ࡱ> ac`k bbjbjZ Z .|8cb8cbZT T ,<LLLLL'''SUUUUUU$h fy'''''yLL'LLS'SL #9F?0 |  D'''''''yy''''''' '''''''''T B : LAMBS By Lisa Taka Younis 2022 West Virginia Fiction Competition, 1st Place Winner Selected by Barbara Kingsolver Winner of First Prize in the West Virginia Fiction Competition, Lambs garnered these comments made by Barbara Kingsolver, as she justified her choice and suggested improvements (see below as well as the revised story): Wow. This story of a truck driver kidnapping girls to sell into sex slavery was horrifying and convincing. I felt the cold desperation of the women inside that truck, and the kidnappers brutal calculation. The narrative is precisely paced, and the tone is dead on. I frequently offer the advice: Write what you know, but in this case, Im hoping the author has not done so. Writers also can research and imagine psyches very different from their own. The details of drugging, kidnapping, and selling all ring harrowingly true, as does the moral bankruptcy of the narrator. Im not completely heartless, he insists in the opening lines, and in fact, of course, he is. My critiques here are mostly small: the tense-shift mistakes are distracting. (The story is told in present tense, with flashbacks in past tense, but it slips up.) Some details strain credulity: Do private high schools with uniformed kids really exist on this mans truck route? Does a monster like this want to vacation in Paris, of all places? (He seems more like a Vegas guy.) The letter too-conveniently pulled from a backpack, attesting to a girls virginity, is implausible. My larger complaint is with the absence of a moral center here. I couldnt feel any authorial judgment of this mans actions, no urging to root for the women hes destroying. I wanted an inkling of hope for themeven the tiniest crack in their cagebut didnt see it. As an example of what I mean, I suggest the novel ROOM, by Emma Donoghue, a similar situation with an entirely different emotional center. By contrast, the narrator in Lambs is somehow invested with more humanity than his victims; they are pieces of meat. Placing Mother Goose at the head of the story, and the whistled tune at the end, seem to trivialize a monstrous mans actions. But this is no joke. The grotesque details were hard for me to read. Ive spent my life avoiding Silence of the Lambs and all other tales of brutal predation on women, because the real world provides far too much female anguish; I dont care to add imaginary versions. I can get an unhappy adrenaline jolt just walking back from an appointment to my parked car after dark. Im pained by the notion of brutal violence and woman-obliteration as entertainment, and personally believe it needs to hit a high mark of some kindinformational, empatheticto earn its right to exist. Obviously, most of humanity does not agree with me. But in this rare instance, I get the last word. Ive thought long and hard about how to evaluate this story. In these circumstances, a judge reads not just the words on the page, but a writers potential. Ive chosen this as the winning story for the clear, outstanding strength of the writing, and my trust in this competent writer to honor the power of our craft. A thoughtful revision, investing this story with more gravity and heart, will bring something valuable into the world. I dont think it was written as mere entertainment at the cost of womens lives, but as a cautionary tale, warning that brutal people exist among us, doing vile work as human enslavers thats seldom discussed in mainstream platforms. If this story can stand firmly on that ground, pulling readers into empathy and actionmaybe even moving somebody, somewhere, to understand what theyre witnessing and call 911that is the best of what good fiction can be. Baa, baa, black sheep Have you any wool? Yes sir, yes sir, three bags full. By Mother Goose I type the 6-digit passcode on my iPad. The security camera app shows the three girls chained in the hold of the refrigerated delivery truck, my reefer. My wife laughs when I use this word, since neither of us are dope smokers. The trio are covered with the furniture blankets I left for them. Im not completely heartless. I turn up the volume on the iPad. The price Ill get for these little lambs will set me up for the entire year. Good. They arent talking. No chitter-chatter means their energy is probably zapped. I had loaded them into the space nearest the side door. I can freeze them solid if I want, but I keep the zone cool. Low temperatures make people sleepy and a whole