John Gilstrap - Hostage Zero

Evan Guinn lived with Zaiem Ahmed, six or seven doors down the hall to the right, on the opposite side from Jeremy and Anthony’s room. Both of them were losers. Between the two of them, they had no friends other than each other. Too damn smart, and too ready to let everybody else know it.

Jeremy led the way into the hall. It was shocking how quietly they moved as a group. No one’s shoes even squeaked on the gleaming tiles, though Jeremy was keenly aware of his own blood trail. He could hear Mr. Stewart grumbling already as he had to wipe it up in the morning.

One of the men darted ahead and used a key to open Evan’s door-just a crack at first, and then wide enough for two men to slip into the darkness on the other side. Jeremy briefly heard a bed skid along the floor, and then the sounds of a struggle. Before he could figure out the details, Garlic Breath lifted him by his biceps and pulled him away from the door.

When they got to the fire door at the end of the hall, they stopped abruptly. “What’s through this door?” Garlic Breath asked, pointing toward the far end.

Jeremy answered quickly. He was learning. “The girls’ wing. But it’s alarmed.”

What was he doing? Why did he warn them? If they set off the alarm, maybe these guys would run. But the reaction to warn was instinctive-visceral.

“Does it lead outside?”

Jeremy shook his head. “I don’t know. I’ve never been there.”

A man boomed from behind them, “What’s going on here?”

Without looking, Jeremy recognized the deep rumble of Mr. Stewart’s voice. They turned together and there he was, a blue-black mountain of a man. The face that normally radiated with cheer-especially when he saw Jeremy-was twisted into a frightening scowl that warned of danger to anyone within reach. Jeremy was surprised to see that Mr. Stewart wore the same dorky blue pajamas as the boys did.

One of the men who had wrapped Anthony in duct tape produced a pistol from someplace. “Mind your own business,” he warned.

If the gun frightened Mr. Stewart, his face didn’t show it. If anything, his eyes set even harder. “None of you belong here,” he growled.

“Yet here we are,” Garlic Breath said. Then, in the same tone you’d expect from someone asking to pass the salt, he added, “Shoot him.”

Jeremy yelled, “No!” but it was too late. The pistol boomed-it was impossibly loud in the confines of the hallway-and Mr. Stewart dropped to the floor. He landed in a heap and didn’t move.

Jeremy shrieked, “Mr. Stewart!” and a hand clapped his mouth closed. Garlic Breath lifted him by his head until his bare feet could no longer find the floor.

From behind them, down the hall, someone yelled, “What the fuck?” and one of the men who’d disappeared into the dorm room darted back out into the hall with a gun in his hand.

“Gotta get going,” Garlic Breath said.

Jeremy couldn’t believe the lack of emotion. They’d just killed the nicest man at Resurrection House. He dug his fingernails into Garlic Breath’s hands and kicked his feet wildly. He wasn’t leaving Mr. Stewart. Not like this.

His attacker’s grip only tightened. “Get the other one out,” he commanded, and the other man disappeared again into the room.

“Let me go!” Jeremy yelled, but it was as if he were invisible.

Another door opened, and a boy yelled. Jeremy recognized the face but couldn’t remember his name. Jeremy yelled, “Help!” but the boy disappeared back into his room and slammed the door.

“To the stairs!” Garlic Breath called.

It hurt too much to fight. Jeremy let himself be taken.

Another door and another scream.

A man’s voice yelled, “Mitch! Look out!”

And then Jeremy got hit by a train. That’s what it felt like, anyway. Without warning he was airborne, and then fireworks exploded behind his eyes as he was driven into the unyielding concrete block wall.

Things went fuzzy after that, but there were definitely more screams. As his head cleared, it took a second or two to realize what he was seeing. Mr. Stewart was fighting his kidnapper! He and Garlic Breath rolled on the floor, cursing and struggling for advantage as blood smeared and spattered everywhere.

“Help!” Jeremy cried, and while more doors opened, none of the children filling the jambs did anything.

In seconds, the man from down the hall joined the fight and pulled Mr. Stewart away from Garlic Breath by his pajama top. When it ripped and the buttons pulled away, the custodian launched himself at the attacker again. But he’d lost his element of surprise. The second man grabbed him by the arms this time, and Mr. Stewart could barely move as they stood him up. His chest and belly were slick with blood, but he kept up his struggle as best he could.

“Run, Jeremy,” he said. “Children, get to your rooms and lock-”

Garlic Breath punched him hard in the ribs, in the spot where the blood seemed to be flowing from.

Mr. Stewart’s face twisted into something beyond pain, but he didn’t yell. Instead, he locked eyes with Jeremy and said again, “Run.” At least he tried to say it. No sound came out.

But Jeremy couldn’t move. Not to save his friend, not to save himself. He didn’t even know he was crying as he covered his mouth and watched them hit Mr. Stewart again. And again. One more time and they let him slide to the floor.

“I said it was time to go,” Garlic Breath said to his accomplice. Then he walked to Jeremy, stooped and grasped his arm, almost gently this time. “You, too, Jeremy,” he said.

Jeremy stood. The last thing he saw before they placed the foul-smelling rag over his face was the faces of all those kids staring at him, letting him be taken. Letting Mr. Stewart die.

Darkness.

“That’s all I remember,” Jeremy concluded. His voice had been growing softer as he droned on with the story, until now it was barely audible, speaking to his crossed ankles on the camp chair. He rocked his head up, and in the dark illumination of the lantern, Harvey was surprised to see that the boy’s eyes were dry. “Why would they do that?” he asked.

“I don’t know,” Harvey said, but his words were merely place-takers in the night. His mind raced in step with his hammering heart as he tried to come up with some plausible explanation. It was worse than a mere kidnapping. These men-whoever they were-dragged Jeremy all the way out here to kill him. And then they didn’t. Why take him in the first place if they just wanted him dead? They killed Mr. Stewart, after all; why not just fire a second shot into the boy? Worse, why fire a fake shot to pretend they’d killed him?

Harvey felt the panic attack blooming like a mushroom cloud. It was a big one, he could tell, forming like an offshore tidal wave and rising higher and higher until it would finally break over him and crush him. He hadn’t had one like this in years.

He had nowhere to run. He had possession of a child he didn’t know, who was supposed to be dead, and undoubtedly had people bearing down to correct their mistake. If they got the kid, they’d get Harvey, too, and then what?

No, sir. He’d chosen this ridiculous lifestyle specifically to keep things like this from happening. He’d been responsible for too many people, thank you very much. He’d fought other people’s wars. He wasn’t going to do that again.

He had to get rid of this kid. He should have just let him die. He should have let the boy become a body, and then just packed up his shit and gotten out of here. What was he worried about protecting, anyway? A footlocker full of MREs and a few utensils?

The air seemed suddenly too thick to breathe. Harvey clamped his arms across his chest and squeezed, trying to bring the rush of panic under control. Sometimes this worked, sometimes it didn’t. When it didn’t, things got ugly.