Captive

There was a rustle in the rice fields as the wind crested the valley with the warm, cloying promise of rain to come.

Dave's once soft hands were now as rough as an old leather glove.

Hacking at the long bunches of rice grain curled up in his fist. He wondered how the tiny old woman to his left was coping with such rigorous physical activity. Her son had been hung a few weeks ago after trying to escape. She was still distraught and had barely eaten since then. 

He heard a slight thud and a squelch in the saturated ground as if on queue; the older woman had collapsed. 

Almost instinctually, he bounded over to her to check if she was okay. 

One of the guards watching over them noticed the commotion. Before Dave could examine her pulse and check to see if she was all right, there was a painful blunt shove in his ribs as the soldier jammed his riffle muzzle into his side.

"You work," the guard, barely out of his teens, said in a raised voice. That left zero impressions about what would happen if he disobeyed.

Without a word, he returned to his spot in the rice fields and started to hack again at the rice grass to fulfil his day's quota. 

The guard made very little fuss over the old lady. Instead, he spoke to his counterpart, who laughed. 

In hindsight, he regretted not learning the local dialect. Still, he never found it a pressing concern with this many islands, all having their regional language. English was nationally used in colleges, and all his business dealings had been in English for the last few years. 

Both guards dragged the old lady out of the field, and he put his head down and hacked, slashed and collected the rice to survive yet another day. 

How did it get to this, Dave thought to himself. He was only here a few times a year to oversee the production of the local seafood factory his company had procured to diversify its business income streams. 

One day, he was in meetings and overseeing the factory's workflow; the next, he was in the fields. Feeling like the previous life was just a dream, and he never lived it.

The Coup happened so fast he could not get out of the country in time, and now he was just another undesirable. He was forced to labour under this brutal regime. Try to survive until someone from his company or country gets him out. 

That had been his first thought two months ago.

It was starting to look like no help was coming now. 

There was a loud clanging sound as the end-of-day bell rang out, and he put down his bola, wiped the sweat from his brow and sighed. He had survived another day under this uprising.

The well-armed guards were waiting near the truck to collect the long-bladed bolas used for cutting grass and a staple in the rice-tending fields from the prisoners. They watched incarcerated labourers with itchy trigger fingers for any signs of aggression while one of them counted how many blades were handed back in.

Each involuntary worker was pushed into the back of a truck to be ferried to the minor housing imprisonment that had been their home for the last few months.

Upon arrival, another head count was started as all the workers were lined up and frisked for weapons.

There were a few cries from the guardsmen near the gates as they swung open to allow three light-armoured vehicles into the compound. They drove through the encampment, stopping just as the multiple thuds of boots hit the ground and army personnel exited the vehicles.

All the guards stopped counting us. Dave guessed someone important was here. 

He must have been influential because the other lackeys and guards fawned over the newcomer, saluting or bowing to him as he passed them.

He was immaculately dressed and walked as if the world was owned only by him as he gazed over the camp, his soldiers, and the prisoners.
”Holy Shit”, Dave murmured under his breath. That was the general who had led this coup.

He killed the former president on national TV, slitting his throat. The rest of the parliament was hung during this coup's first few hours.

Moriano or Motianez or something like that.

He pointed at the old lady, still recovering from apparent exertion, and said something in the local dialect. Dave could only assume, through context clues, that he asked the other guards what was wrong with her. 

One of the soldiers from the plantation spoke, and suddenly, the elderly woman was being dragged out of the lineup with men pointing guns at us all.

Not sure what came over him, Dave started at the sight.

"Wait, she can still be of use", he spoke without realizing the words were coming out of his mouth.

Rewarded with a rifle butt to his guts and crumpling to the dirt, gasping for breath, he watched as the same rifle was turned around and aimed point blank at his face. 

There was a single word he did not know, mouthed by the Coup leader; everyone stopped and looked up; he watched as the man strode towards him.

"What do you know of this woman, foreigner," he spat in English.

Wincing at the pain in his guts, he looked into the coup leader’s probing hazel eyes. "Nothing", Dave gasped. "She was next to me as I cut rice".

The General reached down to pull Dave’s chin up to stare straight into his face. The Coup leader’s immaculately curated goatee was all Dave could focus on 

"Why should we let someone useless to us live?" asked the newcomer.

Taken aback, Dave scrambled with an answer.
This was a man who had killed his cousin in cold blood in front of the entire nation. He had heard it rumoured he had also gunned down the entire first family by himself.
Was this someone he wanted to make himself known to?

