by Dan Henk
As the sun climbs higher in the sky, the fog shrinks back into the shadowed crevices it spewed from. The glare of early morning levels the grassland, throwing the woods into a stark maze of shadow and light. I hear a pop, followed by the warble of flailing rubber, and the Land Rover starts to drift erratically. It sounds like a flat tire. As I start to slow down another tire blows out. Steering to the side of the road, I slowly grind to a halt.
Cracking the door open, I start to step out, but movement in the nearby trees catches my eye. As I slowly emerge, I see another shadow scampering between trees. This feels like a setup. Focusing my vision, I catch a glimpse of an orange ski mask fronting beady brown eyes. Suddenly it occurs to me there are guerrillas in southern Mexico. I stroll across the knee-high grass toward the wood line. A sharp crack is followed by a forceful impact against my right shoulder. Oh, so that’s how they want to play? I pick up the pace, strolling curtly forward. A figure pops out from behind one of the trees directly before me, brandishing an AR-15. A black ski mask topped by a brown cadet hat hides his face, an oval slit for the eyes the only break. A knotted crimson scarf dangles from the neck, the taut ends resting on a brown military fatigue shirt. I think that scarf signals membership in some group, but I forget the specifics.
A gun belt strung across his shoulders anchors two grenades, matching BDUs grounded by a pair of combat boots completing the picture. I assume the getup is supposed to intimidate me. I begin walking forward again, and he opens fire, accompanying the burst with a primal yell. Rounds pelt me in a spate of ricochets and clinging leaden clots. The neighboring blades of grass whistle in dismay as rebounding chunks of metal tear through them. His eyes widen, and I casually saunter toward him. He stumbles backwards, just as my arm, every so gracefully, snaps out, my clenched fist plunging through the middle of his face. Anchoring my palm on his chest, I pull it free in a spurt of blood and gristle. Frozen in shock, his gap-toothed comrade stares open mouth mouthed at me for a moment, then swivels and flees.
A few more rounds pelt me, probably from his hidden comrades, but then it appears they give up, and all returns to the ambient noises of the forest.
I wasn’t planning to start here, but I guess this will do. At least I made it this far. Leisurely I stroll into the forest. I’m done with the aggravation of the civilized world for now.
Maybe I’ll come back when I feel like dealing with its pointless complications and stupidity.
CHAPTER XVIII
FURTHER DEVELOPEMENTS
I know there are whole cities buried down here. After the Mayans they were largely deserted, having only fairly recently been visited by looters. The jungle and lack of professional knowledge make many of the sites jewels awaiting discovery. Maybe jewels devoid of jade and gold, but I’m not after whatever precious materials were left behind. I’m after the knowledge. The remnants of a lost culture.
There are traces of ancient civilizations possibly pre-dating the Mayans, such as the city of Teotihuacan. I’m sure the tunnels and clearings made by looters will only make exploration easier. I only wish I could read the Mayan hieroglyphics and murals. I’ll have to make do, piecing together what I can. It’s all a side adventure regardless, while I try to figure out what to do next. I wonder if there’s even a place for me in this modern world of spy satellites and camera phones? I’ll see. I have plenty of time. Unless of course I keel over dead. I have no idea how long this body will last. I guess time will tell. I keep walking through the underbrush.
Desolate stretches of grassland lead into weedy thickets harboring a few trees. Deeper forest shouldn’t be far. I was trying to avoid this with the Land Rover, but I’ll take what I can get.
Straining my hearing, I can make out the sounds of a highway far off to the left. The motors of distant automobiles are vaguely discernible over the more proximate bustle of small animals and insects. I don’t know my range, but it sounds miles away. I wonder what it is? Route 199? Not that it really matters.
The sun has spanned much of the sky by the time I finally enter some real woods. The diversity of life here is astounding. Centipedes as large as snakes. Crickets the size of rats. Giant iguanas crawl around unmolested, surveying me with a cool detachment. The hard black shell of a flying insect that looks like a cross between a bee and a fly, except that it’s the size of a half-dollar, whines by with an annoying buzz. As far as I know I don’t radiate any ambient heat or scent. My motion might attract attention, but nothing that should disrupt the wildlife too much. Animals tend to keep their distance regardless, fearing you more than anything. The ground remains smooth and level, not quite the decent into the tropics I had anticipated. Packed dirt predicates an abundance of small trees, their skinny trunks stretching out into a flurry of red gum leaves, the upper reaches tangling together into a throng of foliage that blocks out the sky. Blots of sunlight speckle the floor, flowing over the endless maze of roots and palms that weave in and out among the underbrush.
