POCKET CHANGE
by Sharon R.
Chapter Seven
Hospitality and Hazing
Luka was walked down a path, he could tell by the even scuffling of dirt he felt under his feet. No tree roots to trip over. No up and over roadways. No large group with him either. Just a few other feet and the one person holding his arm. His hands had been tied during the scuffle in the hut to put the sacks back over their heads, but not as tightly as when they were first taken captive. It was just minutes, maybe ten, when they finally stopped. In French, the leader's voice told the other men to leave them. A strong hand from above forced Luka to sit on a log, and when the sack was removed he saw that he was alone with the leader in a small clearing encircled by trees. He thought he was alone until his squinting brought the few heavily armed men into focus hidden within the trees and brush beyond the boss-man. Another attempted illusion.
So there they were, face to face. Luka was surprised at his own comfort in the situation. One on one, certainly not with the upper hand, but at least the playing ground was leveling off - in Luka's eyes.
Between the two men was a fire pit, a small organized fire freshly built glowed in the dark night bringing a shine to the deep black skin of the man who looked quizzically at Luka. The two stared through the leaping flames at each other hearing only the crack and snap of the wet wood. The first words would not be Luka's, he was convinced of that. He didn't even want to give him the satisfaction of getting questions answered. Luka was stoic and proud. Keeping his stoicism above and beyond that of his captor was what he believed would keep him alive.
"Bonsoir." The man in charge sat on his log, a long automatic weapon at his side lazily within reach. "Well, what is your name?" He spoke with the cadence of a wartime interrogator, something that Luka was not easily frightened of, at least on the surface. It was the tyrant's familiarity and comfort of the situation that made Luka most uneasy.
"I can ask you in French if you wish. Hmmm? I think you would agree that it is in your best interest to answer my questions." The smile on Jules' face made Luka feel like he was being interviewed for a job.
The man was not appreciating Luka's silence. "Quel est ton nom? " Luka caught on that the familiar form of French was being used, as though they were long lost brothers. Vile.
Still, Luka veered his eyes from the man giving him no satisfaction.
"Où est-ce que vous habitez?"
Luka shifted his weight to relieve some of the pressure on his restrained hands behind his back. "You have all of my papers, my passport. You know who I am, where I'm from." Luka wanted to see what the man would do with a little attitude. "I'm the one who should be asking you that question."
"Come now, Luka. You are in my country." The man gave Luka a slight smile, one of concession, but certainly not of defeat. "But, fair enough, you may call me Jules." He tilted his head with a hint of arrogance wafting over his face. They continued their evening retreat by campfire, guns readied in the distance for atmosphere. Luka would not be an easy interview; he had an air about him that previous hostages lacked.
As the night wore on, Jules continued asking questions - none of which Luka was inclined to answer. By this time, he knew that Joseph had made it to the clinic and safety. Although he was unsure of the stability in the area, he did know that something had happened recently - it was in the air and Luka hoped that the safety that had enveloped Joseph and Toomay's village as well as the populated areas around the clinic had not collapsed.
After a while, a man entered the area carrying food and water. Luka noticed that Jules and his men rarely spoke in words, but instead had their own language of darting eyes, raised eyebrows and head tilts like a well rehearsed play. After the "waiter" placed one plate in front of Jules, then the other with Luka, someone came from behind to untie Luka's hands. Now what? Luka's stomach rumbled with hunger, the food - whatever it was - would have been very welcome to his system, if he ate it. He picked up the water and eagerly guzzled it down. However, he maintained his passive capacity, refusing the sustenance and snubbing the captor's meal. With a nod of his head, Jules signaled one of his men to leave the area, which he did so with purpose.
Jules ate his meal, taking his time to enjoy each bite while occasionally glancing across at Luka who continued his silent, but hungry, protest. "My hospitality does not please you?" The man consumed his feast as though he were royalty in the finest of five-star restaurants, holding his fork backside up like the Europeans. He ate in morsels and chewed as though a nanny was monitoring him for proper etiquette. After he finally finished, Jules picked up a linen napkin, dabbed his mouth, and without taking his eyes off Luka, raised his empty plate to the side for removal by his cronies who magically appeared. It was a wonder that there were no bells to ring for servants. Luka's plate was left in front of him, silverware still neatly tucked into the napkin.
"Why don't you want to talk to me, Luka? Huh? I give you food, water. We can have nice conversation." The man talked as though he were sharing martinis over a game of chess. "Is it so bad that we try to get to know one another?"
Luka decided to speak up once and only once. "I choose not to talk with the evil that has taken away my freedom and threatened my life."
Jules stood and had a good, hearty laugh. His body shook with amusement, his face snidely laughing with utter contempt as he adjusted the waistband of his slacks to accommodate his stuffed belly. "Surely, you jest," he spouted between gut laughs, mocking an American accent. The man was full of himself making no mistake of his authority. "I'll ask you one more time, Luka, where did you get the drugs and where is the third man that was with you?"
