POCKET CHANGE
by Sharon R.
Chapter Twelve
Picking up the Pieces
His exit out of the hut was so rushed that Carter didn't have time to get his limp feet under him. With one man on each side and another putting the bag over his head, the squeeze through the door left Carter on the ground, his legs dragging over the thresh hold as if his already beaten and bloodied knees could protect his hungry bones from the exposed splinters and nails, and subsequent gravel. By the time he got to his feet and met up with the pace of his guides, they stopped. Stopped short of the usual meeting and beating place.
"Hello?" Carter found this change in routine to be suspicious at best. It was quiet, no voices, none of the normal sounds he had heard from behind his feed sack, except for the sound of a door slamming shut in the distance and, possibly, Luka calling out for Jules from behind the walls of that door. Strategy, Carter thought. Make Luka listen but keep him from doing anything about it. Jules had him figured out.
"Anybody for a song? How about Kumbaya? Come on, everyone knows that one," he sarcastically threw out, apathy and exhaustion taking over his senses. A breeze came as a welcome relief - Carter wished that it could stroke his head and neck through the sack as the rough burlap pushed against the contours of his face. His daily retreats had become tedious, either soaking him with rain or stinging him with the sun, but always leaving him with a physical reminder. But today, after hearing Jules laugh in his face when Carter suggested that they were saving him for ransom, he worried if he would even see an end.
Just when he thought he might be left alone for once, two men started talking to each other, and it sounded like serious business. One of those voices belonged to Jules; the other deep, gravelly voice was new. They exchanged words from a distance, Jules ending the conversation with his signature-revolting laugh. Carter turned his head in all directions trying to pick up key sounds, his heightened senses becoming like radar in his captivity. It certainly didn't prevent the creeps from beating him, but he appreciated being able to anticipate it. He didn't, however, appreciate the putrid breath of the man standing in front of him at that moment. Carter's bound hands were grabbed and attached to yet another hook or rope and, as the man stepped away, his arms were yanked above his head suddenly jolting his body and striking fear through his heart. His feet barely flat on the ground, he knew that as the day wore on and he became tired, instead of slinking to the ground in exhaustion as he had done in the past, he risked hanging by his arms, all of his 190 pounds hanging from whatever tendons and ligaments still attached his arms to his shoulders.
He got an instant flash back to Dr. Mason's Anatomy & Physiology class as an undergrad. The man wrote the book, Mason and Spence's Anatomy and Physiology of the Human Body. Only they studied in lab on a dead cat. Carter and his partner named the poor, stiff, dead feline Sylvester. Their first assignment was to skin the fermented body, keeping the skin intact around the neck so that it could be wrapped after each session as an added preservative. Sylvester's cape was too much for the 19-year-old kids as they "flew" him around the lab one day like a model airplane. That earned them two weeks as bio lab janitors. He recalled the muscles of the torso, mainly in the area of the shoulder, by name. Origins, insertions and actions, just as he had done the night before a lab practical. "Teres Minor," he whispered under his breath. "Origin is the upper 2/3 of the lateral border of the scapula. Insertion - greater tubercle of humerus. Action - laterally rotates the arm. Wish I could do that," he snickered.
The smell of the man's breath was back as Carter felt the heat of the body standing in front of him. His shirt was lifted up as unseen fingers traced the orderly scars of three years past. The vertical laparotomy scar on his abdomen going from the bottom of his sternum, down and around his naval to his pubic line. The colostomy scar and smaller ones that served as portals for the assorted drains were poked and prodded. Then the not so neat scars on his back; the ragged edges of the reminder of the six-inch blade that invaded his left side and back. He winced and took deep breaths as the scars were played with, and newer wounds violated by their polluted fingers along the way. With his hands tied above his head, he grabbed the taut rope above hoping to hide the tremors coming from his body.
