‘That is not so unusual,’ the German said. ‘It happens here all the time.’
‘You mean the Ache,’ Stanford said.
‘Just so,’ the German said. ‘The Ache disappear in their hundreds, melting into the trees.’
‘You do it,’ Stanford said. ‘You make them disappear. You sell them or use them as slaves and then you bury them deep.’
‘You disapprove,’ the German said.
‘Damned right, I disapprove.’
‘You’re a guilt-ridden American,’ the German said, ‘and your conscience is easily pricked.’
‘Fuck you,’ Stanford said.
‘Sehr gut,’ the German said. ‘Nevertheless, there are many disappearing that we cannot account for.’
‘Wunderbar,’ Stanford said.
‘I am serious,’ the German said. ‘The Ache disappear too fast. We cannot account for their numbers and the saucers are blamed for it.’
The came out of the forest. A broad savannah stretched before them. Stanford blinked and felt an awful blast of heat that almost sucked his lungs dry. He rubbed his eyes and looked ahead, saw a sea of waving grass, a few barren trees here and there, the sky white, the sun dazzling. Stanford felt that he was melting. He drained down into the earth. He stared across the sea of grass, saw it shimmer and undulate, and longed for the comforts of a city and its seductive parameters. He fingered his chafing pack straps, licked his parched, cracking lips. The heat was monstrous and it closed in around him and make him gulp like a drowning man.
‘Beyond that is Boqueron.’ The German spoke with calm indifference. ‘It sits between Argentina and Bolivia and Brazil, and within it is the jungle I mentioned – a place to avoid.’
‘But that’s where we’re going,’ Stanford said.
‘You will remember it,’ the German said, ‘for as long as you live. What you want is hidden deep in the jungle, and you must pay the price.’
The German seemed pleased. He smiled at Stanford as he moved on. Stanford gulped and felt the heat burning through him as he stumbled ahead. The air was hot and clammy. He put on his sunglasses. The Ache Indians were already in the savannah, their machetes flashing in sunlight. Stanford marched beside the German. The huge Atilio was just ahead. The cuchilleros were moving out around them, hacking at the tall grass. The sun blazed down on the grass, on the scattered, scorched trees, turned the sky into a sheet of white steel that radiated tremendous heat. Stanford tried to think clearly, but his thoughts slipped and slid in wild abandon, as if out of control… Epstein clambering up the hill. The black sky peeling back. The dark globe shrinking high in the sky, flaring up, disappearing… He was doing it for Epstein. He would not let Epstein go. He would not be defeated by Wilson and his fellow conspirators… Stanford wiped sweat from his brow. He was waist-deep in the grass. The sea of grass shimmered and stretched away to a silvery haze.
‘The Ache,’ Stanford said. ‘What do you mean, they disappear? You said you can’t account for their numbers. What do you mean by that?’
‘They disappear,’ the German said. ‘We are not the ones taking them. We go to their villages, we find the huts empty, we search the surrounding forest and find nothing… They have just disappeared.’
‘Other traders?’ Stanford suggested.
‘No,’ the German said. ‘We all know each other quite well – and we all suffer the same thing. The Ache are not removed by traders. Such abductions would be impossible. Paraguay is a very small country and is strictly controlled. The Ache disappear in their hundreds. They disappear overnight. The only way out is along the river, but they’ve never been seen there.’
‘Airplanes?’ Stanford suggested.
‘They can’t land in the forests. Nein, it cannot be airplanes, so we believe it’s the saucers.’
Stanford heard the rustling grass, felt it brushing against him, had visions of the life beneath his feet, of poisonous snakes and giant rats. He shivered and kept going, trying not to look down, the muscles tightening in his belly, the sweat pouring down his face, the dark glasses inadequate protection against the sun’s fierce white glaring. The grass snapped and broke around him. The Aches’ machete blades were flashing. The cuchilleros formed a loose protective circle, their knives and guns rattling. Stanford felt that he was dying, his breath burning in his lungs. The pack jumped up and down on his shoulders and made his whole body ache.
‘Many saucers,’ the German said. ‘We see the saucers all the time. They come down on the Chagres, on the Gran Chaco and the Mato Grosso, and afterward all the Ache have disappeared and are not seen again.’
