The old man smiled, gesturing for Micah to follow, then slipped into the brush. Micah chased after him.
Catalina yelled, “Where’re you going?” Then she crouched down, taking Faye’s hand, while gripping the pistol in the other.
Micah stumbled through the brush, looking in every direction, but there was no trace of the old man. Finally, he bent over, hands pressed to his knees, catching his breath. Something on the ground caught his eye.
Catalina shouted, “Hey Micah, you’re being weird and scaring us.”
Micah knelt down, studying the ground and yelled, “Everything’s okay, but you really need to see this.”
Catalina led Faye over. “What’ve you got?” Then she saw a crude arrow etched into the muddy ground.
“I saw the old man.”
“Are we doing this again?”
“I know you don’t believe me, but he’s real and I think he’s leading us somewhere.”
“Like to our deaths? The Red Devils could have just carved that as bait.”
“It’s the Red Death, and they’ve been hunting out here for centuries, so if they really wanted to kill us we’d already be dead. I say we follow the arrow for a while then take a break.”
With a frustrated sigh, Catalina said, “You’re the boss.”
#
Batista stood in the yacht’s pilothouse, poring over his charts while monitoring boat-to-boat radio chatter. He was confident they were closing in on their destination, but the atmosphere had grown tense. His remaining gunboat chugged directly ahead of the yacht, machine gunners at the ready—perhaps too ready.
It had been four hours since they’d left the wide tributary. Now they were traveling a series of narrow channels. The hundred-foot canopy of trees on either side plunged the area into permanent midnight. Navigating the dark waterway meant slowing to barely three knots. The glacial pace was agonizing, worsened by the Morte Tinto’s ongoing war of nerves.
Within the first hour the gunboat had been pelted with arrows. There were no casualties, but it had put the already shaken men on edge. The following hours brought more hit and run arrow attacks. Each time, the machine gunners had torn the riverbank apart, but they were shooting at phantoms.
An hour ago, two of Batista’s men had stolen an inflatable life raft, paddling back the way they’d come. Their escape had put bad ideas in the other men’s heads.
Batista peered out the window, muttering, “The bastards are squatting out there, waiting.”
Hans commented, “Ho Chi Minh would be proud of them.”
“What?”
The Austrian sat at the chart table, dissecting one of the massive piranhas that had jumped onto the deck. Without looking up, he said, “Their tactics are very much in accord with Ho Chi Minh’s book, On Revolution.”
“I don’t think they’re big readers.” Sniffing the air, Batista asked, “Do you have to do that in here?”
“There aren’t many other places left.”
Batista couldn’t tell if Hans was being insolent or just his usual Asperger’s self.
The gunboat’s machine gunners suddenly opened fire, sending hundreds of rounds at the riverbank. Hans ducked under the table.
After three more long bursts, Batista grabbed his walkie talkie, shouting, “Cease fire, cease fire! Santos, what are they shooting at?”
After a long silence, Santos came back with, “Nothing. Not a goddamn thing.”
A minute later, Santos walked in. He slung his AK-47 over his shoulder and lit a cigarette.
Batista asked, “What happened?”
“Our boys just blew away a family of river otters, so we can add that to the armadillos they shot an hour ago.”
Batista shook his head. “If they keep this up Greenpeace will be coming after us. Did you do a headcount?”
“Yeah. You’ve got twenty-six men in total, counting me.”
Hans crawled out from beneath the table, looking paler than normal, and said, “My God, that means we’ve lost almost fifty men.”
After a drag on his cigarette, Santos said, “Give or take.”
Batista said, “More than I’d anticipated, but we’ll manage.”
Santos added, “But most of them are hired-on shitheads that I can’t vouch for. There’s already been some rumbling.”
Batista nodded. “There always is.”
They heard approaching footsteps on the deck above.
Batista said, “Speak of the devil,” while slipping his hand into a drawer near the control panel.
Six crew members crowded into the pilothouse doorway, their faces roadmaps of cuts and insect bites. The men in back made a point of displaying their rifles, while those in front merely gawked at the pilothouse’s rich wood, fine furniture and inset lighting.
Santos flicked his cigarette out of the porthole and tightened his grip on the rifle. Batista gave him a subtle “stand down” gesture while keeping his other hand behind his back.
He addressed the crew. “Why aren’t you men at your posts?”
The crew’s designated spokesman stepped forward, saying, “We took a vote and want to get paid what we’re owed and go home.”
In his best diplomatic tone, Batista replied, “Gentlemen, I’m afraid that’s impossible. We don’t have enough fuel to make it back. But we do have enough to reach the outpost, where there’ll be plenty of fuel and fresh boats waiting.”
The spokesman grew more confident. “We figured that if we transfer all the fuel to this yacht and abandon the other two boats we could make it back.”
“Interesting plan. But I’m quite fond of this yacht and don’t intend to give it up.” Batista moved his hand from behind his back, revealing a block of Semtex plastic explosive wired to a blasting cap. “But you’re welcome to try.”
