Hostage Zero

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.”

Victor looked offended. “Coca leaves. Very good for you. Like Coca-Cola.”

So that was it. They’re making cocaine up here. Evan had watched a documentary once about the development of soft drinks, and he remembered that early on, Coca-Cola had cocaine in it. They’d removed it years ago, but apparently, a hundred years later, Victor still hadn’t gotten the word.