I grunt in pain, as instinct forces me to roll out of the way. My whole body groans, but I manage to stay quiet.
Mud splashes against me as the man belly flops into the pit. The woman drops down behind him, using his body to cushion her fall. Then she’s back on her feet, retrieving the hatch and putting it back in place.
Darkness descends again, transporting me through the Earth and straight to hell.
The young man lying beside me is not dead.
Not yet.
The poison in his body has locked him down, making him as immobile as me. But his involuntary muscles—heart and lungs—are resisting the poison’s effects. His breaths are short and shallow. He’ll be unconscious soon, if he’s not already.
I could save him.
I want to save him.
Not letting people die is in my nature. But I’m not capable of saving myself at the moment. And if I’m honest, there is no universe in which this man and I both survive.
He needs to die.
He would have killed me. Would have raped the woman.
If he survived, I’m sure he’d do it all again.
I listen to his breathing slow. If he’s conscious and panicking as the end nears, he’s incapable of showing it.
When what’s left of the air in his chest is expelled by relaxed lungs, escaping his mouth as a death groan, his life comes to an end. A moment later, the scent of piss and shit fills the pit.
Oh God…
I try to lift a hand to my face, but lack the strength.
The woman doesn’t move. Doesn’t react to the man’s death, or the smell of his released bowels.
What has she experienced to become so hardened?
Hours pass. Maybe longer. It’s hard to keep track as consciousness comes and goes. When the temperature drops, I’m pretty sure night has fallen. As slippery things slide against my body, emerging from the soil, attracted by body heat, I fall asleep.
There are no dreams, which is a mercy in a way. Dreaming of home again might make my mind as broken as my body.
I don’t realize I’m awake until the woman moves and bumps against my leg. I try to speak, but all that comes out is a hiss. The woman scolds me with whispered words, and then lifts the hatch a few inches.
The light hurts my eyes, but doesn’t bother me nearly as much as the dead man’s face staring at me, eyes bulged open, tongue lolling out, skin pale.
The hatch opens further as the woman rises, taking her time to see if enemies are about. Judging by the casual monkey and bird calls so common in the morning, I think the coast is clear. The woman lifts the hatch and climbs out. She glances down at me, eyes sad, and then slides the hatch back in place.
Wait, I try to say, but I can’t manage the single word. Don’t leave me!
Plunged into darkness once more, I realize this hole is actually my grave. I’m going to lie here, beside the corpse of a stranger.
Unless I can move.
I’m not dead yet.
So move, damnit! Get up!
I try, with everything left in me, I try.
And fail.
How long until I join the young man in death?
The answer is: more than two hours. That’s how long it feels between the time the woman left me, and her return.
She climbs into the pit, leaving the hatch open. The hunters have left. I’d sigh with relief if I could move.
My eyes lock on a large folded leaf, bound together with twine to create a kind of pouch. A bundle of fabric hangs from the sash now wrapped around her waist. Its beige color would have made her stick out in the jungle. That’s why she wasn’t wearing it while still fleeing from the hunters.
She’s washed the mud off, too, and despite wearing at least a little clothing, her clean body seems even more naked.
She speaks to me in a calm voice. “Dun delay foos.”
When I fail to respond, she opens her mouth and taps her lip.
I mimic her movement, opening my mouth. She leans in close, holding the folded leaf. She pulls out the large, curved stem. It looks like a tea kettle. And that’s when I realize what she’s got.
I try to lean closer, desperate, but immobile. She trickles the water into my mouth, just for a moment. I swallow and then open my mouth for more. It’s fresh and clean. Almost sweet. Hopefully free of bacteria. She speaks gentle words, waits a moment, and then gives me some more.
She’s doing it right, I think, despite my desperation. Giving me too much too fast would just result in my puking everything up. She needs to ease me back to health, letting my body recover without giving it more than it can handle.
