Minutes to Burn (2001)

by Gregg Hurwitz

  He rolled over on the mattress, resting his hand on his wife's rounded belly. The bloque de hormigon walls of the small house were slightly aglow with the embers from the fireplace. He lay on his back, staring at the soft orange tint of the ceiling for a few minutes, counting the cracks and trying to wipe the feeling of discomfort from his mind. The cut on his index finger had healed, leaving a smooth strip of a scar.

  Floreana murmured something in her sleep, her hand moving to rest atop his, though she didn't wake. He leaned over and kissed her softly on her temple, damp with sweat. It used to be cooler up in the highlands, but ever since the large hurricanes that damaged the skies, it had grown hotter, even in the night. He still made fires, but only for cooking and light.

  Ramon stood and crossed to the sink, his feet bare on the dirt floor. The door rattled slightly in the wind, loose against the frame. He doused a towel under the spigot and returned to his wife's side, lying beside her and gently wiping her forehead. The feeling of unease returned, and finally he sat up in bed, staring around the small room. The fire was dwindling now, but a few stubborn coals persisted, staring out at him like demon eyes.

  He looked at the small stack of firewood in the corner, the ax leaning on its side, the humble wooden table, the black hole of the window. Something caught his eye in the window--a tiny glowing point, one of the embers reflected back into the house.

  His breath caught in his throat, but he let it out evenly, not wanting to make a sound. He felt blood go to his face in a rush. There should have been nothing outside that window, only an open field.

  Beside him, Floreana nuzzled into her pillow, and the pinpoint reflection shifted slightly, as if whatever was out there had tracked her move-ment. Ramon's mind ran back through the countless stories he'd heard over the past few months, and he pictured the tall, thin creature he'd seen that night in the garua.

  He fought the darkness, straining his eyes to distinguish the outline of the thing in the window. He'd never believed in monsters, not even as a child, but right now in the night, his beliefs seemed far away.

  The last ember died, and Ramon waited for the darkness to ease all through the room. His eyes adjusted, and he saw it just barely--a large triangular head, tilted slightly to one side. The ember had been reflected back in one large, glassy eye, an eye that now seemed riveted on him and his sleeping wife. Ramon held his breath, praying his wife would not stir. He shifted his eyes to the ax in the corner, careful not to turn his head, gauging its distance from the bed. He looked back at the window, losing himself in the liquid black eye.

  The thing turned its head slightly, taking in the room in a long, slow sweep, then pulled back, fading into the darkness.

  Ramon waited a moment, then let his breath out sharply. He ran a hand across his chest and it came away slick with sweat. Beside him, his wife rolled to her side, facing away from him. He leaned over and kissed her softly between the shoulder blades with trembling lips.

  He lay quietly for a few minutes, but every time he almost drifted off, he'd snap to, his eyes on the window. Finally, he rose and retrieved the ax from its recline in the corner.

  He fell asleep with the blunt edge of the ax head pressed against his cheek.

  Chapter 18

  26 DEC 07 MISSION DAY 2

  At dawn, the ootheca began to squirm. The individual chambers wrig-gled until the ceiling of the lava tube looked alive.

  A crackle echoed down the shaft as the ootheca strained and trem-bled. A small bright-green head pushed through the papier-mache-like egg case exterior, making use of the special exit valve in the chamber. Encased within a membranous sac, it wiggled forward like a worm, a thin body following.

  Rather than dropping to the ground, the larva eased slowly down, suspended by a fine silk thread produced by a gland in its abdomen. As it descended, other larvae began to break free and fall as well--writhing, slime-covered packages dropping from the roof of the cave. They were visible through their translucent surrounding membranes. Three of them clumped together, dangling from their lifelines and spinning in the air.

  Blood pressure pumped into the first larva's head, causing the mem-brane to split. It wriggled, shaking off the nursery-cowl and falling to the ground. About two feet in length, the larva resembled an enormous grub or caterpillar. With a fat, curved eruciform body composed of a long abdomen and smaller thorax, and a well-developed head, the larva was smooth and cylindrical. It had six true legs--tiny, pointed exten-sions, each one ending in an apical hook. The true legs were paired, each set protruding from one of the three segments of the thorax--the pronotum, mesonotum, and metanotum. The abdomen was also seg-mented, into nine parts, but instead of true legs it featured prolegs, fleshy stumplike appendages. The larva used its overgrown prolegs to inch along in something like a crawl.

