Running from the Devil

by Jamie Freveletti

  The lead man, without a shirt and dressed in pants that sported one leg ripped off to the thigh, grabbed a stick and swung it, hard, at Alvarado’s head. It hit with a loud, thudding sound. Alvarado dropped like a stone.

  “Jorge, why did you do that?” The second guerrilla, this one lucky enough to be fully dressed, bent down to check for Alvarado’s pulse.

  “You want to tell Rodrigo you failed? He’ll kill you in the last two seconds of the story. I’m not that stupid. I’m leaving here. Alvarado will be fine. When he comes to, he can talk to his buddy Rodrigo. Perhaps he’ll survive the conversation.”

  “And where will you go, eh? That trail leads to the airplane, which by now will be crawling with American soldiers.”

  Jorge wagged a finger in the air. “I will take the cutoff to the second encampment. From there I go to Cali, where I have friends.” He jogged off down the trail. After ten seconds, the other two followed. They knew that Rodrigo was not an option.

  24

  SUMNER’S FEVER BROKE AT DAWN THE NEXT DAY. HE SLEPT peacefully for the first time in eight hours. Emma dragged herself out of the tent to make her way to the stream. She was dizzy with sleep deprivation and hunger. She rinsed Sumner’s clothes in the stream and laid them on the space-age sheet in the sun to dry.

  She filled the empty water bottle and laid it on the sheet as well. She’d once read in a scientific journal that the sun could kill all the bacteria in water if the water was in a clear container, placed in full light, and left for three hours. The writer had suggested the technique be taught to inhabitants of third-world countries. Emma had never dreamed she’d be using it for her own drinking supply. She rose to head back to the tent when a silver flash caught her eye. She made her way to it.

  It was a discarded hubcap, half buried in the silt on the side of the stream. She pounced on it, pulling it out of the dirt. After a quick rinse in the water, it looked as good as new, albeit with a little rust on the edges. Emma scouted around for medium-size stones. She flipped the hubcap over and used it as a tray to hold the stones.

  The heat sucked all the energy from her body. Emma’s own clothes were soaked through with sweat. She couldn’t remember what it felt like to be cool and dry. She grabbed a palm leaf, stripped, and waded into the stream. She used the leaf to rub the worst of the dirt and sweat from her skin. She used a stick from the neem tree to brush her teeth, pulled her clothes back on, and jogged to camp. She put the stones from the hubcap into the banked fire she’d made the night before and crawled into the tent to sleep.

  Emma woke in the afternoon. Sumner was on his side, his face resting on his arm, looking at her. For the first time it seemed as though he was present, back from the remote place he’d inhabited in the clearing and the delirium from last night.

  “How are you feeling?” Emma said.

  “Thirsty.” His voice was a whisper, and reedy thin.

  She reached out of the tent and retrieved the last of the water. “Drink it all. I have a new supply soaking in the sun.”

  He emptied the plate and handed it back to her.

  “Are the maggots still on me?”

  Emma cut a glance at the bandage. It bulged, not from the slice, but from the maggots, which had grown to twice their size in the last hours. The bigger ones were working their way out of the gauze, probing through the webbed cotton with their heads. Emma did her best to act nonchalant.

  “Still there,” she said in as cheery a voice as she could muster under the circumstances.

  Sumner glanced at the bandage at the precise moment that a plump, fully grown maggot pushed its head through the cotton and wriggled free. It dropped off his shoulder onto the tent floor.

  “Just when I thought it couldn’t get any more revolting,” he said. Emma chuckled as she picked up the maggot and tossed it out of the tent.

  “They’re making a run for it. Once they’re big enough to work their way out, they’ll fight to reach the surface, in this case through the bandage. When they drop to the ground they’ll search for a good hiding place, where they’ll move into the next stage of development. Eventually they’ll emerge as fully grown blowflies.”

  “And the cut?” Sumner said.

  “They’ll take the infection with them. It’s the pus that they ate that makes them so plump.” Emma ignored Sumner’s groan of disgust. “If we keep it clean with the alcohol, you should be okay. Can I have a look?”

