80 Days or Die

by Peter Lerangis

  As he led them up a pathway, pointing out features of the farm, Max peered into the crates. They were full of berries, plants, beans, and twisty, odd-looking root vegetables. The mountain stream burbled just beyond them. He dug his hand into a crate and pulled out a green bean. It smelled amazing. His stomach let out a growl, and he realized he hadn’t eaten in hours.

  Max spat on the bean, washed it in the stream, and wiped it on his pants to clean it. Then he bit into it, releasing a tangy, sweet burst of flavor into his mouth. He finished it in four big bites, and then ate another. The next crate was full of berries. He grabbed a small handful and tossed it in his mouth.

  But after the second bite, he gagged. “Yyyyeeewww!”

  Alex was the first to come running. “Max, are you all right?”

  “B—berrible terries—pkaacch!” he said, coughing and spitting. “Terrible berries!”

  Mr. Karkhi helped Max to his feet. “Come into the house. What did you eat?”

  “I don’t know!” Max moaned.

  As they ran in, Max choked and coughed into his hand. Mr. Karkhi gave him a water bottle from his counter, then gestured to a room tucked behind a door under a set of stairs. “Fill your mouth to dilute the taste, then spit it into the sink.”

  By the time Max got there, his palm and forearm were speckled with dark spots. He swallowed some water, spat, and looked in the mirror. His tongue was coated black. He lifted the bottle to his lips again.

  Then he stopped.

  Putting the bottle down, he looked in the mirror again, sticking his tongue out.

  “Moo-huh-ha-keh!” he yelled.

  He raced back into the kitchen, where Alex and Bitsy stared at him in dismay. “Put your tongue back in your mouth, it’s disgusting,” Alex said.

  “Mr. Karkhi, do you sell stuff to anyone besides restaurants?” Max asked.

  “We have clients in many industries,” Mr. Karkhi said.

  Max dug around in his backpack and pulled out the paper he’d bought in Thamel. Ripping off the wrapping, he unfurled a sheet on the kitchen counter. “Like the paper industry?”

  “Such gorgeous colors,” Mr. Karkhi said, running his fingers along the paper. “Yes, I sell to this designer. Why—?”

  “What does he buy from you?” Max asked.

  “Black turmeric,” the farmer replied. “He uses it as a base for his permanent black ink.”

  “Black turmeric, grown locally—that’s what the old guy said! Does that stuff come in the form of berries—and is it this color?” Max opened his mouth and pointed to his tongue.

  “Oh, dear,” the farmer said. “That will take a long time to fade.”

  “The black smear,” Max said, “of eternity . . .”

  33

  “WHAT did you do, stick your tongue in ink?” Brandon asked as Max climbed into the Tilt family jet.

  “You said something a little smart,” Max replied.

  “Ignore him,” Alex said. She buckled herself into the copilot seat, then reached into Max’s backpack to hold up a vial of black liquid. “It was black turmeric. Which is the thing we needed to find. We put it in some water from a mountain stream that ran nearby.”

  Brandon looked confused. “Uh, awesome. Where to now?”

  “The fat mountains of Mexico?” Nigel piped up, as he and Bitsy slipped into their seats. “I believe that is the closest of the remaining sites.”

  “Fat mountains?” Brandon scratched his head. “Never heard of those.”

  “Yes, I thought that sounded odd too,” Bitsy said.

  “If it’s in Mexico, it means we have to think in Spanish,” Max said, already tapping away on his phone. “So if we translate fat mountains . . .”

  With a triumphant smile, he held up the phone. Brandon, Nigel, Bitsy, and Alex all craned to see the screen:

  “So where is this place?” Alex asked.

  “There’s a ‘Montaña Gorda,’ but it’s in Spain,” Max said, doing a quick search.

  “Wait, isn’t sierra the way you say ‘mountain’ in Spanish?” Alex asked. “Like the Sierra Nevada in California?”

  “On it,” Max said, his thumbs flying. “OK . . . sierra equals ‘mountain range’!”

  Brandon nodded. “Sierra Gorda . . . I’ve taken hikers to that place. It’s in the middle of Mexico. I’m thinking Querétaro Airport.”

  “You’re a genius!” Alex blurted.

  “Let’s not go overboard,” Max remarked. “Know anything about golf balls?”

