Hostage Zero

His head broke into the clearing first. Actually, it wasn’t a clearing as much as it was the absence of jungle. Leafy shit stopped brushing his face and shoulders, and all at once it felt as if there was more air to breathe.

It was the roadway. It had to be. It had wheel ruts. What else could it be?

But there was no truck.

“Hey!” he yelled. In return, he got only the sounds of a million insects and other creatures that he wanted nothing to do with. He had no intention of being something’s dinner tonight.

He turned to his right, the direction where the truck had driven off and started walking-a slow, dejected gait at first, burdened with the knowledge that he’d been left to die. A horrible daytime nightmare image of his body being ripped apart by vultures invaded his mind. He saw the stringy cords of his flesh and his intestines being pulled free of his carcass-just the way he’d seen buzzards and crows consume roadkill at home-and he picked up his pace.

Maybe there was still a chance that he could catch the SUV. Maybe they hit a rut in the road or they had to cross a stream so they’d have to slow way down. That would give him time to catch up.

But he had to move faster. He started to jog, and then to run. Rocks and sticks dug at his bare feet, but he didn’t feel any pain. There wasn’t room for pain today.

He picked up his pace even more, pumping his arms the way that Mr. Jackson, the PE teacher at the RezHouse and taught him. Evan had always been a good runner-a good athlete in general-and Mr. Jackson had taken a special interest in him. He said that he might be good enough to get a scholarship one day, but that when you get to that level of competition, all the little things mattered. Like pumping your arms just-so to get a little more out of every stride.

God, it was hot! As Evan rounded the first turn in the road, he felt the soaked, greasy tendrils of his hair bouncing against the back of his neck, and he swiped them away from his eyes. A hill loomed ahead, not steep but long.

Don’t stop, he told himself. Stopping was too easy. That meant that dying was too easy. If he was going to die, it was going to be from exhaustion or dehydration. It wasn’t going to be for his nutritional value. He lowered his head and forced himself on. He watched his feet instead of the terrain because the terrain was too depressing.

How could people live in this heat?

After eighty-five steps, it became easier. He hadn’t even realized that he’d been counting. When he looked up, he saw that he’d crested the hill.

And there was the SUV, a hundred feet away. He could hear the engine idling above the noise of the insects.

Mitch stood at the back bumper. He wore all khaki, long pants with a short-sleeved shirt open at the neck. He’d assumed an expectant posture, leaning against the spare tire, his arms folded and his feet slightly extended and crossed.

Evan stopped at the sight of the man. He froze in his tracks, his chest heaving, his eyes stinging from sweat. He swiped at them with the palms of his hands, but that only made them sting more. Gasping for air, and his heart pounding, his body wanted to collapse onto the ground, but his brain wouldn’t let him-wouldn’t give Mitch the satisfaction.

Seeing the smirk on the man’s face, Evan understood right away that he’d been played. Just like with most grownups, this was all about power. You need me, kid was the message. Without me, you’ve got nothing.

“Yeah, well you need me, too,” Evan mumbled aloud. He was done running. He kept his stride as casual as his trembling legs would allow as he closed the distance to the truck.

“Took you long enough,” Mitch said with a mocking smile.

Evan said nothing as he headed for his door. As he passed within range, Mitch reached out for him, but Evan twisted out of the way. “Don’t touch me,” he said.

He was vaguely aware that both the driver and the shotgun guy were also out of the car, watching with amusement.

Mitch seemed startled by Evan’s speed. He folded his arms again. “You don’t learn so good, do you, kid?”

Evan said nothing.

“Now, you need to ask permission to get back into my truck.”

Evan didn’t fully understand the look in the guy’s eyes. The way he kept shooting quick glances to the other men, he almost looked embarrassed.

Evan started for the door again, and again Mitch tried to grab his arm.

“Don’t fucking touch me!” Evan shrieked. The fierceness of his tone startled the henchmen.

“Don’t fucking tell me what to do!” Mitch shouted back. “Now, either you ask permission to get back into that vehicle-either you show some respect-or I swear to God I’ll leave you out here to die.”

Evan had never felt his heart hammer so hard. In the past, on the few occasions when he’d found himself in this kind of blustering power play, the worst that would come from the ensuing fight might be a busted nose or a loosened tooth. Here, the penalty for being wrong was the biggest one there was.