Aethon Arises (Endless Fire Book 2)

by R E Kearney

  “Have you used scuba gear before?” Guia interrupts Robert by shoving a lengthy, neoprene scuba wet suit toward him.

  Robert requires a moment to digest Guia’s unexpected question. “Well, uh yes, but it’s been a while. About fifteen years ago in the Red Sea off Djibouti. Why do you ask?”

  “Because you’re going to need to wear it soon.” Guia drops the wet suit onto Robert’s lap. “This suit is hooded, so very little of your head will be exposed to Manchineel burns.”

  “The rest of your head will be covered with this full face mask.” Guia retrieves a large scuba mask from a locker box and gives it to Robert. Next, he pulls out a pair of gloves and scuba boots and drops them at Robert’s feet.

  “I’m a little confused Guia. I don’t understand why I need all this scuba gear. I’m not diving. I thought we were just going to collect some samples of the tree and maybe some of its fruit.” Robert questions as he sorts through the scuba clothing Guia has dropped into his lap.

  “Not we. You! My boat and we aren’t going near those trees.” Guia shakes his head. “Too dangerous! Deadly! You do know that it’s called arbol de la muerte…tree of death, don’t you?”

  “Well, yes, I read. I heed. I’ve read about it, so yes I know the Manchineel is very hazardous, but...”

  “Hah! Reading will teach you respect, but what you really need is fear.” Guia wags his finger toward Robert. “There is no part of this tree that won’t kill you. Do you know that Rita’s Taino ancestors tortured Spanish soldiers to death by lashing them to Manchineel trees so they had to breathe the tree’s poisonous fumes? If they lived through that, they would leave them there so rain would drip from the leaves onto them burning and blistering them. The Tainos also dipped the tips of their arrows in the tree’s sap. Supposedly, that’s the way they killed Ponce de Leon. Did you know that?”

  “No, I didn’t know that. But, I do know that the sap in the leaves, twigs and bark will burn you like acid and that you never eat the tree’s apples. So then, I suppose you’re correct, this scuba gear is necessary. I just…”Robert notices that he is talking to himself. Guia is gone. He is back at the helm, steering them through the reefs toward the forested shore.

  Carefully, Guia skippers his boat into a channel cutting through groves of dwarf mangrove trees. They are entering the Boqueron state forest near Punta Pitahaya. As they cruise deeper into the Boqueron, the channel narrows. Knobby mangrove tree roots stand guard above the soggy soil. The trees reach out to touch each other. Intertwining their branches, they create a shady, deep-green tunnel.

  Unnoticed, behind them, the trailing drone softly touches down on the water. Turning onto its side, it sinks into the channel. The drone is now subsurface with its propeller blades pushing it through the water instead of the air – an unseen shadow.

  Rita awakes, groans, stretches and joins Guia, as he slowly edges his boat ahead. Zhou, who is intensely entranced in her research communications with the Instituto, is startled when her connection is cut by the dense canopy of branches and leaves. For a few moments, she is confused, lost in the leaves along with her electronic lifeline. Zhou stands, climbs onto a bench, twists, turns and struggles to re-establish her connection. Only after almost falling overboard does she finally accept that she is incommunicado.

  Grumbling, she moves next to Robert who is studying the thickening forest on the starboard side of the boat. “I certainly hope we find something here that we can use. Shengwu is desperate. I fear that she is losing her sanity. She keeps talking about creating a new human species to survive Aethon…actually a new Peter. She’s always talking about some future Peter. Like he will be reborn.”

  Robert nods his head in resignation. “Yes, I’m worried too. I know she is distressed. And, she said something about genetically engineering a new human species to me, as well. Something her father was doing for the US military. I believe her father…”

  “There she is!” Guia hollers and points toward a tree several yards off the starboard bow growing at the end of a channel so narrow that it is actually little more than a deep ditch.

  The boat goes dead in the water. Rita steps first to the port side and drops a small anchor overboard then on the starboard side, she tosses another small anchor into the greenish channel water. Now securely anchored, Guia depowers the motor.

