Mercenary at heart - стр. 21
He pulled out a knife and began to lick himself nastily, leaning the blade now and then against his tongue and then against his cheek.
– Calm down, Gorg, and lock them in a container! I have other plans for them. Just don't touch them before they're done! Otherwise dinner will be made of you tonight! – ordered a voice from the crowd.
The bandit quickly opened the door on Ted's side and said: “Welcome, dear guests! Welcome to our shawl! Ha ha ha ha ha ha ha!”
He led the boys through the camp to an enclosed shipping container at the back of the outcast settlement. The whole gang gathered in the center of the camp, around a campfire where they were burning trash, while discussing something in parallel. Despite the tragic situation in which the boys found themselves, the atmosphere in the camp was quite relaxed: the outcasts were joking, teasing each other, having fun, playing some invented games and chatting around the fire. The little hostages, however, were clearly not in the mood for fun.
The black bandit opened the container. The hostages went inside. It was empty, dark, damp, and smelled musty. The door slammed shut behind them. They could hear the bolts that closed it from the outside creaking. Time passed very slowly in the container. The boys were groping around, trying to find some object or flaw in the metal box that might help them escape the confined space. A gap in the wall would also do. But the search was unsuccessful.
Evening came. It was getting dark outside. Michael and Theodore had been held captive for half a day, still not realizing what would become of them in the future, and not imagining how they could get free. The outcasts continued to burn trash in a rusted metal tank. The outside stank of cinders and burnt rubber. It was not clear how the bandits had not yet poisoned themselves from such a constant nasty and noxious odor. It was almost as if they liked it. And they really enjoyed inhaling it into their lungs. There was no outside light, and only the fire, now and then bursting from the tank, illuminated the outer features of the camp.
The voices intensified, and rough male laughter came from far away. The radio played, tuned to the rock music wave. The outcasts were celebrating their catch of the day. It had been a good day for them: they had gotten a couple of hostages, a couple of cars, and a gun that one of them had armed himself with. And mobile devices that could be sold on the black market. A dinner of gophers they had managed to catch in the desert was planned ahead. This at least meant that the bandits would be well-fed, and there would be no need to waste the boys. The thugs cooked the meat over a fire from under the garbage with smog soaked with burnt polyethylene, clothes, paint, acids, and other junk. How could anyone even manage not to die after such a hypertoxic dinner? But the outcasts didn't have much wood, so they apparently didn't have much choice.