This Green Hell - [Alex Hunter 03]

by Greig Beck

  ‘Yep, I’m fine, Uncle. The pigs are . . . gone.’ Alex looked at the mountains of flesh bleeding into the water.

  ‘Kid okay?’ Sam knew about Alex’s rages too; how, when they took him over, it could be extremely dangerous for anyone close by.

  Alex looked at Chaco, who stood silent and still like a small ghost at the rear of the cave. ’Yeah, he’s fine too. Just reckons it’s time to leave . . . like me.’

  ‘How you want to do it?’ Sam asked. ‘As I said, the captain here gets real jittery if we step out into the clearing.’

  Alex looked up to the cave ceiling. ‘How much rope have you got? We’re about twenty feet down under a lip of weak limestone — some areas more solid than others. You’ll need to stay well clear — at least forty back.’

  ‘We’ve only got about forty feet of rope overall. We need to tie it off to one of these tree trunks, or sink a ground anchor, then run it across the open space and drop it down to you — I reckon we need about sixty at least. I could crawl across and try to anchor it a bit closer to the edge, but that’s about it.’

  ‘No, stay clear; the roof’s already raining down on us in some areas.’

  Alex heard Sam check with the CDC scientists for more rope. The reply wasn’t promising. Then he heard Garmadia’s voice speaking Spanish, probably to Saqueo.

  ‘Hold for five, boss,’ Sam said. ‘Garmadia has an idea.’

  While he waited, Alex held his hands up under the column of light pouring into the cave. Where they had been cut and battered moments ago, they were now streaked with pink scars. He grunted to himself and looked at the boy. Chaco was shivering in the dark, his thin arms wrapped around himself.

  After another moment, Sam came back online. ‘Seems this jungle is a toolbox as well as a lunchbox for the locals. Saqueo has brought some vines that look like intertwined horsehair, and plenty strong too. Should give us an extra thirty feet. Be on its way down to you in two minutes.’

  Alex nodded to Chaco and pointed to the hole in the ceiling. ’Time to go, son.’

  The boy wouldn’t move. Alex swore softly. He recognised shock when he saw it.

  ‘Was it that bad - was I that bad?’ He shook his head. ‘Sorry, kid. I guess I’m not a superhero, after all.’

  Sam’s voice: ‘Heads!’

  The rope, tied to a fist-sized stone, came hurtling into the pit. Alex shot out a hand and caught the rock before it hit the water.

  ‘Good work,’ he called back. We’re coming up.’

  The climb was harder than he’d anticipated. He had to bind Chaco to his back, as he kept trying to break from Alex’s grip. Now he hung there motionless, but continued to call to his brother. In addition, their combined weight caused a sawing motion on the broken edge of the roof. The rope started to smoke and fray, and pieces of stone rained down on them - some the size of a truck tyre. Alex tried to keep the debris from the boy’s exposed head, batting the stones away, but that meant having to suspend the climb and hang one-armed. As they got closer to the lip, more stones broke away, many striking Alex on the shoulders and face.

  He felt the boy wriggling on his back, then the rope he had used to bind him loosened. The boy had freed himself. The fraying rope could not be used a second time, so Alex reached around quickly with his free arm and grabbed Chaco as he started to slide away. He flung him upwards and out through the opening.

  As he no longer had to protect the boy, Alex could concentrate on climbing, and the slight loss of weight meant he reached the top of the hole almost immediately after Chaco. He saw the boy was already up and running to his brother, who grabbed and hugged him. The small boy cried and chattered rapidly, and Saqueo frowned and stared over his head at Alex.

  Alex wiped his hands on his pants, then slowly bent to retrieve and wind up the rope. Another great day at the office, he thought, as he walked over to a grinning Sam Reid.

  * * * *

  FIFTEEN

  A

  imee sat on the floor of her pre-built cabin and leaned back against the wall. She stared at the skirting board and the line of mould that had started to grow there. It hadn’t rained again last night, but she knew the respite wouldn’t last, and if the damp and humidity were bad now, just wait until it was bucketing down outside. Ugh, she thought, a heavy weariness settling over her.

  She surveyed the room. Piles of soiled clothing created small islands on the floor, and a pair of very muddy boots with their tongues out lay beside the door like a pair of dirty sleeping dogs. She needed to urinate, but couldn’t bring herself to step outside. She looked up at the empty washbasin, considering it.

  It was mid-morning and Francisco and the men still hadn’t returned. Deep in the pit of her stomach she knew they never would. The jungle ate them, she thought miserably. She lowered her head onto her arms. She was beyond tired and had a headache that extended from behind her eyes all the way down to her neck and shoulders. She closed her eyes and exhaled; sleep seemed like something that had happened to her in another life.

  A loud bang on the door made her jump, and she laughed out loud. Perfect, I’m a nervous wreck as well as a physical wreck.

  A voice in Spanish muttered an apology then the banging started again. Aimee placed the heels of her hands in the sockets of her eyes and rubbed hard until they ached. Get up, Aimee Louise Weir. She wondered what Alex would say if he saw her sitting on the floor in a giant lump of dirty clothing, mud and sweat. She stood slowly and groaned.

