Prep For Doom Page 2

  Then, Dede's hand brushed against her school sweater. In her pocket, she felt the wrappers of the surprise chocolate. She had forgotten all about the treats. “Oh, no. They've melted,” she mourned. Hunger demanded she eat the spoiled candies anyway. It was odd though, how in moments of crisis, it was the little things that made her sad.

  Next to her, Ato was miserable. She was hot and whiny. Once the tears ran out, Ato cried to herself in a low, keening sound. “Ato, hush.” The noise she made was loud enough that one of the armed men stood up in the front and glared at her. Taking two fingers, he pantomimed that his hand was a pistol. With it, he shot them both in the head with imaginary bullets. Dede shrunk down in her seat, pulling her weepy friend with her. Silence was demanded. Life meant that little.

  Dede shared one candy bar with little Ato. Hungry as she was, Dede tossed the other bar to Yaa. Her friends smiled for the first time in a day, even Afua. Eagerly, the four girls licked all the melted chocolate off the inside. For a while afterward, Dede made a tiny paper plane with the wrapper.

  The long hours of the bus ride were not pleasant, especially once the sun rose again. Mosquitos were everywhere, feasting on the frightened girls. Dede didn’t know if it was the heat, her hunger, or the buzzing insects, but her head ached. More pain than she had ever felt, the feeling spiraled through her, landing in her stomach. She felt queasy, even though they had been given no food. The urge to vomit surged. Finally, the men passed around six bottles of water. All the students shared, careful not to spill any of the precious liquid. The last bottle was nearly empty by the time Dede and Ato touched it. Quickly, they sipped the remaining liquid, grateful to have even a drop.

  A couple more hours passed before the brakes squealed. Up front, the thick, black, rubber doors opened. The guards laughed, bragging, “We have returned. We did it!” The black-masked men were all happy, congratulating each other. Two bounded off the bus. Dede wanted to run.

  Gesturing with their guns, the leader said, “Get off now. You. Off!”

  One by one, the girls crept past his leonine gaze and into the open air. Dede hugged Ato tightly, though her muscles ached with every movement. “My friend,” she whispered, “always.” Ato took a deep breath, closed her eyes, and stopped her crying. Clasping hands, they were lined up with the other girls and marched into a nearby building. Dede and Ato held each other tight as they struggled to keep their balance.

  Above the door, the sign read “Arwa's Farmers Marketplace.”

  Dede nudged Ato. “It's a market, Ato! Maybe we will get some food, little bird.” She whispered to the smaller girl, who looked sickly. Even the thought of food made Dede's stomach churn and squeeze tight, a tortoise withdrawn deep in its shell. Her mouth watered despite the nausea.

  All the fingers are not the same. Each has its own purpose. I must do what I can with the opportunity I am given. Dede kept that thought close to her heart as the girls stumbled into a red clay courtyard. Three unfamiliar men pushed the group of captive girls forward until they formed two lines.

  “Welcome to the marketplace!” one very loud man yelled, quieting everyone. He did not speak to the girls. He addressed the crowd, “We welcome you, true believers in a United Nigeria. We are the mighty hand that punishes wrongs. We will push the West out of Nigeria!” Loud applause and echoing followed his words. “We are Wayo Wahala! We are the fighters of the true nation! We sell the women of the Gold and Black Stars. You must show them the true path. I will sell them here in the market. We will fight for our freedom with this money!”

  A huge crowd was gathered in the courtyard. A crowd of thousands of strange, armed, menacing fighters. They looked at the dirty, exhausted, and frightened girls with the eyes of acquisition. In numb shock, Dede listened to the announcer's words.

  And then the bidding began.

  It was over quickly. Unbelievably, Dede was purchased for 2200 naira or fourteen U.S. dollars. Ato was smaller and had red, tear-streaked cheeks so she was cheaper. Each of Dede's friends sold for twelve dollars. They were sold for less than the price of a pair of jeans. Dede couldn't believe it. Rough hands grabbed the girls, pulling Dede away from the last bit of home she had. Almost immediately, her three lifelong friends were taken away in different directions, scattered among the gigantic crowd, lost to each other.