lot more manageable. In my experience, drugging or restraining them isnt necessary; most are already broken. If the lambs dont do what I say, I threaten to beat the shit out of em. Tearing them down with a few choice words and a quick, sharp slap is all it normally takes. Although these three are live wires. I zoom the camera in on each girl and linger on Traci. She might not last long because she twitches from withdrawal symptoms, her dead eyes stare at the ceiling. Like hermit crab claws, her hands grip the top of the blanket covering her motionless, corpse-like body. For the past two days, shes absently picked open acne sores on her face and a couple on the stalk of her neck with a fingernail painted traffic cone orange. How long since she washed her hands? When she sticks her fingers in her mouth, I gag. *** The first time I met Traci was almost a year ago. My truck route took me through West Virginia. I stopped at the coffee shop where she worked. She tamped coffee into an espresso machine, the metal on metal clinked. The delicious aroma of freshly brewed joe hit me as I stood in line. The second time, a month later, she was outside the coffee shop smoking a cigarette, her lips moist and full while she sucked, eyes closed. When she moaned, an obscene sound of satisfaction, I ached to vicariously experience her sensuality again and offered her another when that one was finished. Lifting and lowering the cigarette, she flashed a lightning bolt tattooed on the inside of her wrist. Raised red pin pricks, that looked like flea bites, speckled her skin above the dark navy design. I couldnt resist tracing the tattoo with my index finger. She shivered when I touched her. Harry Potter. She blew a stream of smoke skyward as she caught my eyes. The windows to her soul were her best feature. They were the color of a cloudless sky, kohl lined with an electric blue flip at the corners. She squinted and silently dared me to say something. Good to know you can read. I said. She laughed. I did the same. Occasionally, Id stop by to see her and because I had access to some great heroin, Id gift her small amounts. You never ask for anything. No money, no sex. How come? She hid the drug balloon in her hand. As we smoked, we leaned against the split rail fencing that defined the parking lot of the coffee shop. Well, first of all, Im old. Youre gorgeous, but youre my daughters age. The lie of fatherhood slid off my tongue like oil. She licked her lower lip, dropped the cigarette butt, and mashed it with her boot heel. Please, her deep smoky laugh wasnt mean, you dont look at me like Im your kid. I put on a father-knows-best face. This towns had a ton of fentanyl deaths. You cant be too careful. I dont want you using junk thats mixed with something that will kill you. Our relationship was imaginary. My acting was Oscar-worthy. Her trust in me was absurd. *** Its 9:10 pm. My cellphone flashes with a new text. My wife checks on me when I drive. She fusses, but in a good way, because she has no one else. My heart breaks when I remember how devastated she was when she found out her oven couldnt bake a baby to full term. That was years ago, but theres not a day that I dont think of making her life better. Eventually, Ill retire from my regular job, which will shut down my bonus business. Shes got no idea where my extra money comes from, God love her. As far as she knows, its because of my five-star service. (Hi Hon. Where are you?) Stopped at a truck stop. Eat and sleep and on the road at 0600. (Be safe. Text me when ur on the road again.) Will call in the morning. (Ok. Promise. No junk food. LOL. Eat what I packed. Remember 15 lbs by Xmas.) I text a sad faced emoji. She texts a heart. Nite Nite XO XO. The iPad screen illuminates the darkness of the cab. I click the camera icon and zoom on Tracis friend, Wendy. Bad attitude, but what a looker. Tall, thin, and sporting some big tits. Skin like coffee with a touch of cream. When Traci finally introduced me, Wendy assumed we were bartering since they both hooked on the side. She did all the talking, negotiating service prices, discussing blow jobs and penetration like an insurance agent selling me a homeowners policy with a rider for natural disaster coverage. Wen, stop. Harolds not into that kind of stuff. Traci raised her voice Its ok. Im flattered by the business offer, but Im a happily married man. I opened the passenger-side door of my truck. Id love it if you two would join me for a cocktail. The girls and I climbed into the cab, and I cracked