An hour later, and I’m starting to feel better. The pain in my gut is gone, replaced by a desperate hunger. But the rest of my body still aches, my muscles seized by a strange kind of rigidity. I try to lift an arm, but a stab of pain stops me.
“Shoov,” she says, and gently lifts my arm. A red rash with fractal edges covers my forearm. “Shoov.”
An infection. That explains why the effects of dehydration were so quick and profound.
After another half hour, she lets me polish off the remaining water, which is enough to wake up my cells, but I’ll need more soon.
“Thank you,” I say.
She doesn’t know what I’ve said, but understands my appreciation. She smiles, and reaches into the fabric pouch hanging on her side. When she withdraws three purple fruits, I nearly shout for joy.
Her hand on my chest calms me. When I lean back beside my dead bedfellow, she sets to work on the fruit, which I recognize. It’s passion fruit. The Amazonian super fruit contains significant amounts of vitamins C and A, as well as potassium, and magnesium, copper, iron, and phosphorus—all of which my body desperately needs. It’s also a great source of water, and the alkaloids it contains reduce anxiety and depression.
She splits the fruit in two, revealing the squishy, seed-laden insides. The fruit’s smell mingles with the stench of death, making it less appetizing, but I don’t care. Driven by hunger and sickness, I take half the fruit and devour its insides.
She eats one fruit, and then doles out the remaining fruit to me in halves, giving me time to digest between each. When she’s done, the signs of dehydration have dwindled, but the infection is still hitting me hard. No longer close to death, I can feel the fever running its course.
Were we anywhere else, I might be content to lie still and allow this woman to care for me. But I can’t stay beside the corpse any longer. Not only is it vile, but as it decays, it’s going to become even more of a health risk to both of us. And the odor wafting up and out of the pit will likely draw predators.
I’m guessing she already knows all this, because when I try to push myself up again, she helps.
Weak muscles quiver as I stand, infirm but not entirely incapable.
The woman motions to the pit’s open top, and says, “Fet,” which might be a word, or perhaps just a sound, but the message is clear. You first.
I make it halfway up, using the same roots I watched the woman use, before my muscles can no longer lift my weight. I flinch when two hands shove on my buttocks, but the woman is stronger than her size suggests. With her shoving from behind, I manage to reach the top and pull myself part way out. Before I’m fully freed, the woman climbs up and over me. Grasping my wrists, she drags me the rest of the way out.
We lie in the open air, catching our breath.
I feel horrible, head to toe, but I’m happy to be alive.
And to no longer be alone.
I turn to offer a thankful smile to the woman, but I frown instead. Not because of her, but because of the two men standing behind her, arrows nocked and drawn. One man is a stranger. The second is the boy’s father, no doubt searching for his errant son…who’s lying just ten feet away and six feet underground.
The elder rapist’s nose twitches. He’s caught the scent of death.
It won’t be long until he realizes the smell is coming from his son. And when that happen
s…
14
A rapid-fire conversation takes place between the woman and the man I haven’t seen before. She’s pleading her case, I think, explaining her side of things. My stomach churns when she motions to me and the man looks me over, unimpressed.
All the while, the father inches his way toward the pit, eyes and arrow locked on me. When he finds his dead son, I’m going to die in the same way, gasping for air while my body slowly shuts down.
And then the woman who saved me is going to die.
I can’t let that happen now, any more than I could when she was a total stranger. I don’t really know her. We haven’t shared a single word, but I know she risked herself to save me. And I get the sense that she will continue to help me. Our survival is linked.
I lower my right hand behind the satchel, which remains hung over my head, and reach into my pocket. The gun feels heavy in my hand and on my heart. I draw it slowly, keeping the muzzle pointed to the ground.
What will it take? A single shot into the dirt? Should I try to wing one of them? Or will the surprise make them release the arrows?
I don’t want to hurt anyone. A bullet wound in the rainforest would probably be a death sentence.
