Cambodian Hellhole by Stephen Mertz Page B

underneath him told him he was lying on a platform of some sort. The wood was warped, foul-smelling, as if it had received frequent doses of urine and feces, which had been allowed to dry in place.
    It was cold, a jungle-night chill, and by opening one eye as far as he was able, Stone could see that the walls surrounding him were little more than ranks of bamboo poles. He knew at once that he was inside one of the prisoner cages grouped together in the center of the compound.
    It was cold, yes, but there was some source of warmth nearby. Stone wriggled backward instinctively, drawing closer to it, and his buttocks came in contact with flesh and bone.
    Body heat. Of course.
    Someone else was in the cage with him.
    Stone tried to react, rolling away again, struggling into some vestigial upright position, but the pain produced by his efforts was too severe. He almost vomited, and would have if there had been anything inside his stomach. The exertion left him panting, prostrate on the floorboards.
    After another moment he found the strength at least to roll over on his left side, so he would be facing in the general direction of his cagemate. Both eyes open now and swimming into hazy focus, blinking back the drying blood that had run down across his forehead from a lacerated scalp, he saw not one, but two men crouching close by, watching him intently.
    They were human scarecrows, neither of them weighing more than a hundred pounds, although they seemed to be approximately the same height as Stone. Clearly they had been on a starvation diet for a long time, wasting away to skin and bone. They would be able to walk, with effort, and to work, with even more difficulty. But they were hardly in any shape for rough-and-tumble combat.
    Stone felt his initial hopes begin to fade, waning as he scrutinized the human skeletons before him. He wondered what he must look like to them; well-fed, but bloody, battered.
    For the first time, Stone became conscious that he had his shirt on. Someone had taken time to half-dress him after he lost consciousness during the marathon beating. He also had his boots on, although they were not laced. He decided that could wait until he found the energy to sit upright, the strength and tolerance for pain that he would need to bend over and reach his feet.
    The nearest P.O.W. shifted his position, staring more closely at Stone, his brow furrowed, puzzling over something. He seemed about, to ask a question, then thought better of it, rocking back on his haunches again, keeping silent. One skeletal hand came up to scratch at his stubbled chin, then dropped limply again to his side, knuckles rapping on the floorboard.
    Stone studied that face, the sunken eyes, the missing teeth and scabrous cheeks. Mentally he added a hundred pounds, a shave, more hair where this man's had been thinning out on top . . .
    And recognition hit him like a boot in the stomach, driving the wind out of him as surely as the interrogators had with their slashing, pounding canes.
    The skeleton crouching there in front of him, no more than three yards away, was Jess Lynch. The very man he had come so far and risked so much to extricate!
    "Jess?"
    Stone kept it low, a question rather than a statement. He was certain in his heart, but in his mind . . .
    The scarecrow frowned again, the whole face sagging as if someone had pulled sharply on the pointed chin.
    "Do I know you?" he asked. The voice was like a draft from the grave.
    "It's me," Stone hissed. "Stoney."
    "Stoney."
    The nickname, on Lynch's lips, had a wistful and faraway sound to it, like something blown in by the night wind. The prisoner was thinking hard, remembering, and there was a warm light growing there, behind the haunted, hunted eyes.
    "Stoney."
    "I came to get you out of here. To get all of you out." Lynch almost smiled, but he did not quite achieve the long-unaccustomed expression.
    "How you gonna do that, Stoney? You're in here with us."
    Stone managed to sit up, groaning