Catalina had known about the machine guns, but the mortars were a surprise addition. If she and Faye tried to make for the riverbank, they’d be blown to bits.
Batista radioed to the boat, “Cease mortar fire. Machine gunner, lay down intermittent suppressive fire.” He lowered the walkie talkie and said, “We should be safe for now.”
Faye jumped up and down, trying to see over the railing. Catalina lifted her up for a better look and asked Batista, “What do you mean, ‘for now’?”
“We need to be moving again before sundown because those primates own the night.” His frustration mounting, Batista shouted, “Where are those divers and is someone bringing that case from my yacht?”
A pair of crewmen raced over carrying red plastic cases. Batista popped them open, unveiling a bounty of plastic explosives.
Catalina was stunned. Then she sensed someone looming behind her. It was Santos.
Having seen the expression on her face, he asked, “So you recognize explosives?”
Catalina recovered quickly. “I’m a geologist, it kinda comes with the job.”
Batista chimed in. “Same here. When you own mines, you never travel without Semtex. My divers will use it to dislodge those trees.”
Faye knelt down, looking at the coiled detonator cord and Semtex, exclaiming, “Cool!”
Catalina gently pulled her back. “Not cool, dangerous,” while making a mental note of the explosives stored on Batista’s yacht.
Batista shouted, “Where the hell are my divers?” He saw two men hauling scuba gear over from the passenger area and yelled, “You two go to the bow.”
The divers scrambled towards the front deck. Batista fell in behind them carrying the cases of Semtex while telling Catalina, “Tag along, this should be entertaining. Once we’re moving again, perhaps you’ll come over to my yacht for drinks. I’m sure Hans can look after the little one for a few hours.”
The offer made Catalina’s flesh crawl and she stammered for a reply.
Faye squeezed her hand tightly, pleading, “Please don’t leave me alone,” tears in her eyes. “I’m scared. If you’re gone the monsters will come.”
In a soothing tone, Catalina said, “It’s okay, I’ll just bring you with me.”
Annoyed at the prospect of babysitting, Batista said, “Perhaps another evening then, after we reach the outpost.”
Catalina nodded, holding Faye close. “Maybe I should take her back to the cabin.”
Batista waved them off, barely hiding his annoyance.
Once they were out of earshot, Faye whispered, “Is he gone?”
“Yeah.”
Faye sniffled one more time then smiled. “Good, ’cause he’s gross. I think he wants to get in your pants.”
Catalina couldn’t help but laugh. “Where’d you learn that?”
“Mom has HBO.”
“Maybe you should stick with the Disney Channel for a while. That was some pretty good acting.”
Faye giggled, but Catalina felt her small hand tremble. She knelt down, looking into the little girl’s eyes.
“Honey, I know you’re trying to act brave, but it’s okay to be scared.”
The little girl hugged Catalina with all her might. Now the tears were genuine.
Catalina stroked her hair, whispering, “It’s okay, I’m not going to let anything hurt you.” But she knew her words were hopeful at best.
Faye wiped her nose and said, “Don’t worry, my dad’s coming back.”
“I know, honey, I know.”
With pride, Faye said, “He’s still alive because he grew up in jungles and mountains and knows everything.” Then she gazed out at the river. “Catalina, did you ever see pink dolphins?”
“No, but they sound pretty cool.”
“They’re really called botos and they’re super rare, but dad promised we would find some. After he rescues us, we’ll all go and find pink dolphins.” She gazed out at the river and, in a near whisper added, “He’d never break a promise.”
Catalina wished she could believe that too.
#
Micah lay on his back, baking in the sun, wrists manacled to the high platform. He’d hoped his new role as the queen’s captive stud would have improved the accommodations and therefore his chance of escape. But the only perk had been an extra ration of food and water to keep his strength up. Glancing back at the stern he saw the dinghy lashed to the railing—so close yet so far. He was rarely let loose from the manacles, and when he was, Umberto was never more than a few feet away. Even during his thrice daily romps with the queen, Umberto lurked outside the cabin door, jealously listening in.
