The Amazon

by Bob Nailor

All four men heard the same transmission in their headsets. He knew their eyes were trained on him, waiting for instructions. He heard the whine of the twin gas turbines over Sandro’s head. Suddenly a grating sound ripped through their ears.

  “They’ve ripped open the starboard hatch. I’m going to have to try to lose them.” Sandro’s voice was saturated with panic. In helpless frustration, they heard the gurgle of their pilot choking in his own blood.

  As the sound of the helicopter smashing into the forest canopy echoed through Edson’s head, another sound frightened him even more. The whiz of a powerful arrow filled his ears as he felt the impact on his Kevlar vest, directly over his heart. The energy threw Edson backward over his pack and he quickly groaned from the pain shooting through his ribcage. He’d taken almost every high-powerful round in that vest over the years and even a .45 caliber magnum didn’t have the same kick.

  Edson grabbed the arrow and dove underneath a fallen log. This time, it wasn’t cast from gold. The iron tip was nearly as long as his hand and was carefully shaped into four razor-sharp ribs. He’d been struck by an armor-piercing arrowhead. He clamped his riot helmet and shield in place.

  “It’s showtime,” he called into his mouthpiece and Júlio detonated the wall charges. The white wall crumbled before their eyes and laid open their entry into the centuries-old city of El Dorado. Behind the rubble stood the multitude of warriors which, only a few days before, had chanted Ana into oneness with them. It was a sea of arrows, spears, and glowing red eyes. The rumble of drums rose behind them as they chanted in rhythm with their advance.

  Júlio’s face froze into grim determination as he slipped his special projectile into the grenade launcher. “It’s now or never,” he growled and advanced. Edson lit his flame thrower and bathed the first row of mulheres morcego with a fiery stream of napalm.

  In place of explosives, Júlio had screwed wooden stakes into the miniature rocket, turned to needle-point perfection from Amazonian ironwood. He chose the closest flaming female and fired where he knew her shriveled heart lay. The wooden missile struck square in the middle of her chest and her eyes exploded in fury and fear. With a roar, her body disintegrated into a puff of flaming dust and she disappeared, her weapons falling harmlessly to the ground.

  “Puta merda,” they whispered in unison. “It worked.”

  They worked in pairs; Edson and Júlio, Henrique and João. One man doused the horde with flames while the other loaded and fired mini-rockets. They worked from behind their shields, awkward, but necessary, as salvos of the hefty arrows arrived from every angle.

  As the forest filled with the acrid stink of chemical smoke, Edson found Henrique at his other side shooting stakes with Júlio. A lucky archer had put a four-foot arrow through João’s face and he lay convulsing on the ground.

  “They’re retreating,” Júlio shouted after a half-hour of massacre. One by one, the mulheres morcego dropped their weapons, transformed into their furry counterparts, and flew up into the canopy. Quickly, the only thing that remained was hundreds of red eyes twinkling overhead.

  Without warning, three pallid white figures burst through the haze and strode into the small clearing where Edson fought. He dropped his hands to his sides when he saw Ana walk into the low morning light that was just awaking the tops of the trees. On either side strode Itotia and Ejup, more powerful and sinister than their younger sister. Ana’s naked body glowed in opalescence, stronger and more potent than he remembered. Her hair flew behind as if it were alive, catching the few golden rays filtering through the forest canopy. The eyes, once the shade of emeralds, now glowed faintly red. When she saw him, her eyes clamped onto his, colored with profound emotion. Edson could not tell if it was contempt or sorrow, longing or regret.

  He stood frozen, paralyzed by the sight. His senses filled with the passions that had smoldered since their last encounter on the ritual table. He could not think or move, only feel the explosion of primal power of the moment when they had become one.

  Ejup kept to her side with Itotia one step back. Gone was the ancient armor. Now his body glowed in a dull gray-white tone, the color of the dead. Putrid smoke from smoldering carcasses drifted in and embraced them. He slowly touched his forehead in a mocking salute before letting loose a laugh that chilled Edson to the bottom of his spirit. Edson wanted to shoot the beast, to blast him to hell and watch him die, but he knew, deep in his soul that only a stake in the small, black, dried up, non-beating heart - if Ejup had one - would kill the vampire.

