by Bill Clem
Drake gazed up. “I think this Viper guy has the answer to that.”
“How do we find him?” Jennie asked.
“The guide will take us to him. But only so close. From there we’ll have to go on our own. They’re terrified of him.”
“No wonder,” Paul said. “I wouldn’t want to be his dinner, either.”
* * *
Inside the main Yohagi hut, the meal was mostly a slender wild potato called kitose, which looked like an oversize radish, forest mushrooms, and thin slices of Garoo monkey. Paul found the monkey meat distasteful at first but his hunger outweighed his reluctance to clear his plate. There were also assorted frogs, worms, caterpillars, and several types of centipede, all of which the three of them declined. However, Paul noticed Drake did partake of several grubs. He noted this to Jennie, who told Paul that she herself had eaten them a time or two during her stint in the Peace Corps. Normal jungle fare, she assured him.
The chief had also joined them and had stared at Jennie from the moment he’d sat down. His fascination with her seemed to fade quickly when she let out a loud belch after she’d finished eating.
The chief told them it would be easier and far safer to travel at night to avoid the cannibal tribe and their leader, The Viper. Their route would take them north up the river and back to their boat. And also away from the other danger in the jungle, The Mapinguary.
“The what?” Paul asked.
Drake said something to the chief and then looked over at Paul.
“In some areas, there is a legend of a creature,” Drake explained. “It is said to have two eyes, while in other accounts it has only one, like the Cyclops of Greek mythology. It's believed to be more than seven feet tall and covered in thick, matted fur. The folklore here is full of tales of encounters with the creature, and nearly every Indian tribe in the Amazon, including those that have had no contact with one another, have a word for the Mapinguary. The name loosely translates as “the roaring animal” or “the fetid beast.”
“You’re telling me these guys down here believe in Bigfoot?” Paul asked.
“Well, not exactly. The descriptions of the mapinguary may resemble the Sasquatch of North America or the Yeti of Himalayan lore, but the comparisons stop there. Unlike its counterparts in the Northern Hemisphere, this creature is said not to flee human contact, but to aggressively hunt down the hunter, turning the tables on those who do not respect the jungle’s unwritten rules and limits. When you travel in the Amazon, you are constantly hearing about this animal, especially when you’re in contact with indigenous peoples. But convincing scientific proof, in the form of even vestiges of bones, blood or scat, is always lacking.”
“Paul nodded. “Sounds like Bigfoot to me.”
“At the very least,” Drake said, “what we have here is probably an ancient remembrance of a giant sloth, like those found in Chile recently that humans have come into contact with. Let me put it this way: Just because we know that mermaids and sirens are myths doesn’t mean that manatees don’t exist.”
Paul glanced at his watch. “We better get started. At least we can travel the safe areas in daylight.”
The chief looked over at Paul and grinned. “Scare... scare.” he motioned with his hands.”
“Yes, I’m scared.”
Chapter Forty-Two
A mile before they reached the Amazon basin, they heard the distant roar of powerful water. Morning broke and the air hummed with the perpetual sound of insect wings. An occasional bird screeched overhead and fluttered just inside the jungles edge.
Drake had fallen back after complaining of an upset stomach and a case of the runs. Dehydration was taking a toll on him. Paul had been sharing his own water with him all night. Paul turned back to ask him if he was all right when a whistling sound caught his attention. Then another and another... what the...?
Paul gasped as he saw feathered darts suddenly sticking from Drake’s neck and face. Drake screamed but his voice was weak and his words were lost on his lips.
Then Paul saw them; five native tribesmen carrying blowguns and running toward Drake.
Instinctively, Paul grabbed Jennie by the arm and ducked behind a gigantic fern.
“Paul, what are you–“
Paul’s hand shot out and covered Jennie’s mouth. He pointed toward Drake. Jennie looked and her eyes grew wide with terror.
The natives already had Drake, who now appeared lifeless, draped over a large bamboo pole, carrying him into the jungle.
“Oh my God,” Jennie whispered.
When the natives were out of sight, Paul helped Jennie up. “Let’s get the hell out of here.”
“What about Findley?” Jennie asked.
“We can’t help him. He’s as good as dead.”
“Without him, we are too.”
“No. If we follow this trail, it’ll take us back to the boat. I remember this place. This is where we saw them loading that stuff.”
“That’s probably where they’ve taken Findley, then.”
“Jennie, you can’t be serious,” Paul pleaded.
“I’m not just gonna leave him out here.”
“What do you intend on doing?’
“Finding him.”
* * *
Findley Drake squinted in the bright sunlight. He awoke tied to a post, disoriented by pain and fear. Before him was a sea of dark-skinned faces. Dozens of men, women, and children gathered together around him.
Then a huge cheer erupted as a tall blond man, wearing a huge anaconda skin stretched over his head, approached Drake.
“Well, mate, looks like you stumbled into the wrong part of the jungle today.”
Drake tried to speak but his throat was parched and he couldn’t get the words out. He knew from the description the chief gave that this must be The Viper. The feared leader of the Torabo natives; indigenous cannibals known to eat their own people.
