You have landed on page two of this story "Fishing Hole." - - Continued from page one.
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An explosion of adrenaline blew the sweet image and all his thoughts away in a flash of white light from an intruder’s command not to move. The metallic clicking sound that accompanied the order froze Amos and anchored him solidly to the place he sat.
     “Don’t turn around, don’t even blink.”
     The voice sounded like that of another teen; a bit immature in tone but the mere thought that the owner of that voice might be wielding a cocked pistol made up for it. “Don’t yell out. Don’t even make a peep.”
     Near normal daylight retuned with sparkles fading before his eyes from nearly fainting. The bamboo pole dropped. The greater length lay in the water while the handle held to the hard mud shore. It was a firm dark brown mud, the kind he liked to walk on with bare feet on a hot day and let the cool waves gently roll in, touch his feet and then return to the main body of water.
     His sternum was weak or strained and the muscles tight around his ribs made it difficult to draw a breath.
     The voice behind grew more agitated, “Keep your hands right where they are.”
     They hung out where he formally held the pole. Maybe they were frozen in place, but since the order was given not to move, they trembled and grew heavy. He feared his commander would notice each muscular twitch and might use that as an excuse to pull the trigger; assuming of course that there was a gun pointed at him. Amos heard some sort of cloth material rip. It sounded like a clean and easy rip like that of a worn cotton dress shirt or a rag made from a bed sheet.
     “Easy now,” the intruder cautioned him again. “I’m going to blindfold you.”
     Amos’s adrenaline pump was on overload.
     Grandpa explained what adrenalin was all about, its dangers and its usefulness. It was a burst of energy that shot through a person when his life was threatened by a dangerous animal or another human being. It was dubbed the “fight or flight” hormone that gave a person the added strength needed on the spur of the moment to run like mad from the encounter or to fight. Amos, as anyone would, had opportunity in the past to do both. In some cases he leapt like a deer and run off before he could give it a second thought, and in other cases he instantaneously and ferociously took on an adversary much to the delight of his classmates, the shock and surprise of the contender and later on, to the chagrin of the school’s dean of discipline.
     Most times, however, he simply exchanged threats and warnings with the opposition while onlookers with anxious faces encouraged an escalation of the confrontations, as kids are prone to do. He was no different when he was a mere spectator. Then as adversaries uncertain of a clear victory generally do, Amos and what ever opponent at the time would back away reasonably satisfied that they made their point clear one to the other or that their threats sufficiently intimidated the other. Amos normally shook uncontrollably while the hormone subsided after those close encounters hoping no one would notice and think him cowardly.
     The thought of a cocked pistol inches away didn’t allow for any of those choices. He just sat still while the chemical boiled up inside.
     He never before imagined the depth of what true life or death terror was like. The hot acid chemical had to be a hundred times what it had ever been before. He felt the slightest touch would set him off and he’d be shot. No one knew he was out there. Maybe no one would ever find him if the gun was to go off. His body would just bloat up and be food for vultures and maggots over the next few weeks. They would have a closed casket funeral for him, if his body was ever found, like they did for a cousin last year who had been missing for months. In fact, he heard the remains were so rotted, that the relative was buried first and then the memorial service held.
     “Look,” the one who did all the talking laughed as his fishing pole was pulled off the bank and made a determined headway towards the center of the river. “Looks like you finally caught something. Well, if you’re lucky, you’ll be able to tell someone how the big one got away.”
     A white or light gray cloth was slipped over his eyes and secured behind his head in a knot. He barely got a glimpse of someone’s leg a moment before his eyes were covered. He could only recall the dirty tennis shoe and tight denim covering a lean sinewy calf. The muscles on that person’s leg were rock hard, probably out of edginess as well as being naturally well toned.
     We! He realized there was more than just the one who spoke. Even if Amos took the opportunity to grab hold of that leg, his partner or partners would be on him fast, or he’d be blasted away. Although he contemplated it, any physical defense would guarantee his death. Submission didn’t guarantee his life either, but at least he hadn’t been shot, yet.
     Someone forcibly guided him to lay flat, face down in the grass. His arms were drawn behind him and wrists crossed. Adrenaline increased when he felt a rope wrap around the wrists. It was drawn tight and knotted and then whoever saddled him wrapped the cord a couple more times before drawing it even tighter. The direction of the rope was changed. It was worked between his arms and hands to cross the first couple of passes and then jerked. The rope encased his wrists in two ever-tightening inseparable rings. Each pass of the rope and each change of direction or figure of eight pattern pressed and flattened his tendons to the bones.