Often, every step forward is a fight, the vegetation so thick it snares and entangles. I almost trip half the time, hidden roots snagging my foot. A swarm of insects throng about my legs. Green aphids, crawling arachnids in lime green and shimmering gold, and strange, bright orange creatures that look like oversized ants, all caught up in my invading tromp through their native habitats. They can’t bite me, but some deeply buried revulsion still lingers. The brush thins out in areas, the ground becoming more level and giving way to huge, blooming flowers and lush, overgrown plants.
Night sets, and the forest falls into blackness, but a blackness unlike anything I’ve ever seen before. I’m bombarded with the sounds of croaking frogs and bustling insects. I can’t see a foot in front of me. Feeling useless, I squat on the ground to wait until morning. It turns out to be easier said than done. The impatience is a mind killer. After a few minutes, I anxiously stand up and try to walk. I move a few feet before I smack into a tree. It doesn’t hurt, but it’s abrupt and makes me feel stupid. I try to walk around it, and trip over a nest of roots, flailing in an awkward plunge toward the forest floor. My hand catches something, skimming loose bark as I crash down into a rotted tree trunk. Tiny insects swarm over me as I’m subjected to a rain of decaying wood. Leaping up, I scour my face, my vibrating motion spilling me sideways and into a cluster of jagged rock. A jarring collision, and I fall backwards into the waiting embrace of the forest floor. Seething in anger, I pound my fists into the ground, vowing to make plenty of torches for the next night. Then I roll over into a slumped squat and wait for daylight.
It seems to take forever, but dawn finally breaks. A misty dawn, all but obscured by the omnipresent fog. I stumble around. It’s somewhat futile, but at least I can see enough to avoid the trees. A giant span of fern leaves materializes out of the mist. Parting the verdant curtains, another tree looms in front. I start to inch around it and almost trip as I stumble through a mess of roots. Shuffling around awkwardly, I lurch forward. Hidden underbrush keeps snagging my feet, causing me to sway unsteadily. I’m probably traveling in circles. Foraging down through the veiled brushwood at my feet, I pick up a random stick. Maybe I can use it as some sort of navigational aid. Wandering blindly forward, the outstretched stick plumbing the foggy depths, I hit some resilient barrier, and the soggy branch snaps in half. Great. Dropping the sprig, I tramp forward, hands outstretched, feeling utterly ridiculous.
Finally the fog thins and I begin to make some progress. I climb fallen trees, circle blooming flora, and seem to be always ducking some hanging vine or low-lying branch. After a few hours I finally break out of the thick and onto the grassy shoulder of a small creek. The water has dug a path through the soil, the walls dropping down three feet and scarred with the protruding roots of nearby trees. The current is a seething flow of murky water. I wonder how deep it is. I pick up a stone and toss it in. It sinks with a liquid gurgle, announcing nothing. I jump in, the water rising only to my knees before my feet slam into the lumpy riverbed. As I start to wade across, some
thing clamps tightly onto my ankle. Reaching down, I sift through the water until my hand catches something long and slimy. I rip the snake free from my leg, pulling it out of the depths and up to eye level. It’s black, with a charming yellow stripe flowing down the center. Probably an inch thick, it trashes around in my hand. I toss it down the creek and keep walking. A few short steps, and I reach the opposite bank. Another three-foot wall of mud, it’s dotted with spindly roots. Grabbing a bundle of roots in each hand, I attempt to pull myself up. I almost make it, the roots breaking at the last minute, dropping me back into the water. Waves shoot up on all sides, my heavy frame quickly cleaving through into the mass of pebbles below. A grinding crunch, and the water swells back in, burying me beneath the currents. I lie still for a moment, staring up through the milky veil at the abstract blurs of darkness and light, thinking how pointless all this can seem.
