Amazonia: a novel

by James Rollins

  But then again, as he had been reminded today by the caiman’s attack, the Amazon was king. It had to be taken at its own pace. To fight, to thrash, only invited defeat. The best way to survive was to flow with the current.

  “I think it’s best if we wait a few more days,” Kouwe continued. “First to see if I’m correct. Maybe you’re right. Maybe it’s just jungle animals. But if I’m right, I’d like to give the Indians a chance to come out on their own, rather than scare them away or force them here at gunpoint. Either way, we’d get no information.”

  Nate finally conceded, but with a condition. “We’ll give it another two days. Then we tell someone.”

  Kouwe nodded and flicked off his flashlight. “We should be getting to bed.”

  The pair hiked the short distance back to the glowing campfires. Nate pondered the shaman’s words and insight. He remembered the way Kouwe’s eyes had narrowed, questioning if it was Indians out there. Who else could it be?

  Arriving back at the site, Nate found most of the camp already retired to their hammocks. A few soldiers patrolled the perimeter. Kouwe wished him good night and strode to his own mosquito-netted hammock. As Nate kicked out of his boots, he heard a mumbled moan from Frank O’Brien in a nearby hammock. After today’s tragedy, Nate expected everyone would have troubled dreams.

  He climbed into his hammock and threw an arm over his eyes, blocking out the firelight. Like it or not, there was no fighting the Amazon. It had its own pace, its own hunger. All you could do was pray you weren’t the next victim. With this thought in mind, it was a long time until sleep claimed Nate. His final thought: Who would be next?

  Corporal Jim DeMartini was quickly growing to hate this jungle. After four days traveling the river, DeMartini was sick of the whole damned place: the eternal moist air, the stinging flies, the gnats, the constant screams of monkeys and birds. Additionally, closer to home, mold seemed to grow on everything—on their clothes, on their hammocks, on their rucksacks. All his gear smelled like sweaty gym socks abandoned in a locker for a month. And this was after only four days.

  Pulling patrol, he stood in the woods near the latrine, leaning on a tree, his M-16 resting comfortably in his arms. Jorgensen shared this shift with him but had stopped to use the latrine. From only a few yards away, DeMartini could hear his partner whistling as he zipped down.

  “Fine time to take a shit,” DeMartini groused.

  Jorgensen heard him. “It’s the damn water…”

  “Just hurry it up.” DeMartini shook out a cigarette, his mind drifting back to the fate of his fellow unit member Rodney Graves. DeMartini had been in the lead boat with a few of the civilians, but he had been close enough to see the monstrous caiman rise out of the river and rip Graves from the other boat. He gave an involuntary shudder. He was no plebe. He had seen men die before: gunshots, helicopter crashes, drowning. But nothing compared to what he had witnessed today. It was something out of a nightmare.

  Glancing over his shoulder, he cursed Jorgensen. What’s taking the bastard so long? He took a deep drag on the cigarette. Probably jerking off. But then again, he couldn’t blame Jorgensen if he was. It was distracting with the two women among them. After setting up camp, he had covertly spied upon the Asian scientist as she had stripped out of her khaki jacket. Her thin blouse beneath had been damp from sweat and clung invitingly to her small breasts.

  He shoved back these thoughts, ground out his smoke, and stood straighter. In the dark, the only light came from the flashlight taped on the underside of his rifle. He kept it pointed forward, toward the nearby river.

  Deeper in the woods, past the laser motion sensors, small lights winked and flitted. Fireflies. He had been raised in southern California, where there were no such insects. So the blinking of the bugs kept him further on edge. The flashes kept drawing his eye, while around him the jungle sighed with the rustle of leaves. Larger branches creaked like old men’s joints. It was as if the jungle were a living creature and he was swallowed inside it.

  DeMartini swung his light all around. He firmly believed in the buddy system—and even more so right now in this cursed black jungle. There was an old adage among the Rangers: The buddy system is essential to survival—it gives the enemy somebody else to shoot at.

  Slightly spooked for his buddy’s company, he called back to the latrine. “C’mon, Jorgensen!”

  “Give me half a break,” his partner snapped irritably from a few yards away.

  As DeMartini turned back around, something stung his cheek. He slapped at the insect, squashing it under his palm. An even fiercer sting struck his neck, just under the line of his jaw. Grimacing, he reached to brush the fly or mosquito away, and his fingers touched something still clinging to his neck. Startled, he batted it away in horror.

  “What the fuck!” he hissed, stepping back. “Goddamn bloodsuckers!”

  Jorgensen laughed from nearby. “At least you aren’t bare-assed!”

  Staring around the jungle with distaste, he pulled the collar of his jacket higher, offering less of a target to the bloodthirsty insects. As he turned, the splash of his flashlight revealed something bright in the mud at his feet. He bent to pick it up. It was a tied bunch of feathers around a pointed dart. The tip was wet with blood, his own blood.

  Shit!

  He dropped into a crouch and opened his mouth to shout a warning, but all that came out was a silent gurgle. He tried to take a deep breath but realized he couldn’t seem to get his chest to move. His limbs grew leaden. Suddenly weak, he fell onto his side.

