In The Wreckage: A Tale of Two Brothers by Simon J. Townley

smacked Jonah in the back with a stick.  
    They walked all day and slept in a concrete building. The next day they walked again, and the next. Endless hours of it. Conall’s legs and back screamed with pain and fatigue. There was nothing to do but endure. No complaining would help, no pleas for mercy. They headed south-east, away from the sea, inland through dense conifer woods, past fields freshly ploughed, some already planted with young crops. They passed through small towns and villages, children running from the houses to point and stare until dragged inside by parents who refused to look the slaves in the eye.  
    On the fourth day of walking they saw in the distance a vast scar across the landscape where trees and soil had been cleared. An immense gouge, many miles wide, had been dug into the earth, exposing bare rock.
    “That’s why they need so many slaves, then,” Jonah said. “It’d take some digging.”  
    Conall frowned, shaking his head. No one could dig that, not with ten thousand slaves. It must be from the old days, when machines did the work. But now men were needed. In their hundreds and thousands.  
    The closer they came to the mine, the uglier it grew, de-fouling the forest and mountains around, a pit into which men sunk their misery and greed. A town had been built either side of the approach road. They passed houses and offices, shops and inns. They entered the quarry through wide metal gates in a fence of rusted wire. The slaves were led to a open area in front of three large buildings and sorted into groups. The women yelled and screamed as they were separated from the men.  
    The new arrivals were taken to a long, wooden building. Inside stood rows of beds, packed together, with mattresses made of cotton, stuffed with straw.  
    “Find a bed, claim it, keep it,” one of the Russians shouted. “Rest now. Tomorrow, you work.”
    Jonah led Conall across the room, away from the door. “Guards come in there. If they’re looking for trouble, someone to mess with, they’ll pick on those closest.”  
    Jonah threw himself down on a bed, indicated Conall should do the same.  
    Conall’s body ached, but he needed answers, information, hope that there was a way out. “What do they mine here?”  
    “No telling,” Jonah said. “Not sure I care. I’m in no hurry to start work.”  
    Argent put his hands behind his head, closed his eyes, and his breathing slowed. Conall sat on the bed, watching the other slaves find their beds, groups of them talking, whispering, consoling each other. He wondered if many here spoke English. They would need allies to survive, and for that they needed to talk.
    Conall lay on the bed, the mattress lumpy and uncomfortable, but he was glad of anywhere to rest after days of walking. He curled up in a ball, thinking of Rufus and Faro, of Captain Hudson and his daughter Heather, and his last sight of The Arkady , sailing north.  
     

Chapter Nine
B REAKING R OCK

    A woman’s scream tore the air. Conall sat up in his bed, pulled on his shirt, the room utterly dark.  
    “Settle down,” Jonah said from the next bed. “Nothing you can do.” His voice suggested he was lying on his back, relaxed. Going nowhere.  
    “She’s being hurt.”  
    Another scream, a woman shouting for help, men’s voices raised, laughing at her.  
    “We have to do something.”  
    “Doors are locked, remember. They have guns. All you can do is get yourself killed. You won’t help her.”  
    Conall fumbled under the bed for his shoes, tied the laces in the dark, cursing his fingers. “Better to try than do nothing.”  
      Jonah grabbed him by the shirt, shoved him flat to the bed. “I said leave it,” Jonah snarled. “You’ll listen for your own good. You’re part of my crew and I give the orders.”  
    Conall wriggled, broke free. “We’re not on the ship.”  
    “You promised to follow orders.”  
    “I promised Captain Hudson. He’s not here. And we’ll