  He nodded and rolled onto his stomach. Emma inched the bandage up a bit. She could see pink skin under the nearest maggot. She replaced the gauze and patted Sumner’s arm.

  “Looks good.”

  Sumner gave her a bemused glance. “I’ve never met a woman who would willingly touch maggots.”

  “I was a tomboy growing up. I loved bugs. I used to collect the discarded shells of cicadas. They looked just like the live bugs: wings, legs, eyes, you name it. I kept them in a box. My favorite I named Fred.”

  Sumner smiled a small smile. “Your pet was a dead cicada named Fred?”

  Emma nodded. “Fred was great. He was the only shell I ever found that even had the membrane that covered his eyes left over.”

  “I can see how that would win over a girl,” Sumner said.

  Emma laughed.

  Sumner turned serious. “What time is it?”

  “I don’t know. Afternoon, I guess.”

  “How long have we been here?”

  “Two days. You were sleeping, and I needed some rest, too.”

  “We need to move.” Sumner struggled to rise. He pulled himself upon his arms, then dropped back down on the tent floor.

  “Sumner, you should rest. You nearly died. I’m going to make an astringent tea that will help you fight infection.”

  She flipped over the hubcap, filled it with water, and fished out the stones from the fire. Once they were added she hunkered down to wait. Within twenty minutes the water was steaming. She added cattails. After a few minutes she fished them out and placed them on her backpack to cool. Then she placed several neem leaves in the water and let them steep. She poured the resulting tea into the airline tray.

  “Sumner, sit up a minute.”

  Sumner struggled to sit, never opening his eyes. Emma braced his back. She put the airline tray to his lips.

  “Drink,” she said.

  He drank. He jerked his head back when he tasted the bitter liquid.

  “What is this?” His voice was still hoarse.

  “Antiseptic tea made from the leaves of the neem tree. It’s an amazing tree. The oil from it is like tea-tree oil.”

  “Tastes like engine oil.”

  “It will help bring down the fever.” Emma mentally crossed her fingers. She hoped her crude tea would help. Generally she would have waited to dry the leaves before steeping them.

  Sumner lowered his head to the tent floor and closed his eyes. Within minutes he was sleeping again.

  Three hours later, Emma ate a cattail and stared at the last food carton. The final filet. Sumner sat against a tree, munching on his own cattail and two baby carrots, which was the sum total of his lunch and dinner.

  “You’re El Chupacabra,” he said.

  “I beg your pardon?”

  “The sentries kept running back into the camp with various wounds and babbling that they’d been attacked by ‘El Chupacabra.’”

  “What is an El Chupacabra?” Emma could barely pronounce the word.

  “A mythical being that is routinely sighted in Mexico, Texas, and South America, but is never caught. Kind of like the Big Foot sightings. El Chupacabra has green skin, is scaly, and its long claws and teeth can rip livestock apart. It sucks the blood from its prey.”

  Emma shook with laughter. “Oh my God, that sentry I speared thought I was a green beast with scales?”

  “Don’t laugh. When you burst out of the trees covered in mud and shrieking, you even had me thinking that you were a beast.”

  “I don’t know who was more frightened, him or me.” />
  “They are drug addicts and ignorant peasants. I imagine in the dark, and through a hashish-induced haze, you could be mistaken for a beast.”

  “And here I thought he was racing back to the camp to tell everyone that a passenger had escaped. I expected a posse to come after me every minute.”

  “No, but I’ll bet the posse is coming now. The guerrilla leader told his soldiers to take me out and kill me on the trail. He wants me dead, and he won’t rest until I am.”

  “Is that the skinny one? I call him Rat Face.”

  Sumner snorted. “Good name. His actual name is Luis Rodrigo.”

  “Do you two know each other?”

  “Not before the crash, no. But in my job I had to learn the names and techniques of most of the better-known paramilitary organizations in Colombia. Rodrigo’s was mentioned as a particularly vicious, loose affiliation of maniacs. From what I saw, the reputation is deserved.”

  Emma fought against the depression that was settling over her.

