by Greig Beck
Moema’s words echoed in his mind. Mother of the water. His hand slid down to Brenner’s, and the linguist’s fingers clasped weakly onto his own, but the leviathan muscles that bound him tightened and rolled, and the fingers were pulled away. Matt’s lungs were near bursting and he broke the surface.
“Snake!” He was spluttering and startled to see he was a good twenty feet away from the bank and in the center of the river.
Kurt yelled for him to swim, and Moema pointed frantically to the bank. Gunfire erupted as Kurt fired several rounds into the murky water, making little geysers of brown shoot up around him and causing the birds and monkeys overhead to scream their outrage and rip away in the upper branches.
Matt waved his hands. “Stop … he’s here.” He dove again, but could find no sign of the man. This time when he came to the surface Megan and Moema were there, Moema with his long blade still held aloft. Megan grabbed his collar and dragged him backward, coughing and spluttering, until they made it to the bank.
“Shit, shit, shit.” Kurt marched up and down the sloping mud, his gun at his side.
Matt retched water and mud, and wiped grit from his nose. “I felt him … it had him, a snake, a giant fucking snake.”
Megan brushed his wet hair off his face while Moema sheathed his long blade and stood up, his eyes on the moving water.
“Snake, yes, these are the waters of the yacu-mayma. It can grow longer than twenty men, and as wide as a pony. It is gone now … Mr. Brenner is gone now,” he said.
“But, he was still alive, when …”
Moema shook his head. “Not anymore by now — he will be crushed; the yacu-mayma will squeeze him soft, and then devour him whole. I think it will be doing this in its lair … now.”
Megan stood up and planted her hands on her hips, her chin jutting out. “We need to retrieve that body, and then pack it in. Party’s over, Steinberg.”
Kurt took a step toward her. “Retrieve the body?” He pointed a finger at her chest. “Listen …”
“Kurt.” Max Steinberg stopped him and nodded to Megan as he took a few slow steps toward her.
“This is a tragedy, and we shouldn’t make hasty decisions when emotions are running high.” He came a little closer. “We’ll try and send a message to the authorities. However, if we do ‘pack it in’, we’ll miss the last of the dry season, and have to leave it until next year to try again.” His mouth turned down and he shook his head almost sadly. “I’m afraid I won’t be doing that. So, my team will be pushing on … today.” He shrugged. “But by all means, you, or you and your little team, wait here for the authorities to arrive … if they arrive.”
Megan’s mouth dropped open and then snapped shut, her jaw set in determination. Matt groaned, knowing what was to come, as Steinberg turned away, talking softly to Kurt.
Megan turned to Carla, but the scientist looked away. Matt knew her frustration would boil over, and she would do or say something she, and then probably he, would regret. She marched over to grab Steinberg’s elbow and whipped him around. “Wait a minute, not everyone agrees with you …”
The movie producer tore his arm free, but his face remained calm. He smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Really? Ms. Hannaford, do you really want to vote on it? Okay.” He turned to the assembled group.
“Anyone who wants to turn back or stay here, please raise their hand.” He looked along the faces, as each person looked down or away. John shook his head sadly, as did Jian, who mouthed sorry in Megan’s direction. Joop’s mouth opened for a second before his gaze slid away and his mouth closed without a word. Steinberg shrugged. “Sorry.”
“Fuck you.” Megan turned to Carla, who had her eyes downcast. Steinberg spoke up. “Dr. Nero?”
She looked up, her eyes going from Steinberg to Megan as she shook her head. “He’s dead, Megan. Nothing we can do for him.”
“But … it’s too dangerous. More of us will die if …”
Carla held the young woman’s angry gaze. “I warned you this wouldn’t be a picnic. We knew what we were signing up for. Megan, I’m sorry, but a lot more people may die if we abandon our search now.”
Matt got to his feet and put his arm around her shoulders. “Let it go, Megs.”
She looked down and shook her head violently, then shrugged out from under his arm, walking away a few paces.