Micah heard an approaching engine and sat up for a better look. One of the queen’s go-fast boats roared in from the opposite direction, pulling up along the port side. An excited crewman shouted until the queen emerged from her cabin to hear his report. Micah only made out brief snatches—something about Batista’s armada being stalled around the next bend.
The queen bellowed orders then slipped into the engine room. The boat transformed into a hive of activity, with men being issued weapons and assuming their posts.
The flagship lurched forward, increasing speed until the surrounding boats could barely keep pace.
Minutes later, Umberto climbed up top and unclamped Micah’s manacles. After the traditional verbal and physical abuse, he shoved Micah toward the ladder. Climbing down, Micah made it a point to look weak and disoriented.
Umberto mockingly shouted, “What’s wrong? Not man enough for the queen?” to the amusement of nearby men.
Once on deck, Umberto produced a length of rope and tied Micah’s hands behind his back. A go-fast boat came alongside and the crew shouted something to Umberto. They spent the next two minutes yelling back and forth.
Seizing the opportunity, Micah leaned back against the hull, groping with his bound hands until he found the jagged piece of metal. While Umberto argued, he sawed away at the ropes.
One of the men on the boat tossed a cloth sack up to Umberto then sped off.
Digging into the bag, Umberto declared, “Now we’ll show those bastards who rules this river.” He proudly showed Micah a round metal object. It was a hand grenade.
Micah didn’t know much about grenades, but he was pretty sure they weren’t supposed to have peeling paint, a coating of rust and a white chalky substance seeping from their seams. The grenade was probably older than the man holding it.
Umberto stuffed his treasure back into the sack and shoved Micah towards the bow, yelling, “She wants to see you.”
Micah carefully made his way along the narrow deck, muttering, “Christ, we must be doing thirty knots.”
Umberto proudly declared, “The queen is a mechanical genius. Her boats can outrun anything on the river.” And he continued on, the grenades in his sack clanking together as he walked.
Queen Caveira stood at the bow, bellowing orders to passing boats like Lord Nelson at Trafalgar. Micah and Umberto obediently waited for an audience with Her Highness. Rifle-toting crew members scrambled around the deck, preparing for battle. Micah noticed that most, like Umberto, had sacks of grenades slung over their shoulders.
When the queen finally deigned to turn and address them, Micah’s blood froze. She’d painted her face into a white Macumba skull mask with an intricate network of religious symbols drawn onto her forehead. Her untamed hair blew in the wind, framing the skeletal visage. Deep black circles painted around her eyes only amplified their madness.
With an evangelical fervor, she announced, “Batista is up ahead, and his boats are blocked by fallen trees.” After a long swig of coca-infused liquor, she added, “Now I’ll make that bastard pay!”
Micah pleaded, “But what about my daughter? You said—”
“You won’t need her anymore.”
“Come again?”
“Last night, Boiúna came to me in a dream and proclaimed that I would bear a child from you. So you will not need your clearly inferior
daughter.”
Micah shouted, “That’s insane!” earning a cuff across the ear from Umberto that knocked him onto the deck.
The queen looked puzzled. “But it is Boiúna’s will. You should be honored.”
Micah got back up onto his knees, pleading, “Please, just give me a boat and a few minutes, maybe I can get to her!”
“And warn Batista? No. Umberto, chain him up again so he can watch my victory. And don’t despair, Lucky Man; after I triumph, Boiúna will demand another sacrifice.” The queen raised her fist in the air shouting, “Mate todos! Mate todos!”
Micah was dragged off as the crew took up her war cry of, “Kill them all!”
Micah walked along the deck, twisting his hands, straining at the frayed rope. It refused to break.
Umberto mumbled, “What a waste of time. By now, all the best guns are taken,” and shoved Micah toward the ladder.
Feigning losing his balance, Micah dropped to his knees. Leaning back against the hull, he found the jagged piece of metal and whittled at the rope.
Umberto shouted, “Get up there,” and kicked him in the stomach.
