The night noise of squeaks, buzzes, and chirps buried me.
It must have been a few sleepless hours later when a rumble of thunder shook the valley, and flashes of lightning streaked high across the sky.
Flinching with each celestial crack and boom, I envisioned the witch standing in Monster House’s hallway as red and purple lights crashed through the building. The old hag had cackled about Einstein not understanding something. As the electrical mayhem continued above the Andes, I relived witnessing Steel and Pigeon and their disappearance into the battle storm in Monster Alley. Somehow those incidents in New York had to be related to each other.
I asked myself for the millionth time what purpose did all the strange events I had witnessed have. At that moment, ready to fry on a metal roof, I saw no rhyme or reason for my existence. Everything I had lived through over the last few years had brought me to a stormy night in a frightening jungle with my friend dead and a jaguar prowling nearby. After walking for two days knowing I had to kill to survive, praying my aim would be straight and my reactions swift, I felt an essential part of me that had always existed was disintegrating. With every step, the little boy who had been horrified at shooting a pellet into a jellyfish had faded a bit more.
Spiritually crushed, and physically beat-up with my head throbbing, legs aching, and arms festering with pus, I shut my eyes, waiting for oblivion. The world slipped away as I lay on my metal bed underneath a lightning-filled sky.
Hide, little boy. It’s not your fault. We’re lost in a world someone else has dreamed up for us.
A sheet of rain woke me. I turned onto my stomach, coughing and spitting water. A burst of light lit the clearing, revealing two figures standing in the surrounding tree line. God, it looked like the monkey and fish creatures I had last seen wandering into the jungle at the devil dancer ceremony. Yes—another flash and there they were, watching me critically.
I’m like some lab experiment.
“Hey, what’s going on, guys? C’mon, man, help me out here. Mister Fish, those were your puddle tracks in Monster House, weren’t they? You know Amelia? Jenny? If you can travel from New York to party in Venezuela, then find me in this crazy jungle, you must be able to get me out of here.”
The monkey’s teeth glittered in a large half-moon smile in response. Fish Man stepped into the opening, ignoring me while he frolicked in the rain, head upturned, facing the deluge.
“Hey, c’mon, man. Mister Monkey, thanks for saving me from that nut with the gun back at the devil dance. I need your help again. Look, I mean, at least tell someone where I am. I’m lost.”
They said something to each other as another streak of light splintered the night. And in that moment, I recognized the same two voices I had heard in Monster Alley the night the old witch scared me off. The speakers had been searching for something and talking of going south. Later, two figures had dashed up the hallway stairs during the hag’s electrical turmoil.
“What’s going on, man? You know the old bag in New York, don’t you?”
Thunder roared, fire bolts flashed, and I felt an unsettling tingle dance along my wet clothes. I thought I heard the inside of my head sizzle, and my feet engaged momentarily in a frantic tip-tap as if trying to escape from being disintegrated by the fury of heaven. Finding myself still alive a few seconds later, I refocused on where the two monsters had been standing, but they were gone. No Monkey Man, no Fish Man—just globs of silver water shining in the brief synapses of light.
I was alone again.
“Hey, you freaks. Come back. What has all this madness got to do with me?”
The sky cracked again, illuminating Doctor Steel standing in the clearing, looking cruel and vengeful, as if seeking retribution for his reptilian brother I had killed on the jungle path. I picked up the rifle. Steel reached upwards with one hand. It held a cigarette, and the tip lit as lightning ripped overhead once more.
“Yelling will get you nowhere, Deets.”
The jungle, the roof I stood on, the storm pelting me—all seemed to disappear. All that was left of my world was rage and Doctor Steel’s presence. And my hand. Gripping the gun.
I jerked the weapon up to my shoulder and squeezed off three shots at the menace—god, demon, or whatever he was.
The encompassing jungle and storm returned from wherever it had gone. Fat drops slapped at every inch of me, but Steel looked perfectly dry, like he was standing in another realm.
He calmly blew a stream of smoke in my direction.
