Hostage Zero

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.

Oh, Christ, he had to find a way out of here.