Jamie Freveletti - Running from the Devil

“Do you have any food?” Ms. Sullivan said.

Emma handed her a food package. Ms. Sullivan opened it and wrinkled her nose.

“This is turning.”

“I know. But it’s all I have.”

Ms. Sullivan handed it back. “Is it your last? Here, you take it.”

“Not at all. I have six more. You might as well eat it. They’ll all turn soon.”

Ms. Sullivan nodded. “I guess you’re right.” She tore into the filet and closed her eyes.

“Tastes like heaven, though. Much better than that dried beef jerky they’re feeding us.” She waved a finger at Emma. “I know. You’re thinking I should lose some weight.”

Emma patted her on the shoulder. “I am thinking no such thing, Ms. Sullivan.” She looked thoughtful. “Come to think of it, how are they carrying all that food? I only see a small backpack like mine on each.”

“They handed it out to us the first day. From the trucks that were parked on the side of the road. We carry our own.”

Emma looked at Ms. Sullivan’s empty pockets. “If that’s true, where’s yours?”

“They took it from me when they left me there to die. Call me Gladys, dear.” She stuck out a hand for Emma to shake. “I’m from Chicago. South Side Irish. I was heading to Bogotá to meet my sister, who moved there fifteen years ago.”

Emma shook her hand. “Call me Emma. Why Bogotá?”

“A man. Why else would an Irish woman from Chicago go to Bogotá?”

“What does he do?”

“Did. He died two months ago. I was heading down to help my sister pack to leave. He was a Christian missionary. He worked for a nonprofit that was dedicated to eradicating child soldiers and to bringing Jesus to the indigenous peoples.”

“They use child soldiers here.” Emma thought about the boy tied up on the back of the truck.

Gladys nodded. “Usually teenagers. They recruit them much like the gangs recruit in the States.”

“Do they force them?” Emma said.

Gladys shook her head. “They don’t have to. In parts of Colombia joining a paramilitary group is like joining the army in the States. The kids often have little schooling and fewer job opportunities, so the guerrilla groups offer a place to go.” She finished the entire plate of food and put it down. Emma felt a pang of panic. If Gladys continued to eat at that pace, they’d be out of food by tomorrow.

“I saw you on the plane. ’Course then you looked different. Right now you look like a heathen. What in the world have you rubbed all over your body?”

“Mud. It stops the mosquitoes.”

“Ah,” Gladys said. “They are horrible, aren’t they? They sure do torment a soul. Have you been following us? Wouldn’t it have been safer to stay with the wreckage?” Emma was having a little trouble keeping up with Gladys’s stream-of-consciousness conversation, so she answered the last question she heard.

“After you marched out they came back and blew it sky-high. I ran before it exploded. I followed you because I didn’t know what else to do, and I was afraid of that man in the truck.”

“The one in the shirtsleeves? He was a bad one, for sure. But the skinny one is crazy. He beats someone every day. Oh! That reminds me.” Gladys reached into a pocket of her dress and pulled out a rosary. “I’ve said a prayer every day since we’ve been captured.”

Emma eyed the rosary. It was made of heavy beads that looked like onyx. A large silver engraved cross hung from the bottom. “Your rosary is beautiful.”

Gladys held it up for Emma to see. “It was a gift from Charlie, my sister’s husband. One of the guerrillas tried to take it, but I told him God would curse him if he did.”

“And he stopped? Didn’t he realize what he’s doing to all the hostages is far worse than stealing a rosary?”

“You’re in Latin America now. Christianity is strong here, and it coexists with shamanism, santería voodoo, you name it. Guerrillas can be very superstitious. He didn’t want to mess with such a powerful symbol.” Gladys fingered the rosary and sighed. “Charlie was a good man. I pray for him, too.”

“Then I’ll leave you to it. I want to head down the path a little. Perhaps there’s a stream nearby and we can get some water.” Gladys nodded and closed her eyes. Her fingers ran over the beads, one by one, and Emma watched as her lips moved in the silent ritual prayers assigned to each.

Emma ran for half an hour. No water anywhere. No food, either, at least nothing that she could identify as edible. She eyed a few caterpillars hanging out on a tree. If worse came to worst, she supposed she could eat them. She would have preferred some plants first.

She spun around and ran back to Gladys. She found her lying in the same spot next to the tent, sweating profusely and gasping again. Emma grabbed some more foxglove out of her pocket. Tore the leaf in half and handed it over. Gladys chewed, this time without grimacing. After fifteen minutes, her breathing took on a more regular rhythm.

“That was a close one,” Gladys said.

Emma didn’t know what to say. Gladys needed a hospital, and soon. The foxglove wouldn’t work for long. Eventually Emma would overdose her by mistake, or the combination of a lack of food and water coupled with her heart condition would stress her body to the breaking point. These problems weren’t immediate, however.

Their immediate problem was one of logistics. Gladys couldn’t walk far, Emma needed to leave her if she was to forage for food, and each hour that passed meant that Gladys’s condition would worsen. Emma warred with the idea of pushing Gladys to rise and walk with her, or to leave her there with the tent and her remaining packets of food while she herself continued to trail the passengers in the hopes of coming upon a village.

“What are you thinking about?” Gladys’s shrewd eyes were on her again.

“What to do next. We need food and water, and we’ll get neither by sitting here.”