“Careful with that temper. Don’t let it distract you. Remember the deadline for that artwork, Deets. You don’t want to dally too much.” He chuckled like the demonic stalker he was. His lack of empathy struck me as if the three bullets I fired had shredded my own skin and splintered my own bones.
What is happening to me?
I sank to my knees, thinking I couldn’t breath in much more electricity and water. Steel’s rasping, staccato laugh faded off into the jungle.
My body was afire. I was drowning. I fell into a wet feverish nightmare where snakes zigzagged and roared across the sky.
Chapter 18
A jab in my stomach. Sunlight blinding me.
What the…? What am I doing on the ground? Whose feet are those?
Then, despite a throat that burned and eyeballs that couldn’t stop jumping in spastic acrobatics, I was fully awake. Three men stood above me, pointing rifles at my head and heart.
They were speaking harshly, poking me roughly with their gun barrels. All were dirty, bearded, and wore backpacks. A grenade hung beneath a pouch on one man’s belt. Laying flat on my back, I bent my arms at the elbow and raised my forearms with my hands open, signifying surrender.
The shortest of them squatted down with my knapsack and turned it upside down, dumping the contents. He was upset when the instant camera plus the 35 millimeter film canisters spilled out. Screaming accusations and threats, he shook a roll of film at me. He spit in contempt and started rummaging through my Polaroids. Half of his bottom lip was missing, and seeing that misshapen scar added a savagery to the terror already rampaging through me.
The youngest of them—he looked about my age and had a very thin beard—picked up the little orange dictionary and thumbed through it. Putting it aside, he leafed through my water-warped sketch pad. He paused, his eyes meeting mine, not as a killer or thief threatening me, but with a studious acknowledgement of my artistic abilities.
You can have the drawings if you get me out of this jam.
The third man, still pointing his rifle at my belly, was maybe forty years old and had a blue spot, the size of a quarter, on his left ear. It smeared along the outer curve, dipped towards the canal and covered his earlobe in a soft pastel cast.
Blue Ear and Thin Beard began a heated discussion. I heard the words gringo and Carlito.
Half Lip howled in laughter when he came across three nude Polaroids I had taken of Cecilia showering in the bathroom. He continued through the pile of photographs, stopping to gesture like he was masturbating as he showed me the picture of three half-naked women standing in a faraway stream. He studied another photo for a long time and then flipped it away.
After twisting the metal key to open a can of Spam, he pulled out a knife, taunted me with a wicked grin that suggested there was no reason to waste food on a dead man, and stabbed the weapon into the gunk of meat. He lifted a pile of it to his mouth.
A thin piece of bone stuck out from the bottom of the can. I remembered from somewhere—my high school Spanish teacher, or Cecilia, maybe Johnny—one word.
I yelled, “Cuidado.”
Kicking up with my leg, I knocked the can from Half Lip’s hand.
“No. No. Don’t eat that. It’s poison, man.”
Blue Ear clobbered me with his rifle—directly into my cheekbone. A cracking sound shook apart my skull. Half Lip yanked at
my shirt collar, holding the knife to my throat. The good side of his lip had a fresh red splice, and the tip of his blade was bloody.
The young guy grabbed at Half Lip and spoke rapidly, trying to convince the growling man to restrain himself.
Then in perfect but strongly accented English, Thin Beard asked me, “Why did you do that? Are you a fool? You could be killed.”
Reeling and dizzy from the blow to my head, with the guns and a bloody half-lip weaving in and out of focus, I was still acutely aware of the men’s tension. Despite the agony my jaw felt as I tried to speak, I answered, “The food, man. It might be poisoned. Look at the can.”
“Poison? Why do you carry poisoned food?”
“There’s a snake fang broken off, stuck in the bottom. Maybe the venom penetrated the meat. Watch out.”
He picked up the can carefully.
“Madre de Dios. You are right. Not a risk anyone should take.”
He showed his partners the fang stuck into the can of Spam. Half Lip released his grip, lowered his knife.
