by Nate Granzow
Taxiing onto the deteriorating concrete runway, another vital repair the company had deemed too costly to make before the end of the fiscal year, Austin took a deep breath as his fingers wrapped tightly around the control yoke.
He pushed the throttle lever forward, and the engines roared. The plane accelerated slowly, the remaining runway growing shorter with each passing second, trailing off into a dusty hillside. In the distance loomed the sheer rock walls of tepuys, green-topped mesas and buttes jutting out of the jungle. Austin tried to keep his appearance calm as he fought against the rising bile in his stomach. Fervidly pulling the yoke toward his chest, Austin let out an anxious breath as the plane lifted off—just as the asphalt of the runway ended.
As the craft leveled off, Christian, checking the supplies in his backpack, withdrew a plastic toy Tyrannosaurus. Pressing a button on the head and holding the toy's mouth near his headset's mouthpiece, a shrill roar came through everyone's headsets.
"Aren't you a little old to be playing with toys?" Austin asked without looking behind him.
"A vendor at LAX talked me into buying it. Thought it'd make a great gift for my niece when I got back to the States. But I'm starting to think it might make the perfect lucky charm for our trip. It's a jungle, after all. Best to have something to scare all those big, bad animals away with, right?" He pressed the button and triggered another roar. Henri grinned, adjusted his glasses, and held out his hand for the toy.
"Ah, the famed Tyrannosaurus rex, Hollywood's favorite coelurosaurian theropod."
Spotting a Kydex holster peeking out from beneath the pilot's jacket, Christian spoke into his headset. "Mr. Stewart, is that a gun under your coat?"
"No, it's a water pistol."
"Seriously."
"Of course it's a gun."
"Why do you need that?"
"To scare all those big, bad animals away," the Brit replied, mockingly using the young researcher's exact words. "I'd rather carry this old thing than be forced to find an adequate stone for the task." Austin deftly slipped a Webley MkVI British service revolver from the molded plastic holster.
"Looks old. Why the new holster?" Christian asked, his knee touching Olivia’s as he leaned forward. She moved her leg away, tucking it beneath the other uncomfortably.
"It is old. World War One, I believe." Admiring it briefly before stuffing it back into its holster, the pilot continued, "Chambered in .455 Webley. Reliable British steel forged in the hearth of my homeland. The leather holster it came with holds moisture and would rust the old gal instantly out in the bush, so I had this one made."
"Yeah, cool antique, cofrade," Jeremy teased. "I prefer something a little more modern, and with a lot more firepower," Jeremy said, tugging a Cobray M-11 machine pistol from a backpack stuffed beneath his seat. He chuckled maniacally as he racked the top slide.
Hurriedly pushing the bulky weapon away from the researchers’ alarmed stares, Austin cursed under his breath, "Gonna blow your John Thomas off with that blasted thing one of these days. Put it away; you're scaring the doctors."
"Cool," Christian said admiringly. "Can I shoot it when we get there?"
"Sure, man," Jeremy said.
"No way in hell," Olivia said. "We didn't come out here to play with guns."
"We don't play with guns, ma'am. But if you folks are going to spend any amount of time out in the jungle, it'd be best if you all learned to shoot," the Brazilian countered patiently.
"To defend against animal attacks," Christian reminded.
"To defend against people attacks, man. You cross paths with a poacher out there, they'll put a bullet in you straightaway." He pulled his logbook from beneath his leg and slapped it against the windshield. The passengers jumped at the sound.
"Sorry. Fly."
Christian raised an eyebrow. "But why would poachers attack us? It's not as though we're park rangers."
"They don't know that. Rather than bother having a conversation with you to figure out what you're doing on their turf, they'll plug you and leave you to die. It only takes a few hours for bugs and microbes to decompose your body beyond recognition in the jungle, bro. Assuming anyone would come looking for you, they’d never find your remains. You have any friends here?"
"Do you suppose we could stop discussing such morbid topics for a while?" Henri asked, the blood draining from his face as he swallowed hard.
