John Gilstrap - Hostage Zero

“Exactly,” Boxers said. “Thanks for seeing my side.”

Jonathan gave him a hard look. “We’re good men, Big Guy,” he said with a wink. “We’ve gotta do something.”

After taking Evan’s picture, El Jefe assigned a new guard to escort the boy farther into the jungle, past the cluster of huts that he presumed to be the headquarters for whatever was going on.

Evan had never been so exhausted-never in his entire life. Every muscle ached, and every square inch of skin screamed from the onslaught of God only knew how many different varieties of bugs. He’d known from the History Channel and Discovery that prehistoric times still reigned in the jungles, with man-eating plants and insects, but Jesus. How did the people who lived here get anything done when three-quarters of every calorie was burned up by either slapping something or scratching the bite that an unslapped something left behind?

Only a few minutes into the hike, they emerged over the crest of a hill onto a rolling vista that might once have been beautiful. There were fewer trees here, affording a view of thick ground foliage that swept downhill from where he stood to a little valley, and then uphill again on the other side. Evan wasn’t good at judging distances, but he guessed that it had to be a half mile or more between where he stood and the opposite peak.

The field of bushes had an undulating feel to it, as if it were alive. For an instant, Evan thought it might be the wind, but the rhythm wasn’t right. It wasn’t natural. When he realized the truth of it, his heart skipped a beat. The place was alive with children scattered among the bushes, working their asses off stripping leaves from the branches and stuffing them into sacks that were slung over their shoulders.

He saw only boys among the workers and only men-some of them teenagers-among the guards who watched over them. The children all wore tattered remnants of what had once been poor people’s rags, though some wore nothing at all. Evan pegged the workers’ ages at somewhere between eight and maybe fourteen years old.

Evan’s arrival startled a soldier who looked like he might have been sleeping. He jumped when one of Evan’s escorts called his name, and he fumbled with his rifle-an AK-47, Evan thought-but then stopped when he recognized them. The guard who called his name had been part of Evan’s parade ever since he’d first met up with Oscar in the field. He spoke with rapid words and an angry tone to the man who’d been sleeping, and the guilty guard looked more terrified with every word that was being fired at him.

Evan’s guard finished his diatribe by shoving the younger man in the chest hard enough to make him stumble over his own feet and fall backward into the undergrowth.

Evan didn’t understand a word of it, but he was pretty sure he got the gist. “ Estupido ” probably meant in Spanish more or less what it sounded like in English.

It wasn’t lost on him that his captors treated everyone else much more harshly than they treated him. It’s not that they were nice-far from it. It was more as if he weren’t even there-better still, as if he were a dog or a piece of furniture. Whichever, he was obviously a valuable dog or piece of furniture.

Finished with delivering his tongue-lashing and obviously pleased with himself, Evan’s guard led the way into the endless field of bushes. He said something into his radio, and then they stopped again. A couple of minutes later, a man emerged from the brush. He was very tall, very black, and wore more or less the same tattered-shorts uniform as the workers. On his belt, though, he carried a coiled whip; in his hand, a well-worn Louisville Slugger baseball bat.

Evan’s stomach knotted in fear. This man with the glistening skin and powerful muscles was bad. Evil was written all over him just as surely as if it had been drawn with Magic Marker.

The presence of the new man transformed Evan’s guard from abusive bully to timid wimp. As the two of them spoke, it was clear that Evan was the topic of conversation, and the angry set of the black man’s face told the boy that he wasn’t welcome here.

When their brief conversation was done, the guard put a hand on Evan’s shoulder and pushed him closer to the black man. In the staccato conversation that accompanied the push, Evan heard his name.

“Ah, so you are the prince,” the black man said. His tone was leaden with sarcasm. “Welcome to your new home.” He held out his hand.

Evan took it. He was going to say, “Pleased to meet you,” but before he had the chance, the man’s grip closed like a talon.

“My name is Victor,” he said. “You are mine. You will do what I say. If you are too slow or if I am in a sour mood, I will hit you with my whip. If you try to run away, I will break your legs with my baseball bat. Do you have any questions?”

Evan found himself transfixed by the way the man handled the bat. When he talked about breaking his legs, he twirled it in a manner that projected perfect intimacy with its potential to inflict damage. Evan shook his head no-a silent lie. He was filled with questions-consumed by them-but nothing was more clear to him at the moment than the fact that the correct answer was no, he had nothing to ask.

“ Bueno,” Victor said. He then spoke rapidly to the guard, who laughed and walked away after giving Evan an angry glare that the boy felt he hadn’t earned.

Victor poked at Evan’s belly with the baseball bat, but he bent in the middle and jumped back, avoiding contact. Victor laughed. “Good reflexes,” he said. “They will serve you well among the other workers. Come.”

He led the way down the hill into the thickness of the bushes. As if it were even possible, the heat and the humidity both doubled. Most of the bushes were taller than Evan, and the height of the foliage blocked whatever semblance of breeze there once had been. Within a minute, his skin was slippery with sweat, which in turn summoned more insects.

“What is this place?” Evan asked.

“Your home.”

The answer was intended to frighten him, and it succeeded. But Evan wasn’t going to give his captor the satisfaction of showing it. “I meant the bushes,” he said. “What are they?”

Victor scowled. “You have hair like a girl.”

“That’s not an answer.”

“Perhaps I should cut it off.”

Evan looked him straight in the eye. “If you want to, you will. I’m not big enough to stop you.” Actually, right now, in this heat, he sort of hoped he would. He’d have welcomed a buzz cut. But he sensed that these people wouldn’t let him cut his hair even if he begged for it. Whatever this was about, taking his picture was an important part of it. Since they’d already shot his photo twice in the last couple of days, it only made sense that they’d want to take it again, and if that was the case, they’d want him to look like himself.

Victor asked, “Have you heard people say that money does not grow on trees?”

Evan nodded.

“These bushes”-Victor brushed them with the tip of his bat-“prove that to be wrong. These leaves are U.S. dollar bills. Over there are Euros. And rubles and rupees and pesos. The work we do here makes people very wealthy.” He plucked a few leaves from one of the bushes and offered them to Evan. “Here.”

Evan took them, held them in his fist. They looked like any other leaves, green and oval-shaped. He looked at Victor.

His captor stripped a few leaves for himself and tucked them between his cheek and lower gum, the way people back home dipped snuff. “You chew the leaves. Suck on them. Make you feel happy. Make you feel strong.”

Evan remembered the nice old lady from the village spitting out the bits of paper that looked very much like these leaves. He handed them back. “No, thank you.”