors were all women, dressed in skimpy, animal-skin loin-cloths, with a thin strip of cloth tied over their breasts. They had smooth, cocoa coloured skin and almost oriental features.
Two of them grabbed me by each elbow and dragged me along a wide path through the huts, my Patrick Cox loafers kicking up dust as we went. At the doorway of the largest hut one of them rapped her knuckles against the frame.
“Enter,” ... Læs hele novellen
