Page 11 of The Perfect Stranger

They had been working in the fields just like every other normal day. Fifty workers tended to the Southern end farms when they heard the unusual noise. In the distance, they watched as the crop duster planes rounded the mountains and flew in a parallel line toward them. The people of the hidden Colombian region of La Balsa were too poor for aerial fertilization. Then, in perfect timing, the planes released their poison. A green mist descended coating everything in the vicinity. Arturo, Josiah, and five others ran, taking cover under the equipment shelter. It had no walls, only a roof, but offered enough protection to save them. The others? They weren’t so lucky. They were too far away from any form of shelter in the coca fields. They fell, one by one, as the chemical invaded their airways and burned their insides. The humming of the planes faded only to return moments later, circling for another assault.

When the chemical drop finally came to an end, Arturo and Josiah wrapped their shirts around their faces and raced back to the main house. It was only when they arrived to safety did they see the damage done to their bare chests and back. The poison had caused their skin to bleed and burn.

Less than an hour later a river worker stumbled to the door, covered in blood. His hand clutched his throat which had been slit. Not enough that he would die instantly, but for a slow, painful death. He too wore no shirt, his stomach now carrying a message engraved deep into his flesh.

Arturo handed me a balled up piece of paper that had seen better days.

CESAR O PAGA

Cease or pay.

“Who did this?” I asked. With fearful eyes, Arturo swallowed hard before continuing.

The finger could be pointed in numerous directions. In a way, it was a long time coming. It was violent and full of malice, but this was Colombia. My family for generations had been involved with the farming of coca. As a boy, I grew up in La Balsa, a small town neighboring Ecuador. To some, it was considered poor. Below the poverty line. But it was a self-sufficient community who had coca in their blood, well before it was used for both legal and illegal drugs. With its ever increasing popularity, crime sprees became the regular. Legal medicinal companies took a step back, no longer wanting to sell medicines that used a coca base. With a sudden loss of income, my father continued his production, satisfying the needs of an eager new buyer who saw the benefits of a secluded community with plots of land hidden within the shadows of mountains. With main access being by river, it had quickly become an ideal transportation zone. From there it was handed over to drug manufacturers who would turn the traditional plant into a paste and then finally, cocaine.

But who had my father’s business as a target?

“There’s more,” Josiah spoke as if acid burning fifty people with a crop duster wasn’t the worst part. He took another sip of his beer, preparing himself to delve deeper into the next phase of this fucked up story.

My father had been notably distraught. He took pride in his business and considered all the peasant workers as his family. Such a violent act resulting in a mass death of employees had hit him hard. Yet, he had no idea who would do such a thing. Being so far removed from the actual drug production, he was none the wiser of the political war mounting around him. As far as he knew, the buyer still considered his crop the best in South America due to the quality of soil and had raised no issues about their business relationship.

Apparently, there was also no further warning of the impending threat. No evidence to point in any direction for who was responsible. When the town went up in flames and women and children were amongst the casualties, the finger needed to be pointed at someone. But who? Exactly one week after the acid attacks on the peasant workers, the people of La Balsa had said goodnight on another day of grieving. The population was small, and if you could close your eyes at night and not be mourning the recent deaths, you were considered lucky.

As Josiah recalled the information, my mind, already in a dark place after the day’s raid, was transported back to my hometown. Back where I could feel the heat from the flames burning my skin just as it had the one hundred and fifty people who had suffered.

The attackers had circled, framing the town. No one saw them. No one suspected them of being there. They watched and waited until they saw no movement and then they struck. The fire took hold with the aid of an accelerant and trapped the people who were sound asleep in their homes. When the smell of smoke and fuel woke some, their screams and cries of warning roused the rest. This had no doubt been exactly what the terrorists wanted. Mass chaos.

Josiah, who had been among the carnage, recalled seeing his neighbor scramble from his home that was already being licked with flames. The man was yelling, fear in his eyes, as he watched a part of his town burn. The sadness when he realized there was nowhere left to run. He became frantic, the primal need to see his family to safety taking hold of his logic. With a crying baby and two-year-old boy, the man and his wife began to flee. Face to face with a wall of flame, and shielding their faces from flying embers, they finally saw an opening. Holding each other’s hands they made a run for the clearing. Before they were beyond the flames, their bodies shook and jolted violently. The man fell to his knees, blood running from his mouth. He held tight to his boy who was lying face down in the dirt.

The man’s wife looked frantically around, tears streaming down her distraught face as she met the eyes of Josiah. They had known each other all their lives and so had their families before them. Her desperation soon turned to a blank stare. Eyes wide and seeing nothing. The woman dropped her baby, its small body unraveling from the blanket its mother had wrapped him in. The child’s wails could be heard over the roar of the flames, the screams of those seeking sanctuary and the rounds of gun fire from the people who were told to shoot at first sight.

That was the fate of anyone who tried to escape. That was the fate the killers wanted everyone to witness, should they try to make a run for their lives. Many died that very way. Others who witnessed the threat on the outside of the fire circle made tracks to the inner town. Whoever didn’t die from burning alive, smoke inhalation, or by being shot, huddled together praying the flames would lose their raging strength.