  Most startling about the larva's appearance, however, was its head, which seemed oddly animated due to its size and the precise placement of its features. Unlike most larvae, which had clusters of ocelli rather than true eyes, it had large glassy eyes, one on each side, and a mouth that darted in a line beneath a sloping bump of a nose. Though the tho-rax was a mere half foot to the abdomen's ten inches, the head took up a full eight inches of the larva's length.

  Three thin gills quivered on each side of its head as it breathed. Two antennae, each segmented into three parts and terminating in a long fila-ment, extended from the top of the larva's head. A pair of spiracles on each abdominal segment permitted it to draw air.

  Heads began to poke from the other membranes as the larvae shook themselves free, scrabbling with their tiny true legs and puncturing the sacs. Once loose, the prolegs waved in the air like blunted human hands. The larvae landed and eased forward, rippling their bodies and gripping the ground with their prolegs.

  Up in the ootheca, a runt larva flailed partially out of its chamber, air squealing through its cuticle. Wriggling forward in its sac, it tried to pull its lower body free. The other larvae gazed up at the squawking runt, their heads instinctively going on point.

  With a final, struggling shriek of air, the runt pulled itself free of its chamber. Even through the membranous sac, one true leg caught in the ootheca and tore off with a wet ripping sound. The runt flailed as it descended slowly on its mucuslike strand, air rushing irregularly and audibly through its spiracles. It managed to push itself partially free of its sac, but two of its true legs remained pasted to its side. Its cuticle, like that of the other larvae, was almost transparent, a soft, green sheath stretched over the network of hemolymph and organs pulsing beneath.

  The other larvae, crawling with slow awkward movements, gathered beneath the descending runt, watching expectantly. Wriggling its remaining five true legs, the runt neared the circle of its siblings. The mouths of the other larvae peeled open, each revealing two opposing dark mandibles. The mandibles were heavily sclerotized, pointed and arced like jagged moons. At first conforming with the head, they were now spread, exposing a front labrum and lower labium, fleshy and flap-like, that worked together like toothless gums. The runt fell into the ring of the larvae's upturned faces, air screeching through its spiracles as their mandibles began to saw through its still-fragile cuticle.

  The larvae fell on it ravenously, sawing and nipping as it writhed and squealed and slowly died. They concentrated on the plump abdomen, fighting over the richest mouthfuls. When they finished, their faces were covered with a moist sheen, the greenish paste of the dead larva's insides.

  They crawled away from the kill once they finished eating. The runt's body was almost entirely gone; only a portion of its head and the sharp mandibles remained. The larvae eyed one another suspiciously, like box-ers in a ring, but they all were of equal strength. There would be no more meals without a fight.

  Overhead, one of the ootheca's chambers remained stubbornly closed, devoid of movement within.

  A first larva struck out for the forest, pushing through the wall of ferns at the mouth of the lava tube and turning its head fr
om the sun-light that assaulted its eyes. The air was filled with alarming sounds--the call of a yellow warbler, the howl of a feral dog, the wind rustling through the leaves. The fronds fell back into place around the opening, again enclosing the other larvae in darkness. A second larva resolutely followed, the other four trailing behind.

  With their prolegs and rippling contortions of their abdomens, they crawled off in different directions, disappearing into the lush vegetation. Fronds rustled around the last larva, then stilled.

  The forest was quiet.

  Chapter 19

  Even compared to Guayaquil's, the airport at Baltra was in bad shape. One of the runways was decimated with cracks and fissures. Cameron stretched her legs as the C-130 came in evenly on the one remaining strip of intact pavement and eased to a halt.

  The flight had been smooth. Difficult getting out of Guayaquil, but once they'd been airborne, it had been an easy hour-and-a-half glide over miles of blue ocean. The pilot would rest, fly back to Guayaquil, and return to pick them up in five days.

