Alter

by Jeremy Robinson

  My aim is shoddy at best. The target, a crevasse between two long roots, is elusive. With my weak legs, heavy gear, and a mad rush to not soak myself, I do a decent impression of a loose fire hose.

  Maybe they’ll interpret my lack of concealment as brazen confidence? After all, I did chase them off with the sound of thunder.

  Doubting that will be the case, I put myself back together and continue on my way to nowhere.

  An hour later, I’m numb.

  To the fear.

  To my life.

  I just want to stop.

  “I want a cheeseburger,” I tell the monkeys in the trees above me. “In and Out. Double, double. Animal style. Fries. Chocolate shake. Prisa!”

  I’m not sure why I’m speaking Spanish to the monkeys. Probably because I can’t speak Portuguese. Is that mildly offensive? Is it racist? To think two South American languages can be used in place of the other? Shit. Neither of them are truly South American. No more than English is North American, or Canadian.

  Who gives a shit?

  Why am I even thinking about this?

  A monkey glares at me.

  I flip it the bird.

  For some reason unknown to me and likely unknown to the monkey, it takes offense at my gesture. The bared teeth come first, and then the shriek. I’m not sure what kind of monkey it is, but if it’s a new species and I get to name it, I’m going to go with, Piece of Shit Sonuvabitch Monkey.

  “Shut-up,” I whisper-shout at the small mammal.

  It carries on despite my protest, and soon the whole troop joins in.

  “Shut-up!” I say, louder now, and point my gun at the little bastard who sounded the initial alarm. But shooting the monkey will be louder, and will carry farther than the monkey’s cries.

  So I run.

  Well, run is a generous word.

  I hobble quickly. The soupy air and the jungle slow me down further.

  There’s no attempt at being quiet, or not leaving a trail. I’m just hoping I can put a little more distance between me and the hunters. That they haven’t caught me already seems like a small miracle. But if I can go far enough, perhaps they’ll give up?

  How far would that be? Ten miles? Twenty? What’s the range of the average Amazonian tribe? I doubt there is an answer. Especially if they’re nomadic. For the hunters, a twenty mile hike might just be all in a day’s work.

  I put the water poncho to my lips and tip it back. I feel a few drops of water tickle my bottom lip, and then nothing. There is more water dripping from my body than from the water source that has sustained me. I know what comes next. Remember the desperation that thirst can create. And if I come across another stream, I will probably drink again.

  Survive today, and worry about what’s going to kill me tomorrow, tomorrow.

  But there is no stream. No hint of rain in the air.

  And the monkeys…those little assholes…are following me, continuing their wordless rant. They’re putting me at risk. Used needles of the jungle.

  I stagger to a stop, leaning against a tree, breathing hard enough to see stars. Thick blood is hard to oxygenate.

  How long do I have before walking is impossible?

  Minutes.

  Ten at the most.

  Less if I’m caught and killed before then.

  A tickling on my arm draws my attention. Ants carrying leaves four times their size march down the tree trunk, climbing up and over my arm, continuing their path without missing a beat. How long can they go without water? Probably longer than me. My eyes drift from the ants to a series of red welts.

  The mosquitoes have been drinking my thick blood dry, feasting while I’ve been too preoccupied to fend them off or apply what remains of my insect repellant. Not that I would bother using it. The smell would be easier to track than my body odor or piss.

  Sucking in deep breaths, I take a moment to listen and realize the monkeys have gone silent. I must have left their territory, I think, and I glance back. The monkeys are above, crouched low on branches, eyes focused on the jungle behind me, motionless and silent.

  They’re here.

  Unlike the monkeys, I have no hope of blending in and going unnoticed. So I move, focusing on putting one foot in front of the other. I’m not sure how far I make it before leaning against another tree trunk, feeling unconsciousness scratching at my mind, looking for a way in.

  At least I won’t feel the arrow.

  Hell, maybe they won’t kill me if I’m already dying.

  Would that even be better? Maybe a quick death would be better? Should I be running the other way, rushing into battle like Leonidas and then the story of my death will be told to generations of tribal children?

  If I sit down behind the trees’ tall roots, and position myself behind some arrow-repellant cover, maybe I could shoot them all.

  I’ve fired three shots. There are ten in the gun and another thirteen in the second magazine still in my pocket. I’m not sure how good my aim is, but maybe killing one of them will be enough? The sound and appearance of a magical wound might be enough to turn them away for good.

  And then what?

  Crawl until I pass out and die?

  And can I really kill a man? Can I take one of the lives I had hoped to help by coming to this steaming hellhole? Just to survive?

  For Juni.

  The thought is quiet, almost easy to miss, but it churns my insides. Could I kill a man to save Juni’s father? To spare her that pain?

  She won’t remember you, a louder voice says. She’s already forgotten you’re gone.

  What about Gwen?

  She’ll recover. She’s young. Beautiful. Intelligent. Funny. There isn’t anything about her another man wouldn’t want. It won’t be long before another man becomes the salve for her emotional wounds. I’m like Tom Hanks in that movie…Cast Away. Even if I survive this mess, the only package I have to deliver is a partially used brick of Mary Jane. I don’t think I’d have much in common with the intended recipient.