open a couple twist-top single-serving chardonnays. Secretly, I dropped a fast-dissolving sleeping pill in each. They chugged the wine and about an hour later, lights out. Boom, bagged a couple lambs. A lamb is my word for underage druggies or hookers or illegals or a combination of the three. Lambs are soft and weak. Always wanting and always asking. On my job runs, I might catch one or two. Sometimes I pick up boys, but just like buying a pet from a breeder, girls are worth more. The younger the better. I get the best prices for them at a ranch down south owned by a distributor named Goody. Goody, a well-known businessman in the skin trade, runs a major operation. Like a seasoned horseman, he assesses their quality and trains them. Busted hymens are the norm, virgins are rare. He pays in cash. All the lambs are groomed for service and then sold. There are domestic buyers, but most are foreign. Its big money. No questions from me because I am what you call, discreet. I dont know and I dont care. My cut of the pie is good enough. I zoom in closer. The third lamb is a teenage blonde hottie. This girl wails a round of boo hoos and talks too much. Charlotte. Shes a prime cut of meat. Man, Im lucky I wandered in the right place at the right time and plucked her like a ripe fruit. I got a hunch shes still a virgin, which means top dollar, but Im not a betting man. A couple days ago, she and a crowd of kids, wearing school uniforms, sauntered on the crosswalk in front of my truck as I waited at the light at an intersection. Private school brats. The boys with their top buttons undone and their red and navy striped silk ties hanging loosely around their necks. One of the wise guys had one around his head like a headband and danced in the middle of the street. Four girls and four boys. The afternoon must have been pushing seventy-five degrees for an April day. The girls tied their navy-blue sport coats low on their hips. Their gray skirts were hiked high. Lacy bralettes winked in and out of vision from their unbuttoned white dress shirts when they laughed or pushed their hair back from their flushed faces. Charlotte talked to no one, her head on a swivel while crossing traffic. I was sure I caught her eye when she faced my windshield, but she chewed her bottom lip with a blank stare at my grill. Her backpack hung from one shoulder as she lagged behind the herd. My instincts triggered, I ditched my truck on a side street, and followed them. At a local park, there they were, lounging on a picnic table near a stand of swings. The boys blatantly stared at the girls with their asses in the literal sling. Smooth thighs exposed when the breeze puffed-up their skirts. The kids had a stoned, glassy-eyed look. Must have popped some pills, because there wasnt a whiff of skunky, wacky weed. Hey, any of you see a golden retriever run by here? I said. Move along, Granddad. The punk with the head band tie waved me away. Thats no way to talk to your elders, young man. No sir, we havent seen a dog is sufficient. I flapped a coiled nylon leash at them. The kid ignored me, and the other boys snorted with laughter, stifled giggles came from the girls. Except for Charlotte. The corners of her mouth turned downward as she scanned her friends. She smoothly launched off the swing, her hair a momentary golden curtain, and then she walked over and yanked the tie from the smart-mouthed kids head. Dont be such an asshole, Stewart. He made kissy noises when she beelined to me, as she slipped the tie over her own head like a necklace. Do you need help looking, sir? She was breathless, her pupils dilated. His name is Duke, and thanks young lady. We spent almost fifteen minutes walking around the park looking for my imaginary dog. She kept tabs on where her schoolmates were at all times, but they didnt seem to care about her. Wed gotten out of eyesight, almost to the street, and I dropped onto a park bench to rest. I patted the seat beside me. She sat down, poised on the edge, keeping her distance. Im sorry we cant find your dog. Her face creased with worry. I really appreciate your help, young lady. Um, I dont even know your name? She hesitated. Harold. Harold Kincaid. My hand was out. I never care about giving my real name. The lambs never escape. Im Charlotte. She gave me a strong, Catholic school grip, and looked me in the eye. "I better get back. They're probably wondering where I am." Charlotte smiled and my penis instantly hardened and said a brief, Hello, as I saw the dazzling knockout shed become. I firmly