Whatever the case might be, the tapirs aren’t about to eat me, and their calm presence suggests that whatever predator hunted here earlier has taken its prize and moved on.
Lighter in hand, I crawl from my alcove and work my way toward the stream. All five tapirs stop drinking and watch my slow progress, their dripping mouths turned up in grins, their dark eyes twinkling in the firelight. The earth bends beneath my hands and knees. I slip a few times, but catch myself on roots.
I place the lighter on the ground, nestling it in a cradle of mud. Then I lean down and stare at the flickering orange water flowing past. The tapirs watch, their attention unwavering, waiting to see if the pitiful creature will save itself.
Their grins turns up higher.
Forget what you know, I tell myself, and live a little longer. It’s a sucky choice, but it’s the only real option. I lower my face to the water, open my lips and suck in a mouth full of water. It’s a little bitter. Grit tickles my tongue. But I can already feel my body absorbing the liquid, crying out for more. I swallow and lower my head again.
The tapirs accept me as just another mammal having a drink in the dark, hoping that something doesn’t sneak up and eat me. One by one, they lower their heads and drink, having no fear about what the water might do to them. And then, one by one, they leave.
It’s not until my belly slogs with each movement that I realize I’ve kept the lighter on this entire time. I close the Zippo with a quick snap and then flinch from a sudden pain brought on by the heated metal. The lighter falls from my hand. I hear it land with a thud, rather than a splash, which is a relief, but I can’t see it.
I hold my hand over the ground in front of me and sweep it back and forth, a human metal detector. But instead of searching for magnetic fields, I’m feeling for heat. It doesn’t take long to recover the still-warm lighter, but losing it even for a short amount of time fills me with a deep fear. Of darkness. Of being powerless. Of a primitive life.
Being born in the twentieth century suits me. I’m not sure I could have survived in a world without electricity, or toilets, or water filters.
But I’m going to have to, I think, clutching the lighter and crawling my way back to the alcove. At some point in my genetic history, my ancestors hunted, and killed, and lived by firelight. Or not. The only real difference between them and me is state of mind. Given my First-World upbringing, I’m probably taller, stronger, and in far better physical condition than any of them. I just need to change the way I think, and stop being so afraid.
Then again, my ancient ancestors probably had an average lifespan of thirty-something years and never ventured into the depths of the wilderness alone.
I crawl into my alcove once more, slip beneath my netting, and fall asleep before I can wonder if I’m going to need an Ambien.
When I wake in the morning, I do so with a string of curses, some of which I’ve never used before in my life. Not because I’m in immediate danger, but because it’s raining.
8
The fever starts ten hours later.
After waiting out the rain, dressed only in boxers and mosquito netting, I spent the day hiking, this time following the stream on the not-very-straight, but fairly narrow path to nowhere in particular.
Trying to apply logic to my course, I decide that the stream will eventually lead to a larger stream, and then a river, and another river, and eventually to some proper portion of the Amazon that’s been settled by people who have already emerged from the jungle and are attempting to join the modern world. The winding path isn’t exactly efficient, but I’m pretty confident that it’s my best chance of finding people.
I trudge downstream until the jungle grows darker once again, and the fever makes itself known with a chill.
Exhausted from carrying my gear over many miles of uneven, saturated terrain, I settle down beside a lump of earth that hints at something solid buried beneath. A tangle of roots snakes through the soil, holding it in place and creating a partial ceiling above me. In the jungle, it’s as good a place as any to ride out a fever.
The heaviest part of my gear is also the most recent addition. During this morning’s storm, I put my poncho to a very different kind of use. After tying the open hood shut with a tight knot, I inverted it and collected at least three gallons of water. Had I thought to do this on my first day in the jungle, my blooming fever wouldn’t be a concern.
I’m not a fan of hindsight, so I try not to dwell on what could have been. The clean water held in the poncho improves my odds of surviving the next few days—if I’m not eaten.
I passed a few game trails during the day’s hike, but I see no evidence of recent visitors here. There’s just the endless jungle, the stream, the creatures living in the world above, and me.
As my body quivers from chills that are growing in frequency and severity, I hang the mosquito netting from the earthen mound and attach it to the jungle floor, creating a small pocket of insect-free air. With all my gear stowed inside, I won’t have to worry about having my blood sucked.
Lining the dirt floor with large leaves takes just ten more minutes, but it nearly undoes me. By the time I’m done, my body is shaking. I slip inside my temporary home—not fit even for the First Little Pig—and I lie down. Thirty seconds later, my bowels prod me back to my feet and outside.
Stark naked, I clutch a tree, squat down, and unleash a torrent to rival the morning’s rain. After a quick wash in the stream, I return to the tent, hoping that’s the worst of it.
It’s not.
As night falls, the routine is so ingrained that I’m able to do it in the dark. Shit, rinse, rest, repeat. In between attempts at sleep, and hydrating, I venture out to expel bacteria I invited into my body. During my sixth excursion, I add vomiting to the mix. It’s so violent that anything nearby with ears knows I’m here.