  She looked out the window and saw a group of younger workers standing just beyond the door, apparently debating whether to knock again. It was hard to tell: nearly everything sounded like an argument in the rapid local language.

  ‘If you’ve brought me a cheeseburger and a soda, come on in,’ she muttered.

  When the men spotted her, they waved and stood back from the door. She should have expected this to happen. With Alfraedo and Francisco missing, she was the remaining member of the gerencia, the management. She needed to tell them something, or at least be strong for the men who were sick and dying.

  She lifted her water bottle and tipped it to her lips; its contents were warm and not refreshing at all. She tipped the rest of it over her face and let it run down the front of her T-shirt to mix with the perspiration that beaded between her breasts.

  She sucked in a breath and pulled open the door.

  ‘Habla inglés?’ she asked.

  Her Spanish was weak, and the thought of trying to keep up with the lightning-fast language made her feel even more exhausted. She needed someone to translate for her. ‘Uhhh, habla cualquiera inglés?’

  Towards the back of the group, a small, wiry man tentatively put his hand up and smiled, displaying a mouth missing its front teeth.

  ‘Fantastico. Your name...? Aahhh, qué es su namo?’

  Blank stare; the men looked at each other.

  ‘Es su namo . . . su nombre?’ Ah, forget it. ‘What’s your name?’

  ‘Mi nombre es Tomás, señora Weir. Si... yes, I speak tiny English.’ He held his thumb and forefinger an inch apart and grinned broadly, seemingly oblivious of the vampire effect his lone canines had on his smile.

  Aimee nodded in relief. ’Thank you, Tomás. Can you please tell the men what I am saying?’

  ‘I try, señora Weir. But please, not fast for me.’

  Tomás threaded his way through the small crowd towards Aimee. Some of the other men slapped him on the back, as though he had just been elected mayor, or had scored a date with her. Aimee couldn’t help grinning at the thought: she was the tallest person in the camp and towered above the locals.

  She put out her hand for Tomás to shake. He looked at it for a moment, then grasped it, pumping it hard and turning to grin over his shoulder. Aimee was sure a small blush appeared on his weathered cheeks.

  ‘Tomás, please tell everyone that Alfraedo and Francisco are still out in the jungle scouting for the men who recently fled the camp. They wish to bring them back, or at least make sure they are
all okay.’

  She waited while he translated. He seemed to use unnecessarily long strings of words, but she had no reason not to trust his translation. A few of the men asked questions, and Tomás nodded and turned to Aimee. She already knew what he was going to say

  ‘The men, they already know this, but they say to me, when will they be returning?’ He gazed up at her, waiting for an answer.

  Returning? Never. The jungle ate them — didn’t you know?

  Aimee smiled, or at least lifted her lips and cheeks into the semblance of a friendly and confident expression. She thought quickly. Best if she responded as she did in board meetings when asked a detailed question that she didn’t have an answer for: camouflage it by giving a bit of information then changing the subject.

  ‘Alfraedo and his men will only be in the jungle for as long as necessary I believe this will only be for a short time. I’m sure he would not want you to worry about them. There is, however, another team of doctors arriving either this evening or tomorrow.’ Please be true, she thought. ‘They are coming to assist us and tell us when we can go home.’

  She nodded at Tomás, signalling she had finished. He was quiet for a moment, obviously thinking over what she had said, then he turned to speak to the men. They talked among themselves, some looking at Aimee with expressions of disbelief or resignation, then the group started to break up and head back to their tents.

  Aimee now noticed that the tents had been moved. The majority were packed tightly together, almost in a ring, at one end of the camp - close to one another for security, but as far away from the isolation cabins as they could get without actually being in the jungle.

  Aimee looked at Tomás. His face was a mix of annoyance and frustration. ‘What did the men say?’ she asked.

  The small man looked briefly over his shoulder at the retreating men, then turned back to her and spoke without looking up into her face. ‘They are afraid, señora Weir. Many wish to track back to the river, where they hope to find transport to the city. They do not care that this may cause them to lose their bonus pay, or that there is a cuarentena order.’ Tomás looked over his shoulder again, as if to check the men were out of hearing range. ‘They are frightened of the nights here now. They say a demonio is loose in the jungle.’

  Oookay, a demon now. Great, Aimee thought. She had enough real problems to worry about without agonising about imaginary ones. She pulled her tired face into another smile, hoping to show she empathised but without acknowledging there was anything to fear.

  It must have worked. Tomás smiled his vampire smile at her and said, ’They are young, and most have families. But I am not afraid . . . and I am not married.’

  Aimee laughed at his bravado and small attempt at flirting. She patted him on the shoulder. ‘I am not afraid — or married — either.’

  The sun inched above the tall tree line, bathing the campsite in its yellow rays for the first time, even though it was already mid-morning. Aimee turned her face to the warmth and inhaled. The sunlight banished the last of the jungle’s humid shadows — for a time. Momentarily, she could almost believe everything was normal.