Passing into Colombian airspace, Austin pulled the control yoke back, guiding the craft to a higher altitude than usual to avoid another careless volley from the FARC guerillas below. Jeremy gave him a quick glance and nodded knowingly.
He didn’t need any more trouble than he already had. Even with him and Jeremy at the controls, the extra precaution couldn't hurt. Everything about this trip already felt unlucky and foreboding, as though the death of his crewmates a week before had tainted his luck, and he was damned to join them in the grave in short order. Despite his misgivings, he decided to keep those concerns to himself. It wouldn’t help to let the others know about his apprehension, anyway.
Just as he completed this thought, the starboard motor began to choke and sputter, the prop spinning irregularly.
"Lean it out, mate, lean it out," Austin ordered, pointing at the dying engine.
"I’ve got it. Hey, have I mentioned yet this flight that I wish we had our old plane back?" Jeremy asked as he fumbled with the switches on the instrument panel.
Watching the engine intently, Austin replied, "Well if you'd been along the first time instead of lounging around pretending to be sick, we would have the old gal back as well as poor Leo and Javiar."
The Brazilian crossed himself in agreement, and as though that act of reverence was the action necessary to revitalize the finicky motor, it coughed once more before resuming its rhythmic hum.
Austin smiled, relieved. "See? Bulletproof. We’ll be there in no time at all."
SEVEN
Olivia awoke with a start as the plane’s wheels softly touched the packed dirt runway, first angry that she'd let herself fall asleep in the first place—a sign of vulnerability during a time when she needed to prove her independence and strength—and then surprised at the gruff pilot’s apparent finesse as he steered the plane to a rolling stop only feet from the runway’s end.
"Sleep well, Doctor?" Austin asked as the plane's engines groaned and powered down.
"I was just resting my eyes."
"There's no shame in sleeping. It's probably the last decent rest you'll get for the next few days," he said, slipping his headset off.
"What do you mean by that?" Henri asked.
"The jungle's loud at night, man. Really loud. In fact, the point at which it gets quiet enough for you to sleep, you know something's wrong," Jeremy said, chuckling as he tossed his headset over his control yoke and moved toward the rear of the plane. "And here I thought you were a couple of seasoned outdoorsmen."
Outside, a dark-skinned man, skin so weathered as to obfuscate his age, scooted wheel chocks behind the C-47's tires. Pinching the bill of his Yankees ball cap and wiping the sweat from his forehead, he approached and shook Austin's outstretched hand. He wore only a pair of dirt-caked shorts and a sweat-stained, threadbare tee shirt.
"Bisari, how are you today, old man?" Austin asked as he disembarked.
"Fine, fine. Yourself? I see you brought friends."
"Just a few colleagues to help us out." Introducing everyone to the translator, Austin said, "Bisari is a rare find—there are so many dialects of Yanomam, even tribesmen from different villages have trouble understanding each other. Bisari's a master linguist. Even speaks Portuguese and Spanish. Underpaid for all he does for the company." The man just shrugged, his face expressionless.
"I'm glad to see you got my message," Austin added.
"Yes, I've rounded up a handful of willing Yanomami to act as guides," he said, motioning over his shoulder. Half a dozen tribesmen knelt in the shade of the trees at the edge of the runway's clearing, loincloths about
their waists, their black hair straight and bowl-cut, faces decorated with red dye made of onoto berries. "They've got a better sense of this area than I'll ever have. We should be able to track down the plant you're looking for in no time. They said they recall the area they harvested on the day your plane went down."
"That's excellent news," Olivia said, slinging her bag over a shoulder. "Christian, do you mind helping Dr. Rouillard unload our things?"
Looking around, she took in the wall of lush vegetation surrounding the airstrip. The packed-dirt runway had been carved out of acres of palms and Brazil-nut trees, and the lone rusty hanger standing eerily at its end seemed a curious sign of civilization among an otherwise untouched environment.
The atmosphere felt thick—heavy with humidity and oxygen. In a way, it felt almost primal, as if, at any time, prehistoric beasts could stomp out of the trees and it wouldn’t seem the least bit unusual. That otherworldliness thrilled her; she felt as though they were on the eve of a true adventure into the unknown.