     The adrenaline hormones caused his whole body to swell and increased the pressure on the jeans Gret Johnson had articulated her approval. He had to stay still and keep his wits if he was to have a chance to see her again.
     He gave a fleeting thought to the TV hero, the Incredible Hulk, who swelled involuntarily when agitated.
     The rope constricted even more. It would have seemed impossible that anyone could be tied up that tight, but the one who knelt over him managed to draw the rope ever more secure. At last, the unseen stranger put in the final knot and got off him.
     He was rocked side to side as his abductors fitted another rope under him at mid-rib level. They brought it around, wrapped it over his arms just above the elbows, and pulled it tight, pinning his arms to his back. They probably looped an end of the rope for this purpose. Another second pass of the rope wrapped around his trunk. His captor spared nothing to pull the rope even tighter hampering his ability to expand his lungs for a deep draw of air.
     There was a flash back to the time Jack and he tied up Jason. The sport that day nearly became a tragedy when, while Jack and he teasingly swung Jason over the river, Jason kicked. Amos let go of his ankles, Jack lost control also and Jason went in. The current snatched him before anyone could think about what had happened.
     Although everyone was scared, Amos only now began to fathom just how terrified Jason must have been.
     Amos’ adversaries gave the cord a couple more wrenching yanks, wrapped the end just above the right elbow and tied it off.
     He felt a pair of hands frisk his shirt pocket, then the side of his shirt that had no pocket. They patted him down pausing at his jean pockets. Whoever it was had a hard time to free an envelope that was protected in a wax sandwich bag from the left rear pocket. He knew there was only three dollars. A couple of quarters, a dime and a penny pressed their outlines on his front pocket but the thieves probably figured they weren’t worth the bother or couldn’t be fished out of such tight fitting jeans. He felt his comb being worked out of his right rear pocket. He sensed from the person’s movement and nearby sounds the thief tossed it to the water. They each gave a thorough pat down search one more time. One of them lifted his hands turning them back and forth inspecting his partner’s workmanship. “Wow, that’s really tight,” he exclaimed with animated admiration, giving the ropes around the wrists a squeeze that elicited a pained grimace from Amos, “’Great job tying him up.”
     A final slap to Amos’ rear indicated the thieves were done probing and let go of the hands.
     “Keep your face down and close your eyes,” the spokes person ordered. Don’t look at us. Don’t turn your head and don’t flinch.”


     Another ripping sound was heard and a piece of adhesive tape was placed over his mouth; what Amos figured could have been the kind of white cloth tape Johnson and Johnson made. He remembered rolls of it sitting on a shelf in the gymnasium office back in Lansing. Another piece of rag was used as an additional gag. They lifted his long hair in back to make excellent work of securing the rag. His heart was on over load as he wondered if this was either the end for him and they wanted him to go quietly, like with a slice of the knife; or if this was just an added measure for them to buy time before Amos found a way to attract other fishermen on the river.
     One of them slugged him across the back of the head, “Don’t move a muscle for the count of 500, or else.”
     He was hit again, even harder the second time. Maybe they were trying to knock him out. Somewhat dazed, he had no trouble faking unconsciousness with the hopes they would stop punching him.
     “Forget it, lets get out of here,” the spokes person told his collaborator, “He won’t be any trouble.”
     Amos was almost elated with the thought that they might actually let him live. The counting began. He still knew the gun, if there was one could go off, but as he neared a hundred in his count his exhilaration increased. He was nearly on the verge of hysteria, of laughing or crying; he wasn’t sure which way he’d go on that. Never in his wildest imagination would he have thought being left behind in his predicament would provoke laughter; but seeing as near certain death had just pointed its finger at the back of his head a few moments ago, he was able to laugh, and maybe even cry.
     He kept the count slow even after he could no longer hear the dry weeds, twigs and path pebbles scrape underfoot of those that just robbed him as he hit a hundred and ten, ‘hundred eleven, ‘hundred twelve. Even at five hundred he hesitated whether it was safe to twist around and think of his next move.
     He had no luck to liberate his numbed hands through twisting and writhing for a considerable amount of time. They did not tie his ankles or legs, so he worked at getting to his feet; not an easy task without any use of his hands or arms. He stumbled and fell after getting about half way up. He rubbed his head against the ground to work the blindfold. When that failed he worked at standing again.