  “Nope,” Brandon said, pressing his phone to his ear. “But you’ll have plenty of time to figure that one out, once I get permission to land. Because the flight’s about twenty-three hours.”

  When Max was a little boy, he once tried to break open his mom’s iPad. He was worried about the characters inside it. He thought they were trapped and needed to escape.

  Flying from Nepal to Mexico, he knew what that felt like.

  As the Tilt family jet made its way over the Atlantic, he looked at his watch. Twenty-two hours and counting. Twenty-two out of twenty-three, including a refueling stop in Germany.

  The incessant buzz of the engine clashed with the snore stylings of Alex, Bitsy, and Nigel. Max hadn’t been able to sleep. Insomnia wasn’t fun, but it was great for research. Now, as they neared the end of the flight, he stared at an image on his phone screen.

  And he was not happy about it.

  “Everybody, wake up!” he called out.

  Nigel snuffled awake from the back of the plane. “How much longer?”

  “Two minutes less than the last time you asked,” said Brandon the Pilot from the cockpit.

  “Fewer,” Max said. “Two minutes fewer.”

  “OK. Well, we’re close,” Brandon said.

  Bitsy yawned and rubbed her eyes. “Tell me I dreamed yesterday.”

  “That was some bad news about your mom,” Alex said, her voice deepened by sleep.

  “So sorry to be the bearer of it, dear girl,” Nigel said.

  Bitsy stared out the window. “Well, I’m glad we’re not going home just yet. I’m too angry.”

  “I have some other bad news,” Max said. “I found out what we’re looking for.”

  “Max, that’s awesome news!” Alex said.

  Bitsy peered at his phone. “When I tried searching, all I got were images of golf tournaments.”

  “It helped to know the location,” Max said. “There’s a weird cactus that grows in the Sierra Gorda. It likes the high desert and steep rocky formations. Its technical name is Echinomastus mariposensis, but it looks exactly like a golf ball. People call it the ‘golf ball cactus.’”

  “What’s so bad about that?” Nigel asked.

  “Well, there’s one problem.” Max turned the phone to them. The image was clear and beautiful—a pure white, round cactus with tiny, golf ball–like segments. But he pointed to the heading at the top of the webpage.

  CRITICALLY ENDANGERED PLANTS OF MEXICO

  “Uh-oh,” Bitsy said.

  “It’s against the law to pick them,” Max said.

  “Really, lad, you scared me,” Nigel said. “I thought it was something serious. Surely this won’t stop us. The hippo bones . . . the coils . . . they’re rare too!”

  “It says critically,” Max replied. “If a person is in critical condition, it means close to death. If a plant is in critical condition, it means close to extinction.”

  “How many are left, Max?” Alex said. “One? Twelve? Three hundred? Taking one or two is probably fine!”

  “I made Evelyn a promise!” Max palmed the phone and shoved it back into his pocket. “I said I would never torment or kill an endangered animal or plant.”

  “Are you serious?” Alex said. “We need to do this or she’ll be extinct! Is that what you want?”

  “Uh . . . make up your mind because we picked up some tailwinds and we’re landing!” Brandon said. “Please fasten your belts and return seats to their upright positions.”

  Max’s br
ain was swimming with confusion. A promise was a promise. Betraying Evelyn was the worst thing he could do.

  Everyone was buckling up silently. And Max nearly choked on the smell of ham.

  As the taxi sped from the Querétaro Intercontinental Airport, Max rocked in his seat. The heat was blistering, the desert landscape was parched and bleak, and they were nearing a group of jagged mountains that marked the beginning of the Sierra Gorda reserve. Which meant he, Nigel, Alex, and Bitsy might be minutes away from finding ingredient number four.

  Max knew he should be excited. He tried to feel it. But thoughts were banging around in his brain like frightened bats. “I was looking at Evelyn’s Pinterest page,” he said. “There are some amazing images of dodo birds. Also passenger pigeons, Balinese tigers, moas, tarpans, great auks. Quaggas, too. That’s a zebra-like animal. She has a stuffed version in her hospital room. Anyway, those are all animals that don’t exist anymore.”

  “Thank you, Max,” Bitsy said.