‘The saucers land?’ Stanford asked.
‘Ja, they land,’ the German said. ‘They descend into the forests. They descend where there is nothing but swamps, and yet they always take off again. They must hover above the swamps. We cannot explore such areas. But they appear to descend over the swamps and take the Ache away.’
The sweat poured down Stanford’s face, soaked his armpits and body; his feet were burning in the canvas jungle boots, his throat dry, his head tight. He tried to think of the reports, shook his head, tried again… dark skin, narrow eyes, uncommonly small, Oriental… the most common characteristics as described by numerous contactees. Such descriptions fit the Ache. They were small and Mongolian. Stanford struggled through the tall grass, exhausted and half blind, the muscles in his belly growing tighter with excitement and tension.
‘You feel good?’ the German asked.
‘I feel rotten’ Stanford confessed.
‘You’re an American,’ the German said. ‘That means you’re weak. You should thank me for this.’
‘Thanks,’ Stanford said.
‘Don’t thank me,’ the German said. ‘Just stay on your feet until we get there. It is still a long way.’
The savannah seemed endless, a rustling, yellow sea, the tall grass bending under Stanford’s feet, springing back up around him. He secretly blessed the Ache beaters. Their machetes flashed in the sunlight. They worked hard and the sweat soaked through their shirts and streamed down their dark faces. Here and there were lonely trees. The blazing sky was a white sheet. The air was hotter than ever and more humid, suffocating, a giant glove slipping over him. Stanford wiped sweat from his eyes. His shirt was sticking to him. The light shimmered and distorted the waving grass and played tricks with his vision. He blinked and licked his lips. Pains were darting up his legs. The heat swam all around him, burned his skin, sucked his lungs dry; the brightness of the sky was overwhelming, a vast, silvery furnace.
One of the Ache Indians screamed, waved frantically and fell, disappearing into the rustling, waist-high grass while the others all scattered. Atilio cursed and raced ahead, tearing his pistol from its holster, a knife jumping up and down on his left hip, the grass parting before him. Confused, Stanford stopped walking. He heard the screaming of the Indian. Another Indian raised his machete above his head and swung it down into the tall grass. The hidden Indian kept screaming. Stanford shrank from that dreadful sound. The German muttered and rushed up to join Atilio, the cuchilleros surrounding him. Atilio bawled and waved his pistol. Stanford caught up with the German. They both stopped beside Atilio and looked down at the Indian on the ground. He had been bitten by a snake. He was wriggling dementedly and shrieking. Another Indian stood beside him, his machete dripping blood, the snake’s amputated head at his feet, the headless body nearby.
‘Scheisse!’ the German hissed. ‘We have no time for this. Finish the Indian.’
It was over quickly, Stanford hardly knew what was happening. He saw the Indian on the ground, pouring sweat and shivering badly, holding on to the leg that had been bitten and now moaning pitifully. Then Atilio knelt down, grabbed the Indian by the hair, jerked his head up and poked it with the pistol and then pressed the trigger. The sudden bang made Stanford twitch. He saw the Indian’s head jerking. Blood and bone splashed on the ground beneath the head, and then the head itself fell. Stanford blinked and looked again. Atilio
stood up and blocked his view. Atilio bawled at the watching cuchilleros, who then turned on the Indians. They were all shouting at once as they pushed the Indian onward. The Indians moved out and swung their machetes, again hacking a pathway through the tall grass. The cuchilleros formed a circle. Atilio marched out in front. Stanford looked down at the ground, saw the snake’s dismembered head, saw the brains of the dead Indian spilling out, his eyes glassy, his arms outstretched. Stanford blinked and licked his lips. He hurried after the marching German. The cuchilleros closed in on both as the grass swayed about them.
‘You had him killed!’ Stanford said.
‘Ja, that is correct.’
‘He could have been saved,’ Stanford said.
‘We haven’t the time, mein freund.’
‘What does that mean?’ Stanford asked.
‘Be quiet,’ the German said. ‘We couldn’t have carried him. It is too hot for that.’
‘You bastards,’ Stanford said.
‘Sehr gut,’ the German said. ‘At least you still have enough energy to show your resentment.’