Matt looked back along the group, stopping at Max Steinberg. “Can you at least pretend to be sorry one of your team just got killed?”
Max Steinberg frowned and walked a few paces closer to him. He nodded, his face the picture of contrition. “You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry, Professor Kearns.” He put his hand on Matt’s shoulder and looked into his muddy face. “Are you okay? That was very brave of you, son.”
Matt shrugged. “It was instinct. I just hope that someone would do the same for me.”
Steinberg nodded gravely. “Of course. I just hope we don’t need to.” He smiled. “However, there is some good news.” He slapped Matt on the shoulder. “You just got a promotion.”
CHAPTER 14
Matt noticed that the farther they tracked from the water, the more Moema’s demeanor changed. The guide slowed, became more cautious and particular about his movements. Even Kurt had loosened the strap over his gun. Together the large bodyguard and the small Brazilian would walk carefully forward, then one or the other would pause and stand listening for several seconds. Matt found it unsettling and painfully slow. The addition of the heat, humidity, and things nipping at his exposed legs made it freaking agony.
Even Max Steinberg had commented about the feeling of being watched. Moema had nodded, and responded that in the jungle, there were always a thousand eyes watching — every day, every night. It hadn’t made any of them feel any more secure.
A small opening in the undergrowth gave them room to spread out a little and rest. A waist-high mound seemed to grow in the center of the clearing, like a giant green boil on the earth. Kurt climbed to the top and stood like a captain at the bow of his ship, surveying the path ahead.
“Let’s take a few minutes.” He looked at each of them. “I don’t need to remind you not to wander off — this is Ndege Watu territory. We need everyone’s eyes and ears focussed from now on. If they’re here — and they probably are — let’s hope we can communicate with them.” He looked at Matt pointedly. “But first we need to make sure we don’t scare them off, or give them a reason to attack us.”
Megan leaned in close to Matt, having regained some of her spirit after the river encounter. “Looks like it’s all up to you now.”
Matt snorted softly. “No pressure.” He turned to her with raised brows. “Besides, you’ll be helping.”
Matt looked past her and saw Moema pacing around the edge of the clearing. Often, he’d move a little way into the jungle to examine something before continuing his slow sentry walk. Matt left Megan with Carla and followed the guide for a while before the small man turned to him.
“Signs of the Ndege Watu?” asked Matt.
Moema exhaled through his nose, then shook his head. “No, nothing … but there should be, He-rêr a'ê Kearns. The Ndege Watu are not just in the jungle, they are part of the jungle. They will know we are here. But I can see no sign of them. This is strange.”
Matt looked around at the green wall surrounding them. “Hmm, you said they were shy. Maybe they are staying hidden.”
Moema shrugged. “Yes, maybe I think that.”
Matt watched him for a moment. He didn’t believe the little man thought that at all.
* * *
“Get down.” Kurt froze and then hunched over out front. Behind him, Max Steinberg, Matt, and the line of scientists got down on their haunches and tried to blend into the undergrowth. Matt watched the big man as his eyes slid across to something beyond the next stand of trees, fronds, and vines. He turned, put his finger to his lips, pointed at Matt and Moema and waved them forward … slowly.
When they reached the front o
f the line, Matt could see what the guide had found — they were about to break through into a broad clearing, the red, hard-packed earth dominated by small round huts with tightly thatched roofs.
Moema grunted his observation. “No fire.” Matt understood his concern. For a tribe as primitive as this, fire was hard to create. It was probably up to one or more individuals to keep the spark burning in the communal fire pit. This one had gone out.
Kurt turned to Matt. “Say something, tell them, hello.”
Matt furrowed his brow. “I have no idea how to say hello.” He looked at Moema, but the small man just shrugged and turned back to the village.
Kurt shook his head. “Fucking great.” He pulled his gun from its holster.