  Dede felt very hot, like the sun had exploded inside of her. In rage, she screamed out their names, “Afua! Yaa! At—” A heavy hand slapped her face, knocking her to the ground. Two hard kicks to her side and Dede fell silent as blood from her nose bloomed across the sand.

  Her head ached so much. Her heart was broken. Dede was completely alone. Hard fingers pulled her upright and poked her forward into a waiting, rusty Jeep. It felt like each place the man touched her immediately bruised. Some food would probably help, but the melted chocolate was all she had had for more than twenty four hours. Dizzy, Dede didn't understand most of what happened around her. Afua, Yaa, and Ato were gone.

  A voice growled behind her, demanding obedience, “Sit! Girl, you are nothing but a slave. A woman's place is at the feet of a man, serving him. You will obey me. There is no question, you will. You are a Black Star mona monkey. You are Anto—no one. Nothing of value.”

  Dede's legs collapsed.

  Slumped against the vehicle, it was hard to think. A few duffel bags landed near her. “Worthless woman,” the gruff voice snickered. “Pick those up and pack them in the back, next to the water, Anto. You can drink one bottle only.”

  Struggling to rise, Dede bit her lip.

  Why am I so dizzy? she wondered as she grabbed the bags and dragged them to the open trunk. The sight of the case of water made her want to cry. I am so thirsty, she thought. Desire made her rip a hole in the plastic. “W—water.” Her lips moved over the word like a prayer. Opening the bottle, the kidnapped girl sipped when she wanted to gulp. Dede cried when she wanted to scream. Everything was upside down.

  Overhead, the merciless heat of the harmattan sun beat down on her short hair. A black scarf was thrown at her. Putting it on was the real death, she knew that. It was their hair covering, the Wayo Wahala. Wearing it meant giving in. But there was no point in fighting. There was nowhere to run. Not when her life was worth so little to these people. Death, rape, or slavery? Was one better than the other? Placing the headdress of a slave over her hair, Dede was lost.

  Standing in the exact same spot that Dede had been sold, the man in the red shirt yelled, “Hallo?”

  Then he shot his gun into the air to grab the crowd's attention. “Hallo. Listen! We brothers of Wayo Wahala, we demand to be heard.” Another man aimed a camera at the speaker, recording his words. “I am using this opportunity to send this message to the African King in Nigeria and the rest of the rulers in the Western world. We are ready to fight. We will use these girls, these children, as a shield if your armies come against us.

  “We are determined. We will be victorious. Our goal is the freedom of the African man. Down with the arrogance of the West. Down with their colonies! Down with the rich, fat lions who rule on the sand thrones! No one has freed the stupid girls from Chibok. No one has freed the girls of Bawku, Ghana. No one can. Our path is great! Victory is ours!”

  Dede wanted to cry. Her family would hear this mad man. His evil words would break their hearts. I am a slave. Dede couldn't bear the idea. A fit of coughing overcame her for a moment. She wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. The loss her family would feel when the news reached them, it would be a deep, cutting, unending pain. She would never see them again.

  As the victorious man shouted on his arrogant message, Dede felt unusually sick. She ran to the corner and vomited up bile even though her stomach was empty. Even from where she stood, the girl could not escape the words that rolled across the crowd:

  “So don't worry, all parents of Bawku and Chibok girls. Your children will convert to our cause or they will be strapped with the bombs of victory and we will return them home to you. More than two hundred g
irls have joined us in the last few days. Our way is just. I am Atta Djidi. I tell you this: We will win!”

  The crowd roared its approval, guns firing randomly into the air.

  Suddenly, somewhere from within the Arwa market, a loud commotion erupted.

  It seemed like a thousand voices started shouting all at once. Men poured out of the shaded hall, running past Dede in the courtyard. She heard cries of confusion, panicked cries of plague, sickness, and fear. She heard all the words but didn't understand. Until someone said the word 'Bawku.'

  Two men pointed at her and ran up. With great effort, Dede stood tall, matching their stares and examination until one of them slapped her cheek, knocking her to the ground. “Stop that!” he ordered. Rudeness would be punished. Pride had no place in a slave.

