Hostage Zero

by John Gilstrap

  “Why is your English so good?” he asked.

  “My parents were American,” Charlie said. His voice was softer, huskier. “Victor likes me to keep up with English for when people like you come.”

  The knot tightened in his stomach. “People like me?”

  Charlie let it go.

  “What do you mean, people like me?”

  Charlie shook his head. “Forget I said anything.”

  “A little late for that.”

  Charlie stopped working again and looked him in the eye. “They can get a lot of money for American kids who look like you.”

  Evan didn’t get it. Maybe he didn’t want to get it. “What do I look like?”

  “Find a mirror, you don’t know.”

  Evan shoved him, knocking Charlie off balance, but not enough to make him fall. “Tell me, goddammit!”

  Retribution came swiftly and out of nowhere. Charlie landed an open-handed slap just in front of Evan’s ear, reeling him into the bush he was plucking.

  Charlie stepped forward and stared down. His eyes glistened red, and they were wet. He seemed breathless. He shouted, “You’re white, you stupid fuck! You’re white, and you look like a girl. People pay real money for boys who look like girls. Are you following me?”

  Evan stayed on the ground, waiting to see what came next. For the longest time, Charlie just stood there in a fighting stance, one foot slightly in front of the other, his hands up and ready to box. But then something drained out of him, and his shoulders sagged as he dropped his hands. “Remember you asked,” he said softly. Then he went back to work.

  Evan raised himself to his haunches, and then he stood, brushing himself off. “I’m sorry I pushed you,” he mumbled.

  Charlie’s hands never stopped their work on the branches. He turned and said, “And I’m sorry you can’t fight worth a shit.” The broad smile sold it as a joke, and a friendship was born.

  A burst of machine-gun fire made Evan jump a foot and dive to the ground.

  Charlie saw it happen and then started laughing enough to make himself choke. “They’re not shooting at you,” he said. He adjusted his slung bag of leaves to a better spot on his shoulder.

  “What were they shooting at, then?”

  “Nobody,” Charlie said. He started walking. “Come on. It’s dinnertime.”

  Filled, the bag that Charlie pulled along behind him was huge and heavy. It trailed behind him by a good six feet, and it dragged enough to make him lean heavily into each step to keep it going.

  “Do you need help?” Evan asked.

  “No, thanks. Victor wouldn’t like it. You’ll get your own soon enough.”

  Evan stayed with Charlie as he dragged the bag to the crest of the hill, and then down to the compound. As they got closer, the aroma of dinner mixed with the stink of the gasoline and the rotten-egg smell to form a mixture that soured the thought of eating anything. They took the bag to the edge of the big building in the center, where a line of workers formed in front of a rusty scale that looked like one you’d see in a doctor’s office, but much bigger.

  One at a time, each of the boys dragged his bag over the scale. One of the men in the compound slid the counterweight to the balance point, then made a note on a clipboard. As they waited their turn, Evan saw that every kid in the line had strips of scar tissue across his back. Some had more than others, but no one, it seemed, was able to avoid Victor and his toys forever. There was an uncomfortable silence about it all. Evan wondered if maybe talking was forbidden, but he didn’t dare ask for fear of finding out that it was.

  As they awaited their turn, Evan examined the pads of his fingers. They were sore and sticky, whether with his own blister juice or from some kind of sap from the bushes he didn’t know. But he was glad he’d listened to Charlie and plucked his share instead of stripping them the way the others were doing. If he’d done it that way, he’d probably be seeing bone under his skin.

  Finally, they were at the front of the line. Charlie dragged his sack onto the wide face of the scale. The man on the platform adjusted the counterweight on the bar, then said something in Spanish. Charlie responded in kind, and the man smiled. After a quick nod and another few words, they were dismissed with a quick flick of the man’s head.

  “What did he say?” Evan asked.

  “He said I was a hard worker today.” Charlie giggled. “I didn’t bother to mention that you were working with me.”