The blond leaned forward toward Drake and smiled. “Having trouble talking are we? Well, let me help you with that.”
The Viper held up a knife so Drake could see it, and smiled again, and with two fingers grabbed Drake’s lower lip and sliced it off.
Now Drake found his voice and wailed.
* * *
A hundred yards away Paul and Jennie heard the ear-piercing scream.
Paul looked at Jennie and she was clown-white. Somehow they knew what was happening. They bolted through the trees, then suddenly stopped when they heard another scream, this time closer. They froze and stared out from a small clearing that they had come to.
Paul’s blood ran cold with the scene that unfolded in front of him.
* * *
Findley Drake’s head was spinning now. After the group had finished taking turns cutting off pieces of him, he was nauseated and terrified. Oddly, though, he also felt a vague detachment, an emptiness. But still the attack continued, unrelenting. He looked down to see a young boy of eight or nine rush forward and hack a piece of his calf off with a pocket knife. Then The Viper barked an order and everyone stopped in their tracks.
This time The Viper wielded a different implement. A modern hack saw. Drake saw the shiny metal, glinting in the sun as The Viper brought it toward him. Barely conscious, he felt his hair being pulled up, and the sharp teeth of the saw cutting into his forehead.
And Findley Drake knew his fate, just before total blackness ensued...
* * *
Jennie turned and retched and Paul was hyperventilating. He pulled Jennie by the arm and they staggered blindly toward the boat. They finally reached it, but as they boarded, two of the cannibals had spotted them and were in quick pursuit. Paul yanked on the engine cord and the motor roared to life. He jerked the steering handle around and headed back down the river toward the plane. He could hear whistling in the air and darts splashing on the water behind them. When he looked back, the two cannibals were standing at the river’s edge shaking their blowguns at Jennie and him.
Chapter Forty-Three
All the talk of the jungle had dredged up old memories for Baxter. His mind was yanked backward into a time tunnel.
He had returned from his near-fatal expedition in 1946, however, he was not the same man. Within hours of losing his medical supplies overboard that day, he became racked with pain so severe, he’d considered taking the .45 and putting a bullet through his head to end his misery. By the time the boat hobbled into the dock, Baxter was unconscious. When he awoke, he found himself surrounded by natives.
He lay on a bamboo gurney, thatched together with jego vines. Before him stood a primitive altar. Two large stones supported a wooden plank. Behind it stood a native, taller than the rest, presiding over some ceremony. The native wore a headdress with a wooden mask. Baxter realized immediately, even in his stuporous state, it was the tribe’s medicine man. The guides had spoke of him frequently, and the Australian captain, now standing near the altar, had told Baxter incredible stories about him as well.
The medicine man called out something in the native language, and instantly, two of the pigmy Yohagi ran up like obedient children and placed a small squirrel monkey on the altar. The monkey was bound with vines and his mouth was wrapped shut. Its squeals seemed to proclaim it knew what was about to happen. The medicine man produced a large knife, too large it seemed for the obvious task. The knife flashed and before Baxter could blink, the monkey’s head fell in front of the altar. Blood shot out of the neck stump. The pigmy on the left held a stone cup under it that quickly filled up with the crimson liquid. When satisfied he had all he wanted, the medicine man handed the lifeless monkey to the pigmy. He ran off into the jungle with the headless corpse.
The medicine man took the cup of blood and placed it on the altar, then reached into his waistcloth and brought out a small bag. He took what Baxter saw to be a powder of some kind, and mixed it in the blood. Immediately, every native dropped to their knees. The Australian did likewise. The medicine man chanted in Yohagi for several minutes, then held the cup toward the sky and shouted something to his Gods.
Baxter’s pain was now unbearable. He grimaced as he watched the ceremony, and when the medicine man approached him, he shot his hands up in front of himself in a protective posture. The Australian captain stood behind the medicine man, who gestured toward Baxter.
“Mate, you need to drink this,” the captain said.
“What?” Baxter asked, his throat dry as parchment. “You want me to do what?” Baxter’s vision had gone double.
The captain knelt down beside Baxter. “You need to drink this. It will save you. You’re a goner without it.” He leaned in closer and whispered, “Trust me, Doc. I’ve been there.”
The medicine man handed the cup to the captain. He pulled Baxter’s head up and placed the vessel to his lips. Baxter sipped the bitter liquid, then spat violently.
“Don’t worry, mate. You’ll get used to the taste.”
Baxter gained a second of strength and, putting his hand around the captain’s, pulled the cup to his mouth and took a gulp. The captain forced a few more sips until the cup was empty.
“There, you rest now. You’ll feel better, shortly.”
And feel better he did.
When he awoke, he was pain free. The next thing he noticed was that he was no longer bleeding from his ass. He hadn’t felt this good in years. As the days passed, Baxter seemed to feel more energetic and healthy. After a week, he was traversing the jungle like an Olympic athlete.
Something remarkable had happened. Something he needed to learn, to obtain, to master. The possibilities were endless! But would the medicine man share his secrets? Perhaps, perhaps not. He might require ‘persuasion’.
