John Gilstrap - Hostage Zero

There comes a point where a lack of a diagnosis is as concerning as a troubling one, and Harvey found himself rapidly approaching that line.

Scooting to the child’s hips, Harvey slipped his fingers into the pajamas’ elastic waistband and slid the fabric down to his shins. Again, no sign of trauma, but he’d definitely entered puberty, and he definitely was not a practicing Jew. Feeling progressively more optimistic that he’d find no bullet wound, Harvey leveraged the kid’s thigh and ribs to roll him to his side, till he rested against Harvey’s kneeling thighs. He shoved the pajama top up to his shoulders to expose the entire posterior surface and issued a sigh when he saw that there were no signs of penetrating trauma. He returned the boy to a supine position and pulled his clothing back into place.

What else was there? Harvey wondered. He fought to recall his Marine Corps training.

Of course! His arms. With bullet trauma off the table, the arms made the most sense. Sure enough, as soon as he wrestled the boy’s left arm free from the sleeve of his pajamas, he saw an antecubital bruise. The injection point for whatever had knocked this kid out appeared as a bull’s-eye in the middle of a purple halo at the crease of his elbow joint.

Sixteen hours later, the boy still had not awakened. He’d stirred a few times, and in the last couple of hours he’d made some mumbling sounds-all good signs-but he remained unconscious.

Harvey recalled the list of drugs that could have such lasting effect and realized how lucky the kid was to still be alive. Risks remained for liver damage or renal failure, but with each additional sign of recovery, the risks diminished.

As time passed, the how of the kid’s situation mattered less, but the importance of the why continued to glow as brightly as ever. Anyone who was angry enough to inject an overdose of narcotics into a kid’s system and then leave him for dead in the middle of nowhere was likely to be a person who’d be mightily pissed to learn that he’d failed. It was exactly the sort of person that Harvey wanted nothing to do with.

If Harvey’d had a brain in his head, he would have run away from this kid like a bunny rabbit on fire, putting as much space as possible between the two of them before finding a way to call for help. Woulda, coulda, shoulda. Fact was, he didn’t have a brain in his head. He’d decided instead to play floor nurse, monitoring the boy’s respirations and pulse, and making sure that if they faltered, he would be there to jump-start them.

And if the bad guys came back, well, that would just be the perfect ending to the perfect day, wouldn’t it?

He was so screwed.

The boy lay in Harvey’s tent now, in Harvey’s sleeping bag and under his mosquito netting. Now that night had returned, recovery was all up to the boy and God.

Harvey’s money-as if he had any-said that the kid would be fine after he slept it off. And then what?

Well, that was the question, wasn’t it?

Harvey could see the headline now: HOMELESS MAN FINDS PARTIALLY CLOTHED BOY. Jesus.

Forget all those worries from last night about being associated with a dead guy. Being found with a live boy was the stuff of national headlines. These days, the mere appearance of impropriety made you a pedophile. Been there, done that. Thanks, but no.

So, just what the hell was he supposed to do? Going to the police was a ticket to prison. Not even the kid himself could testify that he hadn’t done anything awful, so the cops would automatically assume that he had. Once they get that thought in their head, facts stop mattering.

After the first hour or two, when the kid still hadn’t stirred, and his pupils were still pinpoints, Harvey had come this close to leaving him to get help, but what would have happened if the kid’s vitals had crashed in the meantime? He’d have brought the police to the body of a boy who’d died in Harvey’s tent.

Thanks again, but absolutely not.

Welcome to the land of crappy choices, starring Harvey Rodriguez.

Harvey sat way forward on his nylon sling camping chair, tending to the Coleman one-burner stove and the pot of reheated coffee from lunchtime. To stay near the boy, he’d opted to dig into his emergency supply of canned tuna for both lunch and dinner, and he was hoping that the astringent twice-cooked java would take the dead fish taste out of his mouth.

The boy coughed.

Harvey spun his head. Coughing is a voluntary action that implies a higher level of consciousness. It meant that the boy was coming out of his coma.

Harvey left his coffee on the stove but turned the burner down as he pulled himself out of his chair and crawled back into the tent. He used a cigarette lighter he’d found in a trash can a month ago to light the single mantle of his propane lantern. Pulling the mosquito netting out of the way, he leaned in close to the boy’s face and held the lantern off to the side, trying to tame the dark shadows thrown by the kid’s facial features. He saw that the boy had ejected a bit of spittle onto his cheek, and he wiped it away with his thumb.

The boy twitched at his touch.

“Hey, kid. Are you awake?”

Nothing.

Harvey gently grabbed the boy’s shoulder and shook it. “Hey, pal, come on and open your eyes.”

They fluttered.

“That’s it. Go ahead and open them. You’re safe. You’re okay.”

The boy coughed again, and as he did, he raised his head a little with the effort. He was close to wakefulness.

Harvey rubbed the shoulder more vigorously. “You’re almost there. Come on. Open your eyes. Let me know that you’re okay. Talk to me. I don’t even know your name.”

Wrinkles appeared in the boy’s forehead, and when his mouth twisted into a wince, Harvey moved the light away from his eyes.

“You’ve had a long hard day, my friend,” Harvey said. “Open your eyes now and join the world.”

The lids parted, though it took a few seconds for awareness to arrive. The boy raised both hands to his face and rubbed his eyes with the heels of his palms. For a few seconds, he looked like any other child waking from a long sleep, but then full awareness arrived. His hands shot back down to his sides, and the boy recoiled in terror, trying to roll away, but unable to flee from the tangle of the sleeping bag.

Harvey reached out to comfort him, but the boy yelled out at his touch. “Leave me alone!”

Harvey pulled back as if he’d touched a hot stove.

“Help!” the boy yelled.

Harvey felt a jet of panic. “Hush! Shit, kid, be quiet.”

“Help me! Don’t hurt me! Let go of me!”

It was the nightmare. Harvey shot a glance out the tent opening, half expecting a police officer to be standing right there. “I’m not touching you, kid,” he said at a harsh whisper. “Jesus, I saved your life. Cut me a break.”

The kid kicked at his covers, and the more he struggled, the more tangled he became. “Please don’t hurt me anymore.”

“Listen to me!” Harvey barked, loudly this time, hoping to startle the boy into sanity. “I’m not the one who hurt you. I saved you.” He raised the lantern parallel to his own face. “Look at me,” he went on. “I am not the one who hurt you.”

At first, it was as if the boy hadn’t heard him; he continued to wrestle with the sleeping bag as fear and frustration turned his efforts violent. Then, he stopped. It was as if Harvey’s words had traveled the slow route and had only just now arrived. He pivoted his head and scowled as he studied the man’s features.

“You’re safe here,” Harvey said, his voice soft again.

The kid darted his glance from one corner of the tent to another. “Where are they?”

“Gone,” Harvey said. “About twenty hours ago.”