  Evan felt a glow of pride that he’d done a good job to help his new friend, and then the glow dimmed when he realized again what lay ahead for him. Sold for rape.

  No, that definitely was not going to happen. He didn’t know exactly how he was going to stop it, but that was not going to happen to him again. He remembered Mr. Jonathan’s words from one of the ridiculous Stranger Danger talks at RezHouse: It’s better to die on the street than get in the car.

  Yeah, well, just wait to see what happens when someone waves a dick at him. One way or another, there was going to be a lot of blood on the floor.

  “Okay, here’s how dinner works,” Charlie explained as they approached the center of the compound, where someone had produced a bunch of propane-powered grills. “Take whatever they offer and smile when you do it. Victor’s got a rod up his ass about showing gratitude. Once we get the food, we’ll go to one of the tables and eat. Just eat what you can choke down. If you don’t work tomorrow, you’re gonna get beat, and they’re not going to care that it’s because you passed out from hunger, okay? Whenever you get a chance for food, take it, understand?”

  Evan nodded. The closer they got, the worse it smelled. “What are they cooking?”

  “Never ask,” Charlie said. “It’ll get you beat for asking, and then worse than that, you’ll actually find out. You might think you want to know, but I guarantee you don’t.”

  The rank of grills served as a divider of sorts for the compound, separating the adults who clustered around the main hut from the workers who clustered on the far side of the grills. Charlie showed him the way. He grabbed a plastic tray-a lot like the ones in the dining room back at RezHouse-and handed one to Evan while keeping one for himself. Charlie went to the cook first, silently holding out his tray. The cook put a hunk of meat on the tray, and then ladled some disgusting yellow shit into a cup and set it on the tray next to the meat. Charlie smiled politely, and headed toward the ranks of dilapidated picnic tables that served as the dining area.

  Evan followed his moves exactly, focusing all of his energy on not showing revulsion at the animal leg that had been plopped onto his tray. It had toenails. Next came the cup of crap. At closer inspection, it looked like it might have corn in it somewhere. One way or another, he told himself, it was corn. He liked corn. If he convinced himself that he liked this stuff, then maybe he could get it down and keep it down.

  Charlie led the way to a table that was otherwise unoccupied. Evan sat across from him.

  “You don’t want to talk too much to the other workers,” Charlie said. “They don’t like gringos. Gringos killed a lot of their relatives and raised a lot of hell a while ago. Speaking English is a problem out here. Not speaking Spanish is a huge problem out here, so you’d better get that taken care of right away.”

  “Well, you speak English,” Evan said, stating the obvious.

  “Do you see a lot of friends hanging around me? These assholes all know that I’m not one of them. They know that I don’t suck their weed, and they know that if just one or two things break my way, I’ll actually be able to make a life for myself someday. They don’t like that.” He took a bite of his meat and winced at the flavor. “If I was them, I’d probably hate my guts, too.”

  Evan didn’t know how to respond to that, so he let it go. He picked up the meat and smelled it. Still clueless, he closed his eyes and took a bite.

  Oh, Christ, he had to find a way out of here.

  Evan was keenly aware that he was being watched and talked about. Boys at the other tables craned the
ir necks to see him and point. Farther away, some boys stood for a better view.

  “A little like being in a zoo, isn’t it?” Charlie observed.

  “On the wrong side of the bars,” Evan said. “Everybody’s so quiet. This many kids in one place, you’d expect there to be a lot of noise.”

  “That’s the weed,” Charlie said. “That’s why they want everybody to chew it. Shit does weird stuff to you. Makes you work harder and care less. Can’t sleep worth anything, though.”

  Evan’s ears perked. “Sleep? We get to do that?”

  “That’s all there is after the sun goes down. That’s what those huts are for.” He pointed to a row of four thatch-roof huts just like all the others, but with walls. They stood taller than the others to accommodate a line of wire-mesh windows that started at maybe five feet off the platform and rose for about three feet over that. “They lock us in just before the light goes away, and they open it up when the sun comes up.”