With morning not far off—how do I know that?—I move from station to station on my hands and knees, shaking, delirious, and too tired to be afraid.
As desperate as I was to drink a day ago, I’m now tempted to stop drinking entirely. Dry things up. But I know that won’t stop my body from leaching the fluid it needs from my organs. As horrible as being a human lawn sprinkler is, the faster I expel everything from my body, the faster this will be over.
It’s a nice theory. Maybe even true with access to modern medicine, but out here, it’s a fantasy.
Shit, rinse, rest, repeat.
For three God damn days.
Days without wind.
Without rain.
Without food.
The air is moist and heavy with the scent of my own waste. I haven’t seen another living thing on the jungle floor during my time here. I suspect even the curious jaguar would find the odor of my personal sewer to be repellant. A troop of monkeys ventured into view, scrabbling over the branches above. I watched them until the pack leader stopped as though slapped, and slowly backtracked and leapt away.
In a jungle filled with deadly creatures and plants, I’m currently the most abhorrent thing in town.
On the morning of the fourth day, when my stomach hurts from hunger, rather than from nausea, I know the worst of it is over. As the sun rises above the canopy, I nibble at my last energy bar. When I’ve eaten a quarter of it, I resist the urge to down the whole thing, and save it for later. With nothing else to eat, I’m going to have to ration the bar until I figure out an alternative. Best case scenario, with all the calories I’ve burned while sick, and will burn while hiking, the bar will last me two days, tops.
I assess the water situation and find myself with a half-gallon, which will also last me two days. It’s not enough to stave off dehydration, but it will keep me alive.
Health returns in a matter of hours, and by the time I sense the sun is directly overhead, I’m feeling vigorous compared to the past few days. After packing up and striking out along the stream, fueled by a renewed hope and a desire to escape my own stench, I learn that ‘vigorous’ is a gross exagge
ration. Relief is not the same as rejuvenation.
Lightheadedness stumbles me to a stop.
I need calories. Today. Right now. So I eat the rest of the energy bar. It’s enough to stave off my growing weakness, but it’s not going to sustain me for long. Not if I keep burning calories.
But I can’t stop, either.
The jungle here looks no different than it did days ago. I’ve seen no signs of human habitation, and few animals since I shared a drink with the tapirs…if they were real. It’s occurred to me that the smiling beasts could have been a hallucination.
Do what you have to, I tell myself. One day at a time.
I drink half the water, and feel almost normal when I’m done. I’ll try to ration the rest, but I’m not sure I’ll make it through the night without finishing it. And then what? Wait for more rain? Drink from the stream in which I’ve spent the past three days rinsing diarrhea off myself? Hope that my body can handle the bacterial soup better the second time around?
“One day at a time.”
I make good time, maintaining as straight a path as possible while the stream twists and turns. The path of least resistance that formed the stream’s course was a chaotic, coiling route with more turns than the Ebola virus.
After another hour, I notice that the jungle’s sounds no longer startle me. Where living in the city leaves you immune to the sound of horns, sirens, and engines, a few days in the Amazon has left me acclimated to the sounds and smells of another world. What I’m not yet used to is the heat and humidity. They’re relentless, leaving me slick and itchy.
Of course, the itchy could also be mosquito bites.
A memory makes me smile. I’ve known Gwen since I was seven, when her family moved to town and she joined my school. In the latter years of junior high, and the early years of high school, when other girls were…developing, Gwen had the physique of a boy. As a result, her nickname was ‘mosquito bites.’ The name’s use ended on the first day of our junior year, after a summer of late…growth. My smile fades when I realize this is the first time I’ve thought about Gwen in nearly four days.
The jungle goes quiet.
I react by calmly crouching and listening.
My heartbeat remains steady.
This happens on occasion. Sometimes I hear distant struggles, but most of the time, the danger passes without me ever being aware of what triggered the silent alarm. Of course, the worst alarms are the non-silent variety, when the monkeys erupt into spasmatic wailing. I generally assume that means there’s a jaguar or some kind of deadly snake nearby. When that happens, I draw my gun and wait. For silent alarms, I just pause, knowing that it’s possible that I could be the cause.
But this time, it’s not me.
Or a jaguar.
Or a snake.
The monkeys don’t scream, but something does.
The sound is high-pitched, but nothing close to a monkey. The cry lasts just a second. I try to picture the kind of creature that could have made it, but struggle to picture it.
Doesn’t matter, I decide. Just keep moving. The sound came from my left. With the stream on my right, continuing forward will take me away from the creature being killed, and whatever is killing it.
I make it five steps before pausing again.
My stomach aches with hunger.
I need to eat.
If something has made a kill, what’s to stop me from taking it? I dig the gun out of my pocket and feel its deadly potential. There are meals all around me if I’m willing to kill them. Being far from a vegetarian, and on a path toward starvation, I decide to be proactive. Machete in my left hand, gun in my right, I take a step toward the sound’s origin.
Then it cuts through the air, this time warbling with what sounds like syllables.
What kind of animal can—
I gasp.
It’s a person.