Again his surroundings became silent giving him the false sense of isolation. Left to dangle in the sun he began to talk to himself unaware of who, if anyone, was there to be the listening end. Not caring, really. Having already given himself a lab practical, he found himself reverting back to a game he would play with his grandfather. One would start with a famous quotation and the other would have to identify the author. They would continue until one of them gave the wrong attribution or could not come up with a new quote.
"We make a living by what we get, but we make a life by what we give," he mumbled to himself. "Winston Churchill - Grandpa's favorite. A good man that Churchill. But I prefer his - Character may be manifested in the great moments, but it is made in the small ones."
Carter smiled to himself as he continued on with his own little private game, trying to ignore the sun's vicious rays and the gnawing of the tse-tse flies.
"Don't let school interfere with your education. - Mark Twain. Loved that." Letting his head fall backwards he pulled as far back from within his memory as he could. "Education is a progressive discovery of our own ignorance. - Will Durant, if I'm not mistaken."
Standing tall, his arms pulled over his head, he had an epiphany. "Change in rules folks," he seemingly called out to no one. "Topic - courage."
"A coward turns away, but a brave man's choice is danger. Ahh… Euripides."
Swept away by the bravado of his own game of distraction, his voice became louder, fearing no one thing from behind the weave of the burlap.
"Then there's Twain again; Courage is resistance to fear, mastery of fear--not absence of fear." This one made Carter stop as he closed his eyes and took in the meaning. Mastery of fear. Hadn't gotten there yet. But he could check off the 'not absence of fear' part.
"Can't quit now, Carter, come on, come on." The heat was beginning to make him sluggish as he shook his head to awaken him. "How about… okay, this one is for all you losers out there in Rebel Land… Youth ages, immaturity is outgrown, ignorance can be educated, and drunkenness sobered, but STUPID lasts forever." He snickered as he yelled the last bit to his unseen and presumed absent torturers. "But who the hell said that? Oh… come on, Grandpa, help me out here…"
"Aristophenes 385 B.C."
The voice came from behind, so close to his left ear the man's breath moved the feed sac, tickling his ear lobe. Carter froze as he realized Jules had been his audience. Unseen to Jules, the captive's face turned and slid downward reflexively, part fear, part embarrassment. Slowly, Jules snaked to Carter's right side, still behind him, still within inches of him, his steady breath caressing the back of his sunburned neck from left to right.
"Life - is pleasant. Death - is peaceful. It's the transition that's troublesome." Jules meandered the words with vile intent as he savored his upper hand in the mental game.
"Isaac Asimov," Carter couldn't resist attributing that one not wanting in his mind to let Jules be the victor, however he did it in a meek voice as the British speaking tyrant walked away laughing aloud.
Suddenly, his hood was whipped off and in the bright sunlight and haze, he struggled to re-focus his eyes on the men in front of him. Just two that he could see. The older one, the one with the stick in his right hand and scars across his face, approached Carter and going eye to eye, he flashed a smile that gave Carter a good dental count he could carry out on one hand alone. Looking down at the man's body, Carter feared the worst… but something about it also caused him to produce an evil laugh of his own before… thwaaaack.
"Aaaaaah." Carter was ashamed that he let that one get out. If it were possible for his left hip to recoil, it would have done so with immense force. This friend of Jules' didn't appreciate being laughed at and, frankly, Carter was no longer in a humorous mood.
Luka screamed at Jules as they parted ways, kicking the door shut on the brutal leader's ass. "JULES! Hey, you son-of-a-bitch, leave him alone. Come back here! What about me, coward? Huh? Take me." He lost his patience, pacing around the hut, hitting and kicking the walls, just as angry at himself as he was the situation. The heat of the day wore on his already exhausted body when he found himself standing in the center of the small hut, hands on his hips, staring down at the floor. What was the purpose of this if a ransom wasn't being negotiated? With next to nothing he could do, his mind spun out of control with the 'what ifs' and 'shoulda, coulda, woulda's'.
