by David Coy
She had crossed several deep channels but had seen no more signs of the monster she’d first encountered. She was making what she felt was good time and was sure she could make land by nightfall. Once she got across the swamp, it couldn’t be more than a kilometer or two to the clearing.
She reached out and grabbed another clump of weeds with her hook and pulled. The raft lurched forward then cruised along for a few meters.
For the first time, she was truly confident she would make it back. Now she had to decide what she was going to do when she did.
She thought about contacting the local security staff, then thought better of it. They were worse than useless and probably kissing Smith’s ass already. No, she’d have to get word to the authorities at home.
She wouldn’t have many chances.
She reached out at a clump of weeds and dropped the hook down on them, just like she’d done hundreds of times that day.
The rod came alive.
“Shit!”
She’d hooked something—or part of something. It splashed and fought at the end of the rod as she struggled to hang on. If she lost the rod and hook, she’d be screwed. She caught a glimpse of yellowish, scaled hide, thrashing, just under the surface.
“Let go! Shit!”
Back and forth it went, the raft pivoting with it. Finally, the rod tore from her hand and streaked away, leaving a sharp wake in the water.
“Oh no!”
She watched it race away until it submarined completely out of view..
“No . . . ”
A moment later, the pole bobbed to the surface in a glassy pool just ten meters from where it went down.
“Yes!”
Well, at least she could see it. If she could see it, she stood a chance of retrieving it. That was good.
There was one hitch: she’d have to paddle to get to it.
She groaned audibly, then squared around and got ready to put her arms into the water by turning off her senses. She stopped short and checked the condition of her underwater camouflage. She straightened the sticks and vines, making sure they were at least in their proper places.
Then, with a sigh of resolve, she put her arms down in the water and started to paddle. Her hand immediately stroked a slippery underwater leaf, and she flinched from it as if it were the back of something hungry. The feel of it sent a chill down her spine.
The water was clear and shallow; perhaps two meters. The bottom was choked with debris and underwater plants. Things zipped, swam or crawled along.
She paddled briefly to one side, adjusted her course and came to bear on the rod, now just five raft lengths away. As she entered the pool, she watched the bottom drop steeply away to blackness. Memories of the channel creature filled her head.
She paddled quietly, gently into the pool. The raft drifted across it slowly and bumped the rod.
As she reached out for it, a chill went down her back like a cool wind.
Something wasn’t right. Something was down there.
Panic clawed at her, spurred her flanks, goading her to frenzied action; to splash and flail at the black water, to get away from it, to flee from it.
She swallowed and heard her own breath coming in shallow puffs. When she looked down into the water, its darkness seemed to draw her down into it. Rippling light from the surface danced in quick and ugly patterns in the blackness like bright demons.
She put her forehead against the pillow and pressed her eyes closed, praying for deliverance from the thing in the abyss below.
The fear grew instead, replacing nerves with tight wire, and her blood with ice water. Her mouth was clamped tight, but her mind said the words clearly.
Help me. Help.
It was there, she was sure of it, under her, just out of sight, building up some evil force to unleash in a violent burst and swallow her up.
“Help me . . . goddamn it . . . help . . . ” she whispered.
She pushed the panic down, forced it back with a steady pressure on its mad, grinning head.
Slowly, the fear lifted; and when she finally looked down, she saw nothing more than the flickering light of ripples in clear, calm water.
She gave herself a moment more to completely regain her composure, letting it fill her from the guts up.
She reached out toward the pole.
Her fingers closed on it. She drew it in and propped it across the supports and made it safe. Softly, she paddled for the shallows, the silence around her pierced only by the sound of the water that dripped like tears from her strong arms.
Dammit . . .
She picked another landmark, a tall mangrove-like tree in the distance, and headed toward it by grabbing one clump of water plants, then another.
As she poled along she became aware of a change in the light, a softening of it that filled her with dread. The sun was dropping toward the horizon.
Where’s the shore!
She kept the tree directly ahead and picked up the pace. The idea of spending the night in the raft chilled her. She couldn’t stand the idea of lying there in the damp while things sneaked up on her or clamored up on the just-right texture of the leaf bundles—or onto her wet cotton clothing. She had to get to shore, and then to the clearing where there was open air and, if not a breeze, at least clear air devoid of vines and foliage.
She focused on her next destination, its twisted, tortured limbs extending from a trunk wide and massive, the thick branches reaching out like arms. As she looked more closely, she realized that the tree was standing against the thick background of dense foliage. The jungle was right behind it, marking the end of the swamp. It took her a moment to realize it.
“Thank God!”
The sight of the jungle inspired her to hook and pull faster; to grab and splash. She couldn’t help herself.
She reached out and hooked one of the tree’s twisted roots and pulled the raft the rest of the way to it. When the raft bumped the tree, she lowered her head in relief.