  Time was eternal in the vastness of the rainforest. Reality crashed around them as the roar of a flame thrower closed in. Edson turned toward his men and held up his hand to stop their advance.

  “Stop,” he called, his eyes fixed on Ejup. “There will be a day, Mikić. A day you will answer to me.”

  The master vampire’s glare became a sneer and then a smirk. “That day you will never see,” he snapped. The fury of Edson’s insolent confrontation consumed him. He gave a slight twist of his torso and, before Edson’s eyes, transformed into a bat the size of an eagle. With one flap, he rose in the air upward toward the canopy. The two women quickly joined him. Silently, Edson watched them rise into the leaves and disappear, his hopes and dreams with them.

  “Burn it all,” Edson screamed. “We may not kill all of them, but we’ll take as many as we can.” They turned the napalm on the majestic trees and watched the conflagration leap to the sky.

  “One more thing,” he shouted and dashed off back into the city. He ran alongside the stream which had been his path to freedom.

  “Get back here,” Júlio shouted from behind. “In five minutes this forest will be an inferno.”

  Edson ran ahead without answering. His heart pumped with the memory of a shackle on his ankle; of chanting and the primitive cadence of drums; of the evil white figure violating Ana; of his roar and own primal lust.

  Within moments he stood at the center of the small island, now obscured by the smoky haze of smoldering mulheres morcego. He hated this place and everything that had happened there.

  Edson sprinted to the balcony from which Itotia had watched everything with her malevolent smile. He could feel the bile rise in his throat as he remembered her arrogant authority. He pulled a pin on a grenade and tossed it just under where she had stood.

  Suddenly, a single, narrow ray of light broke through the canopy and fell on the grass a few yards from where the grenade lay. A glint of gold shone in the intense shaft of tropical sunlight. A tiny flash of red told him what it was. Edson dashed to the spot and scooped up a brilliant gold crucifix from the ground, the same one which Father Bora had slipped around Ana’s neck that night in the Porto Velho. He crammed it into his pocket just as the grenade exploded. The pillar supporting the balcony crumbled and the massive structure tumbled down all around him.

  In an instant, Edson found himself surrounded by bricks, mortar, and massive ancient stones. But, not as much as a pebble penetrated the pulsing glow of light which engulfed and bathed his body. A minute later he sprinted away and turned to see where he had been. He gasped when he saw the outline of his form hollowed out of the debris. Then, without warning, the light disappeared, and with it, the cavity where he had just stood.

  He snapped back into motion and pulled the pin on another grenade. With a snarl, he flipped it under the very slab where he had been chained. The explosion cracked the massive stone in the center and it lurched to one side, its surface stained with the dried blood of countless sacrifices.

  For one fleeting second, he stood still as the smoke and flames from the forest rose around him. He abhorred that place, yet he felt a stab of pain remembering Ana and their intense moment of intimacy. He longed to return to that moment with Ana when their fortunes had flowed together for eternity. With the shouts of his men ringing in his ears, he vowed to snatch his dreams from the smoldering rubble.

  Chapter Thirty-Six

  ROSSI IN MANAUS

  Gianni Rossi reclined in th
e plush leather seat of his Gulfstream, a glass of freshly-squeezed orange juice in his hand. Sleep evaded him all the way across the Atlantic as garish images of Ana’s bloody and lifeless body flashed across his mind every time he closed his eyes. His usually tranquil face was furrowed with worry and regret.

  He concentrated on local TV images picked up by the aircraft’s communication system. His Portuguese left much to be desired, but the images of local news needed few words of explanation. The city of Manaus reeled from the events of the previous few days. The Vera Cruz had floated past, capsized and filled with skeletons. The river’s inhabitants yapped in hushed gossip as sightings of mulher morcego were rampant. Now, upstream, a section of the forest the size of the city burned out of control. Pundits bandied hypotheses of El Dorado and ancient evil.