Rising back up, I grab a new bundle of roots, pulling more together this time in as wide of a grasp as I can manage. A couple of gentle yanks, and they don’t move. Seems solid enough. I dig my feet into the embankment and make a second attempt. My feet slip a few times, and some of the roots pull loose, but I manage to scramble over the top. Dripping muddy water, I keep walking.
The overhead light, filtering down through the gaps in the leaves, shifts as time passes. The shadows slowly drift from west to east as the hours tick by. I start looking around for sticks to burn. Most of the branches are wet, and a few are rotten, falling apart in a barrage of insects as I pick them up.
I toss aside more than I keep, but manage to collect an armful. I’m sure this would be hugely annoying if I had to worry about muscle fatigue, but aside from feeling a little bizarre, I tromp around with the growing cluster in my arms. I slow my step—no quick hands to save me from a sudden fall! But the leisurely pace beats a night of sitting and doing nothing.
Time passes, and it starts to grow dark. I drop the bundle and try to remember the Boy Scout trick of rubbing two sticks together to start a fire. It’s been quite a while, but my memory has become much sharper now.
I eventually get my small pile of bark and twigs smoldering, then it blossoms into a full-on fire. Picking a large stick out of the remaining bundle, I bury the tip in the flame. The end ignites, and I pull it free. Holding it aloft, I stomp out the ground fire and wander forward. The trees have become dark pillars, my shifting glow casting flickering patches of brilliance and throwing the depths into a deeper gloom. I know I have nothing to fear, but the thick of the forest at night in an unknown country is surreal at best. No amount of reasoned banter is going to chase away the dark shadows of the night, I don’t care what anyone says. It doesn’t help that I know there are things out there well beyond explanation.
The torch keeps me from walking into trees, although I still manage to stumble over underbrush. The branch burns up faster than I anticipated, and when it’s nearing its last few inches, I start scouring the forest floor for more wood. Finding a dry stick, I light it just as the previous limb has burned down to within an inch of my hand. If I were human, I would have dropped the old torch in pain long ago, but aside from a slight sensation of warmth, I feel nothing. Just to be on the safe side, I start looking around for more. Holding the torch aloft, I bend over and slowly scan the tangle of leaves and soil. I hear a soft crack, presaging something of substantial size approaching. A sharp mass pounds into my ribs, lifting me up and throwing me sideways. Then everything dissolves in a fiery brilliance.
The intense light pulls away, receding into nothingness as I find myself in the heart of a crater. Charred earth encircles me, the singed fringes of tree limbs still alight in a ring of miniature flames. Beyond the crackle of fire I hear a muted gibberish in Spanish. Then a round slams into my shoulder.
Way to seal the deal! You want to play? We’ll play! I run my hand through the soil, feeling for a rock. Alighting on one about golf-ball-sized, I scan the trees for movement. The circle of flames marginally hides the antagonists, but a light slit for the eyes, perfectly outlined by shadows, is a dead giveaway. I hurl the rock. With a moist thud, it burrows robustly through flesh and bone, cracking off a tree. A muffled wallop is followed by the sight of a limp body rolling out of the bushes. It looks like a member of the rebel group I encountered earlier. Little sandy spurts explode around me as the guerrillas shell me with retreating fire. I walk over to the corpse. Definitely some para-military foot soldier. A belt harboring an RPG shell loops over his brown vest. That would probably be what I was hit with. A familiar red bandanna girdles a thick neck, a scrap of pinkish-white brain protruding from the damp gash in the back of his head. Flipping him over in disgust, I riffle through his vest pockets and find a Maglite.
This will come in handy!
Elated, I kick him aside, thumb the light on, and wander through the circle of fire and into the woods.
The forest is beginning to lose its charm with all this endless wandering. I spend a couple more days stumbling around before the light finally dies. It fades with a slowly dimming aura, the black mass of forest steadily closing in until only a small circle of illumination remains. The blurred traces of something pulls the edge of my sight, and I swivel quickly to catch it. Nothing! As I slowly turn back to the front, I hear the muffled sound of faint laughter. What the fuck? That sounded human! A glimpse of something pale tears between the trunks ahead of me, and my light promptly fails. I stumble forward, my feet catch on a swarm of roots, and I trip, crashing knee first into what feels like a stump. Glancing off, I spill sideways into a mass of underbrush. I try to pull up, but vines hold me back. Tearing angrily through, I cleave apart the foliage in a desperate effort to get free. With a dry rip, the flora parts to reveal a dimly lit forest floor. I can’t make out the source of light, which seems to come from everywhere all at once.