The shore was steeper on this side, not the endless muddy incline it had been on the other. The bottom was just a few feet below the surface, and she could have easily jumped in and waded ashore. But, her reluctance to immerse herself in the swamp’s waters was still strong. She poled the rest of the way over to the bank and tied the raft off to a limb.
With the water just inches deep, she slid out the back, then high-stepped and splashed to the bank. Pushing the foliage away, she was actually glad to feel its familiar, cloying textures on her face and neck once again.
She turned around and gave an appreciative look at the craft that had delivered her across the swamp.
“Good job,” she said to it.
It would rot to the bottom, right where it was, and a season from now the swamp would have absorbed it completely. As an afterthought, she stepped back into the water, leaned in and tore a green piece of leaf from the canopy and put it in her pocket.
The familiar green light of dusk came over the jungle like a pall. She could either camp now or try to make the clearing by night. She decided it was too risky to try to make it; too late in the day. The jungle’s parasites and other hazards could still kill her if she was out exposed when the moon’s light invigorated the jungle’s nocturnal denizens.
She looked around and started to gather her building materials. She’d gotten quite good at it, and soon had just enough to build the yurt. This one went up in record time and was the best, tightest yet. She gathered some grapes from a nearby vine; and a quick search of the shoreline turned up a few clusters of onions that she harvested as well.
She made herself a pillow of spongy leaves as an added extravagance, just to pamper herself.
Exhausted, but nearly comfortable and, with her appetite satisfied, she fell into a deep sleep as soon as the buzzing and chirping started.
When the yurt shook, she bolted up from the dreamless sleep, her eyes snapping open into pitch blackness. It felt as if the structure had been bumped and thoughts of the horse-thing
came to mind. It shook again, and there was the sound of moving branches, of shaking and dragging. She rose up and pulled back a leaf to look outside. The moons were just coming up, casting their light and multiplying the number of vines and branches by the seeming millions.
There, in the light was a horse-thing, lying on its side, its big, glassy eyes staring; its tongue hanging limp. As she watched, the head moved backwards with a tug, and there was the sound of breaking branches. It stopped and, as if stuck, began to jerk and shake violently. The horse was dead, or nearly so. Something else was moving it. Suddenly, the air was filled with a high-pitched chirping sound that oscillated up and down. It was a hideous noise that strummed her nerves and filled her with fear.
The sound stopped briefly then started again, gaining in pitch to a ghastly crescendo that made her scowl. When the sound was as loud as she could stand, it began to oscillate, dragging her up and down and over its insufferable auditory peaks like some dark wraith.
It stopped suddenly. Then it started up again. When it reached its height this time, she put her fingers in her ears.
Finally it stopped.
Then there was another sound; the sound of something moving in the trees above, then a flash of something dark moving past and a sudden rustling. Something hit the ground like a sack dropped from above. A shape, dark and formless, moved through the foliage a few meters away, then a moment later, another. They glided in and out of the shadows. She tried but could see no detail or make out a clear form.
The thin walls of the yurt suddenly seemed very much thinner.
There was the sound of more rustling movement, then the fallen animal was suddenly pulled from view. She looked at the empty spot it had occupied, watching the insects buzz and fly through it.
Nothing.
She folded the leaf gently back into place and lay back down, wondering what it was she’d seen, if anything. The incident left her with a hollow, sick feeling like she’d seen and heard it all in a dreadful nightmare. Just when she thought she’d seen the worst the planet had to offer, it had belched up something even more violent and horrible to remind her how menacing it really was. She saw herself then from far above; a minuscule speck of protoplasm, cowering under a covering of leaves in the teeming jungle.
Behind the yurt’s fragile walls, she lay down and tried to shut out the jungle’s horrors. She desperately wanted real walls around her; the strong, stiff walls of a modern shelter and clean sheets to sleep on and a real pillow for her head.
Her mind drifted then settled on the ugly images of the bastards who’d thrown her out of the shuttle, and of Ed Smith, who’d made it happen. She remembered the nasty one’s little grin before he'd kicked her out into space, without remorse or mercy.
The injustice of it hurt the most.
“I told you this was a bad idea, now she's stuck . . . ”
She couldn’t decide which jungle was the most loathsome or whose monsters the most despicable.
The sound of thunder rumbled, and a few minutes later the first raindrops pattered on the yurt. She hoped the leaves would keep most of it out.
Much later, with the sound of buzzing, clicking and distant thunder around her, she put aside the images of revenge she’d conjured so carefully, and slept.
* * *
She awoke to fog-cloaked silence that clung wet and cool on the leaves and branches. It was time to move, time to trudge, time to stay alive another day.
By the time she’d gone a hundred meters, her clothes were soaked through as if she’d been rained on. It didn’t matter. It was only important that she make it to the clearing. The sleeves of her jumpsuit were torn to ribbons, and the scratches on her arms stung when she pushed the branches away. The legs were ripped too and her scraped and welted knees burst out of the torn material with each step.
