The Eden Project (Peter Zachary Adventure)

by John Bolin

  “Look,” Alex said, “she’s a sick girl, probably delusional. But the truth is that her tribe is out there somewhere, and she may be the only way I’m going to find them.”

  “So,” Peter said, puffing on his cigarette, “you want us to follow you and a sick Indian girl into the jungle in order to find a tribe that she supposedly says is being held captive by a mysterious White Shaman but more than likely has already moved again since she left them—or all died of this mysterious virus. Am I right?”

  “They’re not contagious,” Alex said. She put her hand on the back of her chair. “Are you going to help me or not?”

  “How long will it take?” Bogart asked.

  “I estimate just a few days,” Alex said.

  “If we did it, we’d need new equipment, maybe a few new rafts,” Peter said.

  “No problem,” Alex said. “You’ll have whatever you need.”

  “This White Shaman,” Peter said, “is he like a local legend around here?”

  “Excuse me?” Alex said.

  Peter looked at Bogart. “Does Linc have any tape left over? Room for more footage?”

  Bogart looked suspicious. “What are you getting at?”

  Peter swept his hands in a rainbow. “Think of it, buddy. The Discovery Channel presents Legends: The White Shaman.”

  “You’re serious?”

  Peter grinned. “Two episodes in one trip.”

  Bogart shrugged.

  Peter knew what that meant. He turned back to Alex.

  “We’re in.”

  Chapter 9

  All the magazines were in Portuguese[TS2] .

  Bogart sat in the gently swaying waiting room of The Hope II. He’d relieved Gator an hour ago and was now lounging in the compact waiting area. The room was small but well thought out. There was a row of white plastic chairs capped with a short table covered in nothing but Portuguese magazines. Opposite the chairs, there was a nondescript desk, behind which sat a short, rotund nurse with a white hat, diligently filling out paperwork.

  There were four doors behind the woman’s desk, including the one marked Quarantine. Bogart tried to picture the Indian girl Alex had described.

  On the other side of the room, there were two more doors. Behind one of them, Afanzo was sleeping. Responding well to the medications, the nurse had said. A small black and white television hung from the corner of the room. On the screen, a late-night talk-show host blathered on—also in Portuguese.

  A mobile phone rang, and the nurse answered it. She spoke quickly and seemed to grow alarmed. She hung up and scurried out of the waiting room.

  Hmm. Wonder what that was about. Bogart snatched up one of the magazines from the low table. At least pictures were multilingual. Minutes passed. The clock thumped past one a.m. After a while, the slight rocking of the boat convinced him that reading wasn’t the best idea.

  He stood and moved over to the nurse’s counter. Casually he walked behind it. Looked around. There was a stack of paperwork that had been filled out and never processed. A series of photographs were stuck to the edge of the counter, pictures of little Peruvian children, probably the nurse’s grandchildren. Next to the telephone, Bogart saw a clipboard with a paper attached to it. The words caught his attention because they were in English: “Confidential Medical Report.” Under that, it said, “Prepared for the U.S. Anti-Terrorism Task Force, Special Projects.”

  What the—?

  Next to the patient’s name it said: “Patient unknown, primitive Quichua, possibly Metyktire.” He looked further down and started to read. The document was full of technical medical jargon. He was able to isolate a few words though—toxic, contagion, and pandemic—and then his eyes landed on one sentence.

  The patient’s blood appears to be incubating synthetic cells.

  Bogart looked up, scanned the room. No sign of the nurse. He reread the document, just to be sure he wasn’t seeing things.

  Synthetic cells? What in the world?

  He moved to Afanzo’s room and looked inside. The kid was asleep in his bed, safe and sound. He closed the door. The nurse was still gone. He passed by her desk and approached room 202, the quarantined room.

  Bogart twisted the handle but found it locked. He spotted the keys hanging under the nurse’s counter, conveniently labeled with the room numbers. He quickly unlocked the door and looked inside.

  It took a moment for his eyes to adjust to the dimly lit space. An air conditioner hummed, and Bogart took a deep breath of the cool air. It was nearly a shock after two weeks in the soggy heat.

  He scanned the small room. Nothing seemed out of place. Bogart was surprised how clean the room was. A rack of mobile medical equipment that stood shoulder high buzzed and whirred. A curtain flapped in the breeze at a sliding glass door, probably leading out of the room to the wraparound deck. He saw a bed against one of the walls. A white privacy curtain had been pulled back. He could see a teenage girl lying in one of the beds. The Indian girl.

  He moved to the bed. She was lying on her back with the sheets pulled up to her chin. She looked like she was in bad shape, bruised and cut. She had well-marked features on her face. And Bogart could see her veins, even in the dim light.

  Her eyes flitted open.

  Bogart stood still and just looked at her. He didn’t want to scare her. Her eyes darted back and forth in the room, like she was looking for something. Or someone. That’s when he saw it: The sliding door was four inches open.