Dave almost gave up fighting for another human when the answer came to his mind.

"She could cook for us and your troops. To keep us strong and functional," Dave answered with determination, knowing it was true.

"After working in the fields all day, having someone to cook for us and your troops would sort out workflow issues and increase productivity." Dave knew all about productivity; it's why he was here in the first place.

The seafood factory had failed to reach a quota since the new manager had come on board, and his job was to sort out the new employees and increase production. He had done that within a week and was only meant to be in the country for a second week before everything fell apart.

Not knowing if it would be taken as a token of respect, Dave added, "Sir?" 

The General’s eyes furrowed as he thought it over and wordlessly let Dave's head drop.

Turning around, he walked a few steps and then glanced back at Dave."Hmm," he said as he stroked that finely manicured Goatee. 

Looking over the old woman and the skinny, ragged group of prisoners lined up next to Dave, he nodded. 

" She can cook tonight for you." Giving the old lady a stern look, he said something else in his language, which Dave assumed was a threat. Everyone blanched as he raised his voice to make a point.

The General slowly raised a finger and called over one of the soldiers. Everyone was wary of this soldier, as he quickly lost his temper and was heavy-handed with all the prisoners.

Dave had dubbed this guard Haggard the Horrible as he was constantly hungover and consistently horrible.
The Coup leader gave Haggar instructions, and he saluted, “ Yes, General Montiago.”
Ahh, thought Dave, that was him, General Montiago.
Haggard reached down and dragged the older woman away as the other guards started yelling for the rest of the prisoners to move towards our wash station.
Moving with the rest of the prisoners, Dave stopped wondering why someone as important as the General was here.
He was no action hero, and thinking had already gotten him noticed by someone he never wanted attention drawn to.
No, he just put his head down and followed the rest of the prisoners to the bathing stations.
Here, they undressed and bathed while the guards watched over them.

This nightly ritual was something everyone was used to. Ensuring no one had smuggled anything small and sharp to help the captives escape their makeshift prisons at night. That had been tried in the early days, and there were fewer captives now after the brutal and final consequences.

Dave looked over where the swollen and bloated body of the last prisoner to try and escape was still swinging from a rope outside of their housing encampment. The poor old lady's son.

Left as a visual reminder, but it had been there so long, it was also a putrid constant memorial all night long of what happens when you fail to escape. 

Dave wondered how long until even the guards could not stand the smell.

Considering the effects this would have on him if it were someone he knew, he could only feel sorry that the old woman saw her rotting son every morning and night.

It was a few hours till they would all be called outside to collect their bowls of soup and rice, and Dave dozed, exhausted, despite the gagging stench that wafted past him every time the breeze picked up. 

He was awoken by the stirring of other bodies moving and guards sternly warning people to move.

Dave should be happy as this meant dinnertime. Instead, he felt the panicked rising of an anxiety attack from the added stress of twitchy guards with serious aggression problems and still no firm grasp on the language. 

He had survived this long by mimicking.

Falling into line with the rest of the forced labourers he shared every waking and non-waking moment with. Dave hoped this was the dinner line, not the line to the refuse pits.

A meaty broth scent was in the air, and his mouth filled with saliva. He felt a grumble in his stomach that even the passing guards could hear. Leaning on one foot and then the other in hopes of distracting himself from just how hungry he was, trying to be patient while everyone slowly got their bowls. 

Finally, it was his turn, and the old lady rewarded him with a look of hatred and hacked a phlegmy spit in his broth.

Aghast at what he had done to upset her, after all he had saved her life, Dave did not move from the table and reached for her arm. She screamed at him, and he fell backwards, dropping his bowl of spit-seasoned soup and his bowl of rice.

Adding injury to the sting of rejection, he doubled over from a kick in the guts, not even having to look up to know it was Haggard the Horrible living up to his name and getting his kicks out of Dave.

General Montiago strode over, watching as Haggard kicked him again, this time in the back where he was not protecting himself, and tut-tutted.

"You are many problems, aren't you, foreigner?" Smacking his lips as he ate from his bowl. "Take him back to his cell,” he said to Haggard, kneeling towards Dave with a sneer. “ I hang you in the morning."

General Montagio said something else to his soldiers, and they all laughed. He turned his back to Dave and slowly returned to the head of his table to finish his dinner.