"Hope you packed raingear," Jeremy muttered as he strolled by, shrugging away the damp as he threw his worn canvas bag over his shoulder.
The natives stood and approached Olivia, looking at her curiously and speaking to each other in hushed tones.
"Mr. Stewart, what are they doing?" she asked, backing away cautiously.
"Well you know how it is here in the Amazon—they've chosen you as a mate and want to make you their princess."
"Seriously, Mr. Stewart."
Laughing around his cigarette as he held his palm outstretched, feeling for rain, the Brit replied, "My guess? They've not seen a man with such long, lustrous hair as yours, Ms. Dover."
"They think I'm a man?"
"Can you blame them? Yanomami women are almost invariably topless. Feel free to correct them, if the mood strikes you."
She cast him a disapproving look. "When do we get started, Mr. Stewart?"
"Sooner would be better. I know I'm ready. Jeremy, you ready?"
"Yeah, boss."
"Jeremy's ready. How about your people?"
Olivia reluctantly looked back at the plane to find Christian attempting to hand Henri a bag from within, only to have it slip from the older man's hands and drop heavily into the dirt.
"Hope you didn't have anything fragile in there," Austin said with a smirk as he withdrew a folded topographical map from his bag and spread it flat on the Skytrain's wing flap. "Bisari, show us where we're heading, will you?"
Ambling toward them, the guide shook his head and said, "The natives aren't familiar with maps, Mr. Stewart, and have difficulty explaining exact locations in a way we can understand. I've asked them where they found the plant, and the best I can guess is somewhere in this area," he said, dragging his pointer finger in a broad circle across the map.
"You just narrowed our search down to a bloody 20-square-mile area. That's not exactly the kind of precision I was hoping for," Austin said.
"They know where the plants are. That's what matters," Bisari concluded, gesturing toward the natives.
Crumpling the map into a ball, Austin tossed it onto the airstrip carelessly.
"Why'd you do that?" Olivia asked, running over to the map, bending down, and attempting to smooth it back out.
Cocking his head to inspect her figure as she bent over, Austin said simply, "It's useless."
"How is it useless?" she scoffed. "It shows the lay of the land and—"
"We've got a general direction to travel and an approximate distance according to tribesmen who have three units of measurement: one, two, and more than two. Besides, the map doesn't show the streams we'd need to cross, since they change almost daily, or the trails we'd need to follow. And, best of all, we've got a GPS. The map is useless," he finished pointedly. "But feel free to keep it with you if it makes you feel better. Perhaps if we get in a pinch you can scale a tree and look for a telltale mountain." He swung his bag onto a shoulder and strolled toward the tree line, where a 1980s Toyota Land Cruiser sat parked. Any sign of paint the vehicle once possessed had been replaced with a veneer of red-brown rust.
Jeremy sidled up to her and whispered, "Might make good kindling for a bonfire. You should keep it." After giving her an exaggerated wink, he followed his friend.
"Hey, I thought you said there 'wasn't a blooming freeway' in the jungle. Now we're taking a car?" Olivia shouted after them.
Austin forced open the Toyota's obstinate driver-side door, and poking a long branch inside, checked for snakes beneath the seats. He replied, "There's a game trail we can follow that will take us a mile or less into the jungle before it becomes too difficult for the Cruiser to traverse. But that's a mile less we need to walk. The rest, we're on our own."
EIGHT
Denver Senske drew her office’s shades before reaching for her phone and dialing her contact at company headquarters in Chicago.
After a short pause, she said, "Hello, Steven? It's Denver. I have some unfortunate news to report. Our plant…I'm afraid you'll have to wait a bit longer. One of our planes went down, and…"
"Have you taken steps to secure another sample?" interrupted a male's baritone voice.
"Yes, I've sent a pair of my best researchers along this time to ensure there are no more delays," Denver countered. Though she tried to speak confidently and brusquely, her voice wavered. She hoped she could downplay the accident and have the second sample in-hand before her supervisors felt the need to intervene.