  Dede silently vowed then and there to fight the river of hate that had swept her friends and family away. I will never be an engineer, she thought, That was stolen from me. But my mother would never allow her daughter to walk in shame. Honor is not in the things that are done to me, but in what I do. Pride? That was the least of her problems.

  “You are from Bawku? Yes?” a man older than her father yelled at her. His remaining teeth were yellow and ground down. Blackheads were scattered like crumbs across his nose. Bits of bread and sauce marked his chin. “The bus, the girls, all from Bawku?” he insisted.

  Dede nodded. “Yes,” she said slowly, not understanding.

  A flash of fear rode across the strangers' faces. Dede looked at the men, her cheeks red from each time they had hit her. “Why? What has happened in Bawku?”

  No one answered.

  Their leader, the man in the red shirt approached, looked her in the face, turning her head side to side. “She is fine. She is good,” he finally said with certainty. “There is no need to worry. Our friends have struck the fat lions of Bawku down. We have stolen the last of the worthy. The girls can join Wayo Wahala or die.”

  Turning away from Dede Afi, he walked to the middle of the courtyard where everyone could hear him. With great solemnity, he talked to the upset crowd. “Calm down. It is nothing for us to fear. Our rebellion is heard. Our friends have destroyed Bawku. We took the only innocent children with us. We will raise them correctly. Wayo Wahala will show the world the true path!”

  Across the courtyard, Dede saw Afua huddled near a group of men. She spotted little Ato and dear Yaa as well. The three girls whom she had played with and loved her whole life, her best friends, were still in this place. For this little moment, I am with my friends! She comforted herself. And this moment is all I have. Standing submissively by the man who had purchased her life and blood, Dede was filled with a strange hope.

  Dede worried about her family. She wondered what happened to her home, to Bawku. Sneaking closer to the groups of men, finally she heard the truth.

  “Bodies everywhere, they said.”

  “Streets full of dead. Only a handful left alive!” More urgent whispers, bits of knowledge, and gossip floating on their words.

  “Distance will protect us. The town of Bawku was Black Star only.”

  “They paid the price.”

  “Stronger men would not have died.”

  Dede's heart trembled. Dead. All dead. The captive girl tried to understand the words. How can this be? In my home town? In Bawku? What happened? Tears rolled down her cheeks, salty and warm. Why? Momma? Nan? Mansu? And Da? Dede had trouble breathing. She became delirious with grief.

  To the west, the sun began to set. Sometime later, she thought, At least they will never know this sorrow, what has happened to me. For that mercy, I am glad.

  Her eyesight dimmed for a moment. She pushed her tears away on the back of her wrist. Over where Afua was standing, Dede saw her friend wipe her hand across her wan face. Yaa looked weak as well.

  Dede thought back across the terror of the last thirty six hours. Everything that happened that last morning at her home, every detail stood out. What had been different?

  Sweat broke across her forehead. “It is so hot,” she whispered. Coughing once into the horrible black scarf that marked the end of all of her dreams, Dede felt dizzy. A shooting pain went up her leg. Another muscle spasm gripped her side. “It is so hard to see,” Dede complained to the uncaring men. But she was nothing to them, less than a dog: she was a girl.

  After wiping the sweat and tears from her eyes, Dede saw blood smeared across her arm. Violent red drops marked her clothes. Not tears! I am not crying tears. A part of her knew, then. A part of her understood. She coughed into the black fabric, turning her scarf brilliant red.

  Dede blinked ten times to clear her vision. She watched her captured schoolmates. Standing as a witness to the awful mess of twisted politics, Dede felt only a deep and true love for her friends.

  For a brief moment, Dede's gaze took in the shining of the first stars, their light faintly glimmering. They were always there but only became visible as the sun fell into the vast ocean. The most beautiful things were always saved ‘til the end.

  Abruptly, all the militants in the Arwa market got out their knives and sat. They all faced the south, land of their oppressors. Their terrible machine guns laid next to their heads while the fanatics clapped their hands and chanted strange rituals. With fierce devotion or complete ignorance, the fighters performed their thanks, bowing down to the tear-soaked earth, bonding the Wayo Wahala terrorists together.