Gladys shifted. She waved Emma over. “Help me up.”

“Are you sure you should move? Perhaps we should rest.”

Gladys waved Emma off. “I’m feeling better now. We should move while I can. Sitting here gets us nowhere.”

Emma collapsed the tent. She took Gladys’s elbow to steer her down the path. They slogged forward. Emma found the slow pace excruciating. Gladys leaned heavily on her arm. She’d put the rosary in her pocket, but every so often she removed the beads and worried them about with her fingers. They stopped every half an hour to allow Gladys to rest.

The rains came in the afternoon. Emma hurried to place her tray out before scurrying underneath the leaves of a palm tree. She sat next to Gladys. They both stared at the plate as it filled.

“Is the tall man with the dark hair still alive?” Emma said.

Gladys frowned in thought. “You mean the handsome one? Shredded navy polo shirt?”

“That’s the one. I think his name is Cameron Sumner.”

Gladys nodded. “He’s an interesting man. He helps the weaker ones when he can, but he doesn’t say much. Seems he’s always thinking. You can almost see the gears turning in his head. And the skinny one hates him.”

“How do you know?”

“The skinny one spends a lot of time staring hate at him. Hate flows from the skinny one like a waterfall.” Gladys shook her head. “He’s the devil, that’s for sure.”

When the rain ended, the plate was half full. Emma let Gladys drink first.

“That was wonderful.” Gladys said. “I’d kill for a cigarette just now.”

Emma laughed. “I’d kill for a helicopter to come and take us away.”

“That, too,” Gladys said. She grew serious. “Emma, you need to leave me behind.” Emma started to protest, but Gladys put up a hand. “I’m slowing you down. It doesn’t do either of us any good if you continue to drag me along. Eventually you will run across a village. Those kidnappers are headed somewhere safe for them, but there’s a good chance they will pass through a village on their way.”

Emma sighed. “I know. They must be marching the passengers to a ransom point with some sort of modern communication and food. They need to eat just like the rest of us, and their packs are getting emptier each day, right along with mine.”

Gladys nodded. “That’s right. You’re not afraid?” Her warm eyes filled a little.

Emma patted her on the arm. “I won’t lie to you, I’ve been a mess this past year, but I’m not about to give up. I’m going to dog their tracks, leave markings all over the trail, and with any luck get both of us out of this situation.”

Gladys clapped her hands. “Good girl! I like a woman who knows what she wants.”

Emma smiled. “Come on. Back on your feet. A village could be right around the corner. You should walk as far as you can. It’ll be good for you.”

Gladys heaved to her feet. “You sound just like my doctor. ‘Gladys, quit smoking, Gladys, quit eating.’”

“Gladys, start walking,” Emma said.

Gladys rolled her eyes and started to move.

The path opened up into a green expanse at the base of the mountain. Emma gasped at the beauty of the little field, surrounded on three edges by jungle, with the mountain rising from the far end. Neat rows of bushes that looked like vines in a vineyard stretched almost a quarter mile on the small, flat expanse. The cultivated rows of crop ran in perfect parallel lines. The plants rippled in a slight breeze, and flashes of sunlight sparkled off the green leaves.

“Emma, look at this crop. There must be a farmer somewhere nearby. We’ve been saved!” Gladys clutched Emma’s arm in a death grip. Her breathing hitched.

“Calm down. You’re going to make yourself sick. Sit a moment.” Emma lowered her down onto a nearby boulder next to a tree. She bent down and checked the crop.

Coca. The narrow leaves looked like any other wild weed. Emma found it hard to believe that such a harmless and unassuming-looking plant could cause such misery and heartache the world over.

She straightened up and shaded her eyes against the sun. No farmer worked the fields, for which she was thankful. Whoever owned this field would not be the sort that Emma would want to meet up close and personal.

“Gladys, this is coca,” Emma said.

Gladys’s face turned grim. “So not a nice farmer.”

“No,” Emma said. She saw a glint of light off to her right. A tin roof flashed in the sun. She pulled the remaining foxglove out of her pocket.

“Take these. There’s a hut off to the right. I’m going to check it out.”

Gladys shoved the leaves into her pocket. “Be careful. Don’t let them see you. Oh, dear.” She pulled her rosary out of her other pocket and started rubbing the beads like mad.

“Saying a prayer for me, are you?” Emma said.

Gladys nodded. “Always, dear girl.”

Emma gave her a swift kiss on the cheek. “Just stay put,” she said. She patted Gladys on the arm and moved away. She skirted the tree line, doing her best to stay in cover.

The field showed signs of being newly plowed. A cash crop, lovingly tended. The sound of a truck engine shattered the peace. Emma jogged back to the tree line and made her way over to Gladys. The sound of the approaching engine grew louder. She ran faster, stumbling over roots jutting out of the earth near the tree line. She’d left Gladys all alone, and the engine sounds were coming from that direction.

She was too late. At thirty feet from the little area where Gladys sat, two men, both dressed in gray T-shirts and both carrying assault weapons, stood next to a battered truck with wooden slats for sidewalls on the bed. Gladys stood facing them. She stood at an angle from where Emma hid, which gave Emma a good view of her profile. She talked to the men, punctuating her words with elaborate hand gestures. She mimed smoking a cigarette.