Micah slumped down, groaning, buying himself a few more seconds of cutting time. Umberto grabbed his shirt and hauled him back onto his feet.
Micah felt the rope snap. It was now or never.
He lashed out with a perfect right cross to Umberto’s jaw. Umberto staggered, more surprised than hurt. Micah hit him again, followed by a kick to Umberto’s shin. The big man stumbled on the slick deck, slamming his head against the hull, and collapsed.
Micah raced for the stern where the dinghy was lashed. He grabbed the damp rope, fumbling with the knot, trying to pry it apart, cursing himself for not grabbing Umberto’s knife. The knot finally came loose.
“There we go—”
Something hit him from behind like a pile driver—Umberto was back. The body slam threw Micah forward, into the inflatable boat. He bounced off, like a wrestler hitting the ropes, and pivoted around. His unexpected move threw Umberto off balance. The big man staggered back a few steps. That’s when Micah saw the knife in his hand. Using the inertia, Micah launched a headbutt down onto the bridge of Umberto’s nose. There was a sharp snap of cartilage, but the big man’s knife arm was already swinging. Micah caught Umberto’s wrist, holding the knife at bay. But his strength was ebbing. With each breath the blade inched closer to his face.
The flagship’s speed suddenly dropped by half. The lurch sent both of them sprawling into the inflatable boat. The untethered dinghy flipped upward, over the railing and into the river.
The two men went with it.
Chapter Thirteen
Six of Batista’s men, each toting a machete, climbed onto the downed tree trunk. The underwater explosives would blast the fallen trees from the riverbed. But to ensure success they needed to hack down the jungle of tree branches showing above the water line, to prevent a logjam when the current carried it off.
Batista and his divers, Zé and Rafa, squatted at the edge of the Valentina’s front deck, their collection of explosives neatly laid out. Crewmen and cooks hustled around them, pushing back the long barbecue grills and moving the remaining livestock to make room.
Batista said, “We only need to dislodge the larger tree. We can steer around the other one.” He cut eight-foot lengths of detonator cable, connecting a series of blasting caps to the precut cord, explaining, “The cord’s cut long enough for two wraps around the tree trunk.” He then broke a ten-pound block of Semtex into butter stick-sized chunks. “This should be more than enough explosive for each wrap. If the branch looks really thick just use two sticks. This isn’t about precision.”
Zé, the lead diver, nodded and said, “Okay, sir. You really know your way around Semtex.”
Batista pressed the blasting caps into the Semtex, saying, “Explosives are one of my passions. They can solve virtually any problem. Are you ready?”
Both divers nodded. Batista walked away, leaving them to their work.
Zé zipped his explosives inside a sack and slung it over his shoulder then asked Rafa, “Is it just me, or does the boss get a hard-on when he plays with explosives?”
Rafa replied, “You got that right,” and finished prepping the last blasting cap, adding, “Man, I don’t like this pre-wiring shit.”
“Me neither, but it’s safer than doing it down there where you can see fuck all. Relax, nothing’s going to blow without the detonator.”
He pointed over at the detonator—a mini fridge-sized electronic plug box. A curious chicken was pecking at its connections.
Zé kicked the chicken, shouting, “Can somebody please keep these goddamn birds away from us?”
Cooks ran over, shooing the birds away.
Zé said, “Alright, switch on your beacon.” Red flashing lights mounted to their air tanks flicked on. “Now put on your tank and let’s get this over with.”
#
Catalina stood back with Faye, watching the preparations. She’d intended to bring the child back to the cabin but then decided against it. Faye was bright, and curious beyond her years, so keeping her mind occupied distracted her from being terrified. The absurdity of their situation wasn’t lost on Catalina. To their right, men raked the shoreline with machine guns, while here on deck the divers had enough Semtex to blast the Valentina into splinters. Despite all those dangers, being up on deck was still safer than being in the cabin—at least on deck they had room to run.
Faye said, “Look, the divers are getting ready. Did you ever do that?”
