Someone with a bullhorn shouted, “Hang on!”
A thirty-foot tender boat came alongside, its deckhands reaching out to rescue them. Catalina hauled Faye up into their waiting arms then climbed aboard. She sank down inside the boat; ten half-drowned men huddled around her. At least four were badly wounded, including one whose arm had been severed by a caiman. Those who weren’t wounded started shouting excitedly.
Anticipating some new terror, Catalina muttered, “What now?” Then she realized they were shouting at her.
It was a chorus of, “Mangusto! Mangusto! Serpente assassina!” followed by cheering and applause.
It took her a moment to translate that to “mongoose,” and “lady snake killer.” Catalina was officially a hero.
But Micah was nowhere to be found.
Chapter Nine
Feeling his consciousness slipping away, Micah struggled to focus. He heard one of his father’s survival credos echoing through his skull. When your thoughts turn blurry, focus on one thing—finding the surface.
Someone must have launched an aerial flare, illuminating the murky water above him.
He thought, Now I know which way is up.
He started kicking. Thanks to the flare’s flickering light he spotted a rope dangling down into the water above him. After a few more kicks he was able to grab it and felt himself being pulled along. With a combination of kicking and climbing he got close enough to the surface to make out something with four legs thrashing furiously through the water above—the rope was attached to an animal.
Micah kicked and pulled until his head finally broke the surface. Spitting out water, he took one glorious breath. After a few more gasps of air, he was coherent enough to identify his savior.
It was the donkey Faye had freed.
The burro must have jumped overboard and was paddling for the riverbank. Micah hung on to the rope as the donkey towed him to shore, braying in annoyance at the added ballast. Feeling guilty, Micah kicked along with his hoofed rescuer. The minor exertion nearly made him pass out.
#
Catalina ignored the embraces and back claps from her grateful boat mates and scanned the water for any sign of Micah. In the distance she made out what looked like a horse swimming towards shore.
Faye pointed to it and said, “It’s the donkey.”
Catalina said, “Yup,” and kept studying the water. Nothing.
Faye’s eyes lit up and she shouted, “Daddy!”
“Where?”
Faye pointed, but all Catalina saw was the swimming donkey. A moment later, the aerial flare splashed down into the river, plunging them into darkness.
Catalina put her arm around Faye and said, “Sorry, I didn’t see him, baby.”
Faye’s eyes lit up. “It was him! He’s okay.”
But Catalina was almost certain the little girl was letting hope cloud her vision. She turned to the boat’s pilot and said, “One of our people might be over there! Can we take a look?”
The pilot shook his head, pointing to the bleeding men around her. Catalina understood his priorities.
The tender pressed on, its outboard motor struggling to catch up to the distant Valentina.
Faye said, “I saw him, I really, really did.”
Feeling the little girl trembling, Catalina held her tight, whispering, “I know you did, honey, I know you did. We’re going to be alright.”
A distant gunboat launched another aerial flare, casting a hellish light on the floating wreckage and bodies, reminding Catalina just how miraculous their survival had been.
#
As soon as the donkey’s hooves touched the riverbed it stopped, braying loudly to announce the free ride was over. Releasing the rope, Micah waded the final twenty feet to the riverbank. It felt like miles. He knelt down on the bank, watching Batista’s flotilla slip away into the night, praying that Faye and Catalina were safe.
“Gotta get up, keep moving.”
But when he tried to stand, it felt like a nail was being driven into his head. Dropping back down to his knees he probed the sore spot. His fingers came back bloody.
Another aerial flare popped open, casting a flickering light on the jungle around him. The donkey stood behind him, peacefully sampling the local vegetation until it found some agreeable leaves.
Micah’s stomach twisted into a knot—a sharp reminder that he’d sucked down enough river water to ensure a case of leptospirosis. Even the initial symptoms of that waterborne disease would incapacitate him. Out here that would be a death sentence.
Muttering, “Better get this over with,” he jammed two fingers down his throat, vomiting up a quart of river water along with his last meal.