Static filled the empty airwaves for a moment as the executive processed the news. "Is there any risk of your people finding out about the plant's origins?"
"No. I wouldn't have sent them if there were. The tribesmen who found the plant know how dangerous it is to get near the outpost. They must have found the sample somewhere else. The species must have spread away from the facility, survived and thrived in the jungle—that's the only explanation." In an attempt to put a positive spin on the news, Denver added, "That in itself is very promising; it shows how robust the species is." She tapped her foot and turned to look out her office window. The dark sky promised rain. "Besides, my people know nothing about the research facility or what happened there. They only know we aren't paying them to be curious."
"That's good to hear. We've got some major players with skin in this game, and it would reflect very badly on the company if for some reason this went south."
"What's that supposed to mean?" Denver asked, furrowing her brow. "Just whom are we talking about?"
"People in high places with a vested interest in finding a cure for cancer. The Venezuelan president, for instance, has expressed great interest in our endeavors, and has offered to provide whatever resources or clearances our company needs to secure a sample."
President Hugo Chavez had been battling cancer for the past two years, and although he'd kept the details private, it was a known fact that he'd been seeking out the finest physicians in the world to help him overcome the affliction. Having an operation like this one taking place in his own backyard would certainly spark his interest. The problem with that, of course, was the added pressure to succeed. If, for some reason, they failed to retrieve a new sample, the blame would almost certainly fall squarely on Denver.
She remained silent as she considered the people she'd assigned to the task. Though Rouillard and Dover had proven their worth over the years and could be counted on to stay on objective, that rough, arrogant bastard Austin and his lackey copilot were not ideal candidates. But they were rugged men, both with knowledge of the jungle and a familiarity with Hygeia's specimen collection process. Having Austin in her pocket was reassuring, too. He'd be incentivized to do whatever it took to get the plant if only because she'd ruin him if he didn't. The Brit might be crass, she thought, but he's not stupid. Perhaps the combination of the researchers and the brutes would yield favorable results. It was a little late in the game to do anything different without it drawing unnecessary attention, anyway.
"Rest assured that we wi
ll succeed with this, Steven," Denver said confidently. "Have you ever known me to fail?"
NINE
The Land Cruiser rumbled through the jungle slowly, its thick tires churning over large roots and stony outcroppings. A dense fog hung below the canopy, the air stagnant and sweltering. The smell of rotting wood, a heavy aura of decay, permeated the air.
Bisari walked in front of them at the edges of the path, clearing lengths of bamboo and large branches that might interfere with the vehicle's forward movement. The Yanomami tribesmen stayed among the trees, but could be seen keeping pace with the Land Cruiser in the distant shadows.
The SUV's winch had already seen extensive use, pulling them up steep ascents the Cruiser's four-wheel drive couldn't overcome, and forcing them loose from deep gullets that swallowed the wheels to the axles.
"We could walk faster than this," Christian complained from the floor of the Toyota's bed as Austin steered the vehicle over a fallen tree. The passengers bounced into the air as the vehicle's suspension reacted to the obstacle.
"It would be less jarring, too," Henri muttered, massaging his back as the rear end of the vehicle rose over the fallen tree and slammed down, wheels dropping to the ground.
"You're all more than welcome to get out and walk whenever you'd like. Either that, or quit complaining. You've got the easiest job of the lot," Austin said, dropping the shifter into neutral and swinging his door open as they reached the bottom of a large rise. Bisari waved the pilot off, gripping the winch hook and unwinding the spool, marching toward the knoll's apex.
"This does seem like a lot of work for a minor payoff," Olivia added cautiously. "Don't get me wrong, we appreciate not having to walk, but is it worth all the trouble?"
Austin slammed his door shut hard enough to force the old vehicle's one working windshield wiper to scrape across the glass. "Believe me, after walking for two days through the bush, this vehicle will be a welcome sight."
After another twenty minutes of driving, the trail narrowed until two people couldn't walk abreast without brushing aside branches.