  Poisoned…paralyzed, he realized with panic.

  His hand still had enough motor control to scrabble like a spider over the stock of his rifle, struggling to reach the trigger. If he could fire his M-16…warn Jorgensen…

  Then he sensed someone standing over him, watching him from the dark jungle. He couldn’t turn his head to see, but the prickle of some primal instinct sent warnings through his body.

  Further panicked, he strained for the M-16’s trigger, praying, wordlessly begging. His finger finally reaching the trigger guard. If he could have gasped, he would have done so in relief. As darkness blackened the edges of his sight, he fed all his remaining energy into his single finger—and pulled the trigger.

  Nothing happened.

  In despair, he realized the rifle’s safety was still on. A single tear of defeat rolled down his cheek as he lay in the mud. Paralyzed, he could not even close his eyelids.

  The lurker finally stepped over his prone body. In the glow of his weapon’s light, he saw a sight that made no sense.

  It was a woman…a naked woman, a sleek creature of wondrous beauty, with long smooth legs, gentle curves leading to full hips, firm and rounded breasts. But it was her large, dark eyes—full of mystery, full of hunger—that held his attention as he slowly suffocated. She leaned over him, a cascading fall of black hair over his slack face.

  For a moment, it felt as if she were breathing into him. He felt something course through him, something warm and smoky.

  Then he was gone, darkness swallowing him away.

  Kelly startled awake. Voices shouted all around her. She sat up too quickly and tumbled out of her hammock, crashing to her knees. “Damn it!” She glanced up.

  More branches had been tossed on the two campfires. Flames climbed higher, spreading smoke and a fiery light all around. In the distance, flashlights bobbled through the forests, clearly searching. Shouts and orders echoed out of the jungle.

  Gaining her feet, Kelly struggled to find her way through the tangled mosquito netting. She spotted Nate and Manny nearby. Both men were barefooted, dressed in boxers and T-shirts. The large jaguar sat between them. “What’s going on?” she called, finally freeing herself of the netting.

  The other civilians were now all beginning to gather in various states of undress and confusion. Kelly quickly noticed that all the green canvas hammocks of the Rangers were empty. A single corporal stood between the two fires. His rifle was held at rea
dy.

  Nate answered her question, bending down to tug on his boots. “One of the soldiers on patrol has gone missing. We’re to stay here until the others secure the area.”

  “Missing? Who? How?”

  “Corporal DeMartini.”

  Kelly remembered the man: slick black hair, wide nose, eyes that constantly squinted with suspicion. “What happened?”

  Nate shook his head. “No one knows yet. He simply vanished.”

  A sharp shout arose from near the river. Most of the bobbling flashlights converged toward the site.

  Professor Kouwe joined them. Kelly noticed an odd look pass between the two men. Something unspoken, something they shared.

  Frank suddenly appeared on the far side of the camp. Flashlight in hand, he rushed toward them. He arrived out of breath, the freckles on his cheeks standing out against his ashen face. “We’ve found the missing man’s weapon.” His eyes flicked among Nate, Manny, and Kouwe. “You all know more about the jungle than anyone. There’s something we could use your opinion about. Captain Waxman has asked for you to come take a look.”

  The whole group of civilians stepped toward Frank, intending to follow.

  He held up a hand. “Just these three.”

  Kelly pushed forward. “If the man was injured, I may be of help, too.”

  Frank hesitated, then nodded.

  Richard Zane moved to follow, his mouth open to protest, but Frank shook his head. “We don’t want the site trampled any more than necessary.”

  With the matter settled, the group hurried past the fires toward the river. The jaguar kept to its master’s side, padding silently with them. They crossed into the dense growth that fringed the tributary. Here was the true mythic jungle: a tangle of vines, bushes, and trees. Single file, the group trekked into the thick growth, approaching the glow of many flashlights ahead.

  Kelly followed behind Nate. For the first time, she noticed the spread of his shoulders—and how well he moved through the woods. For such a tall man, he slipped under liana vines and around bushes with a casual ease. She trod in his steps and tried to mimic his moves, but she kept stumbling in the dark.

  Her heel slid on something slippery. Her feet went out from under her. She fell sideways, hands out to break her fall.

  Then Nate’s arms were around her, catching her. “Careful.”

  “Th…thanks.” Blushing, she reached toward a vine to pull herself up, but before she could grip it, Nate yanked her away. Only her fingers brushed the vine.

  “What are you—ow!” Her fingertips began to burn. She rubbed them on her untucked blouse, but the sting grew even worse. It felt as if her fingers were on fire.

  “Hold still,” Professor Kouwe said. “Rubbing will spread it.” He snatched a handful of thick leaves from a slender tree. Crushing them in his hands, he grabbed Kelly’s wrist and smeared the oily moisture over her fingers and hand.

  Instantly the sting faded. Kelly stared in wonder at the crushed leaves.

  “Ku-run-yeh,” Nate said behind her. “Of the violet family. A potent analgesic.”

  Kouwe continued to rub her fingers until the pain was gone.

  In the glow of her brother’s flashlight, she saw that a couple of blisters had formed on the tips of her fingers.

