Hostage Zero

The flashlight shifted from Jeremy’s eyes to Anthony’s bed. It looked like they’d mummified him with strips of duct tape. The light returned, once again gouging Jeremy’s retinas. “Stand up,” his attacker said, stripping off the sheet and blanket. “Get out of bed.”

It was only a couple layers of fabric, but somehow that cover felt like protection. Now he was so terribly exposed. He drew himself up into a ball.

The hesitation pissed off the attacker, who grabbed Jeremy’s arm and pulled him off the bed and dumped him in a heap on the floor. “I said get up.”

Jeremy found his feet and rose to his full height, adjusting his pajamas as he stood. At Resurrection House, everyone wore the same light blue pajamas with dark blue piping-like something out of a Leave It to Beaver rerun.

“Don’t cross me, kid,” the attacker said. “Killing you wouldn’t bother me a bit.”

Jeremy nodded. And trembled harder. His head still felt fuzzy from sleep, giving him hope that maybe this was just a very real, very bad nightmare that would set a new standard for nightmares everywhere.

“Do you know Evan Guinn?” Garlic Breath asked.

Jeremy nodded again. “Yes.” Then as a self-preserving afterthought: “Sir.”

“Do you know where his room is?”

“What did he do?” A lightbulb popped behind his eyes when a slap he never saw connected with his cheek. He smelled blood inside his head. A moment later, it was trickling down his lip onto his chin. “Yes,” he said. “I know where his room is.”

His upper arm disappeared into Garlic Breath’s fist as he was nearly lifted off the floor. “Take us there,” the man said. He stuck out a finger so close that the boy couldn’t focus on it. “And don’t make a sound.”

Jeremy sniffed and nodded emphatically. The sniff brought a mouthful of blood.

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.