by L. Z. Hunter
Camping sucked. So why had he let himself get tricked into spending three months in the middle of nowhere?
And now that he was here, he was in charge. Circuitz expected him to handle operations. He was their project manager. It was a joke. They wanted him because he studied some rocks in college six or seven years ago? Weren’t they going to be thrilled to hear he’d crashed the backhoe, and maybe lost a handful of employees his first day on the job?
He remembered telling himself, give it a try, it’s something new, it will look great on a resume. All of those things sounded great at the time. Obviously. He was here. He was in a cabin in the jungle with twelve other people.
Yeah. He wasn’t worried about getting fired. He expected it. What he wanted now, what his brain should stay focused on, is how to get home. He wanted out of this place because, basically, this just wasn’t worth the money.
The door opened.
Powell looked up. He didn’t realize anyone had left. Maybe he had drifted off? The cabin was still dark. He saw people scattered around the room sleeping, but none of them were mercenaries.
Ian Ross knelt next to Powell. He tapped him on the arm.
“What? I’m up.”
“I’m sorry,” Ian said.
“You didn’t see my eyes open?” Powell said.
“It’s dark. I said I was sorry.”
“What’s the problem?” The accent was thick. The man wasn’t simple to understand.
“We have some water damage in the generator room.”
Powell sat up. His back hurt. He rubbed his shoulder. “Damage? Like what?”
“Like, everything in there is completely ruined.”
There was no way of pretending this was all a dream. It would be amazing if it were. He hoped he was asleep in the states. In his apartment. In his bed. Any second his alarm clock would go off, and he’d open his eyes, look at the time and cringe. But he wouldn’t hit snooze. Not this time. He’d throw off the covers, sit up and stretch, savoring the day and the end of a horrific nightmare.
“Ruined, how?” Powell said.
“Part of the wall came down. Water and mud filled the room. We had the power sources up off the ground. Without a wall, didn’t matter. Looks like there was a small fire, too. Electrical. Luckily it didn’t spread,” Ian said.
“How long until we have it up and running again?” He’d never had the chance to charge his phone. He wanted to get online desperately. He felt similar to when he quit smoking and his body demanded a cigarette, shaky and as if his last nerve was frayed.
“Immediately,” Ian said.
Powell sighed. That was great news. Not at all what he expected. “Okay. Okay, good. That’s good to hear.”
“Immediately after we get all new equipment,” Ian said. He laughed. “It’s why when I told you everything is ruined, I meant, everything is ruined.”
“So we have no power?”
“Nothing.”
Powell got to his feet. Claire was awake, looking at them. Akia was still on the cot, his shoulder against the wall. He looked sound asleep. “Where are the others on your team?”
“They have the perimeter. Everything is secure,” Ian said.
Secure from what? Powell wondered. The dig was in shambles. No one was going to raid their camp. There was nothing worth taking, apparently. They had to be the safest operation in the jungle at the moment. The thought didn’t bring any consolation. “Marksman?”
“He’s actually assessing the damage in the generator hut.”
His clothing stunk. Dried sweat and mud. He wanted a shower and a change of clothing. Didn’t make sense at the moment. He was going to have to go back into the pit and look over the backhoe. They needed a way to get the machinery up and out of the mud. He only had one idea and no idea if it could work.
“What should I do?” Claire said. She sat on the foot of the cot the two young girls slept on.
“Right now, I’m not positive. Keep an eye on the kids. They’re going to wake up soon. I don’t want them, or anyone leaving yet,” Powell said, and walked out of the cabin.
Outside, nothing looked different. You could not tell there had been a storm. Birds sang, and monkeys made monkey noises. The jungle was alive and well. And loud. It was early morning and at least eighty degrees. The humidity must have been ninety percent, but less stifling than it had been inside the small cabin. He scanned the area looking for the mercenaries. Even dressed in all black, they blended perfectly with the trees and dense brush. He couldn’t see them.
