From Roots to Riches

Chapter5

Three years later

“Get moving!” The guard’s rifle struck West’s spine, hitting the exact spot that still bore scars from previous beatings, “Work faster!”

The guard moved on to the next worker, hitting him with a heavy metal, and causing him to cry out in agony. “If you fall asleep again, I’ll shoot you dead!”

West’s calloused hands gripped the shovel tighter, his fingers permanently curved from three years of endless digging. The tomato beds stretched before him like open graves - he’d buried enough of his fellow workers to know the comparison was true.

His muscles screamed with each thrust of the shovel, his joints grinding like rusty machinery, but he couldn’t stop digging. He’d seen what happened to those who did, they never made it alive to see the day.

The harsh sun beat down on him mercilessly, baking his already scarred skin. His shirt - stiff with dried sweat and blood, rubbed against the cigarette burns decorating his back - souvenirs from guards who’d been bored. Every movement reopened half-healed wounds, but pain had become as constant as breathing. It had become a part of him now.

They were running out of workers. West had watched them die, one by one. Some collapsed in this very field, their bodies twitching in the dirt while guards placed bets on how long they’d last. Others simply never woke up, their bodies finally giving out after months of starvation. He’d helped carry their bodies to the pile out back, each corpse lighter than the last. The smell of death had become so familiar he could taste it now.

Three years in this hell had carved horror into his bones. He’d seen Marcus, his first friend here, shot through the head for hiding a moldy piece of bread in his cheek. Sarah, the cook who’d sometimes slipped some extra scraps, was dragged away one night by drunk guards - her screams haunted the plantation for hours before silence fell.

Then there was young Tommy, barely seventeen, who’d fallen asleep standing up after forty hours of forced labour. The guards had made them all watch as they set the dogs on him.

The only thing keeping West’s heart beating was the thought of Donald Greene and his thirst for revenge. Every lash of the whip, every night spent sleeping in the mud, every humiliation had been carved into his memory. His hands, now permanently stained with dirt and blood, would someday wrap around Donald’s throat. The thought brought a cold smile to his cracked lips.

The plantation was an endless piece of massive land, with no clear view of where it ended. By day, he memorized every detail - the guard's rotations, the holes in the fences, the blind spots in their patrols. At night, he lay on his thin mattress, planning his escape, while listening to the dogs bark, and the moans of the dying.

When the six o’clock bell rang, West’s shoulders sagged with temporary relief. Another day survived meant another chance at escaping. Another chance at revenge. His stomach cramped painfully - he hadn’t eaten in two days, punishment for being too slow with yesterday’s quota.

The memory of his last “punishment” was still fresh: he’d spent twelve hours tied to a post in the rain, shivering from the cold.

He strode into the crowded hall where the stench of unwashed bodies and festering wounds filled his nostrils. He collected his little meal - a bowl of watery gruel that barely qualified as food. He forced it down quickly, knowing from experience that hesitation to eat will cause others to steal it. The gruel sat heavy in his stomach, probably contaminated like the batch that had killed three workers last month, as he drifted off to sleep.

At midnight he stood up. Moving silently across the floor, stepping carefully between bodies. Each person he passed bore their own marks of torture - missing fingers, branded skin, twisted limbs that had healed wrong.

He brought out the stolen fork and worked the door lock quietly. His hands were steady despite the deep tissue damage from repeated breaking and healing. He finally opened the door and stepped out, closing it quietly behind him.

The smell of decay grew stronger as he approached the corpse pile. He recognized today’s additions by their faces, still twisted in their final agony. The cloth he had used to cover his nose did little to block the stench, but he’d grown accustomed to it over the years. Some nights, he’d hidden among the dead, learning to stay still even as rats crawled over him. He didn’t have a choice, it was the only way to escape this God-forsaken place.

He got to the wall and his scarred hands gripped the fence as he climbed, reopening cuts that never fully healed. The only thing he was thankful to this place for, was losing weight. It had afforded him the flexibility to climb the walls and be stealthy in his movements.