* * *
Now, as Baxter shook himself free from the past, he realized that his world was in jeopardy. He would not, could not let that happen. Paul Grant and Jennie Bradford had no idea of the forces they were dealing with.
Unfortunately, for them, they were about to find out.
Chapter Forty-Four
The river twisted and turned in a series of curves, and to Jennie, it was an extraordinarily peaceful experience to sit in the front of the boat, watching the jungle on both sides of them glide past them in timeless, hypnotic silence. The only thing that spoiled it was the memory of poor Findley. That, and the relentless black clouds of mosquitoes that seemed to bite every second. Paul pointed to the river’s muddy banks, where alligators basked in the sunshine, indifferent to the boat’s approach.
They had traveled an hour, and Jennie figured they had at least another hour of river to traverse before they got back to the small village where the plane was hidden. That thought was obliterated by the sudden, thundering rotors of an approaching helicopter. A second later, bullets whizzed by Jennie’s head.
Paul angled the boat toward the riverbank, and in a moment, it settled into the mud and stopped dead. A deafening roar rose above them and Jennie dove into the water with Paul following right behind her.
Bobbing to the surface, she spit out a mouthful of murky water. “Paul, where are you?”
Paul floated to the surface beside her, gasping for breath. She grabbed him by the wrist just as the chopper made another pass, lower this time, barely above the tree line. Water was rushing around Jennie’s chin and she stretched her neck to keep her nose and mouth elevated. She could hear Paul’s frenzied breathing.
“Don’t panic, stay with me. It’s only a couple yards to the bank.”
Paul nodded.
Jennie grabbed Paul’s wrist and together they fought the current and struggled toward the riverbank. They had only gone a few yards when they heard a plop in the water. Then, as if choreographed for a Tarzan movie, a huge alligator floated toward them, black eyes fixed on their bodies.
“Oh shit!” Paul said.
Just feet from the shore, the giant reptile launched itself out of the water, open jaws poised to strike. Jennie felt the river suddenly become solid under her feet, and she yanked Paul up and away from the gator just as it hit the water with unimaginable force. Paul rolled onto the river’s edge behind Jennie, and instantly they were up and running, just as another drama unfolded above them. The chopper was hovering and the Viper was hanging out the side, pointing a rifle in their direction.
“We’ve got to get into the jungle,” Jennie said.
They headed for a break in the vegetation, visible against the jungle blackness. Their wet clothes and general weariness tried to slow them down, but pure adrenalin gave wings to their feet.
The Viper was yelling instructions to his pilot, excited that his prey was in sight.
“Which way?” Paul asked.
The choices were limited. If they went into the open, they’d be shot. Behind them was only river. And the alligators!
“Straight,” Jennie said.
Paul sprinted into the jungle blackness with Jennie on his heels. As they ran, Jennie scanned the woods, looking for an opening, but the trees grew closer together and impenetrable vines and brush blocked the way. Finally, after what seemed like an hour, the trees ended suddenly and a path plunged through a still-smoldering, burned-out field.
Jennie looked around. “I think we’re close to the village. I remember this.”
Paul nodded. “Looks like someone burnt down part of the forest to farm.”
Since it didn’t seem to make any difference, they darted across the field and, in the distance, Jennie could see a row of huts.
They were close to the plane.
Jennie was feeling a modicum of relief–with only a little further to go–when she heard the thrum of the helicopter rotors coming up behind them. It was a few hundred feet in the air and moving toward the s
hanties across the field.
Damn!
The helicopter made its first pass and turned back toward them. Luckily, the haze of smoke from the still-smoldering field had obscured them from the Viper and his henchmen. But now...
The helicopter moved closer.
With Paul beside her, Jennie took off with the speed of a cheetah, racing toward a row of shacks in the small village. She could feel the downdraft as the chopper executed a tight right turn and came back over the field. They crouched in the obscuring haze until the helicopter passed. A minute later, they broke out of the smoke and ran behind a dilapidated shack next to the trading post. They flattened themselves against the wall just as the helicopter started a landing approach fifty yards away.
“Now what?” Paul whispered.
Jennie heaved a sigh. “I’m open to suggestions.”
Chapter Forty-Five
On board the chopper, The Viper Hans Brinkman cursed at his pilot. “I told you stay at the tree line. Now you’ve lost them.”
The pilot sat the chopper down and two natives jumped down, blowguns in hand, and sprinted toward the trees. Brinkman screamed to them in their native tongue and they nodded. He grabbed his cellular phone from his belt clip and dialed a number. Phillip Baxter would have to be told. They may have gotten away.
* * *
Jennie turned and saw the helicopter land about fifty yards away. At the same instant, she eyed an old Vespa leaning against the building next door. She grabbed Paul and ran toward the motorbike just as the boy who’d rented them the boat emerged from the trading post. They ran up to him.
“How much for that Vespa?” she asked the boy.
He just stared at her.
“Oh, never mind. Here.” She yanked a soggy hundred-dollar bill from her pants pocket and stuck it in his hand. He smiled, seeming to understand.
Paul looked at the fuel gauge. “It’s okay. There’s gas in it.”
A minute later, Jennie fumbled with the choke and jumped down on the starting lever.