After a few gut-wrenching dry heaves, he sat up, glanced at the bushes in front of him and froze in terror. A pair of luminous green eyes stared back at him.
Slowly, he reached into his pocket, withdrawing the mud-encrusted revolver.
The glowing eyes grew closer until the flare cast a light on the animal’s orange-and-black fur. It was the Amazon’s other apex predator—a jaguar. Micah had seen the big cats in action and knew that he was no match for two hundred pounds of coiled muscle.
He tried to pull back the revolver’s hammer, but it was hopelessly jammed.
As if sensing his helplessness, the jaguar leaned back on its haunches and pounced.
#
The tender boat pulled alongside the now anchored Valentina. Batista’s yacht was moored alongside it. Catalina boosted Faye up into the arms of a waiting deckhand then climbed aboard. Six crewmen rushed over to unload the wounded. Catalina weaved through the broken crates and other wreckage strewn across the front deck. The livestock were gone, save for a pair of chickens pecking at insects. She noticed three dead bodies wrapped in plastic lying to one side and steered Faye away from them.
Members of the crew eyed her as she passed, whispering to each other. A throng of grateful men hovered around her.
Batista stood at the far end of the deck, engaged in a heated conversation with Santos. Catalina overheard snatches, mostly relating to the condition of the boats. Batista caught sight of Catalina and marched towards her.
Catalina muttered, “Aw great.”
Faye tugged hard at her sleeve, imploring, “Catalina, come on, we have to go look for my dad.”
“Okay, I’ll see if someone’ll take us out there.”
One of the deckhands draped a blanket over Catalina’s shoulders and said, “If you want, me and the boys can take a boat out and look.”
“Thanks.”
“It’s the least we can do after you saved our asses.”
Upon hearing this, Batista snapped, “Belay that, I’m not wasting time on a search party. You all know that if he fell in the river, the caimans have gotten him.”
Faye pulled away from Catalina, slapping at Batista’s chest, shouting, “That’s a lie! He’s alive, I saw him!”
Catalina pulled Faye back and wrapped the blanket around the sobbing child. She glared at Batista and said, “Thanks a lot.”
Brushing Faye’s muddy handprints off his ivory jacket, Batista asked, “Santos, do we really need this woman? She clearly lacks Dr. Clark’s expertise.”
Santos loomed behind his boss, savoring Catalina’s discomfort. “I got no use for her.”
One of the deckhands stepped forward, draping his arm around Catalina, saying, “No use for her? Did you see her take down that snake? If it wasn’t for her, we’d all be dead!”
This earned Catalina a hearty round of cheers and backslaps from the crew.
The deckhand eyed Santos, asking, “Hey, where were you during all that shit?”
The crew glared at Santos, their cheering giving way to angry muttering. Catalina sensed the rising tension.
Locking his eyes on the crewman, Santos said, “Watch it, babaca.”
Catalina said, “Don’t worry; I can pull my weight.”
Sensing that his crew was hovering on mutiny, Batista chose not t
o press the issue. With a curt, “See that you do,” he walked away.
Catalina watched him board his yacht, and she let out a long sigh of relief, thinking, Bullet dodged. But for how long?
A crewman handed her a hot cup of tea while another man added a generous helping of rotgut to the mug. Catalina took a long swallow, relishing the warmth coursing through her. She thought, It’s so strange, most of these guys would cut someone’s throat for a dollar, but they just saved both our lives.
Handing the empty mug to one of the men, Catalina said, “Thanks boys, but I think it’s time I put her to bed.”
There was another chorus of gratitude as Catalina led Faye towards their cabin.
In a near whisper, the little girl said, “He’s alive. I saw him.”
Squeezing her hand, Catalina said, “I know, baby,” desperately wanting to believe her.
#
Micah hit the ground feeling a rush of air as the jaguar leapt over him.
The big cat was opting for different prey.