A woman!
Without any thought, I sprint toward what I now recognize as a cry for help, crashing through brush with the same disregard for what lies ahead displayed by a silverback gorilla, but with a fraction of the size, strength, and speed.
9
The jungle conspires against me. Has been for days, but never so obviously. Every branch or low-lying plant I pass clings, slaps, and scratches me, turning what is meant to be a direct route into a chaotic, tumbling path. I’m pummeled by my backpack and satchel. The poncho-wrapped water cinched to my belt slaps against my thigh, throwing off my balance. A large leaf resists my passage like a backhanded slap from a giant. I nearly lose my grip on the gun and machete, but my white-knuckle grip doesn’t relent.
I’m tempted to shed my gear, but I’m certain I’d never find it again. And without it, out here…
Then again, maybe I won’t need it at all. If there’s a woman in danger, and I can help her, I might be free of this green hell before the sun sets.
Unless she dies before I can reach her.
If that happens, I’ll need everything I have.
But what if my being slowed down by my gear is what prevents me from helping the woman?
Assaulted by the jungle and indecision, I charge onward, unable to alter my plans, for better or worse.
The next scream I hear is a string of words. Angry words. And I can’t understand a single one of them. I can speak a few words and phrases in Portuguese—enough to get food, find a bathroom, or greet someone. It’s not much, yet I have no trouble recognizing the language. Whoever lies ahead, she’s not speaking Portuguese.
That she’s speaking at all means there is at least one other person with her. But are they hostile, or also in danger?
Doesn’t matter, I decide, and when the terrain slopes downward, I let the weight of my gear turn me into a cannon ball.
Just as I start to feel my weakened body cramping up, the ground cover thins, revealing a sight that makes me sick, and triggers some kind of deep rage that makes me forget about my physical condition.
There are two men. Naked aside from colorful arm bands. Tribal people. Light brown skin free of tan lines. Short black hair. Their backs are to me, one of them standing, the other face down…on top of the woman.
She’s slapping and clawing at the man atop her, who’s indifferent to her struggle as he attempts to position himself between her forced open legs.
The woman’s screaming, and the standing man’s laugh, conceals the sound of my approach.
I catch sight of fabric lying on the ground beside two discarded long bows and a wad of arrows. The woman’s meager clothing lies strewn on the trunk of a nearby tree.
The standing man hears me a moment before I strike. He whirls around, surprise in his younger-than-expected eyes, framed by red paint. The top of his head is shaved, half way back. Sticks poke out from the sides of his nose, like a jaguar’s whiskers. A pattern of red paint covers the front of his hairless body, covering arms, torso, and legs, but not his erect penis.
I throw myself at the man, and when he yelps in surprise, I unleash my anger as a loud roar. As I sail through the air, I finally realize that I have no idea what I’m doing. I’ve never been in a fight. MMA fights—even the commercials for them—make me sick to my stomach. I’ve never thrown a punch, never wrestled a friend, never fended off a bully. My attack is guided by instinct alone, and part of that instinct is to protect myself.
Just before impact, I curl in on myself, arms raised over my head, body coiled into a ball.
My target, easily fifty pounds lighter and a foot shorter than me, takes the full kinetic force of my airborne body and discovers Newton’s first law of motion when my forward momentum comes to an abrupt stop against his body. He careens away with an anguished shout. Given the force of our collision, and the part of his body I struck, it’s a safe bet that he’s got a broken rib or two.
And I hope he does, because that should take the fight out of him.
I land atop a carpet of damp, rotting leaves. Then I push myself up, fighting tired muscles and the weight of my gear
.
The man lying atop the woman is frozen in place, as is the woman beneath him, whose face I see for the first time. She’s young. Maybe early twenties. A red-painted forehead hangs over her dark brown eyes like sunset through smoke. Her eyebrows are pinched up, and her lips frozen in a grimace, but in her eyes, I see hope.
Because of me.
“Let her go!” I shout, my voice raspy and loud.
The man can’t understand a word I’m saying, but he understands my intent. He leaps off the woman, who is naked and makes no move to cover herself, and he faces me.
He’s older than the man I knocked to the ground, but their similar faces, haircuts, and red-painted bodies speak of a tribal relationship, if not a familial one. I glance at the young man, still on the ground, clutching his side. The men have the same eyes, cheeks, and body types. A father training his son in the ways of debauchery, I decide. Both men, and the woman, are hairless from the eyebrows down to their wide feet. I’m not sure if that’s from shaving, or from genetics, but it makes all of them, even the older man, look younger than they probably are.
The father, body low, arms spread wide, starts to walk around me. He’s calm. A hunter. I see confusion in his eyes as he looks me over, though. He lingers on my facial hair, a few days thick, and then on the machete in my hand. He doesn’t even glance at the gun.
These are uncontacted people.
Nothing about them hints at previous contact with the outside world. No trinkets. No T-shirts. No plastic doo-dads. And no recognition.
The man stalks around me, not closing the distance, but working his way around toward the bow while also putting his son directly behind me.
Alter Page 5
