POCKET CHANGE
by Sharon R.
Chapter Nine
Patients and Patience
Bolting to their feet, Luka and Carter struggled to find their burlap bags. They had become so familiar with the sounds of the night and the approaching rebels that they didn't have to wait for the pounding on the door to pull the bags over their heads. This time there was no warning, and this particular guest put an anxious fear into Carter.
Shouting came from the man, but not with the volumes of ear splitting decibels the two had grown accustomed to. He pushed his way in, whipping off Carter's bag - grabbing Luka's out of his hand - throwing them to the side. Both doctors put their hands out in front of them trying to show the heavily armed rebel their willingness to stand down. Of course, the long automatic weapon he pointed their way had a lot to do with it.
Carter's heart was pounding fiercely knowing that not too long before, this very same man was all too willing to kill him for the generous thump on the head Carter gave him. The gun was pointed at both of them but was jabbed more in Carter's direction as the man was trying in vain to communicate with Luka. With each jab Carter let out a quiet "Okay, okay," eventually putting him to his knees, hands cautiously behind his head. But the man wasn't even interested in his previous aggressor. He was talking in fast jargon to Luka, trying to get a point across to him. What did he want? Would their fate be met that night? Or maybe just Carter's?
"I don't understand you." Luka was speaking on top of the rebel, who kept up his hushed foreign pleas. " Je ne sais pas." French, English and possibly Lingala was all going on at the same time, neither reciprocating the other's pleas.
The man wasn't speaking French but Luka hoped that a few rudimentary phrases would get through to him. "Je ne comprends pas."
They continued talking on top of and above each other, one in French, the other in Lingala or one of the other 200 dialects spoken in this region of Africa, as Carter looked on worried that the frantic man would get careless with his trigger finger as he became more and more frustrated. His words may have been pointed at Luka, but the gun was squarely aimed at Carter's chest and getting closer.
Finally, Luka spoke up loud, with enough emphasis to make the man stop his banter and take a deep breath. With great effort, like a vague tourist in the middle of Paris, the man scratched enough of his elementary French together to get his point across.
"Mon fils est malade. J'ai besoin d'un médecin."
With that, he turned and stepped out the door just enough to pull a child inside. His gun at his side, he looked at Luka but turned his back on Carter. "S'il vous plaît."
Carter nervously looked between the two men, finally daring to speak up. "What's going on, Luka?"
"His son is sick. He wants us to help." Carter slowly put his arms to his side and sat his backside down against his heels, still not ready to get up from his knees.
The man pushed the apprehensive boy towards Luka, the gun finally slung over his shoulder. Carter eyed the open door wondering for a moment, just a moment, if he had what it took to make an escape.
It was all guesswork. General appearances and hands-only exam told Luka that the child was feverish, though the fever was probably not over 102 degrees. Thick mucus drained from his sinuses. He was well hydrated; heartbeat was a bit rapid, but within normal limits for a fever… and a child of a gun wielding maniacal man. "I need the medical bag."
The man looked at him incredulously while Carter and Luka made gestures to imitate medical equipment. A stethoscope. Otoscope. Bandages.
In between the sign language, Carter managed a bit of levity under his breath. "Jungle Rebel Charades. Can't wait until next week's game night. Hope there's refreshments. But I'm much better at Jeopardy. "
Finally, the man bolted from the room leaving Luka and Carter with the boy. His round face shined from the fever, his white teeth bright against his dark, black skin. Luka reached out and stroked his cheek emoting a quick, bashful smile. Luka topped that by putting his thumbs on the side of his head, pointing his fingers up, sticking out his tongue and blowing raspberries at the boy. The boy giggled but quickly caught himself, covering his mouth.
"Doing a little Hans Christian Anderson?" Carter sat off to the side amused at Luka's connection to the child.
"What?"
"Hans Christian Ander….. Danny Kaye?"
Luka shook his head.
"Never mind," Carter chuckled.