The jaguar landed squarely on the donkey’s back. The burro instantly snapped into action, kicking its rear legs high, catapulting the jaguar off. The big cat hit the ground rolling then sprang back onto its feet. The donkey pivoted, rearing up onto its hind legs as the jaguar pounced. Its front hooves struck the jaguar in midair. The cat slammed down on top of Micah, its jaw shattered. The donkey galloped forward, rearing onto its hind legs, launching another attack. Micah rolled onto his side, narrowly escaping as the hooves pummeled the cat’s ribs. The jaguar feebly lashed out with its paws, roaring in agony. The donkey hammered down three more rib-shattering blows then stood, almost motionless.
The big cat lay there, its fluid-choked breath rising and falling against shattered ribs. The donkey sniffed at it then placidly turned away.
Micah muttered, “All hail the donkey king,” then felt blood stinging his eyes. That meant the gash in his forehead was bleeding like a faucet. But this time, wiping the blood out of his eyes didn’t clear his blurred vision. The rainforest around him rolled in and out of focus, beating time with the throbbing in his skull.
His vision came into focus again, and he was shocked to find a man standing over him. The dark-skinned man wore only a loin cloth. His painfully thin body was crisscrossed with red ceremonial paint. He was old, to the point of being ancient. There were two fresh wounds on his chest, circular, bleeding holes that Micah guessed were bullets. But the injuries didn’t seem to bother the old man in the least. He leaned down over Micah, so close he could make out strange red rings around his irises. The old man grinned. It was the warmest smile Micah had ever seen.
“Hello,” was all Micah could muster before his vision blurred again. He shut his eyes tightly, trying to focus, then opened them.
The old man was gone.
Micah muttered, “Got to keep moving,” and forced himself back up onto his knees—a big mistake. He teetered, head reeling, muttering, “Aw shit,” before flopping face first into the mud. Summoning his last ounce of strength, he rolled onto his side to keep from drowning in the muck. He lay there, spooning with the dying jaguar. Then, whispering Faye’s name, he sank into unconsciousness.
#
Catalina tucked Faye into bed, wishing she’d been able to offer her a bath, pajamas, or a teddy bear—any of the comforts of home.
She wondered, Do nine-year-olds still have teddy bears?
Catalina wished she had some child nurturing experience to draw on, but a career in intelligence had left her better suited to the role of cool aunt who shows up with an Xbox at Christmas. Up till now she’d been, more or less, okay with that.
Thankfully, sheer physical exhaustion put Faye’s body to sleep, but it failed to quiet her mind. She constantly kicked at the sheets, like a dog dreaming of rabbits, while murmuring unintelligibly.
Catalina stroked her forehead, asking herself, How much terror, loss, and physical punishment can a little girl endure?
Catalina’s childhood in Equatorial Guinea had proven the emotional resilience of a child—but at what cost? She’d only been seven when a failed coup d’état left the nation’s dictator thirsting for vengeance against revolutionaries and intellectuals. Her school teacher father had fallen into the latter category, forcing them to join the fleeing bands of refugees. The passage of time had left Catalina’s memories of their nightmarish exodus hazy, but certain images were tattooed onto her soul. The forced marches, near starvation, cowering in the night from soldiers, and the roadside ditches piled high with fly-covered bodies. But through all that darkness, one memory shone brightly—her parents’ selfless devotion, always protecting their baby girl from the grim realities and never allowing her to lose hope. Their compassion and courage had been the key to her physical, and emotional, survival.
Faye squirmed, mumbling softly. But one word chimed through with crystal clarity.
“Daddy.”
Catalina curled up next to her, thinking, If believing your dad’s still alive helps you get through this, then you just go ahead and believe. In a near whisper, she sang a Portuguese lullaby, promising sweet dreams and a better tomorrow. It was the same melody her mother had sung to keep Catalina’s childhood nightmares at bay as they’d huddled in the darkness.
After a few verses they both fell sound asleep.
#
Micah was hauled up onto his feet, feeling dizzy and nauseous, with no clue how much time had passed. Someone poured water over his head. Glancing up at the sky, he made out faint traces of blue in the rainforest canopy—dawn.