  A burly fellow stood by a black Volkswagen Santana bearing consular corps plates, waiting for the Gulfstream to taxi to a stop on the tarmac. The dark-skinned man had a head the size and shape of a soccer ball and almost no neck. His shoulders tapered from a bear’s breadth to legs the girth of tree trunks. His clothes seemed ill at ease with bulging buttons and zippers here and there. He jogged to the Gulfstream, grabbed Rossi’s bags, and carried them to the car. They tossed them into the cavernous trunk like boxes of tissues. A shotgun sat wedged to one side; a box of shells on the other. He turned to the man walking toward him.

  “Welcome to Brazil, Senhor Rossi,” the brute said in even but accented English. He flashed a broad, welcoming smile. “My name is André. It’s very nice to meet you. How was your flight?”

  “Interminable,” he said. “We refueled in Miami. It’s been a long day. Your English is very good!”

  “Cardinal Alves told me to speak slowly and everything will be fine,” he said with pride in his smile. He reached into the glove compartment for his airport access pass. It sat atop two handguns and a box of .40 caliber cartridges.

  “You are a policeman?” Rossi asked.

  “Ex-civil police. How did you know?”

  “The caliber of your weapons. Lots of stopping power.”

  “The Cardinal also told me to be ready for problems. To your hotel to rest?”

  “I’ve been sleeping for twenty-four hours, André. I prefer to get started. We’ve got just twelve hours until daylight.”

  “And, how are you going to find what you’re looking for.”

  “You live on the river,” Rossi stated. “What do you use when you fish?”

  “Depending on the fish, I cut up some tasty bait.”

  “That’s exactly what I have in mind.”

  “And what is tasty to mulher morcego, Senhor Rossi?”

  “I am, André. Throw me in the water and drag me in front of our fish.”

  The municipal market was just finishing its workday when they pulled up outside. Fishmongers sloshed buckets of bleach on the floors. Butchers crammed bones and gristle into plastic bags to become soap. Japanese vegetable vendors sorted through the day’s product to throw spoiled lettuce and peppers to the scavengers scouring the street.

  They walked from bar to bar. Rossi laughed and talked in the uproar that accompanies most Italians, all the time keeping his eyes fixed on the shadows. From every corner, tiny pairs of red pupils followed, flickering behind nervous eyelids. Four hundred years of stories had prepared him for this night. Black wings beat the sky in a trail back to their master.

  Praça do Caranguejo—Crab Square—was packed to overflowing. The night was warm and beer flowed in buckets as Manauaras sought safety in numbers. Tables twittered more nervously than normal. Flirtatious natives preferred to stick together rather than pair off for the normal nightly fun and games. They left the car on a side street and waded into the wall-to-wall humanity.

  A few bars left their projection televisions on soccer games. Local news was verboten. Rossi strode down the center aisle and chatted in English with André. Not a soul in the square missed his entrance.

  They were on their way back when he spotted Nancy Smith. She was seated at a table, flirting with a local. Rossi remembered her well from the hours of team selection. Her body was special: tall, long, and strong. Now she leaned in toward her target, her blouse open nearly to her waist. She giggled. He touched her cheek. Her eyes glowed in anticipation.

  It was then he noticed Wayne Pierce standing alone in a dark corner. His eyes had a red glow that hadn’t been there in Singapore. A quick decision and Rossi approached Nancy from behind without her noticing. Her pick-up was enchanted only with her. Rossi stopped next to her table and put his hand to rest on her shoulder. He was greeted with a snarl and two furious red eyes.

  “Take a walk, friend,” Rossi said to her target. “A long one.”

  The local stud stood quickly and slammed his chest into the older man’s chest, not ready to toss his catch back into the night waters. When he felt Andre’s hand on his shoulder, he whirled around to find another chest staring him in the face. André was not smiling.

  The fellow stomped away, livid and unaware of his flirtation with death. Nancy looked up at Rossi, her eyes flaring. André stood guard while Rossi sat. Nancy’s target hovered at a distance, a dog after a bitch in heat. Wayne watched.

  Rossi had more experience with her kind than she did. “You can’t exactly fly away now, can you, mulher morcego?”

  She hissed at him, straight from hell. “I’ll do what I wish,” she snarled. “Leave us alone.”

  “Where is Ana and the rest of your team?” he asked.

  “Alive and well,” she answered.