  Dede took three deep breaths, exhaling wide and far, and then she walked through the rows of celebrating men. She fought a terrible pain with every step. Her eyes were full of Yaa, full of little Ato standing against the far wall. Blood fell from her tear ducts. Liquid burst from her eardrums, trickling down her neck. Dede’s gaze stayed wide.

  When she reached the middle of the courtyard, Dede was surrounded by hundreds of militants in every direction. Their voices were raised in joy, devoted to their cause with every breath they took.

  Reaching in her pocket, her fingertips sought the comfort of her last bit of home, the chocolate wrapper. It crinkled in her sweating hand.

  Then Dede started coughing.

  Learn more about Caroline A. Gill

  Peter Franklin Donalds Headquarters – Four Months Later

  Michael stared at the white tile floor and ran his tongue along his top teeth as he shook his head. “You want me to get it, Mom?”

  Dr. Karen Phelan jiggled the key in the locked laboratory door and huffed. “That’s enough out of you.”

  He shrugged and adjusted his backpack as he rolled his eyes to the camera monitoring them from the ceiling. He raised a middle finger and ran it up and down the bridge of his nose, then blew a kiss to the security guards behind the lens. He smirked and leaned against the wall while contemplating his next hack that would send the fat bastards on another wild goose chase. His dirty blonde curls draped across his forehead and provided just enough camouflage for his scanning eyes.

  His mother bucked away from the door and handed the keys to her husband and Michael’s father, Dr. Steven Phelan. “Here. You do it.”

  Steven slipped the key in and pushed the door open without revealing his grin. “It helps if you use the right key, Karen.”

  She scowled and tugged on Michael’s shirt. “Inside…now.” Michael entered the same lab that once intrigued him but now bored the pants off him. His parents spent most of his life in this sterile, worthless room perfecting their social awkwardness and amounting to nothing more than aging biology students. His mother pressed her hand against his back and guided him through the lab, around the tables, and into the tiny office in the back that she shared with Steven. “Here we are, again, Michael.” She did that nostril flare thing that drove Michael nuts.

  He let his backpack drop to his mother’s office chair and muttered, “Home sweet home.”

  She put her hands on her hips. “Hey, this is all on you, pal.” She looked at Steven. “Think it’s safe to leave him in here?”

  His father waved her off. “PFD’s
security is way too sophisticated. He can’t hack it.”

  Michael clenched his jaw to prevent a smile from forming. He threw up his hands and sighed. “He’s right, Mom. I’ve tried. I can’t crack it.” He slammed himself into his father’s leather chair and kicked his feet up on the desk.

  She eyed him and chewed on her bottom lip. “Stay off the internet, Michael. I mean it. Get that English homework done before ten, or your laptop is mine. And put your feet down.” She stomped into the lab and powered up the computer systems.

  Steven sighed and looked at Michael. “You really screwed up this time, boy. You better listen to her today, because she’s mad enough to let them arrest you. Got it?”

  Michael shrugged and slid his feet off the desk. “It wasn’t that big of a deal.”

  “Hacking into the school grading system and altering final grades is a big deal, Michael. Again. It’s still a big deal. Just like it was at every other high school that’s expelled you in the last three years.” He sighed and rubbed his head as he hitched a thumb over his shoulder. “I gotta get in there. Just…keep it legal today, okay?”

  Michael sighed heavily and waved at his dad’s retreating back. He craned his neck and watched him walk to the coat rack, don his lab coat, and settle into his workstation just out of sight. Michael’s mouth twitched with the grin he’d suppressed as he slid around the desk and grabbed his backpack. One of the conditions his mother negotiated during his expulsion conference was that Michael would be given an opportunity to homeschool until they could make other arrangements. Once a week, Michael and Karen met with the principal, turned in his work, and retrieved his next week’s lesson plan. Michael wished he’d been kicked out of school years ago; this was cake. But, he had to look miserable to Karen, or she’d have him enrolled in a new school regardless of the nearing last day for summer break.