A shirtless man armed with an AK-47 held him upright while a second, smaller man removed his Rolex watch then tugged at his wedding ring.
A female voice bellowed something in Portuguese and both men froze. The big man released Micah, who flopped back down onto the dead jaguar.
A tall figure stepped out of the jungle. From the ground, all Micah could see were combat boots and bare, clearly feminine legs.
The taller man shined his flashlight on the ground in front of the woman, lighting her path. The smaller man trotted over, surrendering the watch and wedding ring. After pocketing both she took a few steps towards Micah.
The woman wore an open, ankle length, duster style raincoat and khaki shorts. A sheen of sweat gleamed indigo against her dark skin. Micah couldn’t make out her face, but her piercing eyes shone in the flashlight’s beam. A pristine, white, navy captain’s hat was perched incongruously on her head.
The taller man held up Micah’s mud-caked revolver. The tiny pistol earned a hearty round of laughter. Then he popped open the cylinder and held up six unfired bullets. The laughter died.
The woman looked down at the dead jaguar and in a throaty voice said, “He must have killed it with his bare hands.”
Two more men emerged from the jungle, laden with boots, rifles and goods scavenged from the carnage. One of the boots still had an ankle poking out of it.
She yanked the severed foot from the boot and flung it into the jungle, declaring, “Those damn caimans don’t leave anything worth stealing.” Staring down at Micah, she said, “Give me a better look at him.”
Micah was doused with another bucket of water, washing away a layer of mud.
The shorter man leaned forward, grabbing his hair and, with a note of surprise, shouted, “Loiro!”
Through the echoing in his skull, Micah caught the Portuguese word for blonde. He was yanked onto his feet. The woman leaned forward, inches from his face. Up close she was even more striking, with a pointed chin and knife sharp cheekbones framing wide, almond-shaped, brown eyes.
In English, she asked, “You’re one of the Americans Batista kidnapped?”
Micah nodded. “How’d you know?”
“Nothing happens on this river without me knowing.” She kicked the big cat’s carcass. “Did you kill it?”
Micah nodded, shamelessly taking credit for the donkey’s handiwork.
After an appraising look up and down, she said, “You
must be some kind of man to kill a jaguar with your bare hands. You’re just lucky the caimans were too busy stuffing themselves on Batista’s sailors to test your strength any further. So, mista sortudo, tell me what happened, and don’t bother lying.”
Micah’s new nickname, “Lucky Man,” earned a hearty round of laughter.
Seeing no advantage in lying, Micah rattled off his tale of the giant snake.
For a few seconds the woman just glared at him, then she laughed. “That story is such nonsense it must be true, or maybe you’re just louco from the river.”
“I’m not crazy, but I know there’s no snake that big on Earth.”
She reached out, gently stroking his neck, whispering, “That snake is not part of your Earth,” then abruptly yanked her hand away.
Micah felt a stinging pain in his neck.
She held up a bloated leech she’d plucked from his neck, grinned, and asked, “So what’s your name, Lucky Man?”
“Micah, Micah Clark.”
She flicked the leech into the darkness then leaned closer, as if coming in for a kiss, whispering, “They call me Queen Caveira.”
Micah instantly remembered Batista’s warning. Queen Caveira—the Queen of Skulls. He muttered, “Oh shit,” and blacked out.
Chapter Ten
Micah hovered between unconsciousness and vivid hallucinations. At some point he heard inaudible voices echoing around him and, in his darkest moments, an anguished voice screaming in the distance. Images flashed through his mind—pulling Faye onto the boat, the donkey, the jaguar, the mysterious old man, and, finally, the face of the pirate woman who butchered people for pleasure—that’s when he snapped back into reality.
He awakened, staring into the saucer eyes and barred fangs of a capuchin monkey.
He thought, Did they just leave me in the jungle to die? But, if that’s the case, why’s the monkey wearing a sailor’s suit and a tiny hat?
Slowly he pieced together that he was lying on a cot, on a boat, in a below deck saloon, being accosted by someone’s overdressed pet monkey.
Primeval Waters Page 9