  How did I miss that? No one leaves an outside door open with the AC on—especially in a quarantined room.

  A thin shadow passed outside the glass door. After that, it happened fast.

  “Get down!” Bogart yelled.

  Bogart leaped toward the girl’s bed. Behind him, the glass shattered and a series of bullets riddled the room.

  The girl screamed.

  Bogart shouldered her off the bed and onto the tile floor.

  Bullets chewed up the bed behind them. Fabric and feathers scattered into the air.

  Bogart raked his arms under the girl like a forklift and scooped her off the floor. He carried her behind a short row of medical equipment. The door, less than ten feet in front of him, was still too far away. They’d both be dead before he could reach the handle.

  A series of deafening detonations ripped through the hospital boat with a blinding light. Incendiary grenades. Shards of glass and chunks of wood and plaster shot across the small room. Flames sprung up one of the walls, moving toward the ceiling. Smoke alarms screamed.

  A medical machine exploded only feet from where they crouched. Bogart sheltered the girl under his arms. Noxious fumes filled the air. The girl looked terrified, but she stayed with him.

  He looked at her and steadied his hands on her cheeks in the midst of the chaos. “Don’t worry,” he said, unsure if she could understand him. “You’re going to be all right.”

  She nodded as giant tears streamed down her face.

  “We’ve got to get out of here,” he said as he carefully pulled Tima’s IV free. “This place is going up in flames.”

  Behind the medical equipment, they were almost exactly halfway between the main door and the sliding glass door. The sliding glass door was out of the question—the assailant would certainly be waiting outside. He looked at the main door. It was their only way out, still slightly open.

  He wrapped his arm around her and began to move toward it.

  But Bogart saw a shadowy figure shut the door. Even through the din around him, he heard the click of the deadbolt.

  They were trapped.

  * * *

  Ten minutes before the explosion, Peter was thinking about coffee.

  After their conversation in the bar Alex had accompanied Peter and Bogart back to the boat to relieve Gator. Then Alex had invited Peter and Gator upstairs to her stateroom to make plans for their trip. She was anxious, insisting that they leave first thing in the morning. Gator declined the invitation and went back to the hotel for some sle
ep.

  And now Peter needed coffee.

  He wanted to be as alert as possible for this alone time with Alex. Not only was she drop-dead gorgeous, and an American, she was also the most intelligent person he’d talked to in a while. After two weeks in cramped quarters with a bunch of guys, the thought of having her along for company was a pleasant one, that was for sure.

  Alex led Peter down the hallway from the patient area and up the nearest set of stairs, to the upper deck. Alex opened the door. “Come on in.” She went in and waved her hand toward a set of wicker chairs set up around a short table. “I know it’s not much, but it works.”

  The room was small but livable, like Peter expected to find on a boat. The ceiling was low, maybe six and a half feet high. It made Peter feel a bit claustrophobic, like he needed to duck. The walls were made of white linoleum with a few pictures tacked at various places.

  Except for a small bathroom, the cabin was all one living space. A single bed was lined against a wall opposite the wicker chairs. A makeshift kitchen occupied the far wall. The room smelled like a woman—perfume and shampoo. There was one window, but it didn’t do much good. An AC unit was crammed into it, cranked up to full blast.

  Not much, by her standards, maybe. She should see his hotel room.

  A duffel bag was open and a few clothes were scattered about, making Peter feel suddenly awkward. Alex didn’t seem to care. She walked across the small room to a counter with a coffee pot and some food staples. Peter scooted about the room, nudging things, trying to act occupied.

  On one of the walls, there was a poster with a picture of the Dalai Lama and an inscription that read Give peace a chance. He had something to say about that, but decided not to. Instead, he crossed to another wall. There were a couple of hand-painted pictures hanging together. Both said To Miss Alex scrawled in crayon. Finally, he sat down in one of the chairs next to the coffee table. It was more comfortable than it looked.

  “So, you live here?” Peter asked.

  “I do,” Alex said, working on a pot of coffee. “The Smithsonian sent me here as part of my sabbatical. They helped pay for the retrofit of this boat. But the hospital keeps a few rooms set aside for us when we’re not in the jungle.”

  “You’re a teacher?”

  “Used to be. Columbia wanted me back, but once I actually got here, in the field, I was hooked.” She banged around looking through cabinets. “The Institute was glad to keep me here. They have researchers everywhere, you know.”

  Peter didn’t, but he nodded.

  There were dozens of maps scattered on the coffee table. Peter recognized a topographical map of Iquitos and the surrounding jungle.

  “How do you like your coffee?” she asked.

  “However you do.” That was the truth. He actually liked it any way it came. Coffee was coffee. He watched her pour milk and sugar into both cups. Sugar was a bonus, doubling the effect of the coffee.

  Peter found himself staring at Alex. He couldn’t tell how old she was, maybe thirty. She took care of herself—that was obvious. Her back was to him, so she didn’t see him watching when she rolled up her shirtsleeves and tacked them with little button tabs. She pulled the bandana from her hair. Her blond hair hung to her neck, which was probably why she kept tucking it behind her ears—too long to stay out of her face and too short to stay behind her neck.