     He managed to stand after a few more stumbles and carefully found his way next to a tree and felt around with his head and shoulders for some protrusion of bark or branch to hook the blindfold on and lift it off. He found what felt to be a firm piece of bark and managed to obtain a peek below the section of blindfold below his left eye before losing his balance and tumbling to the ground.
     He cried out from the wrenching pain of landing on his bound up wrists. The effort left him gasping for breath. He permitted himself a brief break and then worked at getting up.
     He felt lightheaded and a bit tingly and faint. He realized he faced several factors that could induce fainting: The rib-level rope restricted his lungs from replacing the oxygen burned up in the strenuous activity of trying to get up. His nervous anxiety and the pressure his jeans and belt placed on his stomach was an added factor, not to mention the heat and high humidity exacted its toll. Moreover, he ate nothing since a light and early breakfast and had little to drink since that meal.
     His second attempt to remove the blindfold took awhile, but he was able to have it lift until it lay loose over his forehead. He felt he stood a chance of getting free or attracting help if someone was to float by now that he was on his feet and could see. He knew by now to step carefully as he no longer had use of his arms and hands to break a fall.
     He walked down to the bank and studied his options. The kayak was of no use under the circumstances. He could neither see nor hear anyone on the river. He could wait it out, but there was no guarantee some one would come by. How many times had his elders scolded him for not letting them know where he was going?
     The circulation to his hands had been completely cut off. He surmised the knot was behind his hands making it impossible for his fingers to reach. The foresight to bind his arms flat against his back prevented him from slipping his hands in front. His best option, led him to the all too quiet gravel road.
     A prickly pin sensation accompanied the growing numbness of his hands. The cords felt more like steel cables than rope. He paused here and there to lean against a tree and grit his teeth against the pain and to catch what he could of his breath. He worked his hands around hoping to create a space for some blood to flow into the hands, even if he could not twist free. None of his efforts brought any relief. Who would have thought that numbness could be painful?
     He had just come upon the edge of the road when he heard a motor in the distance. A thin cloud of dust showed something coming his way over the next slow rising hill. He knew from experience that not many folks will slow down for a hitchhiker. It could prove dangerous. His dad tried to impress upon him that hitch hikers met with ill fate more so than the drivers.
     He pondered the best way to posture on the roadside so the driver could see his predicament and be more inclined to stop out of pity for some poor kid who had his mouth gagged and hands tied behind his back. His jarred sense of humor at this point pictured himself driving down the road, laughing at some poor wretch in his place, and driving on. The cloud of dust and a hint of a pick up truck’s roof turned east before reaching the top of the hill. It was probably a farmer working a side field.
     A distant sound from the rear turned him about. A dark object headed his way left a trail of dust behind it. It was so small he figured it might be at least a couple of minutes before it caught up to him if it didn’t turn onto the next crossroad. Amos kept walking, slower now. He’d let the car or truck get closer before turning around and begging for help. He figured the driver should get a good look at his tied-up hands, but that he should not delay turning around in case the driver didn’t pay attention to his hands, then he’d at least have long enough time to show the driver he had a gag over his mouth; maybe. Cars can zip through here at sixty mile an hour.
     The cicadas and some rustling of the trees was all he heard after what he figured was a couple of minutes. The car had turned off early. The cicadas are active when the day’s a scorcher. It might have been past ninety degrees with a figure not much lower to measure the climbing humidity but no hint of rain. Perspiration made his jeans stick and the walk that much more difficult.
     Sweat and dust, sweat and dust he thought. Beads of sweat rolled down the side of his face or from his forehead and brow. It itched and he couldn’t scratch. The cloth gag had slipped down by this time and hung around his neck, but the tape remained in place. He wondered if he had muddy streaks on his face like kids get playing ball on a day like this and mingling beads of sweat rolls down in straight and squiggly lines over their smooth, flushed, determined faces. Would a dirty face decrease his chances of getting picked up?
     Maybe he would appear to be too rugged to an older driver, like a hippy who smoked weed, and maybe think his long hair, bare feet, faded jeans and . . . and . . . and his hippy beads made of seeds were too much of a challenge to social decency to offer Amos any help. Darn! They took the necklace also. He didn’t recall anyone taking it off him, but then he had other things to think about with a gun about to blast his skull apart. He worked some more at the ropes, rubbing his wrists raw while the increase pain of numbness became excruciating. He didn’t really know what caused gangrene, but if getting tied up this tight could do it; he wondered how long he could go before that would happen.
