Hostage - 5/24

“Now, where did you stash the supplies?”

“What supplies?” Marcos calmly replies. He looks annoyed more than angry, and if he feels afraid, he sure isn’t showing it. Unlike me, who is shaking violently. After The Big One, I would have thought that nothing could have made me more afraid than the earthquakes, yet my currently emptying bladder is telling me much the opposite.

“Food, water, weapons, medical. Whatever you got, hand them over, and I'll let this guy live.”

“We’re out. Look around all you want, we’ve got nothing,” Marcos replies, never taking his eyes off the man. I wasn’t sure if he was lying or not. We hadn’t eaten today, but I had thought we had a little food at least. Or the cans of water filling in the street. I hoped for my sake that that was all we had. It would be an unfortunate time for him to give up on keeping me alive.

“What about your backpack? We know you have one.”

Marcos’ eyes perk up a bit at this, but he simply replies with, “It’s gone.”

“Bull crap, nobody just gives up good equipment like that.”

“Someone else needed it more.”

There is a pause. I hold my breath as much as possible, trying not to do anything that could get anyone shot.

“Look around yourself, I’m not keeping much for myself as is,” Marcos says, gesturing with his head toward the back where the other voices had been.

That is true, but I hadn’t thought about it much until now. While Lan, coma girl, and I had cleaner clothes and got first dibs on food, Marcos looked ragged in comparison. His t-shirt was dirty and ripped at the shoulders, which nicely exposed his muscles, but seemed to be causing him to be sunburnt. Catastrophically ripped jeans and worn-down shoes just accentuated the image of a man who wasn’t holding anything back for himself.

“He… he’s telling the truth, we have nothing,” I start to stutter out, my voice trembling more than my body.

I felt the gun push harder into my back, the man's hand clamping around my bad arm tightly. He was holding me upright more than I was at this point.

There is a call from behind him that they still hadn’t found anything.

After a few heart-stopping seconds of silence, the man dejectedly says, “Well, shoot, this was a waste of time,” before dropping me to the ground into a shaking ball covered in my own urine.

I didn’t dare move to try and look up as the man started walking toward Marcos, his footsteps echoing against the shabby floor, barely audible against the rain outside, but menacing. He picks up what I can only assume is the belt and messes with it for a minute.

“Hell, gang. I don’t think he is lying. Even this gun is garbage.”

A woman’s voice sounds from someplace further into the store, near where our bedridden companions were situated.

“What’s the plan then Alex,” she asks.

I hear the man let out an annoyed groan.

“Fine. Guess we are going the peaceful route,” he says, before setting into motion the most confusing sequence of events I had ever experienced.

After helping me up and back over to the entrance next to Marcos, Alex, who I can now see is a burly man with a beard in desperate need of trimming, sat down a couple of feet away from us. From this position, he blocks off any easy route we have to the others. He was still in control. He began taking apart the broken pistol Marcos had been carrying in his belt, a process I knew nothing about, and carefully placed the pieces onto a cloth in front of him. While he worked, he whistled a tune that I couldn’t quite place. Casual as could be.

At the back of the store, the rest of Alex’s group, whom I could now see, were setting up what looked to be a camping stove and some food. They consist of two women, a man, and a child who looked to be around the age of seven. The air between us was pungent, rattling me to the core.

Don’t speak. Don’t move.

Marcos sits wordlessly next to me, giving me a small pat on my leg as we wait for whatever comes next. I could only imagine that this is what it felt like to be on death row, awaiting your execution.

“You shot this thing?” Alex eventually says, barely looking up from the gun pieces in front of him.

“No. Broken,” Marcos replies using the same calm tone as he had been since entering the building.

“Figures, wouldn’t have your hand if you did.”

“All yours then. We need all the hands we can get,” Marcos says. I feel a little sting inside as I look down at my bent arm. Maybe he was playing the pity card to try and save us, or maybe he just wanted to remind me that I was useless.

He’s finally done with you.

Alex chuckles and says, “That you do.”

More time passes, and Alex separates the gun parts and other belt contents into piles. One pile he seems to deem useful, and the other as trash.

He’ll do the same with you.

Eventually, the older of the two women from the back comes up and hands Marcos and me each a bowl of warm chicken noodle soup. It smells amazing.

Warming food had not been a focus of our tent for the last week. Marcos didn’t have the time. This soup is a five-star meal compared to smashed chips with rat bites out of them.

“Eat up while it’s warm. And you should get those wet clothes off, don’t want to catch a cold,” she says before sitting down next to Alex. I’d nearly forgotten that I had been out in the rain, on top of wetting myself, my clothes clinging to my body. Adrenaline was keeping me warm enough.

Either because he agrees or simply is following orders, Marcos took his shirt off and accepted one of the bowls from the man. I was most definitely warm enough after that and declined when he offered to help me take off mine.

It’s poison.

I look at the tempting bowl and decide to risk it, taking my first tentative bite. Immediately, I no longer cared if it would kill me. Dying for this meal would be completely worth it. As I eat, the middle-aged blonde woman comes over as well and sits down on the opposite side of Alex. Everyone is quietly eating their soup, glancing up occasionally with cold, judging eyes.

“Right, first off, sorry about holding you hostage back there,” Alex says, setting down the multitool that had been in the belt and picking up his soup.

“It’s fine,” I lie shakily. Trying and failing to imitate the calm air that Marcos has. We are still being held hostage, as far as I am concerned, even if his gun isn’t currently at my back.

The five of us continued eating quietly near the entrance of the derelict store, surrounded by empty shelves looted well before we even stepped foot inside. Occasionally, the others in the back would say something to Lan and coma girl, who both seemed unbothered with our new captors. Strangely, as the child feeds her soup, coma girl’s face looks more alive than I have seen it before. Happier.

As Alex finishes his soup, he looks back at us once more, his menacing eyes glinting. He pats his stomach, saying, “Now we can have a proper chat.”