Bobby stood before the three mounds. Three people, clothes and shoes and all—now just piles of dirt streaked with little branching valleys carved out by rainwater.
Mr. Darnell spoke. “Roberto Herrera, Russell Wade, and the pilot of our plane, whose name we don’t even know, died before their time.” As he talked he swatted at the flies swarming around them. “Roberto, you were one of the smartest students I’ve known, and you were always willing to share your gifts with others. You were a good brother to Carlos. We could all learn a great deal from your relationship.”
Carlos was slouched over, his face pale. Tears filled his eyes finally, which was somehow comforting to Bobby.
Mr. Darnell went on. “Russell, you were a good friend to everyone. You always went out of your way to make the rest of us laugh, and we appreciated this more than you probably knew. It’s a tragedy that both of you boys were taken from us and from the rest of the world. When we return home we’ll make sure your families know the wonderful things you did in the final days of your lives. Goodbye Roberto. Goodbye Russ.”
Mr. Darnell asked if anyone else wanted to speak. Bobby’s mind was muddy. He could think of nothing to say.
Mrs. Darnell sighed and wiped her eyes. “Goodbye Roberto,” she said. “Goodbye Russ.” She rested her hand on Carlos’s shoulder briefly and then trudged back to the plane.
Bobby and Ashley repeated Mrs. Darnell’s simple goodbyes and then returned to the fire, leaving Carlos and Mr. Darnell staring silently at the piles of dirt.
Carlos was suffering in so many ways, and Quentin wasn’t sure what to say to him. They stood quietly for a moment, hearing only the buzzing of flies. Finally Quentin said, “I’m sorry for what’s happened, Carlos. Do you want to say goodbye to Roberto?”
“I don’t feel good,” Carlos said.
“I know you don’t. Let’s see if we can clean up your hand again, okay?” He steadied the boy with his arm as they walked back to the plane. Carlos’s skin was cold. Quentin sat him on the edge of the fuselage and went to find some clean fabric. He sorted through the strips of soiled rags. Most of them had been used at least twice.
“There’s none left.” Lindsey’s voice was flat. “Everything’s filthy.” She was crouched over Addison and didn’t bother turning around.
He rested a hand on her shoulder. “Hang on, Linds. Help will be here soon.”
She shook her head almost imperceptibly.
Quentin removed Carlos’s wrap and stared at his crushed hand. The flesh was a hundred shades of crimson and violet, and the smell was dreadful. Red puffiness extended up the arm to the elbow. Quentin went through the motions, dabbing it lightly. Flies descended, so he quickly wrapped it back up.
Carlos suddenly wretched. He rolled from the edge of the fuselage and vomited. The dorcopsis meat, barely chewed and undigested, piled onto the ground.
“Oh Christ, Carlos.” Quentin rolled him to his side to keep his face clear of the vomit. Carlos’s eyes rolled back as his stomach heaved again.
Bobby and Ashley came over from the fire and watched in horror. When Carlos finished vomiting he was unconscious. They moved his limp body inside the plane.
Within minutes, Ashley complained of stomach cramps, and then Bobby joined in. Quentin felt his own stomach clench. They endured several hours of discomfort but nothing more serious.
By midday their cramps had subsided, but Carlos was still unconscious and could now be counted among those who might never wake up. As for Addison, other than drops they’d placed in his mouth, he had taken in no water since the crash—some fifty-five hours ago.
They had kept the fire burning all morning, using up the dried wood and sago fronds in the surrounding area. Each collecting trip took them further away, well out of sight of the fuselage. Soon it would take longer to collect fuel than for the fuel to burn.
They were running out of time.
With sudden crystalline clarity, Quentin knew he had to find a village. There were Papuans near here, he was sure of that. The carved figurine, the tree kangaroo’s domesticated behaviors, and the fleeing figure he’d seen last night; there had to be a village. And a village would likely have some way to contact the rest of the world.
“This is stupid, Quentin, and you know it!” Lindsey’s eyes were wide with fear. “Our chances are best if we stay with the plane. Survival 101!”