The floor ascends into a sandy bank that stretches between the distant trunks. A blur of motion, and a figure bursts out from behind the far right tree, darting toward the next trunk in a flurry of ebony dreadlocks and tan skin. Olive corduroy jeans tightly hug legs in fluid motion, the small, unclad breasts bobbing up and down in a steady rhythm. I pause for a moment. That looks like my wife! Just as she is disappearing behind the far tree, I burst forward, trying to call after her, but I can’t talk!
Rounding the trunk, I see her figure running into the woods. I pursue, madly scrambling around bushes and through undergrowth. The ground slopes up, and she ascends, her pace not slowing with the incline. I pump my legs as hard as they will go, but I can’t gain ground. Just as the peak crests, she turns back, still running, her eyes looking straight through me in a dreamlike trance. She leaps forward with a soft cry, just as I catch up with her. I can see the ground below her. It’s a huge, rock-encrusted hole. I try to scream with all my might, the frenzied sounds of utter terror and frustration coursing through my head in hot waves. She plunges, a giddy smile still on her face, and somehow I know she’s disappeared into a bottomless abyss. I’m a human being again, for a moment, and tears well up in my eyes. A flash, and I’m back in the woods, clothed in darkness and on my knees. My hands grab the sides of my head. I slump into a ball and weep silently. Hours pass, and I don’t move the rest of the night.
The next day, I come across some half-buried remains. Probably a village at one time, the piled stones have long since succumbed to the ravages of time. An aura of something long dead and not altogether wholesome lingers. The woods are utterly silent. No breeze disturbs the foliage. Nothing moves in the mottled light. The animals and insects appear to be avoiding this place. Curious. Turning, I wander back into the forest. Any path leading from the village has long since been swallowed up, making it more of a curiosity than a guidepost.
It takes another day and a half, but eventually I see the remnants of stones that, at one point in history, were influenced by human hands. I follow these curious markers for a while through the forest, most of them half-buried under an avalanche of greenery, and eventually they become more populous. T
he ground levels out as well, as though it were some ancient path or trail.
The small totems flow up a steep hill smothered by underbrush. I start to climb, fighting my way through a gargantuan tangle of thorns. My feet lose their bearing, and I almost fall in a half-buried sinkhole, grasping onto overhanging vines at the last minute.
The hole looks a little too neat to be a product of nature. Just beyond the pit is a giant tree trunk, fallen sideways across my path. I scale the crumbling white bark, huge pieces tearing away in my hands as I fight for a solid grip, and manage to crest the top in an unsteady upswing. I teeter over the brink, falling into the thick underbrush below. Wrenching myself free, I scrabble up the remaining hill, pausing in wonder as I crest the top.
The remnants of a crumbling city stretch out before me. The shell of boxlike structures, most of them outlined by a foot or two of broken stone, are everywhere. Underbrush snakes through the ruins. Just beyond the small cluster, what appears to be a step pyramid squats in the midst of a wide-open terrace. Fog creeps up the sides, obscuring the foundations. It almost appears to be floating, the upper reaches looming out of the mist. A milky cluster of smaller buildings with low, flat roofs encircles it, winding out in a declining series of hovels. Looters probably made it here at some point, but I doubt any serious archaeological inquiry has followed. There are probably a multitude of sites like this, places the natives whisper about. Buried in the local folklore but lost to professional explorers.
Ripping through the constricting brush, I stumble out onto the grassy plateau fronting the site. Mounds of weather-stained rock wind through the fog, their crumpling edges jutting up through the opaque mist. I cautiously weave through, heading toward the center. Random buildings surface out of the fog on my sides. They are only a few feet tall. I’m curious as to what purpose they served. As I navigate around a tall stone pillar, a wide corridor opens up, stretching out into a central plaza harboring the huge pyramid I saw from the hill. The sun-bleached mist around its base rolls and drifts in a pirouetting display. I walk forward with the strange sensation that I’m setting foot in some primordial antechamber.
