by Nick Thacker
Ben agreed, but he still wasn’t sure what this all meant, and what Drache Global wanted to do with it.
“So, again, how is Dr. Ortega determining directionality?” Ben asked.
They all turned back to the image onscreen. “It seems like he’s calculated approximately where the golden man is standing, in relation to the subject and the recognizable scenery in the image. In this case, the statue of Christ the Redeemer.”
Paulinho pointed at the two elements in the image, the golden man and the statue. “He drew a grid over the image, probably to help determine distance. I guess you could theoretically calculate distance by measuring the size of the statue, and where the subject is in relation to it, since we easily know that information. Then you could triangulate the location of the man, and in what direction he’s facing.”
“Yes,” Dr. Meron said. “Yes, you could. It seems to me that the man in the image is placed so a line could be drawn from the subject, to the golden man.”
“The same ‘lines’ we’ve been seeing on the other maps.”
“I wouldn’t be surprised,” she responded.
They played around with the images in the folders, guessing and estimating, and tracing the lines on the large projector screen. Each of the images in the ‘Placement Screenshots’ folder showed a similar image: an out-of-focus view of an easily recognizable tourist attraction or major location, and a golden man standing somewhere in the image. Every time they imagined a line segment connecting the subject to the man, then extended the line segment beyond the golden man, they realized there was a corresponding map of that exact scene, viewed from above. Dr. Ortega had drawn in all of the lines, extending them off each of the maps.
Reggie pulled up the convergence map once more. “I’d have to say Dr. Ortega has done some fine work here. I’m no map expert, but I’ve done my fair share of planimetric and topographic navigation. Everything seems to check out.”
No one disagreed, but Ben asked the question that had been on his mind since they’d seen the convergence point. “So, we’ve got a golden man showing up in people’s dreams, and this little man is trying to point us somewhere. We know it’s somewhere in the rainforest, but the question I’m wondering is: what exactly is he pointing us to?”
No one answered.
Finally, Amanda spoke up. “I don’t know. I have no idea what this is, and we couldn’t figure out what any of this ‘golden man’ stuff meant a month ago. But Dr. Ortega died trying to tell us, and I want to go find out what it is.”
Reggie raised his eyebrows. “You’re being chased by a group of military-trained killers, and you want to go traipsing out in the jungle? If they don’t kill you first, the jungle surely will.”
“I think what we’ve discovered here has something to do with why they’re trying to kill me,” Amanda said.
“I don’t doubt it, girly, but that doesn’t mean it’s a smart idea to just run into the most deadly environment on Earth, chasing a creepy dream-dude.”
“Reggie,” Paulinho said. “You’re a skilled survivalist, and you teach camps for people —“
“I teach, I don’t run into the jungle with an army trying to kill me.”
“But you could help us get there?”
Ben watched the man’s jaw clench and unclench a few times, trying to decide what to do.
“We’d have an advantage out there for a little while at least, that’s for sure. I doubt they’re expecting a deep-jungle campaign, and I know they’re not as prepared for it as I would be. I can keep us alive, I think, as long we stay ahead of them. But if they catch up…”
Ben walked over to Reggie and clapped him on the shoulder. “I’m going into the jungle, Reggie. You’ve already helped us more than we could ever repay, but I have to ask for your help once more. You’re not obligated to come with us, but I’m going.”
Reggie looked Ben up and down. “‘Bout as stubborn as I’d suspected.” He walked back over to the bar and poured himself another drink, this time a much taller one.
“Fine,” Reggie said. “Let’s do it. Let’s go find this little golden man’s secret.”
17
REGGIE LEFT THE GROUP IN the living room of his underground bunker and walked into the rear rooms of his home. It was a relatively small layout, less than 2,000 square feet, but it was more than enough for him. The main living room and bar was the showpiece, where he entertained his wealthier clients and sold his high-end survival camp packages to corporate executives. They always wanted the ‘best of the best,’ even though they had no idea what that meant. It was a cycle of men trying to impress other men, and weekend-long survival camps were the new golf courses of Brazilian business networking.
He’d originally designed his packages for people like him — well-trained military types who wanted to keep their edge after their active-duty deployments. He had a few clients who paid him for range use, but most of the people who frequented his camps were nothing more than enviro-tourists, generally clueless about the world at large, but interested in ‘saving the whales’ or whatever else they decided they were into that month.
After a few bad reviews and numerous complaints about the extreme difficulty level of his ‘best of the best’ courses from the executives and enviro-tourists who couldn’t take it, he crafted a much more appealing survival camp: one that mixed semi-primitive camping with a few classes on fire starting and basic survival techniques, spread out over the course of a weekend. Clients drove in on Friday evenings and could be back in their lumbar-supporting office chairs early Monday morning. He taught them nothing they couldn’t learn in a Boy Scout handbook, but took out any of the details that required them to actually do anything physically demanding.
In order to maintain his own edge — and sanity — he created a few more courses for the clients who were actually interested in wilderness survival techniques. He had a shelter-building course, a mini-course on fire building, and a long-term Expedition Training Course that was his pride and joy. The course took twelve students on a two-week-long adventure into the rainforest, carrying nothing but a single backpack that held worst-case scenario gear like navigation equipment and fire-starter materials, a first aid kit, and MRE rations. He carried the pack himself, and slept near it, to ensure that none of the students snuck anything out of it in the middle of the night.