When the skies opened up and extinguished the circling fire those left remaining breathed a temporary sigh of relief.

It was dark, early morning, when they heard the crunch of the footsteps. They were heavy footed, making no attempt to hide their approach. As everyone grouped together, eyes locked on the dark void in front of them, they saw the glimmer shining off the metal of the guns. They came in unison, large waves of soldiers who, while they didn’t outnumber the villagers, their weapons alone sealed their fate.

The men, identically dressed, faces covered, eyes carrying the same violent intent, separated the women villagers from the men and children. As families screamed for their loved ones, those that held each other a little too long were met with hostility. One couple who became hysterical when her infant child was ripped from her arms and thrust into that of her husband had the butt of the soldier’s gun between her brows. The vacant stare as she fell to the ground told of another life lost for a reason they had yet to discover.

As the men were marched off to the east of the village, the women were imprisoned in the large open community hall. Days passed before news of the two groups reached each other. The village men were in charge of gathering food supplies, and some were given the jobs of delivering meals to the women’s hall where a few trusted ladies would be responsible for the cooking and distribution. The guards watched every move. What messages were passed between them were cryptic. What couldn’t be said, was seen.

The men reported back to their camp that the soldiers had separated the women into “classifications.” Those who were old were kept at the back of the hall, and other than general cleaning duties were unharmed and went without harassment. Those who were considered young enough to still be fertile faced a different story. Two men who had delivered a crate of vegetables returned distraught. After being watched by their own guards, they waited until it was safe to reveal what they had witnessed. They recalled how when they entered the hall, the guards watched on with humor as they awaited the men’s reactions. Their ears were met with the cries of women begging for mercy. Their pleas were muted by the hand of the soldiers on top of them as they continued their assault. There were fifteen rapes occurring at the time the men arrived with their delivery. One woman who was particularly petite was being shared between three men, her limp, rag doll body having given up the fight.

What had sickened the men was that for days they had no idea what was happening in the hall. For days, this had carried on, without anyone so much as making a plan to intervene. These women were their wives, sisters, nieces, mothers and daughters, and while they carried out their duties, no one had a clue that the women were being raped every hour of the day.

A shrill noise penetrating the loft cut Josiah off. The intercom was buzzed startling the three of us. Lost in the horrific story, I’d completely forgotten about the Chinese takeaway I’d ordered. As I rose, I noticed the two men seemed shaken by the interruption, their nerves at shattering point. Josiah raked a hand through his hair, and Arturo’s left knee was bouncing up and down in agitation. Answering the door, I paid the greasy haired delivery man before returning to the living room and placing the bags on the small table between us. To starving men, the aroma of food practically had them frothing at the mouth despite the gruesome story they had just recounted. I for one didn’t feel like I could stomach anything for the next week.

Instead of interrogating them further, I watched as they tore through the take-out with a hungry ferocity that would put a wild animal to shame. I had so many questions. But I had to give the starving men a chance to eat.

When they finished their meal and I moved on to my third Corona, they continued.

Their homes had been destroyed, and the females of their family were being used as sex slaves. They had been tracking the behavior of the night guards, who walked the perimeter of the building and who stopped at the ends to peer around the sides. The frequency of their movements was also monitored, and the lazy ones were favored among the overly diligent. As the group of men coordinating lay next to each other on the hard ground feigning sleep, they listened. They didn’t need to see the faces of the guards, they were already familiar with voices. When one said to the other he would see him tomorrow night to change sentry, the captives knew the lazy guard would return to complete his shift in his usual lack of enthusiasm.

The guards had never done a head count, they were, according to the men, too pre-occupied with the women in the other shelter. This meant, with the right coordination and distraction, the guard's attention could be turned long enough for Josiah and Arturo to slip out unnoticed. The risk was what lay beyond the grounds behind the building they were held in. It was a risk that could end in disaster. For all they knew they would escape the compounds only to meet the barrel of a gun by a soldier on watch in the jungle.

My father, who they had confided in, told them that if they should make it, to find me. He made them memorize my address and offered names of people who could assist them in getting over the border. It was a long shot. A gamble to get two men who were injured and weak to travel cross-continent relying on the help of strangers. But they did it, and I had to commend them on their will. Loaded with a message and armed with courage they staged their disappearance.

Renaldo, a man allergic to the skin of a Lulo and barracking for the young men, consumed two of the sweet oranges only to have his stomach violently heave less than an hour later. He put his plan in motion by lying on the floor groaning earning him the curious stares of the lazy guard. As the pain increased, he sat up, clutching his stomach while the stabbing pains and hot flushes caused beads of sweat to drip down his forehead. This had the guard turning his full body to face the action. When Renaldo stood, and the men either side of him cleared a path fearful of being covered in vomit, the guard became frantic, eager to get him outside. The last thing the lazy guard wanted was to have his section reeking of someone’s sick. The other guard positioned at the back did a quick scan of the room, with his rifle pointed around at the shadowed faces watching on, before helping to guide Renaldo through the maze.

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