  The tension within the squad seemed to be even worse. Szabla was furious that Derek had breached protocol by ordering Cameron to bunk in with her and Justin, and Justin had made things worse by cracking threesome jokes all night. At four-thirty in the morning, Savage had woken the entire hall screaming from the depths of some nightmare, and Derek had had to kick in the door to see what was wrong. It had taken two of them to awaken Savage. Tucker had gotten the sweats in the middle of breakfast, and after one look at him, Justin had removed the morphine Syrettes from his trauma bag, wrapped them in a sock, and hid them at the bottom of the weapons box.

  At least Juan seemed to be getting along with everyone--at the Guayaquil airport, he'd greeted the squad with a half bow, telling them how pleased he was to be along on their mission. Szabla had scooted over, letting Juan sit beside her for the flight.

  Derek had been quiet since takeoff, standing by one of the windows and gazing out across the water. He looked as if he hadn't slept at all.

  Rex had filled the uncomfortable silences on the flight, providing a geology lesson and pointing out the window at the islands as they passed. Born of volcanic eruptions--fierce plumes of magma shot through the earth's crust--the Galapagos, he said, had spent much of its ten-million-year existence in flux, its islands undergoing a continual process of reshaping and reforming through eruptions and earthquakes. Rising from the Galapagos Platform, a basaltic submarine plateau some two hundred to five hundred fathoms beneath the sea, the islands were arranged chronologically, aging as they moved east. The shadowy ghosts of islands past lurked beneath the waters east of the current island chain, victims of erosion and the erratic movement of the earth's crust.

  Espanola and Santa Fe, the oldest existing islands at 3.25 million years, were less volcanically active than their westernmost cousins, Fer-nandina, Isabela, and Sangre de Dios, which at seven hundred thousand years still experienced marked fits and growing pains. Because the islands were formed of basalt, a low viscosity magma that flowed and spread easily, the volcanic peaks rose less steeply than their continental counterparts, whose silica-laden andesite magma permitted more conical protrusions. The product of gentle, effusive eruptions, the Galapa-gos were broad and mildly sloping islands that resembled the domed backs of the tortoises for which the archipelago was named.

  The islands floated amidst seven oceanic currents, which carried with them marine life from as far away as Antarctica and Panama. The conflu-ence of these currents, warm and cold, northern and southern, gave the archipelago a climate uncharacteristic of the equator. In most aspects, Rex pointed out, the Galapagos were anomalous: the lumbering reptiles; the smattering of penguins and flamingos among the more traditional pelagic birds; the albatross that clattered their way through their elabo-rate mating dance and threw themselves from cliffs to become airborne.

  Cameron had listened to Rex intently, but she'd thought the others seemed bored.

  The sun in Baltra was much more intense than in Guayaquil. Their faces slick with sunblock, the soldiers exited the plane. Cameron felt the heat of the concrete through her boots. A Minutes to Burn electronic bill-board flashed 2:50 on the runway. Two Kfirs were parked on the far edge of the apron, where they sat in the hot sun, still linked to tow trac-tors--Israel had been kind to the Ecuadorian army.

  Two French soldiers met them on the tarmac, their uniforms adorned with UN trimmings. One of them jogged out to direct the taxiing plane. Szabla conversed with the other in French and gestured to the squad to follow them inside.

  The terminal was all but deserted. A flat open building with visible rafters and three-quarter-height walls composed of large porous brown slabs. The west wall had fallen over, but since it wasn't directly connected to the ceiling, it had dragged nothing else down with it. It left an open block of air, looking out over low, scrubby vegetation. Dirt had blown in, scattering across the concrete floor. The emptiness, in addition to the barren landscape and abandoned souvenir shacks, made the place seem haunted. The squad walked silently through the building. A wooden sign with grooved white lettering hung on the nearest wall: Bienvenidos, Parque Nacional Galapagos, Ecuador. To its left was a crudely painted blue map of the archipelago. Poorly drawn pictures of turtles, iguanas, and an impos-sibly elongated flamingo hung on the walls. A thin film of red dust cov-ered everything.

