know that yet.
In place of fear was the whimsical, almost comical, feeling that I was Gulliver reincarnated, that a jungle version of the Lilliputians had tied me in this small hut. I half expected to see tiny, six-inch Indians tippy-toeing into the hut to laugh at me, to point with triumph at the giant they had captured and tied with their little vines.
My first impulse, then, was to call out, to find out if tiny creatures had really brought me here — and why. I thought better of it, knowing that small creatures like the Lilliputians existed only in literature and in the minds of demented people. Something large and real had done this to me. My last memories had been of scudding down a path into a ravine. Yet, I felt no pain in my face and hands that must have been abraded badly in that fall.
Although natural fear didn't build in me — again because of the drugs — I did have a natural suspicion that no sane man, or no friend, would have brought me to this hut and staked me to the ground. Why I hadn't been killed, I didn't know. My mind began to conjure up all sorts of grisly plans my captor might have for me.
I was once again toying with the idea of calling out, to get to the bottom of this mystery if only to satisfy my curiosity and get the atrocities over with, when a shadow fell across the open door. I heard a scuffling footstep outside.
And then a huge, hulking figure appeared in the doorway. It was so tall that I could see only its legs. The figure knelt, and kept on kneeling. I guessed the man's height at around seven feet.
He was staring at me from the open doorway. The light behind him kept me from seeing his face and clothes clearly. But it was obvious that he was a giant and, in that dim light of dusk (it was growing darker, so I knew it wasn't dawn), I could see his eyes sparkling and shiny.
With a sharp drawing in of my breath, I remembered the description I'd been given of Don Carlos Italla. I could hear old Jorge Cortez's words as though he were in the hut with me:
A giant of seven feet, a mountainous specimen of three hundred pounds, eyes like ingots of burning phosphorus, hands that could shred stainless steel slabs. A fury of a monster with a booming voice like the rumble of thunder.
In that moment I knew that Don Carlos Italla's men had found me in that ravine, had brought me here to this hut and staked me down. They had also drugged me to keep me docile.
I knew this for a fact. But I felt no real fear. My only regret, as I peered back at the giant with the massive hands and red, sparkling eyes, was that I hadn't given in to my earlier urges to buy and operate a truck garden along a quiet highway in Ohio.
Soon, there wouldn't be any quiet highways. And no Nick Carter either.
Chapter Four
"Good evening, Don Carlos," I said, trying to sound flip even though my heart was pounding with a renewal of fear. "Are you doing your own surgery these days?"
The giant said nothing. He had something in his right hand, but I couldn't see what it was. Gun? Knife? Scalpel? He began to crawl into the hut, moving slowly toward me. The thing in his hand got scraped along the clay floor.
Even before the giant reached me, I could smell the overpowering odor of him. It was body odor to the Nth Degree, and it filled the small hut to overflowing. Was Don Carlos Italla soap-shy, along with his other talents?
"Eat, my friend," the giant said in excellent Spanish. "Eat and sleep again. Night comes and I do not talk at night."
He said nothing more. The thing in his hand was a bowl. In the bowl were vegetables cooked in a kind of savory broth that was not from an animal. The giant fed me the gruel with his massive fingers, poking tidbits through my lips. I was too hungry to consider the fact that those hands probably hadn't been washed in a year. And the gruel was excellent. It was also drugged.
In five minutes after eating, I was sound asleep again. When I awoke, sunlight had turned the clearing outside into a
In place of fear was the whimsical, almost comical, feeling that I was Gulliver reincarnated, that a jungle version of the Lilliputians had tied me in this small hut. I half expected to see tiny, six-inch Indians tippy-toeing into the hut to laugh at me, to point with triumph at the giant they had captured and tied with their little vines.
My first impulse, then, was to call out, to find out if tiny creatures had really brought me here — and why. I thought better of it, knowing that small creatures like the Lilliputians existed only in literature and in the minds of demented people. Something large and real had done this to me. My last memories had been of scudding down a path into a ravine. Yet, I felt no pain in my face and hands that must have been abraded badly in that fall.
Although natural fear didn't build in me — again because of the drugs — I did have a natural suspicion that no sane man, or no friend, would have brought me to this hut and staked me to the ground. Why I hadn't been killed, I didn't know. My mind began to conjure up all sorts of grisly plans my captor might have for me.
I was once again toying with the idea of calling out, to get to the bottom of this mystery if only to satisfy my curiosity and get the atrocities over with, when a shadow fell across the open door. I heard a scuffling footstep outside.
And then a huge, hulking figure appeared in the doorway. It was so tall that I could see only its legs. The figure knelt, and kept on kneeling. I guessed the man's height at around seven feet.
He was staring at me from the open doorway. The light behind him kept me from seeing his face and clothes clearly. But it was obvious that he was a giant and, in that dim light of dusk (it was growing darker, so I knew it wasn't dawn), I could see his eyes sparkling and shiny.
With a sharp drawing in of my breath, I remembered the description I'd been given of Don Carlos Italla. I could hear old Jorge Cortez's words as though he were in the hut with me:
A giant of seven feet, a mountainous specimen of three hundred pounds, eyes like ingots of burning phosphorus, hands that could shred stainless steel slabs. A fury of a monster with a booming voice like the rumble of thunder.
In that moment I knew that Don Carlos Italla's men had found me in that ravine, had brought me here to this hut and staked me down. They had also drugged me to keep me docile.
I knew this for a fact. But I felt no real fear. My only regret, as I peered back at the giant with the massive hands and red, sparkling eyes, was that I hadn't given in to my earlier urges to buy and operate a truck garden along a quiet highway in Ohio.
Soon, there wouldn't be any quiet highways. And no Nick Carter either.
Chapter Four
"Good evening, Don Carlos," I said, trying to sound flip even though my heart was pounding with a renewal of fear. "Are you doing your own surgery these days?"
The giant said nothing. He had something in his right hand, but I couldn't see what it was. Gun? Knife? Scalpel? He began to crawl into the hut, moving slowly toward me. The thing in his hand got scraped along the clay floor.
Even before the giant reached me, I could smell the overpowering odor of him. It was body odor to the Nth Degree, and it filled the small hut to overflowing. Was Don Carlos Italla soap-shy, along with his other talents?
"Eat, my friend," the giant said in excellent Spanish. "Eat and sleep again. Night comes and I do not talk at night."
He said nothing more. The thing in his hand was a bowl. In the bowl were vegetables cooked in a kind of savory broth that was not from an animal. The giant fed me the gruel with his massive fingers, poking tidbits through my lips. I was too hungry to consider the fact that those hands probably hadn't been washed in a year. And the gruel was excellent. It was also drugged.
In five minutes after eating, I was sound asleep again. When I awoke, sunlight had turned the clearing outside into a
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