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But she couldn’t remember the last time she ate, really—maybe on the plane—and this morning, when the guard had walked down the containers, running some stick along the edges to rattle everyone awake, Shae had woken, and her stomach had come alive with a vengeance.
Call it denial, maybe, but somehow she’d slept right through the arrival of the other prisoners, and even all night, in the chilly container. As she’d gotten up, nausea had swept over her, and she’d swayed, grabbing the wall of the container just as the massive metal door slid open.
She stuck her head out into the opening and spotted outside her cell a wool jacket and a fur hat. Thoughtful. Other prisoners—both men and women—emerged from their containers. Maybe fifty in total, all of them wearing the same faded coveralls, many holding their jackets and hats, all with numbers on their chests, unwashed jumpsuits, grimy hair, weary eyes.
Despair.
And maybe anger.
Or perhaps that was simply the look of survival.
She glanced up at the woman across from her. Rail thin, with stringy black hair, tattoos up her neck and on her hands, the woman stared at Shae without an expression.
The man next to her was also staring at Shae when she looked over at him. Big man, bald head, black eyes, still muscled despite a disheveled beard. He, too, wore tats, including one on the center of his forehead.
She had wrapped her arms around herself, following as a male Russian guard gestured them up the stairs.
The frigid wind off the ocean nearly knocked her over, but the sunlight from a cloudless day poured into her bones. She followed the crowd to a large building on the deck attached to the soaring superstructure and discovered a cafeteria. Metal tables were bolted to the floor, and at a stainless serving line, fellow prisoners served up the bacon, raw noodles, and bread.
She took her bowl, and someone dropped the bacon inside. Another plunked the bread right into the noodles.
Her stomach roared. She picked up a glass cup of tea and found it scorched her fingers, so she carried it by the rim and looked to sit down.
Felt like first grade, but she didn’t want trouble, so she found a seat alone.
And that’s when nasty Twenty-Eight sat down beside her.
The dark-haired woman from across the corridor. She looked at Shae, then simply reached over, grabbed her bacon, and held it above her mouth, letting it dribble in.
Shae had nothing. Not that she wanted the bacon—hello, trichinosis—but—
The woman reached for her bread.
“Hey,” Shae said and grabbed for it.
Twenty-Eight pulled it away, grinned. Said something in Russian. Maybe it was nasty, maybe not, but it got a snort from a guy who’d sat down across from them. Lean face, the bones protruding, dark-brown eyes, he shoveled the noodles into his mouth with Olympic speed.
“Give that back,” she said to Twenty-Eight and leaned for the bread.
Twenty-Eight jabbed her in the ribs, and she jerked back, gasping.
Then Twenty-Eight turned and handed off the bread to a guy behind her. Oh, big Twenty-Seven.
Shae picked up her bowl.
“D’vai,” said Twenty-Eight.
Nope. Shae shook her head.
“D’vai!” Not a shout, but a growl, something of menace in her voice, and a tremor went through Shae.
She didn’t want to die in a Siberian gulag ship.
Her breath cut short, and she was about to push the bowl toward Twenty-Eight when a hand pressed on her shoulder.
And then, as if cowed, or shaken, Twenty-Eight simply shut her mouth, got up, and moved away from Shae.
What?