I told the English speaker about the snake striking at me and that I had a picture of the dead reptile. He translated, and Half Lip retrieved the photograph he had tossed away.
“Mapanare.” Half Lip wiped blood from his new wound.
Thin Beard studied the Polaroid. “This is one of the most deadly snakes in South America.”
“Three-step snake, right?”
“Tres pasos and you are dead. In biology class we called it a fer-de-lance.”
The four of us sat on the ground, sharing a new can of Spam. Feeling my best chance of survival depended on establishing a kinship with these armed men, I held my pain in check as best I could and communicated with them as if we were all worldly adventurers. Half Lip, whose name was Chaco, was captivated by the story of my killing of the mapanare. As much as it hurt to move and speak, I told it to him in a combination of English, broken Spanish, and pantomime, jumping my legs up and swinging my arms around. He placed the picture with the other Polaroids into my knapsack and handed the canvas pack to me.
Then he laughed, waved the pictures of Cecilia—soaping her tits, strands of white slipping across her belly and suds trapped in her wet pubic hair—and stuck them in his pocket.
“Gracias, gringo.”
Blue lobe’s name was Ezequiel. He sat quiet and sullen, watching me with distrust, analyzing me. I took him to be the decision-maker of the group. He kept flipping one of the rolls of 35 millimeter film in his hand, rolling it across his palm, and then squeezing it as he mulled over, I presumed, my fate. I was hoping he’d warm up to me but guessed he was only approachable through his comrades.
The young English speaker’s name was Vladimir. He munched on a hunk of Spam, offered me a mango, and admired the drawings in my sketchbook. Tapping almost every page, he would declare enthusiastically, “Very good. This is very good.”
When he came to the photo of Lola, Maureen, and Teresa, taped to the inside back cover, he asked me who they were. As soon as I said, “My girlfriend and two other friends,” I felt a loneliness as the unintentional falsehood escaped between my lips.
Ezequiel conferred with Vladimir, gathered the six canisters of film and the camera into his knapsack, and signaled me to get on my feet and march with them.
I asked Vladimir if they had pulled me off the roof of the shack. When he told me that they had found me on the path, I jutted my chin towards my metal bed. “There’s a rifle, pistol, and my machete up there.”
Chaco hooted as he retrieved them, but Ezequiel frowned, then told Vladimir to lead the way with me following right behind him. They didn’t return my weapons. I was a prisoner, but a live one.
We walked higher into the mountains, taking a route that lead south. As far as I could determine, I would have chosen the same trail if on my own. After a full day’s hike, we took a break as Chaco went on by himself. He returned an hour later. As he spoke with Ezequiel, I guessed he had scouted the area ahead of us. Pressing on, we passed a rusty shack hidden among jungle trees where I heard chickens clucking and saw a goat eying us suspiciously, but I didn’t spot any humans.
We climbed a nearby hill as the sun went down. Chaco cupped his hands together and blew into them, producing a mournful loon-like sound. A similar call answered back but with a lingering trill that tapered off, then rose suddenly to a higher pitch. Chaco responded with another short blast of air into his hands, and we moved forward.
I knew then what I had suspected all day—my new companions weren’t hunters or bandits or local inhabitants—they were a military operation. Guerrillas. Bearded ideologues with condemned lifestyles and rumored whereabouts, romanticized from afar. Communists.
They led me into a grove where a half-dozen hammocks were slung between trees. A cooking pot rested on a wooden box, a mirror hung on a branch, various knapsacks sat half-opened, two rifles and a submachine gun lay on a sheet of canvas. A woman wearing a military beret rubbed at the weapons with a rag. Despite my own fearsome aroma, the camp’s smells of oil, metal, cigarettes, fire, and moldy cloth assaulted me after three days of hiking through near pristine wilderness.
The woman was lean with tight muscles, had Andean Indian facial features, and offered me a cold appraisal.
A tall man with wild hair and a red beard appeared, his rifle pointed vaguely in my direction. He had one eye that looked upwards to the left and another that couldn’t stop blinking. I wondered how he could aim a gun.