“Wait, let me try something.” Matt walked forward and tried to make an approximation of the sounds he had heard on Jorghanson’s recording. Matt had been able to identify some conversation threads he thought he understood. He tried to lower his vocal cords to make the unique Ndege Watu sounds. The vocalizations came out like a series of whistling clicks.
They waited for a few minutes, but there was no reply.
Matt tried again. Once more, there was nothing but silence … almost. After a few more seconds, there came an almost imperceptible sound from one of the huts.
Moema tilted his head. “Maybe someone.”
Kurt nudged Matt. “Say hello again.”
Matt half turned. “It’s not …” Ah, forget it. There was no point trying to explain the Ndege Watu expression of friendship to Kurt. He made the small series of whistle-click sounds again.
They waited, but, other than the soft sounds from inside the hut, there was no response or reaction.
“Okay, that’s it, we’re going in — stay low and on your toes.” Kurt pushed through the final barrier of green, and entered the camp. Matt wrinkled his nose at a strange odor, like decaying meat, old flowers, and spoiling food.
Kurt crept toward the hut where they had heard the noise, and turned to wave them closer with his gun.
“It stinks … dirty bastards.” He held the revolver up and went to step in front of the open entrance, but Matt caught his elbow and pulled him back.
“Let me.” Matt stepped out, repeating the few phrases he had memorized. He crouched in the opening of the hut, and blinked to try and help his eyes adjust to the darkness. “Hello?”
There was an explosion of movement. A small boar burst from the tent, trailing stinking entrails in its jaws. Matt fell backward. “Shit!”
Kurt stepped over him, ducked his head into the hut, then immediately pulled it back out. He turned to Moema. “Dead. Check the other huts.”
The small man nodded and scurried off, his long blade in his hand. Kurt grabbed Matt’s forearm and pulled him to his feet. The guide yelled for John, no longer worried about silence.
“Doc, get in here, we got a body.”
John came from out of the jungle, immediately followed by Carla, then Megan.
Moema returned and Matt could see that his normally coffee-colored face was slightly ashen and his eyes wide. “More Ndege Watu — men, women, children; all dead. Maybe thirty — all tribe, I think.”
Kurt grunted, showing no emotion. “Go around the perimeter and see if there is any sign of another tribe, or something else coming in or going out. Be on your guard.”
Moema looked confused, and Kurt clarified. “Be careful.”
The small Brazilian nodded and disappeared, just as John went to duck into the hut.
“Doctor.” Carla bustled up to him and handed him a pair of rubber gloves. John nodded his thanks and pulled them on, then they both entered the hut.
Kurt looked at Matt, his mouth turned down. “So, everything gone — waste of fucking time.” He sauntered back to talk to Max Steinberg, and Matt hung in the doorway with Megan at his shoulder. Matt saw her watch the big man walk away. He turned back to see the doctor and CDC scientist go to work.
The hut was a scene of human carnage, but Matt guessed that was largely due to the scavenging boar. There were two bodies, one larger than the other, with missing limbs, eyes and nose eaten away, and its abdomen torn open. The smaller one was primarily intact, save for the open torso — the softer entrails were always the first to be taken.
Matt winced. The smell was rancid-sweet and the buzz of large agitated jungle flies in the small humid space made him pull his damp handkerchief from his pocket and hold it over his nose and mouth.
In one corner — the only untouched part of the small hut — there were half a dozen soft-looking bags — skins that had been sewn into a balloon shape and then continually worked and treated until they looked soft and supple. Matt pointed to them. “Maybe something they ate or drank — weird-looking water bags. Maybe we should check the local streams for algae or some other type of contaminant.”
Carla reached across to pick one up. It had rings of small stones sewn in around its edges and some type of carved bone stopper in the opening. She grunted softly, uncapped it, lifted it to her nose and waved it back and forth under her nostrils for a second or two. “Dry and odorless.” She held it up. “Strange decoration for a water bladder; not sure if it was for food or drink, but good workmanship. We can check their sources later.” She dropped it back in the corner and turned back to the body.