Then from not too far off he heard the inimitable sound of Carter crying out in pain. He was right out there, almost within arm's length, but far enough that Luka could do nothing about it. In anger, he started kicking the wide leaves and banana frons about until the rigid tubing Carter had heisted from the medical bag made an appearance from its hiding place. Luka had forgotten about their stash and now worried that the early morning rebel crowd could have come upon it or, worse, stepped on the glass vial of diazepam. On all fours, he scurried into the corner and unearthed the supplies - the diazepam, tubing and packaged needle and syringe - holding them in his hand and relishing what he knew now would be their only chance of survival. A chance that he had previously guffawed under his breath as Carter naively made plans aloud. He placed them all back under the furthest pile of leaves, out of the path of foot traffic for safety.
Luka found himself on his knees, hunkered back on his heels, amused at his pious posture but with absolutely no desire to pray to the God that had let him down so much. His conflicting grin flashed at his own lap was cut short by the sound of a whip cracking over and over again. He covered is ears pushing the palms of his hands harder and harder against his head, burying the sounds of the whip into the pain he was causing himself. He squeezed his eyes shut as hard as he could hoping, trying to close down all of his senses.
After the initial thunk to his side, he was left to hang in the ever intensifying blistering sun, the two rebels circling him like vultures admiring their work. The younger one lit a hand rolled cigarette then put it in the other's mouth where it stayed propped in place of an absent tooth. After their smoke they took their places in the viewing gallery, sitting on a log downing healthy portions of rice, fish and sweet potatoes with their hands. Must be their mandated break period, Carter thought.
Eventually they got up and rummaged around in a large bag, pulling out a whip, one which Carter assumed he had had a previous engagement with. They practiced to the side, cracking it over and over again, almost as though that was their plan. Eventually the whip did makes its way to Carter, only the toothless tyrant wasn't the one at the helm. Instead he gave the young one lessons, as Carter's back took six lashes, his skin burning then cracking and peeling apart as each one became stronger and more lethal. When Carter remained rigid, refusing to buckle at the knees, the young one took it personally, walking behind him and bashing him once behind his thighs with the tree limb. His body fell straight down like a heavy anchor eventually reaching its ocean bottom, tethered only by his arms.
Carter lost track of time but did know that he was given water only once as his head was pulled backwards by the hair and the warm filthy water was poured into his mouth, half wasted as he choked and was forced to spit it up. How he yearned for the wet season in the Congo to make a return. He no longer had the strength to stay on his feet, and his shoulders had long ago become nothing more than hangers for his sunburned skin and useless muscles. He was left alone for long periods, the rebels returning only for brief periods, not to check on his welfare, but to slap him across the face or kick his back side and generally admire their handy work and laugh.
Luka was left completely alone all day for the first time since their capture. His pleas to talk to Jules were ignored, the door only opened ajar twice to toss in food scraps and water. The meals were mostly unidentifiable - rice and maybe chopped up sardines on a banana leaf, his hands his utensils. He only drank what water he needed to survive at a basic level, but even that left only a small amount for Carter. It had become very quiet around camp until after dusk when the creatures came out, both two and four legged. His day of solitude ended when the sound of a single, loud gunshot nervously brought him to his feet. A few moments later the rebels banged on the door of the hut and Luka scrambled to put his hood over his head and sit at the far end as they had become so adept at doing, like cheap circus animals.
Eventually after dusk, the ropes strapping Carter's arms up high were cut away and his lifeless body fell without mercy to the dusty and hard ground face first, forcing him to take in a mouthful of the muck. He tried getting to his feet, but his arms had become worthless dead weight. Rolling on his side like an injured dog waiting to be put out of his misery, two men approached and looked down on him. One took his rifle, cocked it and shot it into the air giving the rebels in attendance a great laugh as Carter curled up and placed his hands over his ears.
The door flew open as a battered and bloodied Carter was pitched inside. Not letting his captors get the final word, he pulled his arm out from under the dead weight of his exhausted body and instinctively grabbed the leg of one of the rebels. With all his might, he pulled the man's legs out from under him crashing him with a thud to the ground, his rebel comrades laughing at his expense. The last word was Carter's.