Chaco pointed to where I should sit, and as I crossed the small campground I saw Johnny’s killer, Carlito, sleeping in one of the hammocks. He looked gray, pained even at rest, most likely close to dying. I caught my own unrecognizable wound of a reflection in the small mirror. Thin cuts zigzagged across my nose and forehead. A large bruise under my left eye colored half my face purple. Red spots and dots of pus eclipsed the rest of my features. My hair was caked with splatters of dried mud. My four-day beard was dark enough to contrast with the white jagged scar where Brenda’s knife had sliced my jaw.
The guerrillas held a long conference in hushed voices, eyes glancing curiously or staring harshly at me. Vladimir opened the last can of Spam, and they ate it without offering me any. I could tell by his gestures when Chaco related my version of the mapanare attack to the woman and Red Beard. Vladimir faced me as the others paused in their discussion. “Why did you not take the truck and go to the highway after the fight with Carlito?”
Of course they knew about the gunfight, the Rover, and Johnny. They were in on the kidnapping, maybe helped plan it. The dead guy in the back seat was one of them.
“The truck wouldn’t start.”
“Why did you walk into the mountains instead of towards the llanos road? It seems a strange decision to walk away from possible help and instead go into a less civilized area.”
“I knew there was a jaguar nearby. I was looking for a path to escape it.”
“A jaguar?”
“Yes.”
Vladimir looked at me in open-mouthed bewilderment as he tried to decipher who lay hidden behind my ruined face, then translated my answers to his companions. The woman, Nora, held her emotions behind dead eyes. Chaco and Red Beard studied me, searching for clues of deceit. Ezequiel shrugged, called their attention back to their discussion.
A few minutes later, Vladimir asked, “Why were you running when the snake attacked you?”
“I had seen the jaguar about two hundred feet away from me. It was sniffing,” I snorted in imitation quickly with my nose, “where I had slept that night, so I started running away from it. I jumped right over the snake as I ran.”
“The jaguar was chasing you?”
“She was close. I think if she had chased me, I’d be dead. Maybe she stopped to eat the snake.”
“Eat...the...snake.” His mouth hung open again.
Chaco’s eyes popped
wide, and Red Beard blew out a long breath in astonishment when Vladimir told them the new additions to my story. Nora looked sharply down at the ground. I got the impression she didn’t want to hear that I had the capabilities to escape such an overwhelming predicament. Ezequiel burst out laughing, shaking his head, dismissing my story with a wave of his hand.
They didn’t light a fire or offer me any food as night crept into the camp. When a few cigarettes were lit, I didn’t want to draw attention to myself by asking for one. I thought it best to blend into the darkness. I felt safer not being noticed, yet, paradoxically, grateful for not being alone.
Vladimir came over and sat with me.
“Where are you from?”
“New York, but I grew up in a small town about seventy miles away called Yardley.”
“Why did you come to Venezuela?”
“I’m an artist. I was hired to draw pictures of different cultural events. Weddings, religious festivals.”
“Do you believe in God?”
I blew out my breath in a sardonic puff. “Sure, I believe that everything is a great mystery. Maybe that’s God. But religion, no, I don’t believe in that.”
He was silent, took a drag off his cigarette.
I felt the need to tell him about myself. “I drew pictures and took photos of devil dancers in Yare, and a curing ritual in a place called Santa..., uh, Paloma. Yeah, that’s its name.”
“I have been there. The road was washed away. We went by boat. And everyone goes to Yare eventually.”
We talked about the devil dancers and the curandera ceremony. I shared cautious observations about my visit to Venezuela. He was curious about my art, and I told him about the HooDoo Gallery and being hired for the assignment by someone who had seen my show. Explaining that I sketched quick impressions, then used photos to enhance the details, I mentioned the rolls of film Ezequiel had confiscated were to be used in that way.
Magic (The Remarkable Adventures of Deets Parker Book 2) Page 10
