by Greig Beck
CHAPTER 8
Los Angeles Domestic Airport
Albert Dusche drove the baggage cart across the hot tarmac. There were only a few late suitcases and packages left to load, and frankly, it was just as well. Just about every other asshole on his shift had called in sick – night sweats and a nasty rash, apparently.
Fuck me sideways, what was happening to this country? His father had fought in Nam, lived on jungle rations, and crawled through mud, blood, and minefields. These days you get a couple of pimples and you gotta stay in bed for a week. No wonder the Chinks and Aye-rabs were kicking our asses every which way to Sunday.
He slowed the cart, the small amber light on the rear post indicating his presence on the runway. He climbed out and rolled his shoulder before walking to the conveyor belt, pulling on his gloves as he went. He leaned one hand on the metal edge and yelled up into the dark aircraft hold. “Yo!”
There was a responding “Yo!”, then a head appeared – Ruiz – giving him the thumbs up. “Hey, my man, Dusche-bag. Let’s go.”
Fuck you too, wetback. Dusche sauntered back to the cart and grabbed the first bag, swinging it heavily up onto the moving belt. He moved like part of the machinery – grabbing, turning, and chucking, then back again. The next bag was brand new, and he slammed it down hard, just to give it a little character. Something crunched and tinkled inside. Oops. He laughed cruelly. Sorry grandma, no perfume this year.
He grabbed the handle of the next bag and tugged, grunting from the effort. His hand slipped as he swung it around to the belt – heavy mother, he cursed. Inside the canvas gloves, his fingers were wet with perspiration. Dusche looked at the remaining bags – all soft casing and no sharp edges – then pulled his gloves off and tossed them onto the cart’s seat, waving his hands around for a few seconds to dry them.
Smells like old socks and vinegar, he thought, wrinkling his nose as he caught a whiff of his fingers. Time for new gloves.
Barehanded, he grabbed the last two bags and threw them up onto the moving conveyor, standing with his fists on his hips and watching them roll up into the dark hold. Ruiz appeared like some sort of cave-dwelling mammal, grabbed the bags, then disappeared inside the hold to stack them in their secure places.
Dusche flexed his fingers; they felt strangely bloated and tingly. He held one hand up, turning it over, and frowned. It was coated with something that looked like brown grease. He sniffed, then pulled his head back. Yecch – smells like sugared shit. Filthy fucking bags – people transport all sorts of crap these days. He wiped both hands on his pants.
“See ya,” he yelled over his shoulder, not caring if he was heard, and jumped back into the luggage cart.
Ruiz never noticed that the handles on the last two bags were streaked with the same brownish grease that coated Dusche’s hands.
Neither did the handler at LaGuardia, or the owner of the bags, or the taxi driver.
CHAPTER 9
Matt returned to where Carla, Megan, and Jian were sitting on the far side of the fire and formally introduced Moema, even though the native Brazilian had shaken each of their hands at the start of their journey. This time Matt used Moema’s full Tupi honorific title, firstly in the old language, and then in English. Moema nodded to each, almost bowing.
Matt leaned in close to him. “Would you like me to translate, or is English all right?”
Moema nodded. “English, but some words you can please translate, He-rêr a'ê Kearns.”
Matt sat down in front of his three traveling companions, his back to the fire. He motioned to the packed earth beside him and Moema also sat.
“Moema was telling me that he does not like where we are going. He said it is pûera – a bad place.” He turned to the young man, who nodded his agreement. Matt continued. “He has heard tales of the deeper parts of the jungle where we are heading and wants us to be warned, and think very long before he takes us any farther.”
Megan turned to Matt. “What are the tales he’s heard? Is it the disease?”
Matt nodded toward Moema. “You can ask him Megs; he speaks English.”
Megan grimaced. “Sorry Moema, I wasn’t thinking. Can you please tell us more about the stories you have heard?”