He swatted at large mosquitos as he walked around the cabin and toward the generator hut behind it. When Ian had said a wall came down, he figured it had been cracked, or ripped open. No. It was gone. The front wall was completely missing.
Marksman was bent over the batteries, a box of tools on the table beside him.
“Looks pretty bad?” Powell said.
Marksman stood up straight. He dropped a socket set into the tool box. It clattered. “There’s not going to be a thing I can do. I’m going to send two people into town. Have them pick up two new batteries we can use. Won’t be the same as this, but it will be better than nothing. We’ll get them started after breakfast.”
“So we can’t contact anyone?”
“I have my cell phone, the others have theirs. We’re not getting any service, though. Nothing. Storm must have knocked out towers. Not usually the best service this deep into the jungle anyway. But right now, we’ve got nothing,” Marksman said.
Powell turned around and walked away from the hut.
“What are you going to do?”
“Check on the backhoe,” he said. Powell thought he heard Marksman snicker. He wasn’t sure why the two of them didn’t get along, but it annoyed him. It had to be a power thing. He was a strong type A personality and clearly threatened by anyone else in authority.
Powell walked toward the pit contemplating heading into town with whomever Marksman sent for supplies. Only thing was if he went along, he would not return. He’d find a way back to a city, and locate an airport, and fly his ass across the ocean back home. He didn’t dismiss the thought. He just knew if he tagged along, that was what would happen.
Standing at the mouth of the pit, he shook his head. The backhoe was on its side, and nearly half was buried in the ground. The mud wasn’t dry, but drying. Letting out a long, loud sigh was about all he could do.
At the opposite end was Stacy Jennings. She waved hello. He returned the wave.
There was no point walking down into the pit. He couldn’t do anything on his own. Once everyone was together, they would go down and try pushing it up right. Even from where he stood, that seemed impossible. What other options existed? Maybe they could use rope and elephants—did elephants live in the Congo? He had no idea. If there were elephants, he’d need someone who owned trained elephants. It wasn’t like they could wrangle up some elephants out of a herd and bring them back to the pit—
Something came out of the woods. It was too far away for Powell to see clearly. Whatever it was, it was low to the ground. Jennings spun around, facing it. Powell heard shrieks.
He walked around the edge of the pit, watching her. She was kneeling by whatever it was. She had one hand to her ear. She might be talking. Maybe the mercenaries still had enough juice to remain in contact. He hoped so. Those batteries would run low eventually. By then maybe they would have at least one generator back up and running and could charge some of the equipment.
As Powell rounded the final corner, he noticed it was not an animal that had emerged out of the trees. It was one of the mercenaries. He couldn’t tell which one.
“Hurry, Louis. I need your help,” Jennings said. She had a man’s head in her lap.
Powell stopped where he was. They were covered in blood.
“Louis, help me,” she said.
Stacy Jennings didn’t sound like the tough mercenary. For the first time he thought she sounded normal, like a lady. There was a tremble in her tone
of voice, a vulnerability she must have masked behind muscle and brawn. It worked better than a commanding attitude. He ran toward her and only stopped again when a foot away.
“My God. What happened?” Powell said.
Jack Shelton was missing an arm. Jagged flesh and blood flared out from an empty socket at the shoulder. There was a long string of shredded muscle that came out of the wound. Blood spilled from the corner of his mouth, his eyes were closed.
“Is he okay?” Powell said.
“Hold his head,” she said.
Powell got onto his knees. He took Shelton’s head onto his lap. The man was breathing, barely.
Jennings stood up and removed her belt. “He’s bleeding out.”
She tied the belt tight around the shoulder and what stump was available. She pulled on the leather and fastened it. “This isn’t going to hold well. It’s going to have to do.”
Powell thought she might be talking out loud. Maybe it helped her think and stay focused? He had no First Aid training. Telling him anything wasn’t going to help. He knew they needed to stop the bleeding. He assumed the belt was a makeshift tourniquet. Other than that, he didn’t know what they should do. “Should we carry him?”
