BooksBarbecue
Back Whirlwind Save as PDF
Chapters (95)
  1. Title Page
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. 31
  33. 32
  34. 33
  35. 34
  36. 35
  37. 36
  38. 37
  39. 38
  40. 39
  41. 40
  42. 41
  43. 42
  44. 43
  45. 44
  46. 45
  47. 46
  48. 47
  49. 48
  50. 49
  51. 50
  52. 51
  53. 52
  54. 53
  55. 54
  56. 55
  57. 56
  58. 57
  59. 58
  60. 59
  61. 60
  62. 61
  63. 62
  64. 63
  65. 64
  66. 65
  67. 66
  68. 67
  69. 68
  70. 69
  71. 70
  72. 71
  73. 72
  74. 73
  75. 74
  76. 75
  77. 76
  78. 77
  79. 78
  80. 79
  81. 80
  82. 81
  83. 82
  84. 83
  85. 84
  86. 85
  87. 86
  88. 87
  89. 88
  90. 89
  91. 90
  92. 91
  93. 92
  94. Also by DAVID KLASS
  95. Copyright Page

I guess I can understand his shock. When you’re roasting two chickens high up in the Andes, you don’t expect an American teenager and a corpulent canine from the future to fall out of the sky and help themselves.

Tell him we’re friends, not foes, Gisco suggests. Thank him for the superb chicken. Politely inquire if there’s any dessert. I believe we’re in custard country, and a nice flan would be just the thing.

I took French in high school, I inform Gisco. I don’t know a word of Spanish.

Must I do everything? the hound asks huffily, spitting out a small bone. Try to get the accent right: Buenos días, señor de las montañas. Gracias por el delicioso festin de pollo.

I begin to repeat the words out loud. “Buenos días …”

The boy waves at us even more frantically. Gisco, I’m certain he’s trying to tell us something.

The linguistically dexterous dog ignores me. Try this: ¿Tiene usted algún otro alimento? ¿Un queso tradicional de la región, quizás?

Gisco, he’s trying to warn us of something.

Don’t be silly. He’s delighted to have company. Didn’t I tell you about the camaraderie of the mountains? In the Andes, we are all mountain brothers and sisters—

Gisco breaks off as two burly men with ragged mustaches emerge from around a rock outcropping. Both are carrying Uzi submachine guns, which they point at our heads. One of them grunts something in guttural Spanish.

What did our mountain brother just say? I ask Gisco.

The big dog doesn’t look particularly happy. He asked his buddy which one of us they should shoot first, the golden-haired gringo who needs a bath or the dog-faced pig.

29

29

The mustachioed mountain men with Uzis bark a few questions at us. Gisco translates. I try to respond with polite and creative answers. But we can’t even begin to explain how we parachuted into their neighborhood.

They lose interest quickly. Bind and gag us, and toss us into the hut. One of them mutters a threat that Gisco doesn’t quite get, but it sounds to him like they plan on returning early the next morning to finish us off for target practice before breakfast.

Foul-smelling hut. Tight ropes. Hours drag by.

We’ve been dumped in a corner, like garbage to be disposed of when the time comes. Knots bite into my wrists and ankles. Gisco has been hogtied.

Ouch. My cramps are starting to cramp up.

It’s not the most comfortable position, I agree. What was that again about the camaraderie of the mountains?

This does seem a rather stiff punishment for stealing a couple of rotisserie chickens, even if they were well spiced.

This has nothing to do with poultry, snaggletooth.

What then?

Did you notice that this hut doesn’t have any beds?