The man came back in and closed the door behind him. This time he had the medical bag that was confiscated when they were first taken captive. Luka opened the bag and took out the stethoscope first. The boy's heart and lungs checked out. Reaching back in the bag, Luka found a tongue depressor. "Where's the otoscope?"
Carter scooted towards Luka lifting an outside flap taking out the otoscope. Incensed that Carter attempted to make his presence known, the man pushed him backwards with the butt of the gun. He toppled back into the banana frons they used for bedding and found that the medical bag had hooked onto his shoe and hid in the oversized leaves.
Luka found postnasal drip in the boy's otherwise unremarkable throat. His left ear exhibited a classic otitis media. He had an ear infection. Pointing to the boy's ear, he did his best to indicate that he had a sick ear. "Where's the bag?"
After making eye contact with the man, Carter carefully pushed the bag back to Luka who found some ibuprofen and amoxicillin, neither of which Luka was sure were still good after lingering in the jungle heat and humidity. Using the man's own wristwatch, he showed him the frequency of dosage. Once every eight hours for the amoxicillin. Then the ibuprofen: he pointed to the ear again and said, "ouch, ouch," showing the man every six hours for pain. Then a thumbs up sign as a symbol of prognosis.
Just as quickly as he came, the man grabbed the bag, pushed the boy out the door and left the hut.
"Think he understands?" Carter wondered.
"I don't know, and I don't care. Let's try and get some sleep."
Carter moved over to the frons where Luka was about to settle in. "Don't do that." He reached under Luka's arm and moved the frons aside exposing a cache of their own weapons.
"What's that?" Luka squatted down in the dark hut to try and see what Carter was pointing out. Carter scooped up the bounty and walked over to the tiny window, their night light of sorts.
"While you two were checking out the boy's ears I reached in the bag and managed to get two handfuls of things out. I did it blind, so I don't know what I got." In his arms were a couple rolls of bandages, a needle and syringe, some plastic tubing and a vial of diazepam.
"What did you have in mind for this stuff?" Luka was surprised at Carter's resourcefulness.
"I don't know. Maybe we could drug one of the night guards. There's usually only one of them."
"That we know of," Luka finished the thought for Carter. "There's not enough diazepam for a quick IM result. We'd probably have to go intra abdominally, but it might kill him."
What they could possibly do with their new secret stash kept them occupied that night. "Going to have to start calling you MacGuyver, Dr. Carter."
Carter got a laugh out of that. Luka didn't know Hans Christian Anderson, but MacGuyver? No problem. "How are things going with Jules? How's that working for you?"
"Well, he thinks highly of himself."
"And you get food and water."
"I'm sorry, Carter. Look, I….." Luka was uncomfortable with the advantages he had over Carter. "I just don't know how I should deal with that."
Carter shook his head as he looked down at the floor. "It's okay. You have to do what you have to do. If eating his food keeps their whipping sticks and fists from me, then eat it. Look, we just have to buy some time. Keep them satisfied with talking, eating, whatever it takes. Maybe we can escape. Maybe the government militia is looking for us."
"I know. But you get no food and you are getting dehydrated. I feel like a dog at the mercy of his brutal master." Luka sat back down on the huge leaves and began to arrange them into a makeshift bed.
"A dog?" Carter chuckled and mumbled to himself. "Just don't eat any eggs."
Luka heard that and was puzzled. "Another television joke?"
"No, something from my past. My family." Carter lay down on his side of the hut. They were like two boys at summer camp. Only the camp counselors carried guns and machetes.
"On Saturdays my grandfather turned on every radio in the house so he could listen to Live from the Met. It was the weekly opera from the Metropolitan Opera in New York City."
"Not a fan of classic opera?" Luka enjoyed the opera, but was not about to spoil the story.
"He blasted it through the whole house. And when he discovered the Bose Wave radio – yikes! I wasn't allowed to listen to my music at a volume louder than a whisper." Carter was smiling as he remembered his grandparents fondly.
"What did you do?" Luka asked. "Did you have to listen to that every weekend?"