  I’m drifting. Thoughts come and go like rapid fire tides, sliding in and out with waves of weariness.

  And then, I can’t breathe through my mouth. My lips are sealed, held together by something now tightening around my throat and chest.

  A constrictor, I think, and I slide toward the ground, the pressure tightening. Consciousness slips away as I reach the ground. It’s a merciful way to go, I decide, closing my eyes, suddenly comfortable and ready for a permanent sleep.

  As the last of my life slips away, I hear a voice whispering to me in a language I can’t understand. Silly snake, I don’t speak your language. I can’t even—

  12

  “Hey, baby,” I say with a cheeky grin. I’m speaking to Steph, Gwen’s best friend. While my tone of voice suggests I’m flirting, the indiscretion is revealed to be a joke when I sit down beside Steph’s actual baby, Mel. She’s a year younger than Juni, but twice the work. She also adores me.

  Gwen and Steph can’t seem to comprehend why. She doesn’t like most men, including her grandfather. But the secret is simple: act like a kid. Some children are incapable of simply walking up to another child and saying, ‘Hey, let’s be pals,’ and just start playing. Most adults can’t do that either.

  Step one is to act indifferent. A kind smile is enough attention. It says, ‘I’m nice,’ but doesn’t smother with attention, which makes most kids uncomfortable. Step two is to get down on their level and play. Alone. There’s probably a psychological term for it. Like co-play. But the message is, ‘I’m here to play and have fun, not to be entertained by you.’ Step three, after several minutes of co-play, offer a toy. No strings attached. Just reach out and hand over one of the toys you’ve been having fun with.

  Step four is on the kid. There’s an unwritten rule in all people, but it’s nearly impossible for kids to disobey. When someone gives you something, you return the favor. Once that toy is offered, received, and returned, friendship is born.

  “So when is G
wen going to get here?” Steph asks.

  I look back from my spot on the living room floor, expecting to see Gwen standing behind me, holding Juni.

  Weren’t they there?

  I remember them being there.

  “Soon. I think.”

  Steph seems indifferent to the answer, turns her head and looks out the sun-drenched window. I turn my attention back to Mel. She hands me a folded piece of paper, which I promptly pretend to eat. There’s no better way to break the ice with a kid than pretending to eat something unexpectedly. You just have to be careful that the object you’re ‘eating’ isn’t a choking hazard, because as soon as you hand it back—and you better hand it back—the kid is going to either pretend to eat it, too, or actually try to eat it.

  Mel laughs as I munch the paper. “Don’t eat paper,” she says, her small voice scratchy. Despite her warning, when I hand the page back, she promptly pops it into her mouth and giggles. When she looks to her mother, she stops.

  Steph is still looking out the window.

  What’s out there?

  What is she looking at?

  “Steph…” She doesn’t turn at her name. Doesn’t blink. At all. “Steph?”

  She’s frozen in place. I turn to Mel, expecting the young girl to have picked up on the wrongness of her mother’s behavior, but she’s just staring at her mother, unmoving. Devoid of emotion. They’ve been turned into statues.

  I reach out for Mel’s arm and give her a poke. Nothing.

  “What are you looking at?” I ask Mel, and then to her mother, “What are you looking at!”

  I stand and approach the bright window. The backyard at this time of year is a wash of green. There’s a four-foot-tall fence, walled in by lush maple trees I think I’ll tap for syrup when I’m retired.

  But that’s not what I see.

  Bright light forces my eyes shut.

  Hands raised, fingers layered in a waffle pattern shield, I look again.

  It’s the sun. In my yard. The light flickers into my eyes from behind glowing green leaves.

  Mel says something, her voice strained, but the words are indecipherable. She’s standing now, glaring at me. A string of words flows from her small lips, the sound of her voice older now.

  “What?” I say. “I don’t—”

  Steph lunges at me, knocking me back, pinning me to the couch, hand over my mouth. Through bared teeth, she growls, “Shut the fuck up, Greg. They’re coming!”

  I’m locked in painful rigor, my body a plank.

  The light becomes a blurry haze, like a watercolor wash that’s suddenly pixelated and digitized. My eyes’ resolution increases with each breath. My view out the window clarifies. I see the leaves again, bending in the breeze, and then the sky above.

  The sky…

  How long has it been since I gazed at its blue?

  Wait…

  Above?

  I’m looking out the window, aren’t I?

  My periphery grows dark. Steph fades away. The living room becomes a memory…or a dream. The window was never there.

  I’m on my back, looking up.

  At the jungle canopy.

  Shit.

  I was home. Just for a moment, but I smelled it. Felt it. Believed it.

  But like here, Gwen and Juni were gone. How long has it been since I last thought of them? Dreamt of them? Survival leaves little room for pining. It weakens the soul, and while they remain my motivation, dwelling on them breaks me down.

  So I leave the dream, or perhaps the hallucination, and focus on the here and now.

  I’m not alone.

  Someone is behind me, their strong hand wrapped around my mouth.