“Chua sans,” the father says, silencing the conversation. He’s close enough to the pit to see his son’s wide feet. His face pinches up with hurt and anger, but he needs to see it. Needs to know for sure.
The woman whispers to the second man. She knows what’s about to happen.
But her pleading falls on deaf ears. The man gives an indifferent shrug and adjusts his aim toward her head, waiting for the signal to fire.
The father inches toward the pit, eyes still on me.
“Wait,” I say. “You don’t need to do this.”
I know it’s useless, but I think I’m speaking to myself as much as I am to the father.
“Stop,” I warn. “I don’t want to—”
The father turns his head to the pit. His eyes widen while his forehead crushes down. His teeth grind and his lungs fill, preparing to shout the order.
Fuck.
Damn it.
I look for another solution, but there isn’t any. The way of the jungle, at least right now, with these people, is merciless.
To survive, I’ll need to become like them.
I dive toward the new man, raising the gun.
An arrow cuts through the air behind me, embedding itself in the ground. The new man adjusts his aim toward me, but he’s not fast enough.
I pull the trigger once, unleashing a boom that hurts my ears.
With just a few feet between us, it’s impossible to miss.
The man jolts and lets out a kind of squeal that breaks my heart. His arms go slack, the arrow unfired. Wide eyes turn down to the center of his chest where a neat hole leaks blood.
The wound is just to the left of center. Even in the world’s most advanced hospital, with the best surgeons, there would be no saving him.
As horrified as I am, I’m also not done.
Lying on my stomach, I roll over and aim the gun at the father. He’s got a fresh arrow nocked, but his eyes are on his friend, who falls to his knees, and then lands face down in the mud with a slap.
His attention shifts back to me, and then the gun.
He gets it. Understands the power I wield. That his simple arrow is no match.
But he’s lost in rage, craving vengeance for the death of his son, and for whatever the dead man was to him—friend, brother, cousin? The bow string goes taut, the arrow drawn back.
“Stop,” I tell him. The gun shakes in my hand. Tears blur my vision. But he’s too close to miss. “Please.”
I pull the trigger before the arrow is even aimed toward me.
The sound of it surprises me as much as it does the father. We yelp in unison.
The gun falls from my hand as the bow drops to the ground. While my only wounds are to my psyche, the man grips his bloody arm.
I’ve winged him.
He’s going to survive—for now.
The woman screams an unintelligible sentence. When I look back at her, I realize she’s speaking to me.
She wants me to finish the job.
I can’t, but the father doesn’t know that. He turns and runs, disappearing around a tree.
The woman crouches in front of me, reaming me out with a flurry of hand gestures at my head, and then in the direction the father retreated. I don’t need to speak her language to understand. I should have shot him again. Should have killed him. That’s the man who was going to rape her. He was going to kill us both. Killing him was justified. He’s going to get reinforcements.
My eyes widen with that final realization.
Shit.
She’s right.
I grasp the gun, slip it back in my pocket and stand. To my relief, the woman, despite her anger with me, helps me stand. We might not be on the best terms right now, but we’re still partners.
While she gathers the dead man’s meager belongings—a pouch full of plants I can’t identify, and five black-tipped arrows—I check his pulse. I’m sure he’s dead, but the doctor in me wants to confirm it. To mark the time of the first death at my hands.
I look at my wrist, but there’s no watch. I haven’t worn one in years. Not since smartphones became prevalent.
My hand snaps down to my cargo pants pocket, slapping against the hard rectangle wrapped in a Ziploc bag. My heart pounds from the moment of panic. If the phone had been lost, my only connection to my family would have gone with it. I haven’t looked at their photos for a long time, but I still could if I wanted to, and that’s enough.
I take stock of what I have. Machete. Gun with eight rounds. Spare magazine with thirteen rounds. The Zippo lighter. And the satchel holding a brick of marijuana, a notebook, five thousand dollars, and my mosquito netting—thank God.