  “I left the clothes drying in the sun. I’ll go get them.”

  She left the tent and headed to the stream. On her way, she passed some jimsonweed, a common plant that grows in abundance in the jungle. The trumpet-shaped white flowers made the bush look beautiful against the green leaves. Emma ignored the flowers, however, and collected the spiny seedpods. She shoved several into her cargo pants pockets.

  The clothes had dried, thanks to the hot sun and the added reflective abilities of the silver sheet. Emma held them to her cheek, relishing the dry warmth. She grabbed everything and turned back. She heard the sound of engines somewhere close. She jogged up a small rise and looked down.

  A Range Rover sat at the side of the road that ran along the trail. Two men stepped out. They wore cargo pants tucked into steel-toed boots. The first man wore a shirt with the words LOUISIANA STATE on it. The second man sauntered to the back of the Rover, flung open the hatch. Two bloodhounds jumped down. They ran in circles, happy to be released. One relieved himself on the Range Rover’s tire. The men slung packs over their backs and added assault weapons on their shoulders.

  “Hotter than a bitch here, ain’t it?” the second man said.

  The first shrugged. “Like Louisiana. Used to it. Got the scent?” His voice carried to Emma. He spoke with a drawl that wasn’t quite southern.

  The second man nodded. He reached back into the Range Rover and retrieved a piece of white cotton with a name embroidered in blue stitching on the pocket. He balled it in his fist and shoved it under the dogs’ noses. Emma recognized the cotton.

  It was her lab coat.

  She shot back on the trail, running for all she was worth. When she got to the camp, Sumner was standing in the clearing, stark naked, holding a rifle. He looked like a feral man. He put a finger to his lips and waved at the trail behind them. Emma listened. Between the scratching of insects and the twittering of the birds came a chopping sound.

  “Jesus, they’re close.”

  Sumner nodded.

  “But they’re not our worst problem.” The sound of barking dogs drifted toward them. Sumner frowned.

  “What the hell is that?”

  “They’re bloodhounds, and they’re after me.”

  Sumner raised an eyebrow. “Care to fill me in?”

  Emma shoved the clean clothes at him. “I was headed to Colombia to accomplish a specific goal. Somebody must want to stop me. I don’t want to say more. The less you know, the better for you if they catch us.”

  Sumner took the clothes and dressed in silence. He paused for a moment, as if deciding whether or not to speak. The baying hounds echoed through the jungle. He shook his head.

  “I’ve got a maniac after me, and you have bloodhounds after you. We’re quite a pair. Let’s get out of here,” he said.

  They collapsed the tent. Emma slung it onto her back. They hit the trail. Emma ran like she’d never run before. Sumner stayed with her, moving with surprising agility for someone so newly recovered. The hounds bayed behind them. Emma now knew what a fox felt like when it was hunted. The baying was loud, insistent, magnified by the jungle’s echo. The howls ignited an age-old, primitive fear in her. The hairs on the back of her neck rose.

  They ran until the night came. The baying quieted only once. Emma supposed the dogs were given a break. Sumner was drenched in sweat and stumbling after two hours. Emma braced him with her shoulder when it appeared he’d collapse.

  Sumner’s fever returned that evening. He lay in the tent, barely moving.

  “You pushed too hard, too soon,” Emma said. “We’ll stay put tomorrow so you can rest.”

  “We can’t. They’ll be upon us by midday.” Sumner’s voice was a whisper.

  “We’ll have to risk it.”

  “No risk is worth them catching us. They’ll tear us to shreds.”

  Emma didn’t reply. There was nothing to say.

  25

  BANNER KNEW THE DAY WAS SHOT WHEN HE HAD A CALL FROM Whitter at eight o’clock sharp. Whitter’s message was succinct. He expected to see Banner at 0830 hours in the war room. There was news.

  Banner walked into a room filled with DOD personnel, various aides and interns of congressmen assigned to the endless committees that sprouted like weeds in Congress, and the secretary of defense, Carl Margate.