"I had excuses to get out of the house sometimes. But that got old, so I complained to Gamma. She gave me some mild lip service about my grandfather's passion and it being his house. But," Carter put his finger to the air, "she said she would see what she could do. You see, we had this loyal Golden Retriever, Beauregard, that followed Grandpa around everywhere he went, from room to room. Eventually, every Saturday Beau started having really bad gas. I mean it was foul! Every time the opera was on Grandpa was gassed out. He finally called the vet who suggested the opera had become a source of anxiety for the dog and he should limit it to one room with the doors closed."
The two were laughing aloud now as Luka was catching on. "What did she do?"
"It seems that Gamma had been feeding the dog hard boiled eggs in the kitchen. The old man never found out! From then on he stayed in the study with one radio on. Problem solved compliments of one smart, old lady." The laughter waned as Carter remembered his grandparents with fondness.
Over the next few days, Carter and Luka were taken from the hut sporadically through the day and night. They were kept sleep deprived and Carter was only given small quantities of water upon his return to the hut, an occasional bit of stale food thrown in behind him.
Luka continued his excursions to the clearing. Even though he was hooded during the short trek, he knew it by heart. Once there he was given some food and water, but only after he had participated in discussion with Jules. They talked about their wives and children. About their deaths. Luka even felt at times as though he could see inside Jules' head. They shared a similar past with such a different outcome. He began to get comfortable with his captor.
Carter's outdoor activities took place in the open either in the rain or in hot sun. His hood always over his head, his hearing became very acute and could predict the blows he was about to receive. A good stick with force behind it sounded like a shwaaap, and usually left a mark. He usually got at least one good smack a day. Sometimes more. By hearing them approach, he could tense his muscles and hope to give himself some sort of protection.
On one of these days, it became obvious that he was the muse of the camp. Several people were present and the smell of food wafted up under his hood. The men laughed as Carter tilted his head to get another hint of nourishment. Finally, someone pulled the bag from his head and there in front of him was a line of about ten men sitting on the ground holding dinner plates of a mush-like substance and stale bread. They found themselves in amusement at eating in front of the malnourished white man, while Carter tried hard to ignore the sights and smells.
Carter knew that the men probably didn't speak English and decided to have fun with them. "Your trusted leader is dining in elegance with my friend. Dr. Kovac is eating better than you are. You know that?" The men looked at each other unaffected by this revelation. "They're all buddy buddy. Telling my friend all about his wife and kids." Carter was getting his own amusement out of this. "Any of you guys do the honors and chop off his kids' heads?"
They all laughed again, food eagerly showing from between their unkempt teeth. One man stood up - the Master of Ceremonies, Carter assumed - and walked in front of him. This one spoke a choppy form of English, enough to understand Carter. "Jules, never have no wife and kids." Carter swallowed hard as the bad body odor preceded the man gingerly walking up into his face. "He my cousin. Only man here who do head chopping is Jules." The man had an evil laugh and drew his finger swiftly across his own neck. Then, holding his hand up to his ear like a telephone receiver, he hauntingly taunted him, and with a crude accent looked Carter in the eyes and spoke, "Hello, Carter Foundation. How may I help you?"
The last call he made on his cell phone was to the Foundation office to finalize some business. All they had to do was press redial to get that information, or at least the number. This gave him a sinking feeling. Carter's instant hope that he would be saved for a ransom was dashed with the thought that Luka was being used while Jules knew all along who they were, trying to get information on Sean and Joseph with the phony story about his own non-family. It wouldn't take much, even in the Congo, to get information on either of them and the press in Chicago probably used both of their backgrounds as fodder for sensational banner stories. The instant connection to the Carter Foundation most likely was the frosting on he cake. He wondered if he should tell him. Luka had a temper and Carter decided to keep this information to himself to protect both of them, knowing that Luka could keep up the act with Jules as long as he thought that he had the upper hand. This would be a tricky balancing act for this muse and a test of his patience.