“I called Marksman. They’re coming. We can’t move him. Not like this,” she said.
“What happened?”
She shook her head. Her eyes were watery. She kept pressure on the belt tension. “He came out of the woods and collapsed. He didn’t say anything. I asked him. He couldn’t respond, and then his eyes rolled back in his head and he collapsed.”
Powell looked at the trees around them. This could have happened anywhere. How deep had he been sent to guard the perimeter? “Whatever did this could still be out there,” he said. He knew whatever had attacked Shelton was still out there, not could still be out there. “I mean, what do we do? We can’t just sit here.”
“You want to leave, go.”
Powell heard loud voices.
Charlie Erb ran at them with a military gurney. Marksman and Becky Robinson were right behind him. They had their rifles panning the area while they ran. Powell hoped they were as good as they looked. The mercenaries could finally be a silver lining.
Claire.
She was back at the cabin with the others.
He figured they were safe. An animal had attacked Shelton. Not a man. The missing arm wasn’t the work of angry raiders. More than likely it was a hungry predator. It must have taken Shelton by surprise. Maybe it had stalked the merc and when it saw an opportunity, surprised him when it attacked. A lion could do that. A gorilla could too. Gorillas were as strong as five or ten men. Something like that. Powell needed water. His throat felt terribly dry.
Erb set the gurney down. “Ah, man,” he said. “Hey buddy? Shelton?”
“He passed out,” Jennings said.
“He’s going to go into shock. Might already be. John, let’s get him on the gurney,” Erb said.
Marksman said, “Robinson, Jennings watch our backs. What happened?”
Powell watched the men carefully lift and place Shelton onto the gurney. The belt fell off the man’s bleeding shoulder. “We need a better tourniquet,” Erb said.
“We can’t do it here. We can’t help him here. Lift on three,” Marksman said.
Jennings went first. She moved fast, but cautiously led them. She faced the forest. She looked anxious to shoot something. Anything. She was hungry for revenge. Her friend was in bad shape. Her eyes were narrow. She scanned the thick brush; a target. Any target seemed like it might do. Powell felt like something was getting shot sooner or later.
Robinson stayed on the side of the gurney. She held the belt tight, hopefully slowing if not stopping the bleeding altogether. Powell followed from the rear. He watched Jennings.
Chapter 10
They crashed through the closed cabin door. Those inside jumped back. Everyone was awake at this point. The kids cowered. Powell looked around the cabin, feeling frantic. Claire went and sat beside the young girls. Akia, Ruh and the other young man clustered close on Powell’s cot.
“Ian’s got the fire around back. Robinson, take two machetes and stick them in the coals,” Marksman said. He took the belt and pulled tight. Shelton was losing too much blood.
Robinson snatched up two machetes and ran outside.
Marksman said, “What happened out there?”
“He just came out of the woods,” Jennings said. “He dropped at my feet. I saw the blood. I guess my first thought was he’d been shot, or ambushed.”
Marksman grunted.
Powell knew it was an animal attack, not an ambush. “We need to call for help. A helicopter rescue or something. We’ve got to get this man out of the jungle. He needs a hospital.” There was no need stating the obvious. If they didn’t get Jack Shelton professional help soon, he would die.
“Hey, buddy,” Marksman said. “We’re going to get this fixed up quick for you. Don’t think you’re going home, though. We’ve got too much work out here. I can’t afford letting you head to the states while we sweat our asses off. Uh-uh. No, sir. So let’s get this bandaged up and get you back to work.”
Shelton’s eyes were open. They looked almost vacantly about the room. He seemed focused on the ceiling, but he grinned. That was a good sign. He’d heard Marksman’s words and actually smiled. There was still hope.
“That’s right, friend. That’s right. Hang on. Hang in there, buddy.” Marksman turned around. “Tell them I need those machetes. Now.”
The cabin door banged open.