Reggie prided himself on the fact that none of his students had ever needed to use the backpack.
Still, he kept a few of the backpacks stocked and ready to go, in case he ever needed to “bug out” of his bunker.
It was these backpacks he was looking for. The hallway connecting the living room and bar area of his bunker to the two back bedrooms and kitchen had a centralized bathroom on side, and a large, walk-in closet on the other. In the closet he kept a gun safe for his personal collection, some overstock products he sold at the range and for the classes, and the backpacks.
They were customized Kelty Falcon 4000 packs, each slightly reconfigured to match his body type. He preferred these models that had a smaller main compartment and extra additional pockets attached to the pack’s frame. Each of the three packs were stocked similarly, but one had an additional Stingray tent inside for traveling with a larger party. One of these packs was enough for one person to survive up to a month; with rationing, three people could survive for a few weeks, assuming they couldn’t find their own fresh water and food.
Since he would be traveling with the group, they wouldn’t even need a pack — he was more than capable of keeping them alive for some time, barring injuries. But Reggie had considered the circumstances and decided that taking the packs would offer extra protection, security, and support for whatever journey might lie ahead. Not knowing their exact destination already placed them at a disadvantage, and they were about to journey into one of the most dangerous types of wilderness climates. He didn’t want to doom them to failure before they even left the house.
He grabbed one of the packs and unzipped the top flap.
He added the folded printouts of the image of the convergence of lines over the rainforest, the best version of a ‘map’ they’d get, and checked the rest of the contents and did a quick inventory. Deeming it ready for use, he repeated the process with other packs and walked over to the gun safe. Unlocking it using a fingerprint from his left index finger, he swung open the great door and selected some of the pieces inside.
Three Sig Sauer P226 9mm handguns and a rifle, a Henry-Arms AR-7. He was a fan of the rifle’s footprint — broken down it could fit inside his pack, and was a mere 3.5 pounds. The .22-caliber ammunition was a bit small for the ‘stopping power posse,’ the group of weapon-heads and survivalists who believed that larger ammunition — more ‘stopping power’ — was always better, but he’d used the AR-7 as a go-to weapon without a problem. He placed the pistols in the main compartment of the backpack and began lashing the rifle to the outside.
As he did, he felt a gentle rumbling beneath the bunker’s floor. The floor was nothing more than smoothed concrete, two feet thick, but he hadn’t placed anything over the bare surface in the closet. He looked down, waiting for the rumbling sound to end. It lasted a few seconds, drifting off into nothingness, then started again.
He felt a surge of adrenaline even before he fully understood what the sound meant. Slamming the gun safe’s door closed and waiting for the nearly inaudible click of the lock, he left the pack where it lay on the floor and ran back into the living room.
“We’re going to be attacked. Those are shells, and I need everyone here to remain calm and start heading up the stairs.”
The others around the room — his friend Paulinho, Dr. Amanda Meron, and Ben and Julie — still discussing the images on the projector screen, looked at him as if he was insane.
“Sorry,” he said. “Can’t really explain now, but there was a shaking sound. I recognized it, but you just need to trust me. Amanda, they found us. Somehow.”
At that, Amanda stood and stared at him, wide-eyed.
“It’s fine,” he said, hoping to reassure her. “They’re not here yet, but they know I’ve got an underground bunker. I built this place to be a home, not a fortress, so they’ll eventually get in. We need to be out of here well before that.”
She nodded, and Ben walked toward him. “What do you need me to do?”
Reggie paused a moment, taking in the large, well-built man in front of him. He’s starting to trust me. Good. “Thanks, Ben,” he said. “Grab the two backpacks in that closet, the ones up against the wall. I’ll get the one next to the gun safe, and then we’re out.”
He turned to the rest of the group as Ben slid by him and into the hallway. “Head up the stairs, but wait at the top until Ben and I are there. There’s a back door on the shack that’ll lead us out and over that hill. I expect to be well-hidden and almost into the trees by the time they start shelling the house.”
He didn’t wait for the rest to follow instructions. He turned and followed Ben into the closet to get the rest of the gear, only taking a moment to assess the group his fate was now tied with.
In all his years training and preparing survivalists, he knew only one characteristic that separated the ‘executives’ and ‘tourists’ from the real-deal, hardcore survivors.
Mindset.
He hoped that the group now following him into the most excruciating climate he’d ever known had the mindset of staying alive.
18
THE SHELLS WERE WORKING THEIR way closer to the bunker. Ben saw dust and small rocks falling from the crevices between the slabs of concrete that made up the walls, and he winced every time one of them landed.
“They’re getting closer,” Ben said to Reggie as he swung the two packs over his shoulders.
“They’re not aiming for the shack. Not yet, anyway. They’re aiming for where they think the other bunkers are.”
“Other bunkers?”