Shit, Dave knew he should have kept his mouth shut and not tried to help the old woman. All he did was paint a target on his back, and now he will hang from a rope for a few weeks until the next person replaces him. 

If he could breathe, he would have. If he were not already crying, he would have started. 

Haggar grabbed him by the back of the shirt and the hair and dragged him back to his cell, giving him a few hits to the head with the butt of his rifle to remind him that he could. 

Between the exhaustion, the pain and the pit of despair that had passed over Dave, it was all too much, and he did not even feel the next few blows. He could see it happen, but it was like watching a stranger experience the beating.

Eventually, Haggard stopped, leaving only after one final act of spitting on him, accompanied by that evil snigger of a man who enjoyed his work.

Dave found himself spiralling deeper and darker within that bottomless pit of hopelessness. He began to consider maybe the sweet release of hanging would not be the worst thing that could happen to him. 

While he was on the verge of believing this was the end, he was slowly pulled out of his melancholy by the dull throbbing in his temples from the beating he had just taken. The fog of pain was lifting and being replaced by the sound of people being violently ill all around him and notes of panic outside from the guards.

The door to his cell burst open as Haggard fell through it, as a violent bone-cracking convulsion made him collapse to the floor.
”Witch”, he heard barely audible from Haggard just as another spasm hit him, biting off his tongue as his face contorted in pain. He tried to reach Dave and collapsed.

For what reason, Dave had no idea. All around him, people were collapsing as they choked on their vomit, spasmed into balls, holding onto their stomachs, screaming between choking, trying to gasp for breaths. 

Another captive convulsed, and Dave’s eyes enlarged, watching helplessly as her back arched and a wet spread from the front of her pants. The smell of urine soon followed.

The smell of her refuse, and the screams all around him jotted Dave out of his daze. Slowly got off his ass while using the wall to steady himself. 

Shaking the last cobwebs out of his head, Dave started towards the door outside the holding cells. He was not sure what he was expecting to see. However, the chaos that was happening inside the cells was on a small scale compared to what was happening to the entire encampment. 

Guards were holding their rifles, shooting indiscriminately at everything as their fits made them clasp the triggers of their rifles. 

He felt more than saw the fuel depo explode, almost knocking him off his feet. There was pure madness everywhere, and every single guard and prisoner alike was in the throes of seizures. 

Except the older woman as she slowly walked towards him with a smile, ignoring the nightmarish scene all around her. Taking him by the hand, she guided him to the back of the building and pointed up towards her son. 

"Can you help me take him down and bury him?" she asked in perfect English.

Too numb to react to her talking to him in English, Dave nodded and cut her son down. As if in a dream, he dragged the body of her son to an already dug grave. A shovel was stuck into a pile of dirt beside the grave, and Dave started filling in the grab. Helping her lay him to rest finally. 

The camp had grown quiet as he realized they were the only unaffected people. He asked the older woman. 
”Is everyone else dead?”
She nodded.

“Does this mean the coup is over?”

The old woman just shrugged.

Dave could not believe he would ask the next question, but considering what had just happened and what Haggard had said, he asked anyway.

" Are you a witch?"

Her voice held genuine mirth as she answered, "No young man, a botanist."

"A botanist?" Dave asked, confused by the answer.

" Do you know what fool's parsley is, Dave?" as she sat at the freshly dug grave she and Dave had just filled in.

"No, and…." She cut Dave off before he could answer.

" My son's name was also Dave. Did you know that?" Dave shook his head.

She pointed at some plants around the kitchen buildings and holding cells.
Walking over to a bunch of it growing right next to her son's grave and pulling the bunch, she turned back around and placed it on her son’s final resting place.

"That is fool's parsley or Strychnos ignatii." She looked up at Dave and smiled

"Odourless, tasteless and deadly.". 

" None of these people lifted a hand to help me or my son." She looked down at the grave. 

" Just you, a stranger, showed kindness, so I let you live."

Dave sat there in shock. 

" Shit. Don't fuck with old ladies, huh" he tried to make a poor joke.

The older woman looked at him.

She smiled, then looked back at the flowers, and her smile slipped.

"Don't fuck with a boomer," he heard her sob.

Leaving her to her grief, Dave touched her back and walked away.
He felt water on his cheeks and looked up as the sky finally opened and started to rain.

Thank you for reading.
Hopefully, I am improving, and you are enjoying it. I will write a few little stories while slowly cooking up the next episode of The Outsider.

Please leave a comment, as all feedback is loved and appreciated.