But I have lost much more, including all my clothes, the poncho, my water bottle, insect repellant, first aid kit, wallet, and passport. I look down, wiggling my bare toes in the sodden earth. I’ve also lost my boots.
The woman pats her hand in my face, snapping my attention back to her. She speaks, but I don’t understand anything other than her tone.
She’s worried. Nervous. Explaining the importance of leaving, maybe. Then she stands and motions for me to follow.
“I’m sorry,” I tell the dead man. “I wish it could have been different.”
Had I never crashed, this man would still be alive. So would the young man in the pit. I look to the woman, my rescuer. Without me, she might be dead. That’s something, at least. My existence can still be about saving people. Just not everyone. It’s an identity shift I’m not comfortable making today, and one I hope I’ll never need to.
I rise to shaking legs and motion for the woman to lead the way. She sets a pace I can’t maintain after the first fifty feet. She slows for me, motioning for me to follow, constantly spurring me on. When I stumble, she catches me. When I slow too much, she prods me from behind with one of the bows. She speaks gentle words of encouragement that mean nothing to my intellect, but keep me upright. I don’t want to disappoint her. Don’t want to let her down. We’ve come this far. I can’t be the reason we’re caught.
The hunters will come for us again, led by a vengeful father. Our only hope, once again, is to escape and hide, to evade them until they give up, or we’ve traveled beyond their range.
But in my current state, I don’t see us outrunning or outdistancing the hunting party.
She steps on roots whenever possible, and I do my best to follow, matching her steps with far less grace. She’s a short woman, but petite and lithe, strong, and graceful.
When I’m too weak to move, she motions for me to lean against a tree and rest, not lie down. I’m not sure if that’s because my body will leave an impression on the ground or because she’s afraid I won’t get back up once I’m down. Both concerns make sense, so I stay on my feet and wait.
In her absen
ce, the jungle becomes a dark and foreboding place once more. Despite being chased by human predators, I hadn’t noticed that I had stopped fearing the jungle itself. The woman, so capable and confident, tames the jungle with her presence.
She returns ten minutes later with a handful of berries. I don’t recognize the green and red orbs, but they have a thick skin similar to cranberries. She thrusts the berries at my face, insistent. When I notice that she’s already munching on some, I take her offering and try a single berry.
It’s crisp. And tart. When my face pinches up, the woman laughs.
The sound of her amusement is like spotting a flower in a field of decay. I smile back at her, and nod in thanks. After the tart blast, the berry tastes a bit like an orange. It’s not very sweet, but given the circumstances, it’s delicious.
I eat the handful, a few berries at a time. I’m not feeling much better when I’m done, but the woman motions for me to come with her, and when I struggle, she throws my arm around her shoulder and points ahead, to a hanging vine. “Ishee popo.” When she then points to her mouth, I understand.
Water.
As we approach the heavy vine, I try to take note of its features. It’s beige and hangs straight down from the canopy high above. In some ways, it resembles a giant tape worm and looks like it could wriggle away. Its twists and coils make it look flimsy, but upon reaching it, I find a surprisingly solid and thick vine. Depending on how it’s connected to the canopy, I’m pretty sure it could be climbed.
Visions of Tarzan fill my thoughts when I give the vine a tug.
The woman taps my hip, striking the machete. She holds out her hand and motions to the vine. She doesn’t have a blade. I’m certain none of the tribes this deep in the Amazon do, but she knows what it is. Perhaps her people have had encounters with the outside world, if not now then during the time of the Portuguese Conquistadors, with stories being passed down by oral tradition.
I slide the weapon out from my belt and hand it to her. She wields it like I’ve just given her Excalibur, examining the blade with a look of innocent wonder in her eyes. Then she’s in motion, scaling a nearby tree with nothing but her hands and feet. After just a few lunges, she’s twenty feet up. Locked in place, she swings with the machete and severs the vine.
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