  Banner considered Margate to be one of that breed of men who love all things military, but who never joined any military branch. They were the men who debated the Battle of Waterloo, who questioned the decisions of generals like MacArthur, but who did it from the safe distance of their leather chairs in their paneled libraries under the roofs of their quiet and restful mansions.

  Margate was all these things, but took it one better, because not only did he imagine himself a brilliant strategist, but he hadn’t a shred of human decency. To him the soldiers enlisted to protect the country meant nothing more than the plastic toy soldiers he used to plot moves and countermoves. He didn’t care how many died as long as his political and personal agenda was met.

  Banner took one look at Margate and he just knew that the man was going to lay a bomb on him. When everyone got seated, the secretary opened his mouth, and the explosion issued forth.

  “We conveyed to the Colombian president that unless the passengers are freed in the next twenty-four hours, the United States will suspend aid to Colombia and demand the immediate extradition of all drug and paramilitary leaders suspected in the manufacture and import of cocaine into America.”

  Banner glanced at Whitter. Whitter’s expression didn’t change, but Banner had spent quite a bit of time with him in these past few days, and he could tell that Whitter was shocked. Whitter’s face rarely froze.

  No one spoke. The interns scribbled furiously on their pads of paper.

  Banner was no expert on Colombian matters, but he knew that the one thing the paramilitary and cartel leaders feared most was extradition to the United States. Once they were extradited, their fortunes would be confiscated and they would be tried for their crimes in a country where their influence and ability to ensure a favorable outcome were gone. Convictions and life sentences would follow. They would enter a United States prison on their feet, and leave it in a coffin.

  Margate’s ultimatum, if carried out, would put the Colombian president between a rock and a hard place. If he agreed to extradition, the paramilitary groups would once again pick up their arms; and if he did not, the United States would cut off $1 billion in aid to his country. Since no one in the room saw fit to speak their mind on the issue, Banner decided to throw in his objection.

  “Secretary Margate, just why do you think such an ultimatum will help this situation?” He asked the question in a mild voice.

  Everyone in the room shifted in their seats.

  “We’re trying to bring pressure on the government down there to clean house. What that man is doing is offering sweet deals to murderers, kidnappers, and thieves.”

  “A deal that this administration turned a bli
nd eye to until just now.”

  “Well, now we don’t like it. Why should we send aid to a country that kidnaps our citizens?”

  As a general proposition, Banner agreed with Margate. But as a military strategist, he believed that the ultimatum, like all ultimatums, would backfire. He struggled to find a way to convey his opinion without alienating the other man.

  “I don’t see the value in punishing the Colombian president by cutting off his aid. He is no more responsible for this reprehensible act than you are for the gangbangers in every city in this country who kill with impunity.”

  “That he is devastated by the turn of events is obvious,” Whitter said. “We just learned that he called a prayer meeting over the incident. He and his staff said the rosary and prayed to Our Lady of Chinquinquira, a Virgin Mary figure.” Margate looked at Whitter as if he’d grown three heads.

  “That will get the job done.” Margate’s voice was loaded with sarcasm.

  “Pull all five hundred of those special forces men off the pipeline detail and put them on the hunt for the passengers. Without them, we will need divine intervention to pull off this rescue,” Banner said.

  Margate slammed his hand on the tabletop. Now Banner knew where Whitter had learned the mannerism. He considered it a piece of dramatic theater, nothing more. The interns and Whitter jumped. Banner and the other officers didn’t react.

  “We take those men off the pipeline and the paramilitary groups will blow it to kingdom come just for spite.”

  “Maybe. But what makes you think they won’t bomb it once they hear about the extradition demand?”

  “I agree that they will bomb it. And that pipeline supplies a big portion of the gas that the average American citizen demands for his SUV. That’s why the special forces stay where they are and we cut off aid if nothing gets done.”

  “Your ultimatum makes my military plan that much harder. Why would the Colombian president help us in our search once his aid is gone? That aid goes directly to support his army. And the threat of extradition will kill the disarmament deal and send the paramilitary groups on a rampage. The threat is a foolish move that can only hurt our relationship with Colombia, while putting the passengers at greater risk.”