  Evan’s heart rate picked up. He wasn’t exactly claustrophobic, but the thought of being locked into a room with strangers who didn’t like him-in the dark, no less-was his vision of a living nightmare. “What happens if you have to piss in the middle of the night?”

  Around a mouthful of food, Charlie said, “I try not to. But if you have to, there’s a cut-off drum in the corner with a seat on it. One of the punishment jobs around here is to clean it out. Never once saw anybody do it without puking.”

  Okay, living nightmare didn’t touch this. Evan was getting out of here. Maybe he’d die trying, but there was no way this was going to be his life.

  A pall fell over the compound, almost as if someone had sucked away the atmosphere. Charlie said, “Uh-oh. Speeches are never good.”

  Evan pivoted on his bench to see Victor standing up near the grills, his fists on his hips, somehow looking even more menacing from a distance than he did up close. His skin glistened in the fading light. He said nothing until silence had fallen over the compound.

  When he spoke, his voice boomed. Even without understanding the words, Evan understood that they were important. Just a few seconds into the speech, he pointed right at Evan and said his name.

  Evan looked to Charlie for a translation.

  “He says you are a special guest. But he doesn’t mean it. He’s making fun of you.”

  As one, the entire crowd pivoted to look at him.

  “He says that you can’t be trusted.” Charlie struggled with the translation, as if trying to interpret the words instead of merely reporting them. After just a few seconds of that, he abandoned the effort and started translating directly.

  “Mr. Evan Guinn is not to be harmed. No marks may be put on his face. He does not speak our language, so it would be foolish to try to talk with him. Because he is special, he will not be required to work as hard as the rest of you, but he will still live among you.”

  “What the hell is he doing?” Evan hissed.

  Charlie shushed him. Apparently, it was hard enough to translate one person without having to answer questions from another.

  He continued to channel Victor. “Be sure to watch him closely. He is more valuable to me than any of you are. If he is hurt, I will punish you all severely.”

  Victor emphasized that last point by brandishing the Louisville Slugger.

  “If he runs away, or if someone comes to take him away, I will hurt all of you very bad. If he does not return, some of you will die just because I will be angry.”

  Evan felt his ears turning red as his stomach cramped. Victor was fixing it so that everyone would hate him.

  “Our newest resident has friends who will try to take everything away from us. One day soon they may try to kill me and all of you. They may make some kind of excuse, but whatever they say to you will be a lie. These strangers when they come will try to take Evan away, and if they succeed, you might as well die. It will be like the old days all over again when the Americans killed so many of your fathers and mothers.”

  Victor paused for effect, pacing dramatically down the ranks of tables. He stopped next to Evan, and he glowered. Moving with speed that made Evan jump, Victor clamped his hand on the boy’s ear and lifted him from his seat. Evan yelped and grabbed Victor’s wrist to keep him from peeling the ear clean off his head.

  “And if these people arrive for our friend Evan, what are you going to do?”

  For a few seconds, no one said anything. Then one boy stood up. He couldn’t have been more than ten. “ Mataremos,” he said.

  The other boys cheered.

  Victor cupped his ear with his free hand and leaned in toward the crowd. He said something, and then everyone said in unison, “ Mataremos! ”

  “Kay?” Victor said, leaning in even more.

  “ MATAREMOS! ” The boys all cheered at that. Victor let go of Evan’s ear and shoved him down into his seat. Around him, the word he didn’t understand became a chant: “Ma-ta-re-mos, ma-ta-re-mos…”

  For his part, Charlie looked very uncomfortable. To Evan’s silent inquiry, he replied, “It means, ‘We will kill them.’”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

  “Scorpion, this is Mother Hen.”

  Jonathan pressed the mike button on his vest. “Hi, Mom,” he said. The three of them walked in single file up a hill that seemed to have no end, Jonathan in the lead and Boxers taking up the rear. In near total darkness, the night glowed green and bright thanks to the enhancement of their night-vision goggles. Their GPS showed that they’d hiked about two miles since leaving the village, and for every step, Jonathan had kept his fist lightly wrapped around the grip of his battle-slung M4, his finger outside the trigger guard, but poised for action with an instant’s notice.