Reggie grinned. “Come on, let’s get upstairs. Yeah, I submitted plans to the county when I had this place built. They’re pretty particular about excavating and digging around here, so close to the forest. The plans showed thirteen smaller bunkers, all spread around my land. Couple hundred acres.”
Ben had to laugh. “So you just submitted plans that would be in the public record, showing that you had a bunch of random bunkers around here.”
Reggie nodded once. “Yep. Nothing like fake plans for an extra layer of defense.”
Ben followed Reggie up the stairs, where the others were waiting. He noticed now, seeing the shack from the inside, that the walls were also concrete, the outside of the building obviously built with a facade.
Yet another layer of defense.
“Reggie, it seems like you’ve spent quite a bit of money protecting yourself down here,” Ben said. “Why all the security?”
Reggie just shrugged. “Seemed like a good idea at the time.” He didn’t elaborate, instead changing the subject back to the situation at hand. “Come on, out the back door when I say ‘go.’ Run straight ahead, over that hill, and don’t stop running until you’re well into the woods. Ben, you take the lead. I’ll follow behind.”
Ben nodded, and stood by the closed door.
“Oh,” Reggie said, turning once again to face Ben. “Here, take this.” He handed Ben a handgun, pewter-colored and heavy. “Sig Sauer P226 9mm.”
Ben turned the weapon over in his hands a few times. He wasn’t a pro, but he’d handled a fair share of firearms as a park ranger and growing up hunting with his father and brother. He felt the gun’s weight, checked the magazine, and nodded at Reggie.
“Good deal,” Reggie said. “Oh, and do not let the Brazilian authorities catch you with that. They’re not too fond of locals or tourists carrying them around, and even if they don’t arrest you on the spot they’ll detain you longer than TSA when they find some tweezers.”
A shell landed right next to the shack, and Ben felt his insides vibrate with the explosion. The shack itself stood strong, but pieces of rock and ceiling material rained down around them. Amanda covered her ears.
“Go!” Reggie yelled. He pulled the door open and shoved Ben out. Ben started running, heading straight for the tall hill that stood behind the house. He pushed his legs as hard as he could, hoping the others would be able to catch up.
He rounded the top of the hill and continued down the other side, suddenly realizing he was about to walk into the densest forest he’d ever seen. Whereas the woods he was comfortable with back home were mostly large pines, spread evenly with branches that didn’t start until halfway up their trunks, the trees and bushes here were tangled together, gripping each other like twisted fingers, forming a tight web of foliage that seemed to be impenetrable.
He ran toward it. As he drew nearer, he saw a few spots wide enough to run into. He aimed for the closest of these, a break in the foliage he hoped would allow him to break through the wall of forest life he was heading towards.
He could hear the footsteps of the others close behind him now, the shells no longer drowning everything out. They were still attacking, but he hadn’t heard anything other than the steady barrage of explosions hitting the ground since they’d started running. He hoped they wouldn’t be able to see them out in the open. Even in the forest, he knew they’d be no match for the heavy artillery raining down hell on Reggie’s land behind them.
After he’d been running for another minute, dodging trees and bushes, and jumping over fallen logs and pieces of broken rock, he heard Reggie yell out from behind. He slowed, then stopped and turned around.
Julie was there, panting but otherwise doing well. Paulinho and Reggie showed no signs of exertion, but Dr. Amanda Meron had her hands on her knees, heaving gasps of air. Reggie came over and placed his hand on her back, then said something Ben couldn’t hear. She nodded, and Reggie walked up to Ben and the others.
“We need to keep moving forward,” he said. “They’ll get bored eventually, or they’ll find my bunker empty. Either way, they’re going to f
igure out where we’re headed soon enough.”
“Where are we headed?” Julie asked.
Reggie gave her one of his typical, cocky grins. “Straight through this stand is a stream. That stream picks up and heads west a bit more, then a mile later empties into a larger pond. I’ve got a buddy who lives there. Small cabin, usually only him and his wife.”
“Why are we going there?” Paulinho asked. Reggie was now in front of Ben, walking deeper into the trees behind the hill. They followed closely, none of them wanting to fall too far behind in the dense, shadow-laden forest.
“He owns a plane, and maintains an airstrip he uses for regional flying. Supply drops, tourism, search and rescue, that type of stuff. He can fly us as far as Manaus, which should be just over five hours. Give us some shut-eye, which I know I’ll need.”
They walked along in silence until they came to the stream. Ben was still carrying the backpacks, but Paulinho walked over and offered to take one. They each strapped one to their backs while the others waited. When they finished, and Reggie approved, he turned and started following the stream without speaking a word.
Ben had long since stopped hearing the shells, and he wondered if they had already found the bunker, or if they were just out of range. He hoped it was the latter, and that whoever was trying to kill Amanda — and now them, as well — had decided to call off the search.
Julie walked up to Ben and found his hand. She grabbed it, interlocking her fingers with his. The stream they were following provided a narrow walkway next to it, and it was just wide enough to fit Julie and Ben side-by-side. The jungle was silent, likely due to the artillery shells scaring away any wildlife from the area. Ben enjoyed the quiet, and with the trickling light from the rising sun finding its way through the cracks of the forest canopy, the scene around them was growing more and more beautiful by the minute.