  ‘Stay close to me, Tomás,’ she said. ‘You are promoted to communications manager.’ He looked confused so she tried again. ‘Uhh, you are now director de comunicacion.es, si?’ She patted his shoulder once more.

  ‘Si, si, thank you, señora Weir.’

  Tomás wiped his hand on his shirt and held it out to her, trying to stand a little straighter. Aimee smiled and shook it. He made a gesture with his hand, as if writing in the air. Aimee watched him for a moment before catching on.

  ‘Oh, you want me to write the title down for you? Sure.’ She nodded and Tomás beamed once again.

  * * * *

  As Aimee approached the isolation cabins, she could hear sobbing — tears of despair from the damned, she thought before shaking the morbid impression from her mind. They had two cabins full now, and there would be need for another shortly. As before, once all the men died, they would seal and burn the cabin. It was a waste of a finite resource, but there was no one to clean them, and they could not risk further infection from the liquid debris.

  Aimee had found coveralls, latex gloves and surgical masks for them both. When helping Tomás pull on his protective clothing, she noticed he had pinned her note to his dirty T-shirt. He had insisted on transferring his new job title to the chest of his coverall and it hung there now, like a creased paper sheriff’s badge.

  As they stood at the door of the first cabin, she saw the fear in Tomás’s eyes. Everyone in the camp knew of the disease and what it meant to enter the muerto cabana — the death cabin: there was no return.

  She pushed through the door and under the plastic sheeting. The smell that greeted her was both acrid and faecal — like shit and diesel fuel mixed together. She saw that Tomás was shivering and touched his shoulder. He looked up briefly and nodded. His eyes were very large and his brown face was tinged yellow from fear.

  There were four beds, all occupied. Two of the men recently brought in were conscious and had needed to be tied down to prevent their escape when they learned they had the melting disease. Now they lay still and sobbed black tears onto stained pillows. Plastic sheeting had been hung between the beds to shield the men from seeing the progression and effects of the disease on the poor soul lying next to them.

  Aimee indicated with her head towards the two conscious men. ‘Tell them help is coming.’

  Tomás nodded and spoke softly, his voice weak with fear. As he stepped closer to the beds, one of the men started shouting and jerked against his bonds. He spat at Tomás, and Aimee only just pulled him out of the way before the black gobbet struck the plastic sheet in front of him and slid slowly to the floor.

  Tomás’s hands were up and pressed together in prayer and she could see his mouth moving behind his mask. Good idea, she thought. We could definitely do with some help here. She took him by the arm, led him to the exit and held open the plastic. ‘Wait out here for me, Tomás.’

  She closed the door, drew in a strained breath through her mask, and turned to the last two beds at the rear of the hut. Her eyes watered and she blinked to clear them. The man on the first bed was little more than a torso, black column-like stains the only sign of where his arms and legs used to be. The restraints that had bound him sat limply on the discoloured sheets. Aimee moaned before thinking and his head slowly turned towards her. She couldn’t tell whether he actually saw her, as his eyes were totally black, from sclera to pupil. But she felt as if he was looking at her and his despair darkened her soul.

  I’m goddamn helpless, she thought. I have no idea what to do. The more she found out, the more she realised how little she knew. She still had no idea how long it took between initial infection and the liquefying symptoms; she knew it was fast — faster in some than others — but just how fast? The lingering question that bothered the hell out of her though was how many infected and infectious people were walking around outside without knowing it?

  What she did know was that once the symptoms were apparent, the disease was irreversible. It seemed the nerve endings died first, so the necrotic symptoms were not accompanied by pain — at least, as far as she could tell. Perhaps the brain just refused to believe the signals it was receiving, or became infected itself.

  So many questions, she thought. Without power to access the internet or radio communications, she could do little more than record the data and then watch the men die. Just as these men are going to die, she thought miserably.

  She backed up a few steps and stood in the centre of the cabin, staring at the floor as her mind worked. She noticed black liquid from one of the beds oozing into the cracks in the wooden flooring. She would have to seal off the cabin soon. Better still, burn it, but she doubted if she could find the strength to do that alone.

  She needed to prepare another isolation hut, but she was running out of cabins. And what happened then?

  * * * * />
  Below the cabin, the black fluid continued to drip to the ground. Once the rain stopped, most of the clearing dried out quickly, but under the cabins small pools of moisture remained, teeming with mosquito larvae. The growing puddle of black fluid was located next to one of these pools. Its surface surged, as though disturbed by a small wave, and the black fluid slid into the natural pool. The jerking and spinning waterborne larvae within it stopped moving, then, one after another, they all turned black.

  * * * *

  SIXTEEN

  A

  lex and Sam walked together in silence, listening to the chaotic commotion of the jungle all around them. It was still only mid-morning and the temperature hadn’t yet reached anywhere near its peak, but the humidity had already begun to climb as the evening’s moisture lifted into the air as a heavy vapour. The steam dragged with it all the smells of the jungle, from the living to the recently dead - rich, dark soil, heavily scented flowers, rotting plants and hidden carcasses. The cycle of life and death was speeded up here: animals and plants died brutally and quickly, and decomposed back into the earth just as rapidly.