  “But what kind of life? True life or eternal death.”

  “You’ll have to ask them yourself.” She stood to leave, saliva dripping from her lips.

  Rossi grabbed her arm with a shudder. “Find Ana. Tell her I’m here to take you all home.”

  She wrenched it away with the force of a machine. “We no longer need you to take care of us, Gianni,” she snarled in disrespect. She strode toward her mark who wasn’t ready to give up, wiping her lips on the back of her hand. “If I see you again, you’ll be lucky to take care of yourself.”

  André looked at Rossi, questions glinting in his eyes. “Was that mul—”

  “Sshh, André,” Rossi snapped. “No one can know. No one can hear. You cannot imagine what would happen if a panic broke out.”

  In every shadow blinked pairs of red eyes following their every step.

  Rossi turned back toward the car. “Take me to your famous theatre, André,” he said. “I hear it’s the most beautiful in Brazil.”

  “I don’t know about Brazil, Senhor Rossi, but it’s the most beautiful in the Amazon.”

  “How many do you have?”

  “Just the one,” he answered with a good-natured chuckle.

  The small square in front of Teatro Amazonas was packed with Manaus’ finest. The spectacular building crowned the city’s boom years when rubber was king. Floodlights illuminated the tropical colors of the magnificent façade. The first performance of Carlos Gomes’ The Guarani had just let out and opera-goers flooded the streets. Men in tuxedos sauntered in the evening warmth with their elbows graced by women in flowing Parisian and tropical gowns. A ballet school presented its tiny dancers in classic tutu’s. The bars and restaurants around the square were packed. Everyone wanted a lively night of enjoyment. No one wanted to think about the shadows.

  Rossi and André took seats in plastic chairs in the most visible spot on the street that passed in front. They ordered a frosty beer to share. Neither poured a glass.

  Rossi had never adjusted to the tension that grows when dark meets light. The night glowed in tropical pleasure. Happy people chatted with other happy people. Laughter. The force of life flowed through the square while, he knew, darkness and death lurked just out of sight.

  “Go ahead,” he said. “Take up your position as I explained in the car.”

  André looked unsure, tentative. “I cannot leave you here alone, Senhor Rossi. The Cardinal will want to kill
me if anything happens.”

  Rossi smiled and placed a hand on the massive arm perched on the table in front of him. “Nothing will happen out here in the light. The darkness needs shadows to hide its secrets. Go. I need to know you’re in place.” The human bull stood slowly and walked away. Rossi felt an absence where his presence had been.

  An hour passed, then two. The last opera buffs left for home. Only the night owls prowled the plaza. Rossi sensed the eyes from every side street and every corner. He tried not to stare at the red points of evil glowing from the shadows. The feeling grew stronger, more focused. It came from behind. His heart beat a cadence of fear that he pushed down into his gut. He could feel adrenaline surge into his blood, the hair prickle on the back of his neck. Every time it was the same.

  “I am Itotia,” the woman said as she walked around into his view. “I have heard you seek Ana.” If he hadn’t known she was evil incarnate, he would have been speechless in her presence.

  “I do,” he replied.

  Her eyes glowed and narrowed, as if she already knew him. His never lost their focus, tracking every breath and move she made. She turned and sauntered toward the darkened theatre. Every eye on the square tracked each step. He smiled and followed. Gianni recited the Rosary as he walked, his fingers counting beads in the pockets of his ankle-length black leather coat.

  Rossi slipped through the side door to the theatre, the interior bathed in velvety darkness. Emergency lighting glowed here and there and delayed his pupils in adjusting. Itotia had disappeared into the shadows, but Rossi knew where he would find Ejup.

  The interior was Belle Époque French with ornate iron railings at three levels, and red velvet theatre seats on wide-planked tropical wood floors. A half-dozen emergency lights cast feeble rays onto white walls and gold-leaf trim. In the high dome over the center glowed a mural with four scenes from the classics.

  There was barely enough light for Rossi to walk without tripping over the plush velvet-covered wooden theatre seats. He dropped his guard and let the sensations of the place flood him. Ejup was there, that he knew. But, he felt at least two more beings cloaked by the darkness.