  “Do you know about the sixth extinction?” Max barreled on, his words coming faster and faster. “The first five were natural. Caused by comets, volcanoes, whatever. The sixth is caused by people. It goes on every day, and that’s a fact. It’s bad of us to do that. It’s wrong. That’s a fact too. We shouldn’t be causing these—”

  “Max, stop!” Alex said.

  “Animal extinctions, plant extinctions, these things never, ever come back—”

  Alex took his arm, held tight, and looked him in the eye. “Once upon a time there was a man who controlled a drawbridge.”

  “Wait, what?” Max said.

  The car fell silent. Alex cleared her throat and continued: “Now, his job was to close the gates to traffic and raise the bridge whenever a tall boat approached. If he failed at his job, what would happen?”

  Max swallowed. “People would be killed in a crash?”

  “Lots of people,” Alex said. “Anyway, one day the man sees a big boat speeding toward the bridge during rush hour. Hundreds of people are heading for the bridge in their cars. As he puts his hand on the lever to stop traffic and raise the bridge, he stops. His little puppy has wandered into the gears of the machinery. He loves the puppy more than anything in the world, and if he raises the bridge, the puppy will be crushed. But if he doesn’t, masses of people will die. What should he do?”

  “Alex, that’s horrible and unfair,” Bitsy said. “Why are you even mentioning this?”

  “Honestly, I’m not sure,” Alex said. “My teacher told this story in ethics class. We argued about it for two days. And I’m thinking about it now. This guy had two choices. Neither was good. Either breaks the commandment ‘Thou shalt not kill.’ But he had to make a calculation. Drawbridge dudes, world leaders, doctors—they’re faced with life-and-death decisions all the time. They have to make a commitment and stick with it.”

  “But . . . but . . . this decision isn’t like that at all!” Max protested.

  “That’s exactly my point!” Alex shot back. “Put that into your extremely gifted mind, Max. And let’s just do this.”

  “Children, let’s stop,” Nigel suggested. “We’ll get something to eat. I think we’re all tired and punchy.”

  “We stop at Bernal?” The driver cocked his head, then pointed to a cluster of buildings just ahead. “Very nice.”

  As the car pulled off the highway, Max sank back into his seat. Bitsy and Nigel were giving Alex the classic LSS look—Long, Silent, Stupefied. As if she’d temporarily lost her mind.

  But for Max, the smell of ham was gone. The choice didn’t seem so difficult after all.

  “I get it,” he said softly, glancing toward Alex. “The golf ball is the puppy. But it’s not a puppy, it’s a plant. So the right thing is to save human lives. Thanks.”

  Alex smiled. “Who knows you better than anyone, dude?”

  The driver cruised onto the small city’s main road, lined with colorful shops painted in white and pastels. He parked in front of a restaurant with a sign that said Tamales. Towering over the city was a steep rock mountain, maybe a mile away.

  “Awesome tower,” Alex remarked.

  Max nodded. “An exposed volcanic core. Like Devil’s Tower in Wyoming. It began as molten lava at the center of a volcano. The lava cooled and hardened into rock. Then, over the years, the dirt eroded, leaving just that core. So what you’re seeing is just a big plug of lava. And that’s why it’s so weirdly steep.”

  “Now you’re sounding like you,” Bitsy said.

  Another group was heading into the restaurant, and a young woman held the door open for them. She was extremely tanned and wore a khaki shirt, cut-off shorts, and a red bandanna that barely contained her thick, black hair. “You know a lot for a young guy,” she said. “A future geologist?”

  “I just like facts,” Max said.

  She let them in and then offered a hand to him. “Me too. I am Rosalena Garza. My group is doing research on the formations in Sierra Gorda. We have a compound up the road.”

  “I’m Max. Are you a conservationist?” Max asked.

  “No, a geology professor,” Rosalena replied.

  “What do you think of endangered species?” Max said. “Like cacti? Would you trade the last of an entire species for the chance to maybe save one person? Have you heard the story about the guy, the puppy, and the drawbridge?”

  “Max, no . . .” Bitsy moaned.

  Nigel laughed and gestured toward a table. “Erm, let’s sit, shall we? Let this nice young lady have her lunch. Very good to meet you, Professor Garza. And best of luck in your studies.”

