John Gilstrap - Hostage Zero

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.