“Yeah, I went scuba diving a bunch of times with an old boyfriend.”
“What are those flashing red lights on the tanks for?”
“The water down there’s really muddy, so those lights help them find each other. Plus they have those really bright headlamps to help see what they’re doing.”
“How long will they stay underwater?”
Hearing another round of machine gun fire raking the shoreline, Catalina said, “They can’t finish soon enough for me.”
#
Zé spat into his mask then gave final instructions to Rafa. “You go right, find the anchor points, plant your wraps and run out the cable. I’ll do the same on the left.” He grabbed a long spool of electric “zip cord” affixed with a flashing red beacon. “I’ll sink the spool down close to the boat, so we can both run the det-cord over to it for hookup. Once we’re both back on deck I’ll plug the zip cord to the detonator and we’ll blow ’em all.”
Rafa gave him an unenthusiastic thumbs up.
Zé picked up the zip cord, slung the sack of explosives over his tank and slipped off the deck. Rafa followed a few seconds later.
Once underwater they split up, heading for their predetermined zones. Zé watched his partner’s beacon vanish into the distance then kicked hard until he reached the bottom. With all the sediment he could barely see six feet in front of him, but he counted three thick branches embedded in the muddy riverbed.
At the first, he wedged a chunk of Semtex and wrapped the detonator cable around it. The blasting cap was already connected.
Zé was about to move on when something shot past him. All he could make out was that it was four feet long and brown.
Maybe a river otter, he thought. From experience he knew the otters were curious but not dangerous.
A second one swam by, bumping him as it passed.
Fucker.
It swam thirty feet then spun a hundred and eighty degrees, heading right back at him—the light from his headlamp reflected off a mouthful of razor-sharp teeth. Zé swam back, trying to find cover in the branches. But the fish latched on to his outstretched arm like a vice, crushing the bones. It thrashed in place, trying to drag him out. Zé latched on to a branch with his good arm, fighting to hang on. The fish bit down harder, tearing through flesh, muscle and bone until it severed his arm. A cloud of blood billowed in the brown water. He clung to the branch even harder, terror and adrenaline cancelling ou
t the pain.
Zé felt a tremor ripple through the water—a low shockwave coming from beneath the riverbed. The tremor was strong enough to shake the downed tree.
Another fish shot out of the darkness, targeting his outstretched leg. He pulled it back in the nick of time. The fish missed, chomping down on a thick branch instead. It thrashed frantically, its teeth embedded in the wood.
Its struggle gave Zé his first clear look at his attacker. It was a piranha but ten times the size of any normal fish.
#
Catalina felt the deck beneath her vibrating and grabbed Faye’s arm. The felled tree in front of the Valentina trembled, as if shaken by some giant hand. The men working on the tree trunk threw down their axes, grabbing for branches. Three of them tumbled into the water. A second, more intense rumble sent two more into the river.
Shouting, “Man overboard,” Catalina grabbed a life preserver and tossed it down to the closest man. She glanced around the deck, yelling, “Homem ao mar!” and saw Santos idly leaning against the railing. “You maybe want to help us out here?”
Shamed into actually doing something, Santos trotted toward her.
The nearest man latched on to the life preserver. He looked at Catalina, giving a grateful thumbs up.
Then his eyes widened and he screamed, “Agudo!” An instant later, he was pulled beneath the surface.
It took Catalina a second to translate what he’d screamed—it was “biting.” Another man screamed and vanished.
Then she saw blood in the water.
#
Rafa watched the huge piranhas swarming around the felled tree. Killing his headlamp, he slunk back into the thick branches. The fish still hovered around him, biting at the tree limbs.
Shit, he thought, they can see the goddamn beacon. The flashing red light was like wearing a target on his back.
He groped behind his back, trying to turn it off, but couldn’t reach the switch. Shutting off the beacon meant unstrapping the tank.
He felt a tremor surge through the downed tree. The trembling ground kicked up a cloud of silt, further muddying the water.
Primeval Waters Page 12