  But as they settled at a table by the window, Rosalena pulled up a chair with them. “Go on, Max. It’s an interesting question you asked about the cacti. Botany is not my specialty, but I do know the area.”

  “It’s shaped like a golf ball,” Max said.

  “Ah . . .” Rosalena turned and pointed to a small sign by the door. “Like that?”

  Max’s eyes widened. He and Alex stood, walking to the door with Rosalena. On the sign was a photo of a basket full of little white spheres. Beneath it was a message in angry-looking red and black print, all in Spanish. “What’s it say?”

  “It is telling hikers not to pick the cacti on the Peña de Bernal—the Bernal Mountain,” Rosalena said. “Apparently there are only a handful of those cacti left in the world.”

  “A handful?” Max said.

  “It also says there will be fines for locals who pick them and sell them to tourists in roadside stands. And penalties for internet sales.”

  “If we needed a chemical in one of those cacti,” Max blurted, “how could we get a sample? Is there a way, without making it go extinct?”

  Rosalena thought for a moment. “Would you like to come to our research site after lunch? It’s a short drive out of town. My colleagues will help us. We have a very good botanist. He’ll answer your question. And you might enjoy seeing what we do. We are the only team that conducts studies from the air, you know.”

  “I’m down for that,” Alex said.

  Max whirled around toward Nigel and Bitsy. “Guys, can we skip lunch? We’re going to get professional advice before going to the mountain, so we don’t get into trouble for this.”

  “Now?” Rosalena laughed. “You are not hungry?”

  Bitsy’s hands were in a basket full of chips. “Max, sorry, I’m famished.”

  “As am I,” Nigel said. “You two go ahead with Rosalena. Elizabeth and I will take the drive to the mountain and meet you there. I adore botanists as much as anyone, but for the next few minutes, no one comes between me and my guacamole.”

  34

  THE jeep jounced off the road onto a dirt path. About a quarter mile ahead was a fenced-in compound of trailers and stucco buildings. Rosalena drove in, waving to some of the other workers. She headed toward a set of stucco buildings in the rear and stopped in front of the largest one. “Come. We will talk to Dieter Auerbach. He is our botanist.”

  They ran
inside and down a hallway, to a steamy greenhouse in back of the building. There, a small owlish man with black glasses and curly red hair glanced up. He looked startled and horrified. After Rosalena quickly explained their problem, he still looked startled and horrified, so Max figured that was just his resting face.

  “Hooo . . .” he said, exhaling. “Hoo hoo hoo . . . Your friends are heading up there? For reconnaissance, you say?”

  “That’s what they said,” Alex replied.

  “Well, they are in for a surprise, I’m afraid. Hooo . . .” With a startled, horrified glance, he pointed to the mountain outside the expanse of glass. “Do you see the tiny, ancient chapel on the side of the Peña de Bernal?”

  “No.”

  “Take my word. Very famous. Very sacred. Also, very popular this week. Someone reported a patch of the precious little golf balls behind the building.”

  “That’s awesome!” Max said.

  “Awesome indeed!” Auerbach exclaimed. “Exciting news in ecological circles. So, to protect it, the authorities constructed a fence. An alarm with the sound of fake dogs—arf! arf!—and many signs explaining the importance. But the tourists yesterday, what did they do?”

  “Uh . . . I’m guessing they ripped the fence down?” Max said.

  “Ripped the fence down!” Auerbach pushed the glasses up his nose. “We are working with an environmental group to protect these cacti. Just a few left, you know. But if we can reach a crucial number, then we will regrow some of them in a more controlled setting. For now, the group has set up a trap for poachers with the help of a local news station. Anyone who tries to steal will be exposed on video. National TV—ta-da! Shamed! Caught red-handed! Seen by millions!”

  “Is this guy serious?” Max asked softly.

  Rosalena nodded. “He is always serious.”

  Alex plopped her face in her palms. “Hello, Interpol, my old friend . . .”

  “We need a sample of that cactus,” Max said. “Is there any way to get some? I mean, in a nice way, without destroying the ecosystem?”

  Auerbach stroked his startled and horrified face. “Well . . . we are trying to establish a relationship with universities in the southwestern United States,” he said. “In New Mexico and Arizona, for example, these cacti could grow with proper care. I suppose we could make an arrangement in that case.”