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That and well… she doesn’t particularly care for the term “hostage.” Obviously, this is more than that. If anyone has been the captive in this whole ordeal, it’s me. Could be, too, that she’s thinking about her children. They’ll be fine. I did my best to assure her. They’re old enough to make their own food, tie their own shoes. They have a spare parent. Not everyone is so lucky, I said. Not everyone gets to have two.
She didn’t seem comforted by this, but then, she’s always had a bit of a poker face.
Maybe the two of us are more alike than we are different.
Originally, my plan was to take us down over the Pacific.
A suicide mission with an unwilling and unsuspecting victim.
But the better I feel, the more the pills kick in and work their magic, the more I see the possibility in a shitty situation. It makes me think I’m not yet ready for this fantasy to end.
Chapter Twenty-Seven
Charlotte
I wake with a headache that feels like my head has been split in two. Right away, I notice several things at once: it is dark, my breathing is labored and shallow, and in a terrible twist of irony, I am folded in an impossible position and wedged into a very small space. Am I moving? My vision is hazy, my eyes open and close rapidly, out of instinct, to gain a semblance of balance, recognition of anything I can use as information. Knowledge is power, and I know this from SERE training: Survival, Evasion, Resistance, Escape. In this situation, every bit of information counts.
What I know is I am in a moving vehicle. Ripped vinyl tears at my back, a sensation made worse with each bump and groove in the road. My hands are still tied behind my back, just as they had been on the plane. My ankles are bound by duct tape and my legs are decidedly very heavy.
Flexing my feet back and forth, I wiggle my toes, trying to get blood flowing. Any attempt at an escape is going to require running. Having the use of my legs is not optional. It is imperative.
My first instinct is to fight. It’s a battle between what my brain and my body is telling me to do. That’s what you do when your worst nightmare is playing out in front of you. It takes everything in me to metaphorically step back and evaluate the situation. For the most part, this is an involuntary response, perfected over millenniums, a flood of chemicals that contribute to the flight or fight mechanism hardwired into our brains. My training reinforced that, teaching me how to override it.
Taking a deep breath in, I hold it. Then let it out. I repeat the process over and over until I’m lightheaded but almost calm. I remind myself that h
alf the battle is in waiting for a time to escape that maximizes my chance of being successful. Most captives do not get the chance to escape twice.
My nervous system will assist me, I know from SERE, but overriding my sense of fear is critical. It will be a hindrance. Physical skills will be worthless if I’m so frozen or paralyzed by the psychological and mental aspects of events going on around me that I am helpless.
As my breathing steadies, I think back on what I know about escape. Awareness and attitude are at their peak for the first 24-72 hours. Before captors have introduced any sort of routine. This is, of course, if they plan to keep you alive. Fact is, most of the time they don’t.
I have to use this initial time to my advantage. In any abduction, the best chance of escape happens while your captors are on the move and during that initial two to three days.
I tell myself this, force myself to think about these things, but all of this knowledge, this training, means nothing now. Not until it happens can you really know what to do and how to act. Until the training is put into action, it’s just information. And what they don’t tell you, what you can’t know, is how the fear settles deep in your bones, embedding itself in every fiber of your being. This has always been the worst of all my fears, being detained and tortured until I’m ultimately killed. I’d been careful to avoid it. I followed the rules in terms of becoming invisible. I’ve kept my head down. I changed my appearance, I took what I thought were calculated risks. And still, my worst nightmare has found me. I can hear my father’s voice in my head, asking me, “What now?”
I drift in and out of sleep. The truck rocks along slowly. I am slung haphazardly over the seat in the small cab. I know I have been drugged. My head swims and bounces across the worn vinyl seat heavily. I don’t think I could lift it if I tried.
Several times I turn my head to the side and vomit, the side of my face moist, my throat and neck covered in it.
I think I hear music on the radio, gravel crunching under the tires, as they move along the road. Sometimes there’s a sharp buzzing sound, and other times, it’s Henry’s voice I hear. As my eyes flutter, open and closed, I see him there, sitting next to me, even though I know this is impossible. Henry is dead. But when I drift, it feels real, the warmth of his lap and my head resting against his thigh. Occasionally, he leans down and whispers something in my ear. He rattles the information off in Henry’s way. He does not try to comfort me, he only lists the instructions off methodically, and while I know it is a dream, that it isn’t real, somewhere deep in the pit of me a sob escapes. I want to believe.
Keep your attitude strong internally, but, Liv, whatever you do, do not show this to your captor. Instead, show physical signs of surrender or submission. Remember: it’s all an act. Head down, shoulders hunched forward, walk in a shuffle, acquiring a slight limp or feigning injury, illness, or weakness. Speak low and softly. Address your captors with a conveyed fear and respect. Cry. Act as though you’ve given up. This is how you give yourself some advantage.
Role play your weaknesses. Develop a fictional “story” for yourself around it. This will not only help you stay in character, it will give you a fake “breaking point” (a point where you break down and pretend to be emotionally destroyed, as though you’ve completely given up), if you are being tortured or hurt for information or amusement by your captors. Think about your family, think about them being in your position, imagine witnessing something so horrible happening to your children that you can’t get over it. Whatever it takes, do it. It’s your only shot at survival.
And remember all the things we went over. Force yourself to recall your training, our hours upon hours in the air, discussing cases like what you are facing.
You are an attractive woman, Olivia. You must work to make yourself less attractive. Use dirt and filth, fake your period, illness, change your posture, and set your face with an uninviting scowl. But make sure you understand your captor first. You do not want to end up as a throwaway captive, if you could have used your sexuality to your advantage.
You need to buy yourself enough time and opportunity to escape, and in the meantime, you need to do whatever it takes to survive and remain healthy up to that point. The sooner that opportunity comes, the better your chance of survival, if you do manage an escape.
Try not to stand out in any way. Playing a weak and submissive person affords you the element of surprise if you do have to overcome your captors. It makes you less of a threat. They will grow lax; they will not watch you as closely.
Most binds can be fairly easily removed and worn down with any rough edge or friction. Getting out of restraints is not as difficult as it will seem. Most material stretches.
But most importantly, don’t forget to remain aware. Mimic the way a cat steps outside. Stop and smell the air, listen and watch. Slowly transition. Not only will this provide you information about your surroundings, it will make you seem weak and fearful.
The next time I wake, large hands dig into my underarms while my legs, outstretched, flop along haphazardly. I am being dragged across a hard floor, assumingly toward the running water I hear. Or maybe that’s just my mind playing tricks. The pounding in my head drums incessantly, making it difficult to tell what is real. I don’t want to open my eyes to find out.