He shrugged. “I do not know much. Only what I have heard when the elders gossip, or what my grandfather told me when I was a child. When he was a young man, younger than I am now, he traveled deep into the Gran Chaco and found the Aîuru tapy'yîa – the Ndege Watu. They are said to be a very, ahh …” He turned to Matt and made a show of putting his fist out of sight under his shirt, whispering to him. Matt found some English words he could use – hidden, secret. Moema nodded and continued. “The Ndege Watu are a very secret people, and do not like any intrusions.”
Matt leaned forward. “Did anyone talk to them?”
Moema shook his head. “My grandfather, he said they were not like us; not … real people. They ran away after the karaíba fired their guns at them. But that was good as it is said they are eaters of men’s flesh, so …” Moema pulled a face. “My grandfather also said they found the wall of thorns, but he did not enter. Perhaps that is why he lived. The legend has it that anyone who enters, other than the, uhh, clean ones will die.”
Megan inched forward on her tree branch. “Did no one return from behind the thorns?”
“No one.”
“What do you think happened to them? Did they not find their way out, or …” Megan trailed off.
Moema shook his head forcefully. “My grandfather said they screamed.”
Carla’s head snapped around. “They screamed? How long were they in there?”
Moema held up one finger. “I think, maybe one hour.”
Carla turned to Jian, frowning. “That doesn’t sound like an infestation of mites – even a mass infestation.”
Jian nodded. “That’s right, and besides, we are expecting them to be in some sort of benign state in their natural environment – at least, we hope so. Most interesting indeed.”
Carla reached out and touched the Brazilian’s forearm. “Mr. Moema, have you heard of any sickness where the skin itches?”
Moema’s eyebrows shot up, and he laughed softly. “In Brazil jungles, it is rare not to itch – there are many plants and insects that can cause this problem.” He shrugged. “We just live with them.”
Carla shook her head. “No, no, let me rephrase that. Are there any insect afflictions …”
“Afflictions?”
She tried again. “Ahh … illnesses, sicknesses, where the skin can be become … loose.” Carla pinched the material of her sleeve and wobbled it back and forth.
Moema looked upward and bobbed his head from side to side as he thought about the question. “There is one caterpillar, the ybyrá, that has hairs that can make the skin, first itchy, and then break open all over in sores. Some people have died.”
Jian nodded. “Lonomia – I know it – contains a powerful anticoagulant. Nasty open rash, and in rare cases, causes bleeding into the brain. Not our suspect here.”
Moema shrugged. “Sorry, that is all I know.”
“That’s okay, it’s very helpful Moema, thank you.’ Matt patted the young man’s shoulder. “Did you ever tell Mr. Steinberg your grandfather’s story?”
“Yes, and I also told him that I would not be able to speak to the Aîuru tapy'yîa even if we found them, but he said just to get him there, and he will look after the rest.”
“Damn the torpedos, and full speed ahead,” Megan muttered, glancing briefly over to where Steinberg and his group were chatting and drinking coffee. She leaned closer to Moema. “This hidden place really frightens you, doesn’t it?”
Moema looked at her for a few seconds, then his brow furrowed. “Yes … no, I am not scared.”
“No one said you were. I think you’re very brave.” Matt added quickly.
Moema nodded and his expression brightened, perhaps feeling as though he his machismo had been validated. “Even the loggers a
nd drug runners will not pass through the deeper areas of the Boreal. There are no riches there, just the black jungle, and the thorns, and death. It is forbidden, but I will take you as far as I can. Like my grandfather, I will not enter.” He looked sadly across to Matt. “I wish you do not enter either. I do not want to be just like him – the only one to survive.”
“Wow.” Megan’s eyes were alive with a mix of fear and excitement.
Jian looked at Carla and raised his eyebrows. She sat back, frowning, and Matt could tell what she was thinking – either she had underestimated the parasite, or whatever was behind that wall might be even worse.
*****
Later that evening, Matt and Megan grabbed some time away from the group, sipping antiseptic-tasting coffee. The fire was making Matt’s eyes dry and his eyelids heavy. Despite having to sleep rough, he reckoned it’d be about five minutes before he was out cold.