“You and the others are staying here with the plane. If a search party finds you before I find the village, they’ll get the kids to a hospital. If I find the village first, though, it may save them. Hell, it may save all of us.”
“Goddammit, think about this! You’re leaving the crash site.”
“The rule doesn’t apply here! The site is invisible. We can’t even keep a fire going.” He pointed to the unconscious kids. “How much time do you think they have?”
“How does it help them for you to get lost in the forest again? You already tried this! How far did you get, maybe a tenth of a mile? You’ll wander aimlessly until you either stumble on a village or starve to death. Is that your plan?”
She was probably right. But Quentin was going. “I don’t want to leave you,” he said. “But I don’t see how they can find us here.” He placed a walkie-talkie into her hand and folded her fingers around it. “There’s not much power left, so keep it turned off.” He clipped the other one to his waist. “Every half hour we’ll turn them on and make contact, okay? I may find a village before I’m even out of range.”
That was unlikely. The walkie-talkies supposedly had a range of five miles, but they never lived up to this claim, particularly in a forest. They had charged them the night before their flight, but had used some of the charge while searching for the three boys in Wamena.
Quentin looked at the sun through the trees. “I have to go before it gets any later.”
“Maybe one of us should go with you,” Ashley suggested. She and Bobby had been tending the fire, trying to ignore the argument.
“Thanks Ash, but the most important thing you can do now is keep the fire burning for as long as you can.”
Bobby handed him a canvas bag. “Here’s some stuff you might need.”
Inside were the two bottles filled with rainwater and Carlos’s souvenir machete in its garish sheath. Quentin removed one of the bottles and handed it back. “Thanks. You guys keep that fire burning. If it rains, cover the wood so you can get it started again.”
Lindsey had retreated to the fuselage, and Quentin considered going in to face her. He might never see her again, but further fighting would accomplish nothing.
“Lindsey, I’ll see you soon, okay?”
After some seconds of awkward foot-shuffling silence, he turned to go.
As Lindsey had predicted, Quentin soon had no idea which direction he was going. For a short time Bobby’s voice returned his shouts. But that soon faded away, and the only sounds he heard were chattering birds and buzzing insects. Above him there was an occasional rustling from Mbaiso, who had followed him and now moved from tree to tree to keep up.
Quentin found it impossible to maintain a constant bearing without a compass. He was frequently forced to modify his path, moving to the right or left around a dense cluster of saplings, a tangle of vines, or a fallen tree. But he had reasoned that even with an erratic course, he would eventually come across a trail leading to a village. This made sense to him when he had started, but now he was lost and alone and began to question his logic.
After pushing his way through yet another curtain of woody vines, he glanced at his watch. Two minutes until their second radio communication. He pulled the bag from his back, retrieved the water bottle, and took his first drink, downing a third of the bottle. He shook the bottle and gazed at the remaining water. Specks of matter swirled in the vortex. He unclipped the walkie-talkie and pressed the power button. A small battery icon flashed in the corner of the LCD screen—the charge wouldn’t last much longer.
“Lindsey? Can you hear me?” There was only static. Quentin sighed a
nd looked around, but the dense forest was the same in every direction. Behind him there were no visible signs of his passage, no trail he could retrace.
The scraping of claws against bark brought his attention to the tree kangaroo, clambering down a tree trunk. “Hey, Mbaiso. You mind if I call you Mbaiso?” The creature appeared not to mind. “Where’s the village? Where is everyone?”
“Quentin, are … there?” The crackling voice startled him.
“Yes, Lindsey, I can hear you.”
“Quentin? … you? … I can … hear you. Quen …”
The flashing battery on the LCD screen had one bar left. “Lindsey, you guys okay?”
“Quentin? I can’t … I hope … hear me … Bobby … people in the forest … I wasn’t sure … Ashley saw them … Quentin, they were … I need … know you’re okay … the kids … afraid now … hear me? … where …”
Quentin’s throat constricted. “Lindsey, what’s going on?”