‘It was a swinish thing to do.’
‘You are here of your own free will. That makes you a collaborator, mein freund, so don’t offer me pieties.’
Stanford couldn’t deny it, felt ashamed, kept his mouth shut, bent forward and pushed against the tall grass, wondering when it would end. The sun crossed the burning sky. The heat increased and dissolved him. He bled down through himself, through the earth, and lost touch with reality. The machetes flashed up ahead. The cuchilleros surrounded him. Atilio marched on in front, his hips rolling, his gun and knives jangling. Time slowed and then stood still. Stanford tried to stop thinking. The white sun started sinking in the sky, became gold and then violet. Stanford saw the yellow sea. He blinked and looked again. There was a dark line between the sea and sky and he wondered what it might be. A sea: a yellow sea. Not a sea: a scorched savannah. Stanford blinked and saw the dark line as a snake that crossed the frame of his vision. He heard the snake and felt it. He tried not to look down. He thought of the capibara, the giant rats, and a severe chill cut through him. He shuddered, but kept walking. The German was still beside him. The German’s gaunt profile was hazed in silvery light; the yellow sea was the tall grass. The sun shifted in the sky. It sank lower, turning purple. The dark line divided the grass from the sky and took shape as a forest. Stanford almost sobbed with joy. He felt as if he were on fire. He was burning and his body seemed hollow and drained of all feeling.
‘There it is,’ the German said.
‘Thank God,’ Stanford said.
‘You will not thank God once you are there. That’s the devil’s playground.’
Stanford tried not to listen. He didn’t want to believe it. He did not believe that it was possible to feel worse than he did now, did not believe that any place could be worse than the blistering savannah. Those trees formed a forest. Not a jungle: a forest. In there, in the shade of the trees, it would have to be cooler. Stanford felt a great joy. He followed Atilio toward the trees. The Ache beaters were out ahead, their machetes flashing, the grass snapping and falling. Stanford wiped sweat from his face. The white sky was streaked with violet. Stanford grinned and moved faster, felt the pack on his back, ignored it, ignored his exhaustion and pain, and hurried into the forest.
His spirit plunged and died. He couldn’t believe the heat was real. His lungs burned and he felt that he would drown in his own pouring sweat. He hadn’t known he could sweat so much. He wondered where it all came from. He rubbed his eyes and glanced around the green gloom, saw it steaming and glistening. Stanford felt a deep dread. Here everything was outsized: the tangled vegetation, the huge plants and quivering leaves, the crawling insects and chattering birds and monkeys, the giant rats in the undergrowth. Stanford felt his flesh crawling. He felt trapped and suffocated. The forest chattered and shrieked, hissed and growled, its steam rising in faint light.
The machetes flashed in the gloom, slashing branches and leaves, the Indians ripping the shrubbery aside, their nut-brown bodies sweatslicked. Stanford choked back his sobs. He felt petty and childish. His despair was a void at his center and it threatened to swallow him. Something crawled across his foot. He glanced down and saw a spider. It was huge and ink-black, its body covered in gleaming hairs, and he kicked out frantically, almost screaming, and saw it flying away. He shuddered and wiped his brow. He saw the German smirking at him. He felt rage and the rage drove him onward and brought back some strength. A bat flew above his head. Its beating wings merged with the leaves. Stanford shuddered when the leaves brushed his face with the feel of warm slime. He cursed softly and moved faster. Tangled vines trapped his feet. He knelt down and tore the vines from his boots and saw a lot of large ants. They were devouring a dead rabbit. Not a rabbit: a giant rat. Stanford shivered and then something stung his hand and he slapped the ant off. He stood up and walked on. The forest steamed and dripped around him. It was chattering and shrieking, alive with crawling things, that undergrowth shifting and rustling, furry forms racing back and forth.
‘You are all right?’ the German asked.
‘Yes, I’m okay.’
‘You do not look too good,’ the German said. ‘You seem a bit shaken.’
‘I’m okay,’ Stanford insisted.
‘You have tenacity,’ the German said.
‘Just get me there, you bastard,’ Stanford said. ‘I won’t crack until you do.’