held her hand and at the same time, uncapped the syringe and needle in my pocket. With practiced ease, I stuck her in the neck and pushed the plunger. She fell against me. A whine escaped from her like a balloon losing air and she palmed the injection site with a wide-eyed look of horror. Lets go, hon. The effect of the midazolam worked quickly, and she tottered like a drunken sick person. I guided her with her arm around my shoulder toward my truck parked around the corner. I shrugged and shook my head when people stared. "My daughter. C'mon honey. Walk with Daddy." At the curb, Charlotte fell to her hands and knees like a rag doll. Because she is almost as tall as I am, lifting the bitch would hurt my back. A twenty-something, jogger, stopped. "Hey. Everything OK? Ill call 9-1-1? The guys body language radiated concern. He was bigger than me by about six inches and sized me up. His head was cocked, feet spread and when he asked the question, he pointed with his chin. His thumb was poised on the green button of his cellphone, and my eye twitched when I saw the emergency numbers on his screen. Charlotte lay on her side on the pavement, moaning. Clearly not focused, she muttered randomly. Help me. I cant move. Whats wrong?" Doesnt she need a doctor? His hick accent was thick with accusation. The guy looked from her to me. Cold sweat soaked my head and under my arms. I was seconds away from abandoning my prize and bolting. One more trick up my sleeve. Somehow, I managed to form tears and they spilled hot down my cheeks. "My daughter," I pointed towards Charlotte and then to my truck. "She skipped school with her stupid friends, and now shes high. I bent over and faked a sob. "Look, I could really use a hand lifting her in. Ive got to sober her up and call that bitch of her mother." My tears fell onto Charlottes back. I covered my face and groaned. "I mean, my ex-wife. Oh, Lord." The do-gooder part of the guys brain bought my story because his expression brightened, and his posture relaxed. "C'mon, I'll help. Let's get her inside," the twenty-something suggested. If we can get her to stand, I'll hoist her up and you can guide me." We hauled Charlotte to her feet, and she roused. My heart thumped in my throat. Her gaze lasered onto the guys face and she shot him a drugged, but radiant smile. He shook his head and chuckled. Inside the trucks hold, one of the lambs thumped the side of the wall. What was that? Pardon me? I jumped up into the cab. I heard something back there. I stomped onto the floor of the cab, and he shook his head. Nope. That wasnt it. Sure it came from this truck? Just then, an engine backfired and across the street, a clattering garage door rolled up. Pretty noisy out here. I winced from the strain in my lower back as I pulled Charlotte to the seat. Yeah. I guess youre right. Once Charlotte was safely seat belted, I closed the door and pulled my wallet from my pocket. Will you take a ten? The young man punched my shoulder. Thanks, but no thank you. Youve got your hands full. When I pulled away, Charlotte squealed in her sleep. I stroked her hair and she calmed; her breathing evened out. It was just that easy. *** Sitting in the quiet of my cab at the truck stop, watching the camera feed, I perk up when Charlotte breaks the silence. Her voice captured by the mic is crystal clear. Wheres he taking us? I dont fucking know. Traci pounds her fist on the wall. I need a fix, motherfucker, give me something. She collapses. I laugh, a hoarse cough of a sound, because Tracis burst of energy surprises me. Charlotte explodes into fresh tears. I shouldnt be here. Im not like you. Wendy slaps her. Charlotte screams. If a beat down begins, Ill be forced to separate them. Charlottes worth more cut and bruise free. Shit, girl. Quit your fucking blubbering. Wendy kicks the wall of the truck, the sound a metallic drumbeat. Who do you think you are, Princess? Im stupid. Charlotte scoffs as she holds her cheek. My father said, Make friends. I skipped school because of Stewart. Let me guess. Rich, popular, and bad news. Charlotte speaks fast. Its not that I like him in that way or anything. You dont know him. He isnt bad. Everyone thinks hes cool, which he is. His father is a childhood friend of my father. Oh my god, Im rambling. She takes a deep breath, wipes her nose. He had these pills. "And you took one. Wendys head drops onto her chest, and she chuckles, a slow, low sound. Two. She holds up two fingers. You got a Mommy and a Daddy who tell you they love you? I live with my