  “I’ve got good news from Alaska,” Venice said. “Wolverine came through. Our friends are airborne with special transportation arranged through channels. Word is that everyone is safe and they hit a home run.”

  Jonathan smiled. “I’m sure that will be a story worth hearing.”

  “I’ve heard some of it,” Venice said, “and you have no idea how right you are.”

  “Looking forward to it. Got any good news for us jungle jockeys?”

  “I do,” she said. “I think I have a final location for the precious cargo,” Venice said. “He’s in Building Golf. It looks like it might be some sort of a dormitory, judging from the number of people who filed in.”

  Without referencing his map or his computer, Jonathan knew that she was referring to the third hut down the eastern edge of the compound. He stopped and let the others catch up. Boxers and Harvey were both equipped with the same communications gear, but as commander, Jonathan was the lone voice back to Fisherman’s Cove. “How sure are you?” he asked.

  “I’m one hundred percent certain I saw him enter Building Golf. After that, reliability drops,” Venice said. “I’ll monitor for people exiting the building, but if that happens, we’ll have no way of knowing who it is.”

  “Roger that,” Jonathan said. “I show us two miles out. Do you concur?”

  “I do,” she said. “But I’ve got some troubling news. They’ve got the compound lit up like daytime. I compared that to images from SkysEye last night, and the floodlights appear to be new.”

  “That means they’re expecting us,” Boxers whispered. “Fuckin’ Josie.”

  “It means they’re expecting something,” Jonathan corrected. He keyed his mike. “Have you found the generator?”

  “I believe so,” Venice said. “I’ve got a heat signature in the five hundred-degree range, consistent with the burning temperature of gasoline, along the western margin of the main building. Problem is, it appears to be in the wash of the light that it’s creating. You’re not going to be able to get to it.”

  “Take it out with a sniper shot?” Harvey asked.

  Jonathan shook his head. “We’re firing five-five-six millimeter, and you’re firing nines. They’re not reliable for that.” He cursed himself for not having spec’d out a 7.62
-millimeter rifle to Josie. There was nothing like the proper application of M60 fire to raise havoc with electrical generators.

  “We’ll just have to plant a second charge,” Boxers said.

  Jonathan always got a kick out of how easy the Big Guy made complex operations sound. He was right, of course. “That one will be mine,” Jonathan said. He turned to Harvey. “That’ll put a lot more pressure on you as the sole cover. Are you up to it?”

  Harvey cocked his head and smirked. “If I say no, do you have a replacement?”

  It was a point well made in response to a stupid question.

  “Don’t worry about me,” Harvey said. “I’m falling back into the habit. Since I haven’t shot a gun in a while, I might not have the most accurate aim, but I can pull the trigger enough to make the barrel hot.”

  The radio crackled, “Hey, are you still there?”

  “Sorry, Mom,” Jonathan said. “We were just doing a little strategizing.”

  “Well, strategize this: I show two people leaving the compound and heading your way. They’re carrying flashlights, and from their posture, I’d say they’re holding rifles, too.”

  Boxers snorted out a laugh. “Way to be stealthy,” he said on the radio.

  Jonathan took comfort from the use of artificial light. It put the enemy at a double disadvantage. Not only were they visible before the fight began, but they’d likely be blind afterward because their night vision would be shot. That’s what he was hoping, anyway. Not counting on it, for sure, but hoping very hard.

  “Are you sure they’re heading our way?” Jonathan asked.

  “I know that they’re heading down the trail that leads to you,” Venice said. “Time will tell if you’re the ultimate target. I’m guessing no.”

  “I’m guessing no, too,” Jonathan said. “If they know we’re coming, the last thing they’ll want to do is engage us in anything less than strength.”

  “I think they’re setting traps,” Boxers said offline.

  Jonathan thought that, too. “Mother Hen, keep an eye on them. If they stop for any length of time, note the location for us on the GPS.”