Ian Ross held both machetes. The long flat blades burned red. “Move,” Ian shouted, pushing his way toward the cot, holding the blades high in the air. “I’ve got this. Let me do it. You guys, grab his legs.”
It took Powell a moment. He wasn’t sure what was happening. It came to him all at once. He wasn’t sure he could watch, but didn’t think he could look away. Robinson knelt on the floor and pressed all of her weight down on a leg, Jennings took the other. Erb had the one arm.
Marksman moved around and got behind Shelton’s head. “Give me something to put in his mouth!”
Powell ran for the small counter. He held up a wooden spoon. “This?”
“Perfect,” Marksman said. He grabbed it out of Powell’s hand and set it lengthwise in Shelton’s mouth. “Bite down on that.”
Shelton didn’t respond. Powell figured once the procedure started, the man wouldn’t need instruction.
“Turn the girls away,” Powell said to Claire. It was an order given just in time. Claire was between the girls, and they immediately hugged her tight, burying their faces against her chest. She held the foreheads with the palms of her hands, and winced in anticipation, closing her eyes as well.
Ian used the machete and quickly chopped away dangling chunks of flesh, muscle, and sinew. With a snap of his wrist, he freed the belt, dropped it, and pressed the flat of the first blade against the shoulder where the arm used to be. He overlapped the second blade, covering the entire and bare socket.
Flesh hissed.
Shelton screamed before his teeth bit into the spoon. The veins in his neck bulged, as if they were going to pop out through the skin. His face was red from straining. The blood was rushing to his head.
“Hold him!” Ian shouted.
The smell of cooked meat filled the inside of the cabin. Powell thought he might vomit. Robinson and Jennings relaxed their hold.
“He passed out,” Marksman said.
“No,” Ian said. “He’s not breathing.”
“He’s breathing,” Marksman said. He removed the spoon and lowered his ear next to Shelton's mouth.
“Is he breathing?” Jennings said.
“I’m listening,” Marksman said.
“He’s not. He’s not breathing,” Ian said.
“You’re right. He’s not. Get him on the floor,” Marksman said.
Ian dropped the machetes. The flesh was blackened, red and raw. He grabbed the mercena
ry and dropped him onto the floor. Ian tipped Shelton’s head back, placing one hand under his neck. He lowered his head down close, listening for breathing.
“The AED,” Ian shouted. Jennings grabbed a small light blue case from a shelf. She knelt beside Ian. “John, cut open his shirt!”
Marksman tore open Shelton’s vest, pulled a Bowie knife from the sheath on his hip and ran it down the black t-shirt. Ian removed two rectangular patches from the case. He affixed one by the heart, the other on Shelton’s side. He charged the machine. “Stand back,” he said.
When the light turned green on the automated external defibrillator indicator, he pressed a red button. Shelton’s body didn’t move. Powell expected it to jump or arch the way it oftentimes did on medical television shows.
“Again,” Ian said out loud. He waited for the red light to switch to green. Once it did, he said, “Stand back.”
No one had gotten close.
Ian pressed the button. Powell knew volts raced through Shelton’s body in an attempt at restarting the heart. Ian listened for breathing. He stared at Shelton’s chest hoping to see it rise and fall. He tore off the patches, shoved away the AED case before pinching Shelton’s nose closed, and blew two quick breaths into his mouth. Shelton’s chest rose with each breath. The airway was clear. He set the heel of his left hand on Shelton’s chest, between the nipples, and the other hand on top of the first. Up on his knees, Ian started compressions. He counted them off fast. “One, two, three, four, five…”
Jennings stood over Ian Ross. She chewed on the skin around her thumb, ignoring the tears that ran down her face.
Ian stopped.
Marksman leaned in, and while holding Shelton’s nose closed, blew two more breaths into his mouths. The lungs filled. The chest rose.
Ian started counting off compressions again. Sweat covered his brow. He pressed fast and hard. Bone snapped. Ribs were cracking inside Shelton’s chest.