"Fuck you!"
It may have earned Carter one more kick in the head but the humiliation the vile animal suffered was well worth it.
Once they heard the door shut and the bolt thrown, Luka took off his hood and went to Carter's side, pulling him up to sit against the back wall of the hut. "I should have warned you. Fuck you is kind of universally understood." He looked like hell. His skin had obviously been exposed to the sun all day and the swelling around his face from the previous beatings was at its peak. But this time Carter was holding his gut. He was dazed from the blow to the head, not quite lucid at first, and his eyes were glassy.
"They concentrate on your abdomen today? Carter? Hey…" Luka was concerned about internal injuries as he lifted what was left of Carter's shirt to palpate his mid section, exposing the scars left from the years old post stabbing surgery. "I heard a gunshot. Have you been shot?" There were bruises of all stages of healing from his collarbones down to his waist and he had taken some lashes to his back again as well.
"Nah – They gave me a couple good whacks." Carter was wincing as Luka examined him. "They got a new guy today. A righty. This guy took off my feed sack. I think he wants me to see the pleasure he gets out of it."
Luka noticed that Carter's eyes were sunken and he had a fever. "Open your mouth, Carter." His mucous membranes were dry and he had no elasticity to his skin. "How much did they give you to drink? Hmm?"
"The funny thing is," Carter was drowsy, and almost forced himself to talk, "he only has one arm. His left arm is gone!" Hearing Carter giggle to himself gave Luka the impression that he was either becoming unstable, or perhaps, stronger and resigned to his fate. The fact that the tormentor was right handed made Luka instinctively check Carter's left side where he found lots of up and coming bruises, as he guessed there would be. Carter pulled back when Luka pressed on his ribs. "I think I'll call him, ouch!... Romano."
Luka gave him a small cup of drinking water, noticing there was not much left in the hut. "You have to drink this. Come on." Carter's raw, cracked lips made it painful to drink. "Romano?" Even Luka couldn't resist the humor in this. The cold water he put on the open wounds on his back was yet the second round of pain for the day. "Carter, have you urinated today?"
"Romano. Like it?" He suddenly felt nauseas and scrambled to his left to vomit into the piss bucket left by the door. On all fours, he fell mercilessly on his face, unable to support his upper body, his arms a hindrance. The water came up, and then dry heaves, made worse by the acrid smell of stale urine and feces. As Luka held Carter around the chest with one arm and forehead with the other, he could feel the muscles trembling and an almost total lack of strength. Carter wiped his mouth on his shoulder as he fell backwards against the wall again, the pressure actually muffling the pain from the flogging. "It seems that Romano's thrill of choice is to string skinny white men up by the wrists in the hot sun and let them hang until their arms pop out of the sockets." He pulled his arms inward against his chest, too painful to use. The bruises and swelling on his wrists left by the lynching were duly noted by Luka. He exhaled loudly in disgust.
Luka set Carter back down where he could continue examining him. "You have to stop this, Carter. You're already dehydrated. You're going to get yourself killed. "
"Highly unlikely." His voice cracked with stress. "I'm the one with the money – no live package, no ransom."
Jules' words from the morning haunted Luka. "Understand this, Dr. Carter. If I recall, nobody ever said anything about trading your sorry ass for money."
He didn't know who to believe. It was obvious that Jules changed his tactics just to punish Luka. But was he keeping them alive while awaiting ransom? Or were they being used as currency to maneuver within and around the government militia? Or, as it was becoming more and more apparent, was Jules keeping them around just as entertainment, waiting for the appropriate time to dispose of them?
Luka sat back, taking in what he was witness to. "You know, Carter, a few days ago you were this emotionally beaten down, rich kid with the self esteem of a slug."
Carter's laugh was refreshing, but turned into a coughing fit. "You don't miss much, Kovac, do you?"
