POCKET CHANGE
by Sharon R.
Chapter Sixteen
Shattered Innocence and Renewed Hope
Before they could get very far, a man broke out of the tree line and ran at them with a gun, raging, jabbing the end of the weapon in their direction. Putting their hands in the air, they were hit with a realization that raised the stakes. It was the same man that Carter pissed off, the one who brought the child to Luka for treatment.
"Don't shoot!" Carter quietly pleaded worried that his inability to get his hands above his shoulders would not sit well with the crazed man.
Having already endured many days, weeks even, of depravation and torture, Luka and Carter were past the intense fear of their first days in captivity. They were up to, and beyond, frustration and simple fury. Luka rolled his eyes with a 'what else?' look as Carter stepped back. The man, on the other hand, looked nervously behind him, scoping out the perimeter while keeping the straights of his gun barrel aimed squarely at the two doctors.
"Where are the rest of them?" Carter wondered aloud to Luka.
"I think… he's alone." With bold resolve, Luka meandered slowly away from Carter and towards the man. "Let's find out."
"Oh boy," Carter murmured.
Instead of calling to his comrades for help, the man spewed words at the two, lunging forward with his gun, Luka eventually finding the muzzle pasted to his chest. No movement from the trees, no sound of vehicles charging at them. Just the three of them breathing and the disturbed jungle wildlife pacing about the trees.
Slowly, as it became evident that the man was not quite as anxious to kill them as he appeared to be, Carter and Luka let their hands fall back to their sides. Bug bites and God knows what had ravaged their skin and they found relief in being able to relegate their fingers back to their previous occupation of scratching and digging the bumps, blisters, sores and lesions that oozed pus, and rewarded the raking with a torturous burning sensation. Why this man had searched them out and held them at lone gunpoint was beyond them.
Personal revenge for Carter's assault? Fair chance. Payback for Luka electively overlooking the jaundice of the boy with the ear infection? Good chance. A mission delegated by Jules to end their lives? Very good odds.
"Do you think we should gamble a getaway?" Carter asked Luka, not taking his eyes off the rebel. "I'm pretty sure my legs still have a good sprint left in them."
"See the blood on his shirt?" With his eyes, Luka pointed out the man's chest splattered with the red substance. "Looks like he's a good shot. I don't think we'd get far."
"Is that the same guy…?" Carter squinted through the late day sun.
"Yeah, I'm pretty sure."
And with that, the man waved out yet one more person lying in wait within the thick blanket of jungle. Peaking from under the man's arm, were round, shiny cheeks and big eyes.
"Uh-huh," Luka validated, "that's the boy."
"The family that slays together, stays together," Carter wisecracked.
The boy had a blank look on his face, almost as though what they were doing was an every day happening. Hostages, heavy artillery fire in the distance - witnessing his father assassinate a blindfolded, tied up and gagged man.
Before the two had time to reassess their situation, the rebel produced two sections of rope and turned them around. Luka tied Carter's hands behind his back - loosely. Then the boy took his turn in the Land of Make-Them-Bleed, practicing his Boy Scout knots on Luka. With the sun now at their backs, all four marched on down the road, Carter and Luka leading the way, the boy bringing up the rear.
It had been a long day. Hell, it had been a long month, give or take. The heat and lack of water did nothing to aid the two weary men on this segment of their journey. They were out in the open, the sun beating down on their necks. The sporadic gunfire in the distance eventually became steady and louder, making the gun toting man nervous. He anxiously prodded the doctors to move faster, forcing their already lame bodies and exhausted feet to do things their minds were no longer able to tell them to. Carter abruptly stopped, his legs quivering, the upper half of his body bent over at the waist.
"Carter?" Luka had to stoop his tall frame to see up into Carter's eyes that looked straight down to the ground. "What's the matter?"
"My legs. They won't go anymore."
"Cramping up? Hmm? Mine too."
Carter's knees suddenly buckled, leaving him in a heap on his now bony bottom. "I feel sick again."
"He needs water." Luka stood in front of the armed man paying no mind to the large gun between them. In return, the man stepped back and pointed furiously with his gun trying to get them moving. They both needed water. Luka was beginning to feel the effects of the dehydration that Carter had dealt with for days now.
It was the boy who walked up to the man and, without a word, took his canteen. His small body sat down next to Carter, a little hand propping Carter's chin up, the other barely getting the full canteen high enough to pour the warm water into his mouth. After Carter had swallowed, the boy innocently turned his head looking him squarely in the eyes, his diminutive hand tenderly cupping the white man's cheek. It was hard to resist those eyes and Carter managed a silent 'thank you' with a smile, which was warmly reciprocated.