The sun poured its heat into the green like warm water. An hour later her sweat had soaked her clothing.
None of that mattered.
As she pushed her way through, she noticed a brightening ahead, a slight lightening to the foliage. Without thinking, she moved faster toward the light, her legs pumping and stomping, her arms pushing and tearing the foliage out of the way. She ducked and grunted and twisted her way through the green. It was there, her clearing, and light and open space would be hers once more.
She burst into light.
The panorama before her crushed her with its silent majesty like the hand of God.
Jungle. Endless, rolling, green jungle stretched before her into Infinity.
She was standing on a precipice overlooking the most beautiful valley she’d ever seen—and she’d missed the clearing completely.
“Oh no . . . .oh no . . . no . . . ”
She felt herself go limp as if her bones had suddenly dissolved. Her grip on the branch relaxed and faded to nothing, and she went slowly to her knees. She doubled over until her head rested gently on a wet and mossy patch of ground.
She groaned a long deep groan that started in her middle. She felt it rather than heard it, and it lingered on the air around her.
“No . . . ”
Much later, she rose and stared out over the green; the hot, red sun beating against the side of her head.
She wondered how long it would take to starve herself to death in her present condition—a week, maybe ten days? She was still strong. Maybe longer. If she could find a cliff, she could throw herself over it. That would work. She was high up, maybe there was one close by.
When she walked a few meters to her left in search of just such a precipice, she saw the clearing.
It was just a half kilometer away, the northeastern-most corner of it, flat and debris-strewn, open and airy, the ground gray-green with dead plant stuff. Beautiful.
She made a sound like a whimper.
She tore through the foliage, whacking at the branches and vines with her arms and legs and head. She pressed herself through it, feeling like one of the jungle’s insects; scrambling and crawling, forcing her way.
When she burst into the light this time, the panorama she saw was the vast, defoliated plains and the plant-free hills and valleys of the installation.
There was a low hill just to the west, and she started up it. When she got to the top and looked out, she thought she could see the distant specks of the shelters against the far western perimeter, barely visible in the shimmering heat.
She grinned like a lunatic at the sight, then finally laughed out loud.
“There! Oh there . . . you are!”
The sun was high and hot; too hot to hike in without benefit of the jungle’s shade—and she wanted to time her arrival at sunset and sneak into the clinic under the cover of darkness. Best to wait. She estimated it would take her four or five hours to cross. She checked her watch. With Verde’s longer days, she could wait another eight or nine hours and still have four hours of daylight. She could re-group, rest and eat before heading out.
She could almost feel the shower caressing her face, and the thought of a mere four-hour stroll without vines and branches in her face made her smile.
19
His work was at least neat, she had to say that about it. There might not be any substance to it, but it was neat. The work areas were laid out well and were orderly; the containers holding his samples stacked and uncluttered.
“I didn’t think I’d see you for a few days at least,” Joe said.
“I’m fine. Not perfect. But good enough to work,” Rachel replied, eyeing the Petri dishes lined up on the bench. She picked one up and spun it slowly in her fingers.
“What have you found? Anything interesting?”
“There’s a wide variety of microscopic life in the soil and most of the bacteria cultures easily,” he said matter-of-factly. “You can see that right there.”
“And?”
“I’ve found at least twenty separate protozoan forms in the standing water and taken pictures of those so far.”
“What kind of toxicology profiles
do they have? Any hazard matches?”
“Well, I haven’t done those yet.”
“Ummm . . . ”
“I thought you might want to run some samples through the processor first is all.”
“Ummm . . . bacteria typing? Anything there?”
“I haven’t done those either yet.”
“Well, the place is orderly,” she said cheerfully. “I like that.”
“Thanks.”
“Ummm . . . ”
She picked up another Petri dish and studied it. The surface of the agar was spotted with white, brown and yellow patches, round and raised. One spot was deep purple-red; the color of fresh blood.
“What’s this one? Where're your notes?”
He reached for his pad and turned it on. When he found his notes, he handed it over to her. She looked at the screen, scrolling through with her finger. He’d coded each dish with a number and had constructed an index describing the place, date and time of each sample taken. This was okay. She looked up the number forty, the one for the dish she was after, and read its source. “Water run-off from the shelter tops?”
“If that’s number . . . ”
“Forty,” she said.
“Right. Forty. I found that one and a couple of others where the shelter’s drains run into the ground and forms a trough. You know.”
“Ummm . . . ”
Rachel scanned the neat rows of Petri dishes until she spotted one other, then another of them with purple-red, perfectly round patches in them. They matched up to the other numbers indicating the same conditions for the samples.
“Have you looked at this red stuff?”
“Not yet.”
“Ummm . . . ”
“Do it first and let me know what the profiles look like.”
“Okay.”
“Then profile the protozoans. Any encapsulated or encysted forms?
“Uhh . . . ”
“If you see any that you think might be encapsulated or in a waiting state, let me know.”