  She held the mugs in her hands—tightly, it seemed to Peter—and walked back toward him. Peter stood as she handed him a cup and took a seat in the chair next to him. The room suddenly felt small, like they were sitting at dinner. Peter shifted uncomfortably. “Thanks,” Peter said, sipping the hot coffee.

  Alex’s face was tanned, and she had a beautiful jaw, defined but not too rigid. She had a small, delicate nose that looked like it was put on last, just to top her off. She wore a perplexed look on her face, like she was trying desperately to remember something.

  “Tell me exactly what the girl said,” Peter said, straightening one of the maps on the table, “about the White Shaman.”

  She looked at him cryptically, as if trying to sense if he was playing a joke on her. Finally she shrugged and told him what Tima had said earlier that day—about the White Shaman and the city in the mist.

  “They put the devil in her?” Peter said when she was done. “What does that mean?”

  “I don’t know.” Alex took a thoughtful sip from her cup.

  Suddenly the boat shook violently. Alex’s coffee cup fell to the ground. An explosion rocked the boat.

  “Get down!” Peter yelled, ditching his coffee, too.

  The explosion was followed by the distinct sound of gunfire.

  “Tima!” Alex shouted.

  “Get off the boat, now!” Peter shouted as he sprinted from Alex’s room.

  The boat was chaos. People were running and screaming. Doctors and nurses were pulling people from rooms, taking them to the dock. Several people had jumped over the edge of the boat and were floating in the river, screaming. Smoke was pouring through the hallways.

  Sirens were blaring. A sprinkler head in one of the hallways was spurting out a weak stream of water as Peter passed by. The third level was basically half rooms and half open deck. He ran to the edge of the third-level balcony and scanned the commotion on the dock. People were gathering together, pushing and shoving to get off the boat. There were thirty or forty people on the dock. The boat appeared to be listing to the left.

  He spied Afanzo standing, propped up against a post, but no sign of Bogart. People were moving around frantically. A few pointed up at him, shouting in Portuguese. Thick smoke was billowing up from several locations, and flames were beginning to eat away at walls of the boat. Alarms sounded inside the ship, and Peter could hear sirens already in the distance.

  He bolted down the stairs and straight into the inferno, toward the waiting room, toward Afanzo’s room, where Bogart had been. He was surprised how quickly the boat was burning. It was going down, no doubt about that. Flames were everywhere. Peter lifted his shirt and held it to his mouth.

  The waiting room was filling with acrid black smoke. The door to the room where Afonzo had been sleeping was wide open. Peter checked one of the other rooms. Also empty.

  “Did you find her?” a voice called out behind him.

  It was Alex. She had her bandana over her face. Sweat was pouring down her cheeks.

  “What are you doing in here?” Peter shouted. “I told you to get off the boat!”

  “No way! I’ve lost her once already. I’m not going to lose her again. Besides I know this place a heck of a lot better than you do.”

  “This thing is going down. You’ve got to get off!”

  She ignored him and ran toward the room marked Quarantine. “Tima!”

  Peter grabbed her by the arm. “I’ll go in. Wait for me outside.”

  The door was locked. Peter lowered his shoulder and barreled through, splintering it on its hinges. Smoke and heat poured from the room. Peter held his breath and moved into the room. Alex followed.

  There was nothing except smoldering linens and melted plastic. The bed was empty. As they turned to leave, Peter noticed the window. It had been blown out. A blanket billowed in the breeze. He moved closer and saw a distinct footprint on the windowsill, heading out of the room. Size 13, at least. No way it was a Peruvian.

  Bogart.

  Peter yanked the blanket off the window, ducked down, and stepped out onto the deck. He turned and helped Alex out. Behind them, the inferno from the rest of the boat had crept into the room. Flames rolled along the walls.

  The outer balcony stretched around the boat. Peter glanced both directions. No one suspicious was visible in the firelit river or dock. Even though they were on an outer balcony, the smoke was thick. Sirens continued to blare, getting closer. Time was running out. They had to get off the boat soon. Peter didn’t like the thought of jumping into the caiman- and piranha-infested water, especially at night.

  “Here!” Alex said. Sh
e pointed to several sets of footprints on the floor and ash smudges on the white walls. She had followed the prints to a ladder leading to the upper deck and was on the third rung before Peter could stop her.

  “Alex, be careful!”

  She disappeared over the edge and onto the top deck.

  Peter pulled himself up the ladder. The air up here was filled with smoke and soot. The heat was pulsing from the decks below. He had to hold his face in his shirtsleeve to keep from breathing in the acrid smoke. He could see Alex standing as a silhouette in the smoke. She didn’t say anything, she just looked at him with bloodshot eyes and shook her head, terror in her eyes. He dropped silently to the deck.