He watched drowsily as John Mordell shone a small light into Max Steinberg’s ear – probably checking for fungal infections. A thousand quips came to mind. None of them would have endeared him to the movie producer or his large bodyguard. Matt yawned.
Megan leaned into him. “So, what do you make of this hidden jungle, professor? Superstition and a little local Brazilian charm, or do you think there really could be a secret place sealed off behind a giant wall covered in thorns?”
“Brazilian charm?” Matt snorted. “I think there is something there – Moema was genuinely scared, not just putting on a little theater for us Americanos. But they must be pretty good thorns to create a lasting physical barrier.”
Megan sipped her coffee and pulled a face. “Pretty good physical barrier? That’s an understatement. The creature that Jorghanson brought back was supposed to have died out over one hundred million years ago, and is somehow supposed to have been shielded for that amount of time – by some sort of wall or cliff covered in plants? Bullshit. Matt, I respect your opinion, but not even I’m buying that. There’s no plant living today that is going to live that long. Even the granddaddy of them all, the Bristlecone pine, can only live to about five thousand years, and we’re talking millions here … lots of millions.”
Matt shrugged. “Yep, it’s a puzzle all right. But there is a precedent. Don’t forget that the Wollemi pine was found thriving in a valley in eastern Australia after it was thought to have been extinct for two hundred million years. So, I agree, no individual plant can live that long, but its species, its progeny, could survive.”
Megan raised one eyebrow. “Maybe. I guess it doesn’t have to be the same plant. If it’s a climber, the old canes could provide a lattice for the next generation, and so on. The cage’s bars could just keep regenerating.”
“Exactly … and we keep finding biological time machines, and creatures living within them that we thought had fallen off the evolutionary chart. The fact is, the specimen Professor Jorghanson brought back shouldn’t be alive today, but something kept it alive in a unique and isolated habitat. The clues all seem to fit, when we start to see them in some sort of context.”
He nudged her. “Take the Wollemi pine, found in a hidden valley, neatly protected from forest fires and other external influences. The tree was a prehistoric remnant – the last time we saw it, it was pressed into Triassic stone.” Matt sipped his coffee, made a guttural sound and spat the vile mouthful back into his cup. He threw the dregs into the fire. “Now imagine if that Wollemi pine’s valley wasn’t open at the top. Instead, imagine it was enclosed by a massive barrier, creating a living cage. What else might be shielded in there, and survive because its habitat was preserved, and no new predators could get in?”
Megan seemed to think for a minute. ‘Okay Sherlock, but you’re forgetting something. You’re only thinking about new predators getting in. What if the barrier stopped old predators from getting out? Remember Moema’s grandfather’s story about the screaming.”
“Old predators? If that was true, what could they be?” he said sleepily, staring into the flames for a few moments. He stretched and yawned, then got to his feet. “I can’t think straight. I’m tired.”
“Not too tired, I hope?” Megan grabbed his belt and dragged herself up beside him.
“For you? Never.” He grabbed her around the waist.
CHAPTER 10
Matt woke early. His bladder felt the size of a basketball, and his dreams were becoming dominated by images of waterfalls. He’d held it during the night rather than risk stepping outside in the dark. He didn’t think he’d be very popular if he just stuck his dick out and hosed the ground out front of his tent.
Matt crept forward in the cramped little tepee and peered through the zipped mesh front. It was still a murky pre-dawn, and there was a low mist hanging over the ground. The fire was now a smoldering heap of silver, lumpy ash. The occasional ghost of smoke leaked out of the pile.
It was quiet – eerily quiet. Throughout the day, the noises of the jungle were almost overwhelming. Rushing shapes pushed through undergrowth, swung through trees, or burrowed into leaf litter on the ground. Then at night, the unseen nocturnal denizens took over, and the sound of pursuit and capture, eat and be eaten, screeches, screams, and whoops were even more intimidating. But then at dawn, when the nightshift and dayshift switched over, there was a brief period of silence and stillness that was hauntingly tranquil.