  Twenty-five yards behind them the small drone drifts to the surface. Soundlessly, the drone positions itself and its electronic eye to observe and transmit.

  “Time for you to dress and go swimming, Robert.” Rita cheerfully goads him.

  “You and Zhou aren’t going too? Just me?”

  “No. Guia only has enough scuba equipment for you.” Rita continues with a devilish grin. “Zhou and I must stay aboard to handle the specimen bags and tell you what to do.”

  “I could drown, you know.” Robert jokes as he gathers the scuba gear.

  “Oh, I doubt it.” Rita jabs back. “This water is much shallower than you are tall. But if you do drown, just remember, we’ll be sad. But on the other hand, you’ll finally be quiet. You are expendable, you know?”

  HARVESTING DEATH FRUIT

  Singularly unimpressive. Robert’s immediate reaction to Guia’s Manchineel is disappointment. If he did not see the small, yellow-green, apple-like fruit balls scattered around its base, he would not realize that he is staring at the world’s most dangerous tree. Standing less than thirty feet tall with a mix of dark brown and gray bark, the Manchineel melts into the background of the surrounding trees. Only its lack of knobby-knee mangrove support roots and its growth on sand distinguish it. But then, looks can be deceiving.

  “Are you going to stare at it all day or are you going to pull on your scuba gear and retrieve the samples I need?” Zhou gripes impatiently. “Do you see those clouds? It may start raining soon and we don’t have any cover.”

  “Just reconnoitering. Developing my plan.” Considering Guia’s warnings, Robert is reluctant. “As you probably know, Moliere said that unreasonable haste is the direct road to error.”

  “Well Zhou says, I’m hungry and you’re wasting valuable time.” Zhou firmly pushes Robert forward. “Now, get in your gear, get in the water and get me my samples, so we can get some lunch.”

  “Ok. Ok. But where do I change?” Robert finds no privacy on the small, open dinghy.

  “Robert! Como las tetas del toro (useless, like tits on a bull)!” Rita barks, as she begins tugging at his shirt. “Just strip to your undershorts. Nobody cares about your boney body.”

  After slapping away Rita’s hands, Robert hurriedly yanks off his shirt and shorts. He is especially thankful that he left Shengwu’s hot, protective skin on the floor of his room, this morning. Tugging and dragging, grunting and groaning, he successfully envelopes himself in the neoprene from his ankles to his hooded head. The suit is an inch or two too short making it crotch crushing snug.

  After Rita and Zhou slide on his boots and gloves sealing him in synthetic rubber, Guia straps on his full face mask and oxygen tank rig. Robert tastes the artificial air entering his mask. Next, Rita straps a tool belt around his waist containing a knife, a hatchet, a garden trowel and a pair of shears.

  Directing and lifting, Rita and Guia guide Robert into the shallow water. He is mid-thigh deep. Around his ankles, water begins seeping into his wet suit cooling him.

  “Here Robert, these are for the samples.” Zhou slides a large mesh bag onto his right shoulder. Inside the mesh bag are ten, five-gallon size biohazard sample collection bags. “I need at least a dozen Manchineel apples, two bags of leaves, one bag of stems or young, small twigs, one bag of bark and some samples of the soil beneath it. It is out of season for the tree to have flowers, but if it does, gather some of them too. Now, it is important that each sample be in a separate biohazard bag. Understand?”

  Robert nods his head, turns and begins slogging toward the tree. Near the boat, the water reminds Robert of his favorite green tea. As he w
alks, he studies the sandy bottom for stumble hazards. As he nears the tree, waterlogged Manchineel apples scattered on top and hidden in the sand bottom skid and slide beneath his feet. He stumbles and tumbles to his knees at the edge of the channel bank.

  Here, beneath the tree, Robert notices thin, oily streaks on the water. He also senses an irritating stinging gnawing on his legs and groin. As the stinging begins burning, Robert realizes that the Manchineel’s oily sap is riding the water into his wet suit. His genitals are aflame.

  “While you’re down there, collect at least six of those sunken apples.” Zhou hollers from the boat.