“Heavens, I’ve never seen anything like it; look at this.” John gestured over the adult’s brow, and spoke softly to himself. “Prominent brow ridge, low vaulted cranium, receding chin … could this be a local genetic trait, a predilection for deformity?” He moved to the smaller figure. “It’s the same — not as developed, but the same. If this is representative of the tribe, then these guys are not just primitive, they’re primordial throwbacks.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, John. What can you tell me about the cause of death?” Carla said.
“Okay, right, it’s just …” He bent over the larger body and gently prodded the skin with two fingers, then looked in the mouth and peeled back the eyelids, checking the soft tissue for discoloration. Meanwhile, Carla parted the thick black hair, peering at the scalp and leaning in close to look at the strands.
“Good; no dermal lifting, no sign of parasite infestation other than some local hair lice.” She sat back and watched John lift the remains of the stump and prod the flesh of the armpit. He raised his eyebrows. “Swollen, and the skin is mottled.” He pulled open the mouth again and then tugged on the facial cheek, making the lower lid droop. “Conjunctive eye, blue-gray spots in the mouth.” He looked at Carla, but Matt spoke first.
“Measles.”
Behind Matt, Megan snorted without humor. “That’s been our gift to indigenous populations for over five hundred years.”
Carla sat back on her haunches and nodded. “True. In 1592, two-thirds of the native population of Cuba was wiped out by an outbreak, one-fifth of Hawaii’s population in 1850, and so on and so on. It still kills millions globally.” She rubbed her forehead with the back of her arm.
“There are twenty-one different strains of the virus. Some are nothing more than a mild inconvenience to us.” She turned to Matt. “Remember Jorghanson and his recessive measles strain? Not so recessive down here.” She peeled off her gloves and stood up.
John did the same. “These bodies are probably still highly infectious. Probably not to us, but definitely to any other indigenous person who comes into contact with them, and maybe even to …” He turned to look over his shoulder.
“Got it.” Carla nodded toward their guide. “I’ve got some antiviral that I can give Moema as a preventative. But you’re right, we should bury them.”
Matt looked around at all the huts. “Moema said there were about thirty bodies — we’d need earthmoving equipment.”
John threw his gloves into the hut. “Then burning it is. But …” he winced as he spoke. “I’d really like to take a sample back.”
“Sample?” Matt frowned. “Of the measles strain?”
John shook h
is head. “No, no … a sample of the morphology — just a skull.”
“Huh?” Matt pulled a face.
Carla waved her hand in John’s direction. “I’d like to see the paperwork trying to get that back home … especially given what we’re currently dealing with. Forget it, John.”
“This could be big. I don’t even want to mention the word ‘Neanderthal’, but …”
“But you just did. John, there are many physical traits that are extreme and influenced by nothing more than the environment. Take the Mbenga Pygmies of the Southern Congo. They’re all waist-high to us, and their height has been attributed to low levels of ultraviolet light, leading to reduced vitamin D, which affects …”’
John finished for her. “Bone growth.”
Carla nodded. “Also, their soil is low in calcium — double whammy.”
John shrugged. “There isn’t always a simple explanation. After all, there’s no such thing as a living archaeopteryx, right?” He gave her his best smile. “I’ll scour it — no biological traces, just clean bone, I promise.”
Carla half smiled and tilted her head. After a few seconds she nodded. “I love an optimist — especially one who turns out to be a head-hunter. I still say you’ll never get it back into the States.”
“Thanks.” John turned back to the body.
“Professor Kearns!” Jian’s shout came from the far end of the camp, and Matt and Megan jogged over to find the entomologist. They passed the last huts, went through a narrow passage in the vegetation, like a green corridor, and then entered another small clearing. This one was meticulously cleared of debris, and at its center stood three stone totem poles, each ten feet high and completely carved with raised glyphs. Matt had seen some like them in Jorghanson’s sketchings. He knew his mouth was open, and he couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his face. The intricate detail was magnificent — even more so now that it was before him and not just in stylized, two-dimensional sketches.