Luka refilled his water cup again and helped hold it to Carter's dry mouth. "But do you see now," Luka stopped to make sure he wanted to admit this to his friend, "that there's a lot of man inside there?"
This was something John Carter, MD was ill prepared to hear. He was a beaten down man in body. However, his soul had been boosted by the mere effort he had made that month to make life better for just one little girl. He was tired and spent. Luka had become his only source of hope in the hatred filled jungle he had initially seen as bright, beautiful and peaceful.
"It has taken me most of my adult life," Luka continued, "these past few years especially – to realize that when there is no longer anyone left in your life to prove yourself to, it doesn't mean that you stop reaching for what's out there." Without even turning his head, Luka pointed at the one lone window where the scant watercolors of the setting sun were peeking through. "You have no one else now to prove yourself to, Carter, except you."
Carter was looking deep inside himself stirring up years and years of emotion. "When is it done, Luka? The proving part? Because I can't keep doing this – falling and waiting to be picked up."
Luka put his hands on either side of Carter's face turning his head up to look him in the eyes. "It's done when you learn to pick yourself up. And you have picked both of us up, my friend."
"Sounds like Joseph rubbed off on you." Carter was giving in.
"Maybe, but I stopped caring a long time ago. I stopped taking extra steps. You and Joseph and the people we helped here have made me want to go back to who I used to be, with new spirit."
Carter was too weak and depleted to hold his emotions inside as he blinked a lone tear from his eye that rolled down his face over Luka's hands.
"Carter, you have more courage than I ever gave you credit for. We can do this. Tomorrow night may be the time to break away, huh?" He put the wet cloth on Carter's forehead. "They are so busy fighting away from the camp at night, I think they only leave one behind to watch us." Luka wanted to give Carter something to hold onto, some kind of hope. "All we have to do is get the guy to come in, catch him off guard and get the diazepam into him."
Luka realized that in order for this plan to even work, he had to get Carter to a state where he could get on his feet and travel. Pounding on the wall, he demanded more water. The door opened and an angry voice strived to make a point. No water; just words. He had pissed off this guy earlier in the day and now they were both paying for it.
Carter was tired and wanted nothing more than to close his eyes and sleep for a good day or two. Luka had to give his face a few taps to keep him awake. "Come on, Carter, you have to stay awake for a while. I'm concerned about a head injury."
Carter laughed, again, this time however, he winced in pain. "I'm concerned about not crapping my pants."
"Still," Luka resigned himself, "we have to get out of here – soon."
Carter closed his eyes again, whispering, "That's why you're here, Luka. You can do it. You're strong."
He didn't feel strong. Nor was he confident that there would be a positive outcome for either of them any more. It was awkward, but Luka needed to change the subject. "So what did your father want you to be?"
"What?" Carter was puzzled and had to work hard to wake his brain up enough to even think about suburban Chicago and his father. "Not my father. My family. In the Carter family, wishes and dreams are left up to everyone else but the dreamer." Carter turned to spit the excess blood from his mouth almost aiming for the Carter family crest he imagined to be on the floor of the hut. "I was supposed to head up the family business. The Carter Foundation."
Luka tapped him on the shoulder to keep him alert. "What's that about?" he asked.
"It's about money, working rooms, hosting galas, the stock market. It's about nothing." The lone window cast the rays of the setting sun on the two men. Carter opened his eyes and looked up, squinting, putting the colors together as they bounced through the tree branches outside.
Luka looked at him, and then through the window where Carter's eyes were directed. "What are you looking at?"
"Your damned sunset. Don't you see it?" Add one point to Carter's scorecard.
Luka continued to wake Carter, giving him sips of the last of the water. Not enough to help. He was worried about his electrolytes, blood pressure, and blood sugar. There was an assortment of complications that could come about from dehydration, but with Carter, he was also looking for brain injury not to mention his left kidney he was not too confident in. But for now the two were sleeping. The morning usually brought water and food, depending on the personnel on duty.
