POCKET CHANGE
by Sharon R.

Chapter Six
Over the River and Through the Woods…

Instinctively, they threw their arms up into the air, not wanting to give the rebels any reason to pull their triggers. Luka was already on the ground, having just yanked his trapped foot from the tree roots. Carter stood frozen, looking back and forth from Luka to the very angry, armed men when he was pushed to the ground from behind. His hands went out in front of him automatically to break the fall, but he quickly put them back in the air again when he managed to get to his knees. A slow trickle of blood made its way from the palm of his right hand down his wrist to his elbow, pain was there somewhere, but to Carter it was the least of his worries.

The same men who had moments before given the doctors a free jungle pass through their roving checkpoint, were now after the doctors who had not only deceived them, but who had also harmed one of their own. The rains stopped and the sun made a dramatic entrance through the dense coverage of palms, the rays hitting Luka and Carter like spotlights, forcing them to squint through the harsh, piercing illumination. They were held at gunpoint and sunlight. There was little sound other than their rapid, shakey breathing they tried to keep to themselves: a futile effort. A feeling of helplessness swooped down on the two as they were forced to look up at the rebels, they at them.

From a rustle in the brush behind the group emerged the young man Carter and Luka had subdued. His hand to his sore head, he pointed to Carter speaking with quick accusing words. A group of the rebels encircled Carter ranting at him, seemingly asking questions, none of which he could understand. Carter's eyes widened as he saw the backhand of the leader swish through the air at his face meeting his cheekbone with a stinging thud. He kept his arms raised but brought his elbows in to protect his face. Without thinking, Luka jumped to his feet throwing his own words out, some French, some in Joseph's language, which they had been practicing. He wasn't sure if he was being understood, in part or in whole. But enough of the words were to bring the mob of molten anger to a stop before Carter took any more blows. The leader stepped out of the crowd, pushing guns down and away as he made his way to Luka. He was the one who spoke French, asking questions, talking in an almost ironic calm voice with an equally smug smile.

Carter tried talking to the man, almost a vain attempt to reason with him. "Look, we're just doctors. Nous d'un médecin." The leader gazed his way and spat at Carter's feet. "We're trying to help a little girl. She's sick." The man ignored Carters useless words and pushed him aside choosing, instead, to deal with Luka, who spoke his language, properly.

The man wanted to know where the drugs were, motioning his men to do a search. He relished the power his status had afforded him, flaunting it in front of the other leader want-to-bee's. The black bag was dumped out onto the ground as Carter and Luka had their bodies frisked. Shirts up, waistbands turned down, rough hands groped them while gun butts maneuvered their body positions. When they were satisfied that they had nothing out of the usual, the young soldier spoke up again. The leader asked Luka where the third man went. "Where is the local man? Your guide?"

Luka did his best to buy Joseph some time, stumbling over his words, hoping to distract the men. "I don't know," he sputtered in French, "he left us - got scared."

Not satisfied, the leader continued hammering questions at Luka in French.

"Where are the drugs?"

"Why were you hiding them?"

"What is the value?"

"Who were you selling them to?"

"Where is the third man?"

And finally, "Who are you working for?

When the leader was satisfied that none of these questions could be, or would be answered, he stepped back away from Luka, giving his rebel colleagues room to do their jobs. Both Luka and Carter, already on their knees, felt a hard foot to the back pushing them forward, their heads forced down as their hands were tied tightly behind their backs. As if this was not enough, sacks were put over their heads, leaving them to see nothing but the brown burlap innards - the tight woven strings well worn from multiple uses. The smell was putrid - of their own sweat and stale breath and maybe of the previous hostage's.

Pulled to their feet, they were unceremoniously walked out of the wooded jungle area until they felt their feet meet the more even dirt road. "Luka?" Carter was unsure if they were still together. Luka answered back but both were given a good whack about the head as a reward for speaking up. The re-circulated, decaying, hot air they were forced to breath inside the bag was gagging. By moving their heads in a certain direction, they could encourage just a bit of fresh air to make its way in through the opening at their necks. They had to keep their wits about them just to stay on their feet. Balance was a big issue, even though there was a captor holding onto one or both of their upper arms. There was no way to see in front of them, to predict if they were still on the road or had veered off back into the jungle. Only the feel of the surface under their feet: hard packed road or the soft palm leaves over rutty tree roots of the jungle. Back and forth, they traveled from the roadway to the jungle, taking turns at falling and being pulled back up - sometimes laughed at by the rebels.

Finally they stopped - pushed into something metal. The leader spoke solely with Luka while ignoring Carter. Luka in turn translated for Carter. "It's a pick-up truck. They want us to get into it."

Once in the bed of the truck they were forced face down, to feel the rough ride of the truck as it hit all of the ruts and roots. Their faces battered even more with little more than the burlap bag to protect them. Added to the existing acerbic smells of the bag was the fetid exhaust. They fought their own bodies to keep from vomiting.

