Unborn lives
'Why are they doing this? We didn't do anything wrong!'
You agree, but you wish the woman would shut up. Also, her breath reeks of stale cigarettes, which you should be used to, but it sickens you more than the fetid air wafting in through the tiny holes dotting the darkness.
All you know is that you're in a forest somewhere, lying facedown in a box. There are no animal noises, only the occasional chanting from the unseen masses outside, and the frequent yammering of the stranger beside you, whose name you asked a little while ago, and whose response was: 'What does a name matter at a time like this?'
How you got here is a mystery. You can't remember what you were doing at the time of your kidnapping, but you can remember everything else: you were born in Melbourne, Australia; you have a wife and two kids; and you work at a computer software company — although you now feel as though you haven't really lived your life, merely viewed it like a movie on fast-forward.
With a jolt, the box starts to move; a gradual ascent, like a roller coaster beginning its climb to the top of the rise.
The woman screams once, loud and piercing. 'OhmyGodwhat'shappening?'
You hear her trying to break free, but you know that's not possible. The box doesn't allow for much movement.
The woman soon gives up trying. She goes back to sobbing and uttering familiar phrases such as: 'Why are they doing this?' and, 'I haven't done anything wrong.' But this time she adds, '...have I?'
Is this punishment? you wonder.
But you haven't done anything wrong, either.
Nothing you can remember, anyway.
And then a strange voice says:
You won't do anything wrong. Not now.
You look out the nearest hole; see the forest moving by slowly and then you glimpse dark figures below.
There's about fifty, all wearing dark clothing, and chanting. You can't see their faces and although their voices are many and echo through the dense forest, you can't understand what they're saying.
The woman sobs: 'I have a husband. I'm only thirty-eight. I haven't even lived. Christ I need a smoke.'
She's the same age as you, and this fact scares you, though you're not sure why, and like her, you too ache for a cigarette.
The compartment becomes hotter and as the