A King's ransom

42

Matthew was no longer alone in his hole.The rain had stopped, and the standing water had finally drained away. Out of sheer exhaustion he’d finally lain flat on his back, knees bent. For perhaps as long as an hour he’d been staring at the dark thatched roof overhead. His eyes had definitely played tricks in the darkness, but the tiny sliver of light at the far corner seemed real. Without a doubt, an almost imperceptible crack of moonlight or sunlight-he didn’t know which-had broken through the thick covering. It was just bright enough to reveal a set of red, beady eyes at the other end of the hole.

It seemed to be staring at him, whatever it was. He listened for its breathing but heard nothing. The eyes were fixed, motionless. They were surely inside the head of some creature, but it was too dark to see any part of the body. If the frozen eyes were any indication, however, the entire creature was locked in some unshakable pose. Stiffened with fright, maybe. Or poised for an attack. A primitive thought crossed his mind, as if he were suddenly inside the small brain of his visitor.

Is that thing over there edible?

The piercing eyes glowed brighter, and finally they blinked. A chill raced through Matthew; fear gripped his heart.

Do anacondas have eyelids?

He suddenly heard breathing-his own. He didn’t dare speak aloud, but silently he was talking himself out of his worst nightmare, assuring himself that it couldn’t be an anaconda, that it was too cold up here in the mountains.

Unless Joaquin brought it here.

It would be the ultimate execution, a wrestling match with a hungry eighteen-foot snake. Ten horrific minutes of rolling in a hole as this monster coiled around his body and squeezed the life out of him, its massive jaws locked on to his head in a desperate effort to swallow him whole.

Matthew was shaking, and the creature seemed to sense his fright. Slowly, not more than a centimeter at a time, the eyes were creeping closer.

It was decision time. If he burst out of the hole, he could well be shot by the guards. If he stayed put, God only knew what was in store for him.

Carefully he sat up, drew his knees in toward his body, and planted his feet on the ground. On the mental count of three he summoned all his strength and shot straight up from the hole. His hands broke through the branches first, sending the makeshift roof splintering in all directions. A screeching noise followed him out of the hole, which only propelled him faster. He was clawing at stalks of bamboo, giant leaves, anything to get a grip and pull himself out.

“Don’t shoot!” he shouted, fearing it would look like an escape. He rolled to the ground outside his hole, tangled in the wet remnants of the thatched roof. He was swinging wildly in self-defense, not sure where those red eyes had gone. Something was at his ankle, then at his leg, and climbing up his belly. He rolled frantically and shouted, “Don’t shoot!”

A gun went off, and a hot, red explosion covered his torso.

“?No se mueve!” the guard shouted.

Matthew froze, obeying the command to stop, though his chest heaved in panicky breaths. Slowly his eyes adjusted to the daylight, and the glob of flesh beside him eventually came into focus.

It was the biggest dead rat he’d ever seen.

Joaquin and another guerrilla stood over him, laughing. Behind them were five others nearly falling over in hysterics.

Matthew was fuming. “Is this your idea of a joke? Turn a rat loose in my hole?”

Joaquin’s laughter faded. His eyes turned cold, colder than the rat’s. “Your hole?” he said, glaring.

The others fell silent. Matthew stared back, but he couldn’t match the black intensity in Joaquin’s eyes. He suspected drugs.

“It’s not your hole,” said Joaquin. “You have nothing here. Not even this hole. Do you understand?”

Matthew was silent.

“I asked you a question.”

He still refused to answer. Joaquin raised his rifle and took aim at Matthew’s chest. “Answer me,” he said harshly. “Or you will own this hole. Forever.”

Matthew stared down the long steel barrel. Finally he said, “I understand.”

Joaquin jerked the rifle and fired off two quick rounds that splattered the rat beyond recognition, most of the mess landing on Matthew. Joaquin and his cronies laughed in chorus.

“You smell better now,” he said.

Matthew didn’t doubt it. After all that time in the hole, he felt like a human pest strip.

Joaquin shouted to his men in Spanish. Matthew didn’t catch it all, but it had something to do with the river. And he thought he heard the name Nisho, the young Japanese widow. With the guerrillas’ reaction, he knew that he’d heard correctly. Two of them howled and started racing back to camp.

“Nisho!” they shouted, sounding more stoned than ever. “Nishooooooo!”

They reached the river in two groups. Three armed guerrillas led Matthew to the bank. Ten meters behind were Joaquin, another guerrilla, and Nisho.