The forest opened around a swamp. A crimson light poured through the trees. He saw the bones of various animals in the clearing, the swamp steaming and stinking. The Indians led them around the edge of it. The cuchilleros cursed and groaned. Atilio slapped one of the men on the face and then kicked him onward. Someone screamed and started sinking, his eyes wide and frightened. The slime oozed and bubbled up around his knees as he waved his hands frantically. Atilio cursed and bawled some orders and some Indians rushed toward him. They formed a chain and reached out for the sinking man and pulled him out of the mud. The man rolled onto his back, but Atilio brutally kicked him. The man yelped and jumped up and then quickly moved on. Atilio followed, bellowing orders. The forest closed in again. The heat clamped around Stanford, drenching him, suffocating him, but he choked back his nausea and stumbled on, carefully scanning the green gloom.
The forest opened out again. He saw a village in crimson light. He saw a river of blood on his left as they passed through the village. The natives stared silently at them out of dark, haunted eyes. Children played in the dust, swallowed worms, their bodies almost transparent. The cuchilleros ignored them, but kept pushing the Indians onward. The forest closed in again, a green gloom filled with steam, the heat monstrous, the humidity soul-destroying, the foliage shrieking and chattering.
Stanford felt that he was dead. He could scarcely recall why he was here. His body burned and was covered in slime and his felt his skin peeling. He was nothing. He was now. He was in and of the forest: the snake and the spider and the rat and the other teeming, unseen life. The huge leaves dipped and dripped, the vegetation hissed and steamed. He was boiling blood and aching bones and filth, but he soared above it all. The trees held him and protected him. The green gloom was his sustenance. He swallowed bile and drank in the scalding air and rubbed his eyes and saw shooting stars. Then more gloom. Shafts of sunlight. The distant cries of the Indians. The trees parted and let him walk though and he saw streams of crimson light.
They were in another clearing. A towering cliff face blocked their way. The sinking sun was an immense bloody globe that turned everything red. The cliff face was high and jagged. The rock looked like flowing lava. The cuchilleros and the Indians, Atilio and the German, all were frozen in that unreal crimson haze, staring up at the wall of rock.
Stanford followed their gaze. He shook his head to clear it. He saw tree trunks and planks, tangled vines and banana leaves, all piled up to block off the entrance to a cave in the cliff face.
‘Thi
s is it?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ the German said. ‘It’s a shrine. The natives worship at this shrine. And the shrine is your proof.’
He stepped forward and barked some orders. The Indians swarmed across the cliff face. The
cuchilleros moved back and raised their rifles, not looking too happy. Stanford watched them, feeling dazed. His throat was dry and he felt ill. The Indians worked at the vegetation, pulling the leaves and vines away, removing the planks and then tackling the leaning tree trunks, pushing them over. The debris crashed to the ground. A cloud of dust billowed upward. The dust sparkled in the radiant crimson light and turned the Indians to specters.
Stanford stared through the dust. He saw the dark mouth of the cave. Stepping forward, he saw a dull, metallic gleaming behind the crimson haze. The last of the tree trunks were rolled aside. Crashing down, they raised more dust. The Indians looked at the cave with frightened eyes and then hurried away. Stanford stepped forward again. His senses suddenly rushed back. His heart was pounding when he saw the metal gleaming in the spiralling dust.
The crimson light flooded the cave. Stanford almost stopped breathing. He saw a jigsaw of coiling black lines and irregular pieces of dully gleaming metallic-gray. He stepped forward for a closer look. It was a solid metal sphere. It was about thirty-five feet wide, it swept up to a dusty dome, and the black lines were a coiled mass of snakes, all asleep on the saucer.
‘Oh, my God!’ Stanford whispered.
He stood there for some time. He couldn’t believe what he was seeing. There were at least a hundred snakes on the saucer, their bodies coiled and intertwined. Stanford felt his flesh creep. He saw the silverygray metal body. The perimeter swept smoothly up to the dome, making the saucer, despite the presence of the snakes, look oddly beautiful. The natives thought it was a shrine. Stanford understood their feelings. His fear departed, giving way to exhilaration. The saucer was magnificent. Its polished surface seemed seamless. It stretched across the mouth of the cave and was bathed in the crimson light.
GENESIS (Projekt Saucer) Page 53