The broken voice continued, “… what they want, but … inside the plane … the kids are … come closer … you need to … back …”
Quentin jammed his thumb into the talk button to respond. The unit emitted a warning tone and then shut off. It was dead. He turned it back on and pressed the talk button.
“Lindsey—”
The unit beeped and shut off. It wouldn’t come back on.
Quentin stood frozen. The forest seemed to tighten on him, shrinking the already tiny clearing in which he stood. He was a speck in a vast ocean. The clipped echoes of Lindsey’s ominous message played in his head. She had been right—he shouldn’t have left. He threw his head back and screamed her name, drawing the cry out until the last bit of air left his lungs. When he opened his eyes Mbaiso was clinging to a tree, watching him intently from above.
“What kind of place is this?” he shouted, half to himself and half to anyone who might be listening. “If you’re here, why don’t you help? Jesus Christ, get out of my face!” He thrashed at the flies, striking his own face in an attempt to kill some of them. Then he plunged back into the tangle in the direction he’d come from.
But everything looked unfamiliar and he was hopelessly lost. Finally he stopped and called out again. Silence. His watch told him twenty minutes had passed since he’d heard Lindsey’s broken message. He pulled out the walkie-talkie and pressed power. The batteries had recovered enough to power the unit on. He listened to static and then pressed the talk button. The unit beeped once and shut off. It was useless. Quentin shut his eyes to block the flood of loneliness and fatigue. In a few hours darkness would fall again. He would have to endure the long night not knowing what was happening to Lindsey and the kids.
A sound rose into Quentin’s consciousness. At first he thought he imagined it, but there it was again—the sound of moving water. Not a waterfall, but more subtle, like the churning of a slow-moving river. He pushed through the foliage in the direction of the sound and almost immediately came upon a tangled bank of rolling, mud-brown water. Had he not heard it, he might have passed within meters of the river without seeing it.
But it was not the river itself that gave Quentin hope. Running parallel to it was a path. He’d seen numerous animal trails running under low-hanging brush, indicating small mammals or ground birds used them. But this trail was different. In both directions, the foliage over the trail was clear to a height that would accommodate humans.
The path would likely lead to a village. Quentin desperately wanted to return to the others, but there was little chance of finding them by wandering aimlessly. The path gave him a new option. Quentin walked a short distance in one direction, and then the other, but saw no signs that either way was the better choice. After watching the brown water for a moment he decided to head downstream. But first it would be wise to mark where he had found the path. He pulled the souvenir machete from the bag, slid the blade from its sheath, and hefted it in his hand. It looked cheap, but it had some mass to it.
He located a sapling that could be cut up to arrange into an unmistakable marker. He reared back and swung the machete at the base of the tree. The blade sliced cleanly through and continued its arc until it buried itself deep in his left ankle.
Quentin blinked at the machete. It had cut a slice in his trousers and a red stain spread rapidly from the blade. He jiggled the machete’s handle, wincing at the pain, but his tibia bone gripped it tight. He yanked hard on the handle, pulling the blade free. Blood spurted from the slice in his trousers and the red stain began spreading even faster.
He crumpled onto the ground and sat staring dumbly at the wound.
Chapter Eight
It didn’t make sense to Bobby that they should sit inside the plane. It was hot, and it smelled like death. But Mrs. Darnell was afraid of the Papuan men.
If they were so dangerous, they would have attacked when he and Ashley had met them in the forest. At the time they had been gathering fuel for the fire. Bobby was the first to see the dark face watching them and he nudged Ashley. When the stranger realized he’d been spotted, he rose from the bushes to his full height. Another man popped up at his side. Bobby and Ashley just stood there, afraid to speak. The men held sharpened spears, gripping them as if they thought they might have to use them. After a silent stare-down, the men slowly backed away until the forest swallowed them up.
They had returned empty-handed, and the fire soon died. Mrs. Darnell didn’t want them leaving the plane anymore, and now Bobby was forced to endure the heat and smell. They hadn’t heard from Mr. Darnell in hours, and the plane’s cabin was filled with stale air and dread. Was this what it was like to wait for death? Was this what had happened to people he’d read about in books, explorers who were never seen again? Did they sit around like this, watching their friends die, waiting for their turn?