     He neared the top of the hill when a brown Ford station wagon headed his way. He stepped into the middle of his lane and jutted his chin a few times towards the driver’s side of the windshield. When he thought the time was right he turned side way and a bit away from the on coming car lifting his bound up hands, but still letting the driver see his mouth was taped closed. He shouted a muffled plea to stop when it appeared the car was coming on too fast to stop where he stood.
     The car passed by. In the final seconds, Amos could see that the driver gave him a thorough look-over. But, suddenly the car stopped. It didn’t back up, nor did the driver poke his head out the window to look back.
     Amos started to run towards the car. His foot rolled on a stone. He made a frantic effort to stay on his feet, but fell down anyway. The driver made no move as Amos struggled to get back to his feet.
     That made him even more ill at ease. Was the driver cautious of unseen enemies in the woods, or was he the sort of person his Dad might have warned him about, the kind of people that take advantage of hitchhikers?
     What sort of advantage?
     Amos never thought of asking until this moment.
     Should he head for the woods and hide?
     Amos opted to continue towards the car. He reasoned that if the driver was up to no good, then it would be better if things take place as they will out in the open in the off chance someone would see rather than to be tracked down in the cover of the woods and brush with no way to defend himself.
     The driver, a kid his age give or take a year, gave him a friendly smile but said nothing when Amos caught up to the car. He simply motioned with hand and index finger for Amos to turn around. The driver should have said something, like, “What happened to you man?”
     Or, with the strange sort of humor Amos was known to exhibit, the driver could have asked, “Know what time it is yet?”
     That’s when Amos remembered he had taken his watch off and set it aside while fishing.
     The driver door squeaked open, long over do for an oiling. It was not really a brown station wagon, its just that it was so heavily caked with dust it appeared brown when Amos first spotted it.
     The driver took more time than what Amos thought was necessary for caution, if caution was the kid’s objective. Maybe he just wanted to give visual study to a pair of bound up hands out of curiosity; after all, it’s quite rare to run across someone in the middle of a near deserted country road with his hands tied behind his back.
     He impatiently turned to face the driver again. His hand, bracing him against the open window, held a fish-cleaning knife. He already had one leg that had a dirty tennis shoe and tight denims accenting a lean well toned leg out of the car
     Amos spotted a camera with a huge lens and the buckled end of a leather watchstrap leaning against the windshield. A white tin of Johnson and Johnson sports adhesive tape dropped out of the car and rolled over to the ditch.
     Amos’s chest warmed and his heart quickened as he watched it roll away. Fear gripped him to where he could hardly draw a breath as the driver again signaled for Amos to turn around.
     Amos eyed the watchstrap again and raised himself up on his toes hoping to see whether or not he could recognize the watch.
     The kid sheathed the knife at belt level and with a series of hand signals gave Amos the impression he might not be able to speak. He might have been trying to get Amos to relax and cooperate so he could help him.
     He felt he had little choice but to turn his back to the young driver. Maybe the guy wanted to take a picture with his thirty-five mini-meter camera first. That’s how John Macias slaughtered the term thirty-five millimeter.
     “Cool,” would have been Amos' impatient reply, if that was the case, “be sure to send me a copy.”
     The young driver held Amos’ hands to study the rope work. Numb as his hands were, he could detect the new comer running his fingers around the ropes and plying Amos’ involuntarily curled in fingers. The hands were swiveled to the right then left, maybe looking for the knot. Amos didn’t have much choice except to wait a bit longer while this stranger took his time as if looking over an unexpected find of ancient artifact.
     Amos knew what there was to see. He had taken an interest in how deep the cords sunk into skin and muscle when they tied Jason up a couple or three summers ago.
     The rescuer then struggled to pull the cloth gag that had been hanging limp around Amos’s neck. Amos estimated it might have been at least an hour since blood circulation was closed off to his throbbing hands. The gag could wait. What was this kid up too?
     Amos needed more air. His lungs, restrained by the ropes that dug into his ribs, spastically made short rapid pumps. He attempted to ask the guy to hurry it up, but only managed a few unintelligible beep-like vowel utterances because of the tape over his mouth. He had no way to divulge what sort of agony he was enduring.
     Spots formed before his eye. His legs tingled and his knees buckle. The forest lifted, the sun dimmed and the whole earth began to move like a Ferris wheel starting up.

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