He was long into a dream about Danijella standing in the balcony doorway of their tiny apartment in Croatia, a peaceful rain shower blanketing the city view well behind her. She was wearing a long, flowing, white, see-through negligee. Her soft, curly dark hair cascaded over her shoulders as she stood there waiting for her husband to come home from a two month long rotation at a rural hospital.
He walked into the living room/bedroom and she tilted her head, smiling and laughing with a little bit of self-consciousness as she put her dainty fingertips to her lips to shade her playful giggle. The aging city lights cast a hazy brilliance around her from behind showing off her lovely curved features as shadows from behind the veil of sheer white. Gentle music played on their old tape player with the pitter-patter of the rain providing a metronome-like cadence to their foreplay. The ten or so steps it took to get to his wife were painfully slow as he put his hand out to meet hers. A gentle tear of joy rolled down her delicate cheek as she pulled him into her, nuzzling her head into his strong chest.
(Lyrics to a few lines of Gentle Rain Sung by Diana Krall and written by Luis Bonfa and Matt Dubey previously properly attributed, deleted as per new regulations by site administrators 5/3/05. The complete original text of Pocket Change can be found at LUKAFIC)
Her sweet, flowery perfume seemed to fill the air around them and Luka inhaled deeply, taking in the moment and stretching it as far as he could. She smelled the same every day - wisps of cinnamon, lily and lilac preceded her into a room and circled around the two of them. Her neck was as sensitive as he'd remembered. He let the back of his hand fall slowly from the back of her ear, down her neck – her shoulder – her breast. Luka then took the fabric between his fingers and slipped it over her soft shoulder giving her a subtle shiver as he kissed the tender areas up her throat to the back of her ear again. Nothing got more mileage than a kiss on Danijella's neck. She giggled and inhaled a deep sigh at the same time. He let his left hand fall to the sweet area between her legs shielded by the thin, delicate fabric. Teasing her, he barely let his fingers stroke across the hills and valleys one by one as her own hands found their way under his shirt, tickling and arousing him, deepening his breathing.
(Lyrics to a few lines of Gentle Rain Sung by Diana Krall and written by Luis Bonfa and Matt Dubey previously properly attributed, deleted as per new regulations by site administrators 5/3/05. The complete original text of Pocket Change can be found at LUKAFIC)
Danijella's own breath was warm on his chest, her tongue finding his nipple almost asking him to do the same. As his fingers walked the hem of the negligee above her hips the balmy air whooshed in through the doorway lifting the back of her gown exposing her bottom to his hands, the stroke of his knuckles sending a quiver of rapture through her. Luka pressed his own pelvis forward, the height difference landing his stiff and sensitive member straight into Danijella's hands that had fallen in bliss to her soft tummy. Then moans came. Deep, throaty moans as her lips trembled in anticipation. Luka guided her to the floor, enveloping the slight frame of her body in his long, hard arms. The salty taste of her skin as he encircled and dipped his tongue into her navel made him eager for more, prompting him to travel upwards, her arching back beckoning him not to stop. He cupped a breast in each hand, playfully stroking her hardened nipples eventually replacing one set of fingers with his warm, passionate lips and mouth. Her moans were deep and soulful. So completely devoted were they to their love making as they molded into one, they were not even shaken by the loud clap of…
Thunder shook the loose boards as Luka rolled over feeling the hard floor beneath him. The dream was a nice break from captivity, but all too short. The soreness in his shoulders from sleeping in one position for so long was something he couldn't get used to. The moaning came from Carter and Luka scrambled over to check on him. Not just moaning. His eyes were open and he was talking to somebody that wasn't there.
"…and all the way out to the lake…." Carter looked straight at Luka and smiled, just a little, pointed in the other direction and continued his conversation with the phantom. "It's not as if it couldn't be done, Mark. He knows. Ask him."
His assessment of Carter was not optimistic. He was altered, his heart was racing, breathing rapid and shallow. His dehydration had become critical and what happened next is what he feared the most.