  Hurriedly digging in the sand, Robert retrieves and bags three buried apples and three waterlogged apples. Lunging forward like a seal onto an ice floe, he heaves himself out of the irritating water and onto the bank. He finds little relief. Cupping his hands, he compresses the neoprene down each of his legs squeezing out as much water as he can. That seems to ease, but not end his pain.

  Robert knows he can only end the burning attacking his groin by removing his wet suit, and he can only safely remove his wet suit when he is back in the boat with Zhou’s samples. So, he grits his teeth, curses and endures.

  Still on the ground, he pulls out the garden shovel and collects her soil sample. Kneeling where he just landed, he begins feverishly grabbing and bagging dry apples. Ten, eleven, twelve apples, done with her dozen.

  “Robert, I want at least six apples straight from the tree. You know. Six that haven’t dropped.” Zhou requests, much to Robert’s chagrin.

  “Well, of course she does.” He mutters, as he straightens and stands.

  One, two, three, four low hanging apples, he tears from the tree and throws into their selected bag. Robert stretches and reaches. The final two apples he needs swing teasingly just out of his reach. He removes his bag with bags and sets it on the beach. From below, he circles the two high-hanging apples seeking an advantageous spot, then he leaps. Actually, he barely hops. The weight of his tools and his scuba tank keep him ground bound.

  Off balance and out of control, he lurches ahead slamming his shoulder into the Manchineel’s trunk. Boom, he drops to the ground. Plop, plop, the two apples drop onto the beach. He fears his shoulder may be broken, but at least now he has Zhou’s six freshly picked apples.

  “Hurry it up! It’s starting to rain!” Rita shouts, believing she is encouraging him while actually, she is only aggravating him.

  After collecting the two apples he knocked loose, he decides to cut sections of bark from the area where he brutally beat the tree with his aching shoulder. A few whacks from his hatchet and he is shoving two large sections of sap oozing bark into a bag. His gloves and the hatchet are sticky with sap.

  Rita’s rain, starting as a soft, warm shower, escalates quickly into a squall. Robert chuckles, as he watches the trio on the boat searching franticly for protection that does not exist. But, his amusement is short lived.

  As the downpour showers sticky, wet sap onto him, Robert realizes just how true are Guia’s stories about the Tainos using rain through the Manchineel as deadly torture. It is certainly tormenting him. Each sap laden drop splatters and sticks to his wet suit.

  On his face mask, a vision distorting glaze is growing in size and density. Attempting to wipe away the thickening slime with his gloves only smears it. Each moment, his ability to see is growing worse. To complete Zhou’s assignment, he needs a bag of leaves and limbs, but everything is blurry. He is hesitant to blindly cut and hack.

  The drenched trio waiting aboard the boat do not appreciate Robert’s vision struggles or understand why he is hesitating. They just know that they are wet and he is still standing staring into space. In unison, but with each making different demands, they begin shouting at him. They squawk like a murder of crows.

  Peering through the thick rain, Robert approaches the overhanging shadows that resemble limbs and leaves. His right hand clutches the shears while his gloved left hand feels for leaves. He touches the side of the shears against his left hand before sliding it away to the right. Snip. Snap. He cuts free a small limb with leaves. Sap flows along the shears and drops onto his wrist and saturates the palm of his glove.

  He pulls his prize close to his mask. Success. But, now he realizes another problem. He cannot see well enough to find the bag for the limb and leaves. After unsuccessfully, blindly searching and struggling, Robert rams the limb into the big bag.

  Working with more confidence, he quickly cuts and bags five more limbs and leaves. The sixth limb is the largest. It is a branch. He strains to force the shears’ blades to gnaw through it. When he finally twists and turns and tugs it loose, he discovers that there is no space for it in his bag. It is stuffed full.

  But, this bough is his prize. Now that he has it, he refuses to leave it. Turning toward the boat, he raises his trophy above his head. He hears no cheers. They stand strangely silent.

  His job done, Robert plods into the water toward the boat. Only after escaping the sap dripping Manchineel, does he realize that the rain has stopped. His plan for the rainstorm to clear his facemask and wet suit of some of the sap collapses. He must remain a gummy skin-burning mess. He is untouchable.