Luka dissed the rebel, sitting on the other side of the boy repeating the raspberry that had encouraged a giggle on their first meeting. What a bizarre picture they created. Two men, hands tied behind their backs, dirty and unshaven, clothes worn and beaten to rags, sitting in the middle of the raw dirt road entertaining a little giggling boy. And a gun manned by a trigger-happy restless rebel just feet away.
They sat and sipped from the canteen until it was empty. Perched at the crest of a hill, they saw a bright ball of fire on the next rise - too far to hear the explosion, but close enough to want to move.
"Can you get up?" Luka asked Carter.
"Yeah, I think so." His hands were tied loose enough that they allowed him to plant his weight back on them as leverage as he carefully got to his feet, steadying himself first before moving forward.
Their trek down hill, for what they assumed was about a mile, was uneventful until their captor shooed them into the tree line just prior to a near hairpin bend in the road. Sweat had beaded on his face, dripping onto his soaked shirt and he appeared to be gathering himself. He talked to himself - almost self-motivating, or maybe praying. Either way, this sudden change gave Luka and Carter pause. As quickly as they molded into the landscape, the man aimed the gun at the two, his infuriated words pushing them back onto and down the road. Around the bend a sudden change in scenery smacked terror into them.
A roadblock.
A heavily armed roadblock with trucks, mounted artillery and men. Lots of men.
Their captor stood tall and proud using the end of his gun to shove Luka and Carter towards the group. He was loud now, throwing out words that brought the other rebel men to attention. It was obvious that the two white men were his prisoners as he pushed them and shouted, exchanging a laugh as he put his foot to Luka's ass and rammed him to the ground face first. Carter noticed that instead of multiple guns getting locked and loaded, instead of a hand-off of prisoners, the group snickered and cajoled with their captor - then simply waved them on. Somebody reached down to pull Luka to his feet, another patted the boy on the head. Then they were out of sight.
Just like that.
They continued on down the long hill, around a couple more bends until a valley came into view. A valley with houses and life. Once again the man stopped them. Not letting Carter or Luka turn around to see him, he exchanged a few words with the boy. There was a rustle in the bushes, then, other than war sounds over on the next hill, nothing.
"You want to look first?" Carter mumbled out of the corner of is mouth.
Although they felt strangely alone, they weren't. The gun was gone, the man was gone, but not the child. There he stood, almost matter of factly, those beautiful big brown eyes staring straight up at the two tall men. Carter and Luka both walked around the boy, peeking into the jungle but finding no one.
"Well," Luka surmised, "I guess we're on our own."
The boy reversed his knotting prowess on Luka, freeing him to do the same for Carter.
Carter went down on one knee and smiled at the boy holding his hands. "Hey little man." The boy forced a smile but his eyes were sad. "What do we do with you? Huh?"
"We have to call him something." Luka gently put his hand on the boy's head. "How about Michael or David."
"I think he looks more like a Jacob."
"Mbuto." His little finger poked at his own chest, his equally timid voice repeating himself. "Mbuto."
Both Carter and Luka exchanged looks of raised eyebrows as they, too, gave out their names.
"So why do you suppose he left his kid with us?" Carter asked, not taking his eyes off of Mbuto's serene face.
"My bet," Luka guessed, "is that he left him in our care on purpose. To get him out of the war zone, maybe to a refugee camp."
"So, that village," Carter speculated, "do we just walk into town?"
"I don't think we have any choice."
As the three of them took off, the boy reached up and tenderly inserted his hand into Luka's.
Their only way out was the long road winding it's way out of the hill. Carter lingered and often fell behind the other two. He did not have many words to share with the two doctors, but Mbuto made sure to keep an eye on Carter and stop Luka whenever the separation became too great. This one little boy became their source of energy and renewed hope. His innocence of youth prematurely shattered by the bloody disdain of war.
At a cross roads they met up with a family obviously from well within the jungle, fleeing the war. They blended in with the group, all with the same goal, all running from death. That one family turned into two, then dozens. They carried little and walked quickly, their blank looks on their faces telling too many tales of the hardships they had endured day in and day out. So business-like - and tragic. Luka, Carter and Mbuto simply followed the masses hoping that they would be led to safety.
When the road suddenly opened into a larger clearing, the refugees broke into a run, gun fire intensified and the whistle of larger ammunition overhead brought a new sense of urgency to the three. As the crowd separated onto each shoulder of the road, large military trucks loaded with soldiers sped by going up the hill away from the village. One after another, the exhaust spoiling the air and kicked up dirt lingering in their wake. One of those trucks made a return trip, stopping abruptly in front of Carter and Luka, several of the soldiers motioning for the two men and the child to get into the truck. The ride would be a relief, but these men carried guns as well, didn't speak English and were not pleased with these two white men with the African boy.