No better time to take a piss. Matt fiddled with the tent zip. He had taped it down the previous night to ensure nothing could wriggle through the minute gap between zipper head and tent floor. He lifted it slowly upward. The sound of zipper teeth unlocking was like a canvas sheet being ripped in the muted dawn.
He stuck his head out – warm, green – it reeked of composting humidity, but above all, it smelled … alive. He stepped out, stood straight, and stretched, feeling his vertebrae pop. Throughout the previous day he had done little more than travel, sitting for most of the time. It still felt like his body needed to decompress. A nice trek through the Amazon jungle will sort that out, he thought darkly.
Matt pulled his boots on and, in shorts and t-shirt, briskly walked a few paces away from the camp and ducked behind some palms – far enough, he hoped, for modesty and silence, but close enough to be heard if he had to call for help.
He lifted one leg of his shorts and aimed into a spiked bush. He stood for a few seconds, waiting. Nothing – vapor lock. Ever since he was a kid, whenever he needed to go the most, it took him ages to start the flow. But once it started …
The stream arced into the bush, drilling into its depths and causing some small creature to scuttle away to dry safety. Matt tilted his head back and sighed with assuaging pleasure. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes, sensing movement on his periphery. His stream stopped dead, and the ensuing sting made him wince. He spun around.
“And she’s happy with that?” Kurt stood just a few paces away, already fully dressed in his fatigues, and carrying an armful of wood.
“Ahh, yes, I guess.” Matt felt his indignation surge as he turned his back to try and start pissing again. A few dribbles splashed the toes of his boots. He strained harder.
He knew Kurt had his eye on Megan, and even though he hadn’t fully explored where his relationship with her was going, and there’d certainly been no talk of long term between them, he’d be damned if he’d let Doc Savage start hitting on her.
He heard Kurt come even closer. His stream automatically shut off for good. Fuck. He still had a little more pissing to do, and tossed up whether to give up, or pretend to still be going so he could keep his back turned to the bodyguard-slash-jungle guide.
Kurt spoke, so close behind him that he could have been looking over Matt’s shoulder. “Be careful hanging the old baloney pony out for too long down here, Professor. The heat and smell of the salts will bring the jungle mosquitoes – one bite and the sensitive skin down there will swell up like a balloon. The trick is to keep waving your hand over it as you go.”
Oh, shit. “Right, right, thanks.�
� Matt started waving his free hand over the top of his penis. He heard Kurt leave, laughing softly.
Matt rolled his eyes and stopped waving. Very funny. You got me this time, asshole.
*****
Matt sauntered nonchalantly back into the camp, keeping his eyes on Kurt, who was stacking wood on the fire, trying to coax the ash back into a blaze. And of course he’ll be able to do it, Matt thought sourly.
Kurt looked over his shoulder at Matt and winked. Matt gave him his best and most sarcastic smile in return, then knelt to duck back into his tent. Megan was up and pulling on a t-shirt. “Where’s my wake-up coffee?”
He looked shocked. “So sorry, I’ll get right on to room service – would you also like some pastries?”
She nodded royally. “Yes please, a fresh baked croissant would be fine.” She lunged forward, pushing him back onto the thin air mattress, and kissed him hard. He felt himself swell – even without the mosquito bites.
“Coffee’ll be a few minutes – GI Joe is just kick-starting the fire.”
She pulled back a few inches. “Kurt?”
“Mmm-hmm.” He went to kiss her again but she started to sit up.
“He’s all right.” She continued dressing.
“All right, all right, or do you mean … all right?”
She laughed. “Just all right He’s a bit like a cross between a boy scout and a big puppy – big, fun, but not too bright.”
Matt nodded, not fully reassured. He would have preferred she compared him to a lizard, or a hog. Something slightly less cute than a puppy.
Megan flicked out one long leg to pull on a boot. “So, first day’s full trekking into the mysterious black heart of the Boreal.” She pulled what she thought was a spooky face. “Apparently there’s only a real track for the first few hours, and then …”
“I get it; then it’s into the wide green yonder. Who told you that?” He lifted himself up on one elbow.