  Cameron stepped forward, kit bag slung over one shoulder. An enor-mous cardboard cutout of a short, stubby penguin lay on the ground, the beady black eyes staring up at her dumbly. Savage put his foot on its beak. Setting a boot on one of the dilapidated benches, Cameron glanced at the old jitney terminal behind the airport. Just beyond it, a metal dolphin with chipped blue paint had fallen on top of a tortoise sculpture, giving the distinct impression that it was humping it.

  Savage flipped a cigarette into his mouth and lit it, taking in the scene around them. "This place is a fucking zoo," he grumbled.

  The French soldiers went behind the disused TAME ticket counter and Szabla waved the squad over. "Let's get our shit down on the mani-fest and head out of here."

  The soldiers lined up and filled out the information, each listing name, rank, and company, completing a Park form, and showing the French soldiers military ID. Savage dawdled over by the wall, gazing at the cardboard cutouts. He put his cigarette out in a tortoise's eye. Tank and Derek loaded the gear onto a dolly they'd found in a back closet.

  The two-mile road to the Itabaca Channel was split with scarps, earth-quake wounds where the ground had cracked and then clamped shut again. They'd have to heft their gear over felled telephone poles and wires to get to the dock. Cameron gazed at the strip of water. It was apparent that the channel had been created by water filling the crack of a seismic fault.

  Rex tapped her shoulder with the clipboard, and she took it from him. He pointed to a small, flat-bottomed panga moored at the dock. Stretched out on the pontoon, a man slept in the shade afforded by the makeshift ramada of palm fronds that he'd propped overhead using two fishing poles. His hat was over his face, Huck Finn style. "The seismolo-gists at the Station said they'd have someone waiting," Rex said. "I arranged it a few weeks ago." He smiled, pleased with himself. "The roads across the channel are a mess, so we're going to have to take the panga around the island to Puerto Ayora."

  He noticed Tucker mishandling a comms box and scurried off. The others had already headed out behind the airport and circled up, waiting for them. Cameron finished at the clipboard and handed it off to Sav-age, the last one left. He took it with some hesitation, and when Cameron glanced back, he was still standing over it, an uncomfortable expression on his face. He stared at the form, chewing the end of the pen. He set the pen down and followed Cameron, but the French soldier called out in heavily accented English, "This not eez complete."

  Cameron backtracked and checked the forms. Though he'd written his basic information in the manifest, Savage had left the complicated Park form blank. He took out another cigarette, co
ughed into his fist, and put the cigarette away.

  "You gotta do this shit," Cameron said. "We don't want a hassle."

  Savage shrugged. "Fuck it." He raised a hand and ran it over his ban-danna. His face softened a touch, and Cameron thought she caught a glimmer of vulnerability in it.

  "Move it!" Derek yelled from outside.

  Savage cleared his throat. "Just a touch rusty, that's all," he said.

  Cameron looked at his handwriting more closely. She glanced from his dyslexic scrawl to his face and picked up the pen. "Come here," she said. "I'll help you."

  Chapter 20

  Samantha lay back on her bed, resting her legs straight up the wall. Lagging behind a guided tour of the facilities, a four-star general paused at the slammer window, double-taking at Samantha's posture. He stopped, crossing his arms in disapproval. Out of the corner of her eye, Samantha saw him looking at her. Thrashing around on the bed, she feigned a seizure, rolling her eyes and moaning. The general quickly turned and scurried away.

  She sat up on the bed and rubbed her face. Suddenly, she recognized her children's laughter down the hall, and she rose and crossed to the window, waving as her three kids made their way toward her.

  Iggy, her six-year-old, led the charge, running toward the slammer. Adopted from an orphanage in Kaliningrad, he had almost white hair which he wore in a bowl cut, his bangs a straight line across his forehead. His smooth cheeks were accented with nearly perfect circles of rosy red. Kiera limped behind him, still having trouble with her new prosthetic leg, which she'd only had a few weeks. She was growing so quickly, it seemed she was always adjusting to a new prosthesis. Maricarmen, the nanny, hurried behind the two older children, holding Danny, the three-year-old, on one hip.