John Gilstrap - Hostage Zero

He might not be alive, but he sure as hell wouldn’t be here-wherever here was. And the people who took him would be blind and walking funny.

“I am Mitch,” his seatmate said, extending a friendly hand. “And you are Evan, no?” The English was fine, but he had a different kind of accent. Sort of a cross between Mel Gibson (when he was being Aussie) and Michael Caine being Alfred the butler.

Evan looked at the hand, but didn’t move to shake it.

“So, you are fourteen?” Mitch pressed.

“Don’t talk to me, you fuckin’ perv,” Evan spat. He turned away to look out the window. He’d seen guys like this before. If you let them believe for even a second that you were an easy mark, they’d think they could do whatever they wanted.

The hand remained outstretched, unmoving. “Believe it or not, Evan, I am your friend.”

Evan tried ignoring him, but when the words wouldn’t dissolve into the air, he turned back around to face the man. “My friend, huh? Well, Friend Mitch, how ’bout you take me home?”

Mitch rolled his hand closed and replaced it on his lap. “I know that is what you would like me to do,” he said, “but for the moment that is not possible.”

The SUV hit a huge rut, jarring all of them, and making Evan feel good about putting his seat belt on. He kind of hoped that the bump might have knocked the others out, but was disappointed that they’d been wearing their seat belts, too.

“If you wanted it, it would be possible,” Evan said.

“Actually, no,” Mitch corrected. “I’m sure it’s difficult for you to understand, but even I could not make that happen.”

“ Even I could not make that happen,” Evan parroted, mocking the accent. “It really sucks to be a victim, doesn’t it? Just you and me, sharing a jail cell.”

Mitch looked amused as he folded his arms and legs and nestled himself into the corner near the door. “Has anyone put you in a jail cell?” he asked.

The sudden change in demeanor made the boy uncomfortable. He couldn’t put his finger on it, but Mitch was projecting a new air of menace.

“It’s a real question, Evan. Have you seen the inside of a cell here?”

“I’ve seen my share,” Evan grumbled.

“I mean since you’ve been a guest with us. Have you seen a cell?”

“Yeah. That shitty little room where I woke up.”

Mitch raised a forefinger and wagged it slowly, duplicating the movement of his head. “That was a hut,” he said. “Every bit as nice as all the other huts in the camp. Only, unlike the others who live there, you had accommodations to yourself. You were being treated not as a prisoner, but as a guest.”

“Bullshit.”

“Such foul language from such a little boy.”

“I’m not as little as you think I am,” Evan said.

The smile returned. “Indeed. Have you been bound and gagged? On this trip, I mean.”

“Worse. I’ve been drugged.”

Mitch acknowledged the point with a twitch of his head. “But since you’ve awakened. No ropes? No handcuffs?”

“Doesn’t mean I’m not a prisoner,” Evan said. He genuinely didn’t like this man.

Mitch held his gaze for a few seconds, then turned to the men in the front seat. “Tito,” he said, drawing the driver’s eyes to the rearview mirror. He said something in Spanish.

The driver looked surprised, and Mitch repeated himself.

The driver spoke to the guy in the shotgun seat, and then brought the vehicle to a stop, right in the middle of the trail.

Mitch gave another command, and the electric lock on Evan’s door popped up. “Okay, go,” Mitch said.

Evan looked at the door, and then at Mitch, unsure what to do.

“Go ahead,” Mitch said, making a shooing motion toward the door. “You say you’re a prisoner, and I say you are free to go. So go.”

It had to be a scam, Evan thought. He’d open the door, and they’d shoot him. Or maybe they’d just drag him back inside and punish him for having failed some half-assed loyalty test.

“Go on,” Mitch said again, shooing more energetically this time. “Get out. Be free.”

Evan shifted his eyes back and forth again. What was he supposed to do? If he stepped out, then what? He was in a goddamn jungle, for God’s sake, nowhere near the top of the food chain anymore. He didn’t move.

“It’s no longer your choice,” Mitch said. His tone had turned harsh. “Get out of my fucking car.”

Evan felt the panic building. If he stepped out of the car now, and if they drove off, he’d be dead in days-sooner if the snakes and cougars and whatever the hell other creatures out here had anything to say about it.

Mitch unclasped his seat belt and leaned across Evan’s chest to pull the latch on the door and push it open. “If you make me physically throw you out, it will hurt you. Badly.” He popped the latch on the boy’s seat belt and pushed him toward the open door.

Evan shot his arms out to the side, bracing himself against the doorjamb with one hand while the fingers of the other tried to find something to grab onto in the leather seat. But his fingernails weren’t long enough. “No!” he yelled.

Mitch pushed harder. “I said get out of my car!”

The man turned in his seat and used the sole of his shoe to push him. Evan tried to hold on, but he could feel his butt slipping. One cheek cleared the seat, and he kicked out with his foot, snagging the map pocket behind the shotgun seat with his toes.

But it wasn’t enough. After three more inches, it was all about gravity. He felt himself slipping toward the ground. His right elbow and hip rebounded off the filthy chrome running board, and then he was surrounded by weeds. It was like drowning in green. For a moment, there was no up or down; leaves were everywhere.

He heard the door slam and felt the percussive thump that went with it. They gunned the engine. Not knowing where the tires were, Evan dropped to his side and curled up, trying to make himself the smallest possible target so that he would not get hit by the heavy vehicle. In his mind, he imagined his legs being slowly crushed under the tires. For the first time since he awakened in that shack, he felt real fear. Paralyzing fear.

“Don’t leave me!” he yelled, still curled in a fetal ball. His feet found the ground, and he stood. He could barely see the top of the truck above the high foliage. “Please don’t leave me!” He shrieked it this time. To his own ear, his voice sounded high and squeaky, like a girl’s.

He had to find the road. Without that, he knew he’d be lost forever. And once he found it, he could run after the truck and convince them not to leave him behind.

The road-the path, really-couldn’t be but a few yards away, but as he took his first step toward where he thought it was, a vine or some damn thing snagged his ankle and made him fall. Everything here was wet. The whole world smelled of mildew and rot.

Of dead things.

Of dead boys.

“Don’t leave me!” he shrieked.

A second attempt to run made him fall again, so he decided to crawl. Sticks scraped the bare flesh of his back and belly as God only knew what stabbed at his hands and knees. Effectively blind in the foliage, he pressed forward. They were driving away, for God’s sake. He had to press forward. If he stopped-if he even slowed-they’d be too far away, and he’d never be able to catch up.

His head broke into the clearing first. Actually, it wasn’t a clearing as much as it was the absence of jungle. Leafy shit stopped brushing his face and shoulders, and all at once it felt as if there was more air to breathe.

It was the roadway. It had to be. It had wheel ruts. What else could it be?

But there was no truck.

“Hey!” he yelled. In return, he got only the sounds of a million insects and other creatures that he wanted nothing to do with. He had no intention of being something’s dinner tonight.