He used the rusty knife - his secret treasure - to begin cutting the wires. He remembered burying this knife in his skin the day he’d found it. Blood ran down his wrists as he worked, but physical pain had long since lost its meaning. He didn’t feel pain anymore, or anything else other than revenge.

After cutting through the last wire, he gathered the loose pieces and threw them down. Then he climbed the final section of the wall and dropped heavily to the other side, landing in a bush filled with rocks. He groaned in pain as he rolled away, struggling to stand up. After three tries, he finally got to his feet and started walking unsteadily toward his freedom.

“So, the American finally made it through. We’ve been waiting for you.”

The words hit West like a physical blow, sending ice through his veins. His legs turned to lead, heart hammering against his ribs as he found himself surrounded by four guards.

Their presence crushed his last fragments of hope, replacing them with bone-deep terror. Images of the corpses dumped in the backyard flashed through his mind. Would he join them before sunrise?

“I must admit, your audacity is impressive. No one has dared attempt escape,” the head guard said, his slow claps echoing like funeral bells in West’s ears.

“Chief, should we let the dogs loose on him?” one suggested eagerly.

The chief thought for a moment. “No, I want some entertainment tonight. My hands are getting restless. Take him to the dungeon. No one disturbs us, I’ll be quite busy tonight.” his smile sent shivers down West’s spine.

Pure terror paralyzed his muscles. Even as the guards yelled and shoved him, his body remained frozen. They knocked him down, dragging him through the wet dirt that filled his nose and mouth with the taste of earth and defeat. His skin tore against the rocks and roots, as they pulled him all the way to the dungeon and threw him inside.

The chief sat on a tall stool, patiently waiting as the guards stripped West’s clothes off and tied his hands to pillars on either side, leaving him hanging helplessly. When they finished, they left and locked the dungeon gates behind them.

The chief stepped forward holding pliers. “You thought you could escape and make me look foolish? Make these other animals think they can escape too?” he growled. But West met his gaze in silent defiance.

The Chief grabbed West’s n*****s with the pliers, twisting hard. West grunted, a lightening bolt of agony coursing through him. His throat constricted as he fought to contain his scream, tasting blood where he’d bitten his cheek. Sweat began to pour down his face, stinging his eyes.

“Playing tough, are you?” the Chief mocked. He put down the pliers and picked up an electric prod. West’s muscles instinctively contracted, anticipating the shock. “I am an American like you. You should be thankful for this place. It has changed you for the better. Remember how you looked when you arrived? Fat, ugly, and always sweaty. But look at you now.”

The first shock ripped through West’s body like liquid fire. His muscles spasmed uncontrollably, teeth clenching so hard he feared they might c***k. Each new shock sent fresh waves of agony through him, but he battled to keep his screams locked behind gritted teeth.

The Chief noticed his resistance.

He set down the prod and picked up a knife, heating it in the fire until it glowed red. The first touch of hot metal against his chest drew an involuntary gasp - the smell of his own burning flesh making him gag. As the blade carved downward, the searing pain overwhelmed his senses. Still he fought to contain his screams, he couldn’t give them that satisfaction of being weak.

“You’re stronger than most, I must say. I knew you were going to be fun.”

The Chief grabbed the prod again. “Let’s see how long you can stay quiet now.” Then he heated the knife again, and came at West with both weapons. The combination broke through his last defenses. His screams tore from his throat, raw and primal. Each new assault brought fresh waves of agony, his consciousness began to fade. The chief’s face blurred before him, melting into the darkness that finally enveloped him as he took his last breath.

***********

At dawn, the guards found the Chief standing over West’s lifeless body on the floor. “This one lasted longer than usual, gave me quite a good time. It’s been a while since I had such a challenge.” Rising, he ordered, “Don’t put him in the back with the others. Throw him in the river - that’s his reward for entertaining me.”

“Is he dead, Chief?” One of the guards asked. The Chief nodded, “But you can check, to be sure. Here...” he handed over the electric prod. They tested West’s body with the prod, but his body lay still, unresponsive.

Following orders, the guards dragged his body from the dungeon, through the fields where everyone could see, then out through the gates. They loaded him onto their truck, drove to the river, and threw him in, making sure he sank to the bottom.