father. Not my mother. I guess youre right. You arent like us. Your daddy be worried about his baby-girl when she doesnt show for dinner. Wendy points to Traci lying on the floor. I got her, and she has me. No one in the world would give two-shits if we disappeared. Theyll look for us, wont they? Charlotte stands. Shes weak and her balance is off. The rattle of the chains is loud, but not louder than her shouting. Stewart will talk to the police. The police will find us and arrest that monster. My father will find us. She stares at the camera and points. Harold Kincaid, you fucking monster! My name comes out of her mouth like a roar. She spits on the floor like something tastes bad, then collapses in a heap. I can hear her sobbing. Wendy puts a hand on Charlottes shoulder, and I hold my breath and strain to hear her speak. Go on girl, be angry. At least you got people who want you back. You need all that deep-down anger to survive. Hold onto it cause its gonna get worse, Princess. You gotta stay strong. Someone out there will be lookin for you, but you gotta make sure theres still someone to find. My heart thumps in my throat, my mouth is dry. I dial down the temperature in their space a few degrees. Theres a moment of quiet and then fresh movement on the iPad screen. Traci moans a creepy ghostlike sound and Wendy pulls the heavy blanket until it reaches Tracis chin. She strokes the girls hair and shushes her. In the opposite corner, Charlotte curls into a ball and disappears under another blanket. Hes gonna sell us, Wendy. Traci says, her hoarse croaking voice trails into another breathy moan. We dont have a chance in hell. You got that right. I close the app and plug the iPad into the charger. Grabbing my backpack, I slide out of the cab. My lower back seizes a little, mostly from dragging that tall and gangly bitch yesterday. The motor is still running, which is usual for reefers. Locking everything up, I pat the door, like its a purring animal and then walk behind a row of semis parked nearer the front of the lot. The artificial brightness makes me squint and the air-conditioning is brisk as I walk in through the automatic doors. After paying for my locker key and towel, I head down the hallway to the bathrooms. This isnt my usual truck stop, but I recall from a previous time, clean showers, and steady water pressure. After scrubbing off the road grime and a good nights rest, Ill be a new man. Passing by a break room, a rolling bucket with greenish water and a dry mop stands sentry outside the doorframe. Inside, a guy in jeans and a uniform polo is staring at the TV, chewing on his nails, and spitting the pieces on the floor. The boob tube mounted on a ceiling bracket is blaring about a missing middle-school girl from a city in West Virginia, which is now way north of here. I stand for a few seconds and smile up at the flashing photos of Charlotte in the news segment. They show her school, the park, a professional photo of her father, and then the smart- ass punk friend of hers comes on. Hes wearing a hooded sweatshirt with the name of his Catholic school. Posted under the kid is his name, Stewart Westchester. We left early and went to the park to do field research for our science class. Liar. The reporter holding the microphone asks ole Stewie to describe me. Stewarts hand levels to his ear, showing height. An older man, about 510, heavy-set with sandy hair. He was looking for his dog. A forensic sketch of me pops up in the corner of the screen. Hell, my face isnt that fat. And your friend volunteered? The female reporter nodding. Yes maam. Charlottes got a heart of gold. Left her backpack, so we thought shed be back. The kid keeps running his fingers through his hair. Must be nerves. With the high-def TV, I see his eyes are red with tears ready to spill. A quick close-up of the punk and then back to the reporter as she rattles off an anti-trafficking hotline number. I cant help but chuckle. The nail-spitter hears me behind him, and as he turns, I vamoose. In the bathroom, I wipe the steam with my hand and smile at the Harold in the mirror. He turns sideways and we nod in agreement that the diet is working. With the tip of my thumb, I rub my gold wedding band. Probably shouldnt count my chickens before theyre hatched but theres nothing wrong with fantasizing about taking a Caribbean cruise with the missus next year on our twentieth. Hell yes, airfare included. These lambs probably equal the cost of a first-class trip. 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