The makeup of the group gave Matthew concern. Joaquin, he’d decided, was just a sick sadist. Two of the guerrillas were bona fide sharpshooters, just itching for the chance to pop someone’s skull. Two others were confirmed hell-raisers who passed the boredom at camp with drugs and silly target-practice. They’d get crazy out of their minds and shoot mice with AK-47s, ant mounds with.45-caliber Lugers. Today they seemed more wired on basuco than Matthew had ever seen them. All the way to the river they’d been loud and pushing each other. It was a dangerous combination: drugs, fully loaded automatic weapons, and a bunch of dead-end teenagers with zero respect for life.

“Stop,” Joaquin said in Spanish.

They’d reached a calm eddy in the river behind a huge fallen tree and a boulder as big as a house. The guerrillas positioned themselves along the bank, two on the log, two others atop the boulder.

“You can bathe here,” said Joaquin.

Matthew was more than ready. He started to remove his clothes, then went to the river’s edge and tested the water. The cold was just about unbearable, so he retained a layer of clothing for warmth. He waded knee-deep into the eddy, hand-washing himself without full immersion, thankful to clean off the thick layer of filth that had crusted his clothes and body.

“You, too,” said Joaquin. He was speaking to Nisho, who had not yet moved. With some reluctance she stepped toward the river and dipped her toe in.

“Clothes off,” said Joaquin.

The guerrillas were watching and grinning, almost giddy with anticipation. Matthew could see the fear in Nisho’s eyes, and the direction this seemed to be taking had him worried.

“It’s too cold,” she said.

“Leave your clothes,” he said sternly. “Now!”

Slowly she removed her jacket and sweater, and then her boots. She was down to a blouse and pants.

“The rest,” he said.

“She’ll freeze!” shouted Matthew.

One of the sharpshooters fired a warning shot. It splashed in the water just inches from Matthew’s knee. He backed off.

Nisho looked nearly paralyzed with fright. Her eyes darted from one gawking guerrilla to the next as her trembling hand unbuttoned her blouse. The catcalls started. The show was in full swing.

Matthew turned his gaze toward the guerrillas. They were a repugnant group, themselves in need of bathing. The fat guy was especially disgusting, a hideous tattoo covering the entire left side of his face. The word “cerdo” came to mind-“pig.”

“The pants,” said Joaquin.

Matthew heard the zipper, then the hoots. The guerrillas atop the boulder were sharing a bottle of something. The fat one with the tattoo stood up and started dancing, which quickly degenerated into a vulgar pelvic thrust. The others applauded, egging him on. He jumped down from the boulder and went toward Nisho.

She was wearing only underpants, her arms covering her breasts. Cerdo grabbed her clothes, then wadded them into a ball and pitched them to Joaquin. He held the bundle in open hands, as if offering Nisho her clothes. She came toward him, pleading as she reached for the bundle. He laughed in her face and quickly pitched it back to the fat guy. He made the same phony offer, and again Nisho fell for it. He tossed her clothes back to another guerrilla. She was soon running back and forth, still trying to cover herself, tears streaming down her face.

“Stop it!” shouted Matthew.

The sharpshooter responded with another warning, this one even closer. Matthew stopped in his tracks, still knee-deep in the eddy.

“Nisho! Nishooooooo!” Joaquin shouted.

She was bouncing back and forth, one guerrilla to the next, as they played keep-away with her clothes. As she raced by Joaquin, he reached out and grabbed her by the panties, ripping them off. She screamed and fell. The guerrillas shouted with excitement as Joaquin waved the panties over his head. The guerrillas formed a circle around her, tossing her clothes from one to the next, over Nisho’s head, behind her back, howling each time she reached up and exposed her nakedness. Joaquin put his gun aside and grabbed her from behind, taking a breast in each hand. She kicked and swung wildly as he lifted her from the ground, then bit his arm.

He cried out and slapped her across the head.

Matthew seized the moment and dived for Joaquin’s gun. He got a hand on it, but only for a split second. Cerdo rapped him across the head with the butt of his rifle. Matthew fell to the ground hard, bleeding from the head.

Her screaming grew more shrill and desperate. The guerrillas were shouting, no longer laughing. It was more like a barbaric chant.

Matthew sensed that someone was standing over him, but his head was throbbing, his vision blurring. Gradually the noises faded. He raised his head one last time, just high enough to see three men drag a screaming Nisho off behind the rocks, and then his world turned black.