  Clutching the bough bleeding Manchineel-sap in his left hand and with the shears glued to the palm of his right hand, he slogs to the boat. Struggling to maintain his balance, he keeps his head down scrutinizing the water as best he can through the glaze. Lugging all of Zhou’s samples on his back, while encased in the tight, hot, wet suit is draining him. He is sucking hard for air. He cannot find enough oxygen in his mask. Staggering and fading into unconsciousness, he collapses against the boat then sinks to his knees. He is done.

  SAP SLAP

  Smack! A boat push-pole hook-point slams into Robert’s left shoulder. Crack! The hook whacks his head.

  “Air ya daid?” A male voice demands in a Tennessee drawl.

  “Hit im agin, Joe.” A second man urges twanging a similar, southern drawl.

  “Good ideya, Billy.” The push pole hook pokes Robert in his neck.

  “Stop!” Robert yells, as he struggles to his feet.

  Five foggy images float before Robert’s fuzzy eyes. Manchineel sap clinging to his facemask still distorts everything. Squinting to focus, he identifies Rita, Zhou and Guia huddling together on the far side of the boat. Her action is blurry, but Robert believes he sees Rita making a slashing sign across her throat. A warning.

  Nearest to him, two fat, bald blobs in clashing, garish shirts and shorts tip the boat. The man-blob to Robert’s left wields the push-pole hitting him. He must be Joe.

  The other man-blob, Billy, is waving, what Robert cannot clearly see, but by its shape he suspects is a pneumatic pistol. After all, a pneumatic pistol is the only logical weapon for Puerto Rico. Laser-aimed pneumatic pistols are silent, clean and deadly, and 3D printable, so they can be smuggled into countries prohibiting regular weapons. Definitely dangerous dudes.

  “Git in the boat!” Joe orders then leans forward and whacks Robert’s shoulder with his boat pole.

  Stab! Robert spears Joe in the face with the sap slobbering butt of his Manchineel bough. He grinds the burning juice deep into Joe’s eyes and nose, blinding him with acid fire. Screaming, Joe drops his pole into the water and claws at his face scratching the sap deeper into his flesh.

  Thrusting with his right hand, Robert plunges his sap drenched shear blades deep into Billy’s calf. He yanks the shears out and then drives them into Billy’s other leg. Cursing and staggering, Billy fires his pistol at Robert’s stabbing shears, burying a ball into his own foot. Hopping and careening along the boat’s edge, Billy lurches into Robert’s sappy bough, slavering the pasty poison onto his thigh and groin. Yelping, he shoves away the bough coating his hands in scorching sap. His pneumatic pistol bounces off Robert’s shoulder and sinks with a burble into the channel’s sand bottom.

  Both men lurch past Robert into the water. Seizing their
chance, Rita and Guia rammed their shoulders into their two wounded attackers heaving them soaring off the boat. Blinded, blubbering and bawling, they flail about in the water behind Robert.

  “Rita, you and Zhou take their boat and head back to the marina.” Guia directs, as he swiftly lowers a boat boarding ladder over the boat side. “Robert, climb into my boat and let’s get out of here.”

  Robert tosses his battle bough into the boat then using his left hand he pulls the shears from his right hand and drops them next to the bough. The bag of bags is tossed in next. Finally freed, Robert clambers up the ladder and rolls into the boat.

  Less than a breath later, Guia is piloting them out of the narrow channel. Ahead of him, Rita and Zhou are yelling and pointing at a drone floating in the water. Rita lifts a set of First-Person-View, drone control goggles from their boat’s deck. She waves the FPV goggles above her head for Guia to see before throwing them into the water next to the drone.

  Guia heads for them. Crunch! He smashes his boat’s bow into the spy drone shattering it. Steering his dinghy over the bits and pieces, he sinks part of it and scatters the rest.

  “Now, I know how they were able to find us and sneak up on us.” Guia proclaims into the wind, as he pilots his dinghy through the narrow channel. “We were watching you and didn’t see them slipping in from behind. Ea’ Diantre (Wow)! Suddenly, they were here, and we were their prisoners.”