  Whoever it is, they’re not here to hurt me. I’d be dead already if that was the case. The gentle shushing in my ear and the hand over my mouth communicate that I should be silent. Steph’s warning replays.

  They’re coming.

  While I can’t understand the languages spoken in this part of the world, it seems my dream self is capable of understanding enough to deliver a message.

  They—the hunters—are coming.

  I relax my body despite the intense pain in my stomach and my head. Dehydration has become my bedfellow once more. I raise my empty hands and gently motion them to the dirt floor.

  The message is understood. The hand slips away from my mouth, and I remain silent.

  Where are we? Above, I see trees and sky, but little else. Is this a cave?

  Can’t be. There aren’t any caves in the Amazon, because there aren’t any rocks.

  A pit, then.

  I’m lowered back on to the damp floor, moisture saturating my shirt, cooling my back. I flinch when I realize that my backpack is missing. A firm grip on my shoulder keeps me from exploring any further.

  It’s the woman. The one I rescued. She’s staring at me with dark, intense eyes. The kind that say life and death hang in the balance and that things like backpacks are best forgotten. When I relax again, she stands naked and shameless above me. For a moment, I see her, bathed in light, her body covered in mud—nature’s readily available camouflage. She reaches out of the pit just as I hear shouting voices.

  She takes hold of a branch and pulls. A framework of branches, covered in earth and plants slides overhead, carving into the circle of daylight like a solar eclipse. Darkness swallows us up. The cover is a perfect fit.

  How long has this been here? And who built it?

  The woman’s people, I guess.

  How else could she know it was here? And the system of roots? We’re in her territory, not the hunters’.

  She slides down beside me, bumping into me several times.

  Our breathing feels loud in the dark, mine quivering, hers even and smooth.

  When the voices are close enough to hear through the makeshift hatch, we hold our breath. The men sound angry, and then all at once, they cheer. They’ve discovered something that pleases them, and it’s not us.

  My backpack.

  She left it outside as an offering, or a distraction, knowing its contents might satiate the hunters’ curiosity for a time. That’s my guess anyway. The shouting becomes excited, morphing into a celebratory chant. And then, it fades.

  The woman lies down beside me, her body against mine. She shushes in my ear and then seems to disappear as she goes motionless. What is she doing? If the men have gone, then—

  The hatch shakes. Grit falls on my face, peppering my open eyes. I turn my head, blinking, and the woman shushes again. My eyes try to tear up, but there’s not enough water left in my body.

  Another shake and whoever was above has moved on, unaware that they’ve just stalked over our heads. While many of the hunters moved on, it seems that at least one of them is still on the prowl. How could she have known he would stay?

  Probably the same reason this hideaway exists: this isn’t the first time she, or her people, have encountered these men.

  Rival tribes, I think.

  Part of me wants to look down on them. They have all this space. All this land. And yet, they fight each other for it, divided by who-knows-what. But then I remember that I live in a time when leaders of powerful nations, with more resources than these simple people could comprehend, wage Twitter wars, along with actual wars, for no better reason than the acquisition of More. Like the silly Garfield poster I had on my wall when I was thirteen: He who has the most toys wins.

  People are the same the world around, no matter how technologically advanced.

  Beside me, the woman pushes herself up. I can’t see what she’s doing, but she’s moving fast. When I feel a thump on my right side, and then pressure on my chest, I realize she’s straddled me. If I could see, I’m pretty sure I’d have a close-up view of her butt.

  My breath catches when the hatch shifts.

  The hunter has returned…and he knows we’re here.

  13

  There’s a moment of total silence, from below and above, everyone tensing for a moment of conf
rontation. The best I can manage is to lie still and wait. I don’t like being helpless, but all the medical knowledge in the world isn’t going to keep me alive. Right now, my life is in the hands of a stranger, who is, like me, trapped in a pit.

  Light stings my eyes. A sliver at first, and then a broad circle.

  The hunter stands above, bow drawn back and aimed down, toward me. He’s naked and young. The son. He must have stayed behind to prove himself to the others. To his father. The older men were satisfied with recovering my backpack, but this man is driven by ambition.

  The young woman is revealed, crouched over me, head turned up, blowgun aimed. Before the hatch is fully removed, her lungs compress. There’s a puff of air and a blur of motion.

  The young man grunts and the arrow flies.

  There’s a wet slap as the projectile embeds itself in something soft, but I feel no pain. I lift my head, which takes all of my strength, and find the arrow stabbed into the earth an inch to the right of my thigh.

  The hunter gasps for air, eyes wide, hand on his neck. He plucks the wooden dart free, looks at it with wide eyes that then twist up in fear. He knows as well as I do that he’s been poisoned, that the injury, small as it might be, has sealed his fate.

  The young man staggers back a step. How far could he make it?

  Too far is the answer, apparently.

  The woman scales the walls using a network of roots worn down by previous use.

  How many times has she taken refuge here?

  She catches the man’s wrist. He tries to pull back, and nearly manages to break free, but the woman is relentless. She grasps his wrist with both hands, plants her feet against the pit’s edge, and pushes with her legs. The man topples forward, falling into the pit.