Luka felt a man's foot on his back, almost stepping on him. Another on the back of his head when a sudden jolt forced it to lift off the bed of the truck. Punched back down he felt a sharp pain to his nose that spread throughout his face, his eyes throbbing. The foot kept him from breathing little more than the rank air mixed with his own blood and spit.

When the truck stopped they were dragged out and taken on yet another hike through the unkind jungle. It was pouring again, the rain soaking the bags over their heads, the burlap sticking to their faces. They had to blow at the material to get it away from their noses and mouths just to reach breathable air. Water was a memory of long ago as their mouths became parched, their lips cracked. Occasionally one would fall and let out a groan in pain or frustration. This the only clue that they were still together.

It seemed like hours before they stopped. It was obvious from the sound of other voices that they were in the company of additional people. They stood there waiting. They were all waiting. For another truck? For orders? Had they arrived at some village? A commotion of feet shuffling in the graveled dirt preceded the metal clicking sound of guns being readied for fire. This certainly needed no visuals for comprehension. Luka and Carter were positioned side by side while their hoods were simultaneously removed. They each took deep breaths almost choking on the volumes of fresh air they gulped down. Looking at their surroundings as they adjusted their eyes to the daylight, they established that they were both together, albeit a bit beat up. But their attention was quickly drawn to an area in the clearing directly in front of them. Rebels stood, rifles propped at their shoulders, eyes aimed straight down the barrels at two blindfolded men kneeling with their backs to the guns. One of them was whimpering, almost pleading with the rebels. The other accepting of his fate.

With a slight turn of his head, the leader looked to see if Carter and Luka were perched and readied in the observation gallery. When he was satisfied that they were paying attention he gave just a slight nod to the first of the four men with guns. Carter caught on and as he let out a halted "hey… HEY," the shots were fired and the men slumped in death to the ground as their heads were split open by the bullets. Life went on as usual around them, men milling about, picking up the pieces while Carter and Luka stood in shock at what they had just witnessed. Carter took a step towards the dead men, almost a reflex of occupation, before he was grabbed from behind and thrown to the ground. With nothing to break his fall this time, his shoulder took the brunt of the force shooting pains through his chest and back.

Luka stepped towards Carter, but with his hands tied, he was useless to help. The leader, still standing to the side taking in all of his self-created drama and action almost as entertainment, motioned his men to untie Luka's hands. Looking straight at Carter, but talking to Luka, he surprised them by speaking faultless English, a very, very British accent in tow. "Well, alright then." One would think the man was acting as social director at a summer camp. "Help up your friend. I'll talk to you later."

Luka pulled Carter to his feet as the leader walked away, leaving them in the hands of the brutal and bored rebel pack. The burlap bags were pushed back over their heads as they were led away from the execution field, this time it was Luka keeping Carter in step. The blind leading the blind.

The journey this time was short, maybe several hundred yards. The creek of a door and they were both pushed inside a building, the door slammed and locked behind them. Planks of wood made up the floor where they sat down, making no sound, not knowing if they were alone and neither one wanting to take the chance to test the waters.

Finally, Luka felt comfortable enough with the rebel voices off in the distance to speak up. "I think we're alone." Reaching up he removed the bag from his head and took in his primitive and bare surroundings. A floor, four walls and a roof. Some of it corrugated tin, some wood, strapped, pounded or nailed together. A bucket in one corner, a pile of palm leaves in the middle - bedding, Luka guessed - and by the door two small bottles of water. Store bought. The place was selectively primitive. Primitive by choice. Interesting, Luka thought.

He walked over to Carter and removed his bag as well. "You OK?" Luka asked as he untied Carter's hands, giving him one of the bottles.

Carter was shaken, sore, but not about to be the loser. "Yeah. But you look like hell."

Luka looked at his shirt and spied the blood now dried from his unfortunate full-face collision with the floor of the truck bed. Carter stood and stretched wincing as he rotated his shoulder. He walked over to Luka and checked his face, feeling for broken bones. "No step-off. But your nose may never be quite so pretty again."

"Gee, thanks," Luka quipped, "your own face has seen better days."

The two doctors continued their comfortable silence, taking up opposite sides of the hut providing themselves with separate but equal living quarters. One small opening in the wood slats provided them with their only window to the outside world of the Congo. They exchanged niceties and took turns peering outside the tiny window, both unsure of their fate.

Day turned to night, water was again in short supply and neither doctor could get any sleep, although they were physically and mentally spent.

"What do you suppose they want to do with us?" Carter finally spoke up, barely able to make out Luka through the scant moonlight showing through the slits in the building structure.

Just as Luka was about to answer, someone pounded on the tin door. The pounding came repeatedly until the door finally opened and three men rushed inside. Luka and Carter didn't get much of a look at the men before they were turned around and the hoods put back on their heads.

They were on their way outside, once again.