I wrote this for a contest for www.fiction500.com. The prompt was a school bus. And, as most people, it made me think of a hostage situation.
Javier didn’t need to sharpen his knife, but he like the way it sounded--it helped him think. He did it the way his grandfather taught him: with a belt and a wet stone. After mass one Sunday when he was eight years old, Javier’s grandfather took him out behind their small two room house in Jelxaca and showed Javier how to sharpen a blade. The old man’s face wrinkled like sunburnt suede when he smiled and pointed to a chicken for Javier to run after. It was common on a Sunday, if enough people would come over after mass, to slaughter a chicken for dinner. As Javier struggled with the bird he punched the hen in the sternum to quell her seizing panic. His grandfather handed him the newly sharpened knife and made a chopping motion with his hand. It was the first time Javier felt blood spray on his skin. Even though it was only chicken blood, it still felt like respect.
Behind him, behind the sound of the blade scraping against the wet stone, Javier could hear Hector and Armon ushering the teens out of the bus. Two adults lay dead on the road like freshly slaughtered livestock. In his ever-increasing need for dramatics, Hector told the two of them in broken English that if they cut off their thumbs in less than five seconds he wouldn’t kill them. “Go!” He yelled after handing them knives, cackling with laughter. Bob, the youth group leader had his thumb off in three seconds, Chance--the junior pastor--hesitated and Hector shot both of them in the neck as the young volunteers peered over a banner written in dark pink, rose-scented marker reading, “Willowbrook Lutheran Church loves Mexico!”
Javier thought about what their next move should be. How much ransom would a bus load of Lutheran teens go for? The tearful whimpering behind him blended into the background like a hens clucking in a chicken coop and all he only heard the rhythmic grinding of steel on stone.
Behind him, behind the sound of the blade scraping against the wet stone, Javier could hear Hector and Armon ushering the teens out of the bus. Two adults lay dead on the road like freshly slaughtered livestock. In his ever-increasing need for dramatics, Hector told the two of them in broken English that if they cut off their thumbs in less than five seconds he wouldn’t kill them. “Go!” He yelled after handing them knives, cackling with laughter. Bob, the youth group leader had his thumb off in three seconds, Chance--the junior pastor--hesitated and Hector shot both of them in the neck as the young volunteers peered over a banner written in dark pink, rose-scented marker reading, “Willowbrook Lutheran Church loves Mexico!”
Javier thought about what their next move should be. How much ransom would a bus load of Lutheran teens go for? The tearful whimpering behind him blended into the background like a hens clucking in a chicken coop and all he only heard the rhythmic grinding of steel on stone.
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