Luka looked straight through the tall man's eyes, saying absolutely nothing. He would not give in and play his game.
The power struggle was not an issue in the leader's eyes. With a snap of his fingers another armed man made his way out of the thick jungle and walked to his side. Without taking his eyes off Luka, Jules whispered something into the ear of the rebel, and then waved him off. "I think you will find that we have a lot in common, Luka."
Luka grimaced at the thought of ever having something in common with an animal like Jules and continued his silence. As the evening slipped into dawn Jules stood and tucked his shirt neatly into his waistband. "I hope that we will see eye to eye next time we speak, Luka. I bid you goodnight... or is it good day?" He walked off into the woods leaving his men to hood Luka and lead him back to the hut, hands untied.
He felt as though he had been left all alone in the middle of nowhere. The bag left on his head, hands tied behind his back. Carter wondered if he had been taken out into the jungle and set loose, like the butt of a bad prep school joke, a hazing of sorts. He strained to listen for any sound that would give him a clue as to what his circumstances were. So far nothing outside of the normal night time jungle creature clatter, the wisps of evening breeze providing the background percussion rubbing and tapping the heavy foliage against each other. Safety, he thought. Safety… or doom. Even if he was alone, he was nothing more than a blind idiot in a grain sack. For a moment, he caught himself looking at the humorous side of possibly wandering around aimlessly, bumping into trees, rubbing his head against the bark trying to get the bag off. How long had he been standing there? An hour? Two? Apathy got the best of him at that point as he mockingly spouted off, "Hello, anybody home?"
Carter was blind-sided with a blow to his head so hard that his left ear popped and buzzed. His body slammed to the ground on his side with someone's knee from above grinding Carter's hips together as though his pelvic structure was a waste of God's time. He let out a groan, expending all of the possible air left in his young, healthy lungs until they too hurt. With a protective reflex, he curled on the ground into a fetal position wanting desperately to have his hands free to wrap around his chest. Instead, he chose to remain still and silent. What other choice did he have?
More time elapsed with no discernable sound of voices. Adding to the torture of silence was the shuffling of feet that would come and go, the closer they got, the more alarmed Carter would be. But they came and went almost as though he was a spectacle in a zoo. Finally, he heard the sound of someone walking into the area, or at least the pant legs the person was wearing rubbing together. Then - whispering. His hands were untied, but only to be bound again in front of him, his body dragged several feet. He tried in vain to get to his knees but was never given the opportunity. His arms stretched out in front of him, palms together, he knew that - face down in the dirt - his hands were being tied to a wooden pole. He could only breathe what came from the other side of the bag and the dirt of the jungle floor was not conducive at all to respiration. Carter choked as he fought for a workable space within the bag to get a dust free breath. His shirt shifted up from inside his waste band exposing the bare skin of his back to the biting bugs of Africa in the moonlight.
It seemed as though there would be no end to the night as he laid there with his pride and soul exposed to whomever or whatever wanted to steal it. His ears became his best friend, at least his right ear. He listened for the feet, the sounds of the animals beginning to come to life as dawn approached. Finally, a man's voice - a deep voice - spoke up. But before Carter could hope for an end to the bizarre night of horror, he heard a whish-snap and the immediate pain of his skin tearing on his back.
Oh God, he thought. Not again…
whish-snap
whish-snap
His skin burned as the whip seared and sliced it open. If he could have gotten his knees up under him he would have coiled up like a battered and hunted rabbit. He had to concentrate on other things to keep from letting out the groans he so wanted to release from his throat, but to give in was not in his nature. A fourth time, whish-snap, and then, no more.
Finally, he was hoisted up by the armpits and led away like a dog, his arms the anchor for the leash. In all the time away from the hut he had had no water, no food and was never without the bag over his head. Exhaustion overcame him as his adrenalin rush wore off, causing him to drag his feet and stumble along the way.
The door flew open as Carter was thrown inside, just behind him he heard someone else enter the hut. With the slamming of the door, Luka spoke up quickly, as he removed his bag. "Well, that was interesting." It was still dark, the sun poised to make an appearance within minutes. He saw Carter lying on the floor beyond him. "Hey Carter, I think we should play Good Cop/Bad Cop. Tomorrow maybe I'll find some goodness and speak to the turd. What do you think?"
"I think they thought of it first." Carter rolled over in the direction of Luka's voice. "Can you get my hood off?"
The darkness was easing, bringing Carter's form into view. Luka moved over to him and removed the bag from his head. He was surprised that his hands were bound. "Your hands are…" He saw from the young sunlight stabbing through the slats of the building that Carter had been beaten in the head, blood coming from his ear. His hands bound so tightly that his fingers were enlarged and wrists melded together as one.
Luka helped Carter to sit up noticing that his shirt had been flogged into nothing more than rags. This was more; more than he had ever believed was humanly possible. But then again, it was becoming clear that these were not men of human nature who were acting as their hosts.