  “Are you okay?” Frank asked.

  She nodded, feeling stupid.

  “Keep applying the ku-run-yeh and you’ll heal faster,” Kouwe said, giving her arm a fatherly squeeze.

  Nate helped her to her feet. He pointed to the grayish vine. “It’s named ‘fire liana.’ And not without reason.” The vine draped from a tree and lay tangled near the trunk’s base. She would’ve fallen into the nest of vines if Nate hadn’t caught her. “The vine exudes a potent irritant to keep insects away.”

  “A form of chemical warfare,” Kouwe added.

  “Exactly.” Nate nodded for Frank to continue ahead, then waved an arm. “It’s going on all around you all the time here. It’s what makes the jungle such a potent medicinal storehouse. The ingenuity and variety of chemicals and compounds waged in this war far outwit anything human scientists could invent in a lab.”

  Kelly listened, not feeling particularly appreciative of being a casualty in this chemical war.

  After a few more yards, they reached the Rangers, gathered in a ring around one section of forest. A couple of men stood off to the side, weapons on their shoulders, night-vision goggles in place over their faces.

  Corporal Jorgensen stood at attention before the unit’s captain. “Like I said, I was just using the latrine. DeMartini was standing guard by a nearby tree.”

  “And this?” Captain Waxman held up the butt of a cigarette under the man’s nose.

  “Okay, I heard him light up, but I didn’t think he left. When I zipped and turned around, he was gone. He didn’t say a word that he was going to wander over to the river.”

  “All for a goddamn smoke,” Captain Waxman grumbled, then waved an arm. “Dismissed, corporal.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  After taking a deep breath, Captain Waxman crossed to them, fire still in his eyes. “I need your expertise on this,” he said, his gaze sweeping over Nate, Kouwe, and Manny. Turning, he swung his light toward an area of trampled jungle grasses. “We found DeMartini’s weapon abandoned here, and this stubbed cigarette, but no sign of what happened to his body. Corporal Warczak has searched for any prints leading from here. There aren’t any. Just this trampled and shredded area of grasses that leads back to the river.”

  Kelly saw that the disturbed area did indeed lead all the way to the water’s edge. The tall green reeds lining the bank were parted and crushed.

  “I’d like to examine this more closely,” Professor Kouwe said.

  Captain Waxman nodded, passing Kouwe his flashlight.

  Nate and Kouwe moved forward. Manny followed, but his pet jaguar stopped at the edge of the area, growling deep in the back of his throat as it sniffed at the grasses.

  Hand on his whip, Manny tried to coax the cat to follow. “C’mon, Tor-tor.” The jaguar refused, even retreated a step.

  Kouwe glanced back to them. The professor had stopped to crouch at a spot, examining something near the reeds. He sniffed at his fingers.

  “What is it?” Nate asked.

  “Caiman feces.” He wiped his hand clean on some grasses, then nodded to the growling jaguar. “I think Tor-tor agrees.”

  “What do you mean?” Kelly asked.

  Manny answered, “Wild cats have the ability to sense the size of an animal from just the smell of its excrement or urine. In fact, elephant urine is sold throughout the western United States as a repellent against bobcats and cougars. They won’t go near a site marked with elephant urine, freaked by the smell of such a huge animal.”

  Kouwe clambered through the reeds to the river’s edge. He was careful to pluck aside a few broken stalks, then waved Captain Waxman over. Kelly followed.

  Kouwe shone his light on a spot of muddy bank. Clawed prints were clear in the riverbank mud. “Caiman.”

  Kelly heard an odd note of relief in Kouwe’s voice. Again Nate and the professor shared a secretive glance.

  Straightening, Kouwe explained, “Caimans will often hunt the riverbanks, snatching tapir and wild pigs as they come to drink. Your corporal must have come too close to the river and was grabbed.”

  “Could it be the same one that attacked Corporal Graves?” Waxman asked.

  Kouwe shrugged. “Black caimans are fairly intelligent. After learning that our boats are a source of food, it might have followed the rumble of our motors, then lay in wait until nightfall.”

  “Goddamn that motherfucker!” Waxman spat, a fist clenched. “Two men in one day.”

  Staff Sergeant Kostos stepped forward. The tall swarthy Ranger wore a tight expression. “Sir, I can call for reinforcements. The Hueys could be here by morning with two more men.”

  “Do it,” he snapped. “And from here on out, I want two patrols every shift.
Two men in each patrol! I don’t want anyone—civilian or soldier—walking this jungle alone. Ever! And I want the river side of every camp set up with motion sensors, not just the jungle.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  Captain Waxman turned to them. There was no warmth in his words, only dismissal. “Thank you for your assistance.”

  The group wound back through the forest. As they marched, Kelly felt numb. Another man gone…so suddenly. She hiked past the nest of fire liana vines and eyed them warily. It wasn’t only chemical warfare going on out here, but a savage feeding frenzy, where the strong consumed the weak.

  Kelly was glad to reach the campsite with its roaring fires—the warmth, the light. In a small way, the flames were reassuring, temporarily driving back the dark heart of the forest.