Mrs. Darnell was speaking softly to Addison, stroking his face with a wad of cloth, and Ashley was dripping water in his mouth from a plastic bag. It was all they could do for him.
Bobby thought about his own parents. What would they do? His mom would freak out. But his dad—if he were sitting in this shit-hole with them, he’d try to keep everyone together. Like he did during the divorce. And he would want Bobby to do the same thing.
“Mrs. Darnell,” Bobby said, “you know that thing you and Mr. Darnell do sometimes, where you talk about stuff and make things up about it?”
At first she didn’t answer, but then she said, “What do you mean?”
“You know, like a game. You make up stories about things, like animals. What they’re thinking and stuff. You guys do that.”
Mrs. Darnell shook her head slightly but said, “I guess so.”
“I remember when I was little, my mom and dad talked like that sometimes.”
“Your parents seem like nice people.”
“Yeah, but when they’re together, you don’t even want to be there.”
Mrs. Darnell said, “Sometimes people change, even when you don’t want them to.”
“Maybe Mr. Darnell found the Papuans’ village.”
“Maybe,” Mrs. Darnell said quietly.
“I think they’re a lost tribe, like the tribe Mr. Darnell’s parents found,” Bobby said. “That’s why they aren’t helping us.”
Ashley snorted. “So now we’re all lost.”
Bobby thought for a moment. “And Mr. Darnell found their village. They think he’s from the future or something. He’s trying to tell them we need to get to a town. But they don’t even know about towns.”
Ashley opened her mouth like she might chime in, but then she just leaned back silently.
“They’re probably getting ready to have a feast for us,” Bobby said. “All kinds of food we’ve never tried before.”
This wasn’t working. Mrs. Darnell held her eyes shut as if his attempts at optimism were giving her a headache.
Suddenly a dark figure filled the cabin’s opening. For a second, Bobby thought Mr. Darnell had come back. But it wasn’t him. They all stared at
the stranger.
The man crouched, holding a spear in front of him. He was a Papuan tribesman, maybe one Bobby and Ashley had seen earlier, but he was much closer now. Green parrot feathers stuck out from his hair in all directions. Bobby couldn’t tell how old the man was. The skin on his face was smooth, like a boy’s, but the confidence in his eyes was that of a grown man.
Mrs. Darnell’s voice was a whisper. “Don’t do anything to threaten him.”
The man inched into the opening. Bobby turned to Mrs. Darnell for help, but his eyes were drawn to a hole in the unfinished insect barrier above her head, where a second Papuan peered in at them. This man’s eyes, set high on a smooth black face, had the same cool, assured gaze, and Bobby felt a chill when they looked directly at him. And then the face pulled away and was gone. Bobby spun around and the second Papuan appeared next to the first. The green-feathered man looked from Bobby to Ashley, and then to Mrs. Darnell and the still bodies at her side. He bobbed his head from side to side as if to see into the shadows more clearly.
“Gu mbakha-to-fosu le-bo? Mba-mbam?” The Papuan’s voice was higher than Bobby expected, almost musical. The man stepped into the cabin and then moved toward Mrs. Darnell. “Walukh, khomilo?”3
Bobby saw Ashley tense up, and he feared what she might do. The man passed by within arm’s reach. Bobby stared at the dark-stained point of his spear. Above the darkened tip, rows of symbols and shapes were carved into the wood. There were rectangles, triangles, spirals, loops, and many more, and for some reason the carvings seemed oddly familiar to Bobby.
“Walukh, khomilo? Dead?” The man pointed to Addison, Carlos and Miranda.
Mrs. Darnell’s eyes widened. “You speak English? You understand me? Toktok Inglis? Uh… saya dari Amerika. Dari mana?”
The Papuan kneeled next to Carlos and pointed at him. “Khomilo? Dead?”
“They’re not dead, but they’re hurt. Can you help us? Do you speak English?”
Diffusion Box Set Page 8
