Free Condemned to Slavery by Bruce McLachlan Page B

you’re scared I’ll rob you of your week’s wages are you? Afraid to face the great card shark?” he grinned, tossing another chip onto the poker pot.
    “Scared? Of your inept talents? Luck is the only thing on your side, and from the size of those winnings, you can’t have that much left,” she laughed, indicating his sizable reserve.
    “Oh, a challenge.”
    “First I’ll put this wretch away, and then I’ll destroy you. By this evening I’ll own you,” she snorted.
    “You wouldn’t know what to do with a real man even if you had one,” retorted the man, grabbing his own crotch in a crass display.
    “You? A real man? You aren’t fit to kiss my boots,” derided the guard.
    “In your dreams, Vesson, in your dreams. I’ll leave you to your unattainable fantasies, so you might as well take the new prisoner below,” he dismissed with a casual wave.
    “I don’t see any need to rush, she’ll not last five minutes. You know how feeble these foreigners are,” the woman mumbled, wandering onwards as the interior gate was opened.
    The last gate was opened and the guards dragged her into a towering hall. The expanse of the circular chamber rose up to the height of the building, the five stories rimmed with a wide balcony and sealed in by a sturdy fence that ran from each floor to the next. Through the tiny gaps she could see barred doors, the cells whirling around to pack every level. A spiral staircase rose at a low gradient to access each story, the steps fenced in and devoid of handrail. The skylight directly above was choked by a metal mesh, the sunlight that managed to pierce the dirty, filth-encrusted pane being stained and dissipated, barely augmenting the paltry lights that rolled along outside the fence, placing them beyond the reach of the prisoner’s within the caged balconies.
    The smell of compressed bodies was cloying, the hot stink of sweat and pressed flesh, the aroma mixed with the pungent reek of mold and rot, of stagnant air and filth. To be confined in such appalling conditions, with nothing save the sadistic guards to sustain her life was a ghastly concept. How had she come to this foul end?
    There were no telephone cables entering this complex, so she had no means to contact anyone. She was here until the Secret Police drew her out. Would they even remember her? If she slipped through the gaps of their chaotic bureaucracy, she might end up spending her life sealed amidst this decaying squalor.
    Having regained some lost vitality she managed to stumble up the steps rather than be dragged, and after ascending to the third floor a nearby cell door was unlocked and she was freed of shackles before being cast rudely in, the portal slamming back into secure place in her wake.
    Hauling her weary form upright, she found herself in a small cell, the space almost entirely taken up by a bunk bed that lacked a mattress, leaving only a hard wooden slat and a coarse blanket. There was no window, and the only added furnishings were a slop bucket and a pale of water below a rust flecked tap. But there was an error here, for two women already occupied the cell - laid upon their bunks, naked save for their collars. Both originated from this country or at least one near to it, their tanned skin and sable hair clearly identifying their nationality.
    One was perhaps in her mid- twenties, her short locks hanging about a slender face and wiry body, while the second was slightly older and more powerful in build, her hair cropped short, her face rigid and sour in expression.
    The women stirred from their rest and looked up, regarding her without interest. She was lost for a response. What could she say? Did they even speak English? As she stammered her first words, trying to fumble for something to say and start conversation, the slender female interrupted her.
    “No espera tu que dormiras en una cama, extranjera.”
    “Wh…what?” Lydia frowned, her fingers tracing her collar.
    The woman rolled her eyes and