The men took a nervous step back. Hans saw the explosives and dropped his scalpel to the floor. The room fell dead quiet as Batista faced the men. It was a Mexican standoff.
The silence was shattered by the gunboat’s wailing siren. Its blinding searchlights snapped on, illuminating the riverbank.
Batista peered out of the window. His stolen inflatable lifeboat lay shredded on the riverbank. The two missing crewmen were directly behind it. At first Batista thought the men were sitting on some kind of high poles until he saw the sharpened stake points protruding from their mouths. He realized they’d been impaled in the most savage way imaginable.
Batista waved the crew’s spokesman over. “You should see this.”
The nervous man looked out and audibly gasped.
After taking a look, Santos leaned close to the spokesman, whispering, “Damn. Asshole to esophagus, that ain’t no way to die.”
Batista waved the other men over. “Gentlemen, come take a look, but try not to track mud on the carpet.”
The men stood silently, eyes riveted on the ghastly spectacle.
Batista seized the moment, asking, “Shall we review your options? If you try to take this yacht I’ll blow us all to bits. If you try to take the gunboat or the tender boat my machine gunners will cut you in half. And if you jump ship … well, you can see what happens.”
The men looked at each other, muttering anxiously.
Bouncing the block of plastic explosive in his hand, Batista said, “I’ll offer you an alternate proposition. Come with me and I’ll pay each of you five times the contracted fee. Just a few days of work and you’ll earn enough to stay drunk for a year.”
The spokesman asked, “Do you think anyone at your outpost is still alive?”
“Even if they’re dead the fuel’s still there waiting. Those savages have no use for it, and our mortars and machine guns can stop any attack. Or, time permitting, we can just wipe out those filthy Neanderthals for good.”
The concept of extra money and a bonus massacre earned a round of positive murmuring and head nods.
The spokesman said, “Okay, we’ll stick with you.”
“Your loyalty is inspiring. Now get back to your dut
ies!”
The men filed out. Santos relaxed the grip on his rifle.
Batista said, “Eliminate that mouthy one first chance you get.”
With a nod, Santos replied, “He’s chum.”
With trembling hands, Hans picked up his scalpel and said, “That was tense.”
Batista laughed. “It was nothing.” Then he tossed Hans the chunk of Semtex.
The Austrian fumbled with the explosive, almost dropping it. When he saw Batista’s amused expression, he asked, “So, you were bluffing about the explosive?”
Batista pulled a wireless detonator from his pocket. “I’ve made it a point in life never to bluff. Now, let’s get back to business. How problematic is the loss of our planetary geologists?”
Hans said, “The woman was a useless moron.”
Santos mumbled, “And a pain in the ass.”
Batista said, “And a nice ass it was. And what about our television star?”
“His knowledge and expertise would have proved invaluable. There are tests we should run before cutting into the Anomaly, the type only he’s qualified to perform.”
“The hell with tests. I’m tired of scientists slowing things down. Plus, they always want to share their discoveries with the world. They’ll all say it’s for the good of mankind, but it’s really just about their egos. I need this kept a secret until we’ve extracted every gram of that rock. That whole area is part of a federal protectorate to keep that tribe of primates from being contaminated by civilization. The government can swoop in and take control the second they smell money.”
Hans replied, “I’ll do the best I can,” and went back to studying the dead fish, while mumbling to himself in German.
Batista asked, “Is there some problem with your new pet?”
“Yes there is… It’s perfect.”
“Perfect is a problem?”
Polishing his glasses, Hans explained, “I’m not a zoologist, but I’ve done my share of research. Piranha are carnivorous and competitive. They fight each other and, like all carnivores, have food borne parasites.”
“So?”
“This fish is perfect. No scars, broken teeth or fin damage. All the things you’d call natural wear and tear. And, as far as I can tell, it has no internal parasites. It’s as if it was just born but fully grown.”
“Your point?”
“Have you considered the possibility that something, some force we don’t understand, is trying to prevent us from reaching the site? The ants, the snakes and these piranha are all freaks of nature that should be extinct. And they’ve all tried to kill us, which isn’t how animals naturally behave.”
“So, now you want to turn tail and run home?”
Hans shook his head. “No, I want to find out the truth.” He went back to probing the fish, adding, “Even if it kills me.”
#
Micah, Faye and Catalina continued trudging through the rainforest until he spotted another arrow carved in the trail.
Micah said, “That’s a good sign.”
Catalina nodded then cocked her head toward Faye. Micah could see the faraway look in his daughter’s eyes—like a soldier’s thousand yard stare.
He knelt down and said, “Come on, honey, I’ll give you a boost.”
The fiercely independent little girl didn’t protest; a sure sign she was exhausted.
Micah hoisted her up onto his shoulders, whispering, “Only a little longer,” and kept trudging up the steep incline, his leg muscles burning.
At the summit they looked down onto a flat, marshy area fed by a fast-moving stream that would qualify as a river anywhere else.
Catalina gazed down at it and said, “This looks like a good spot to make camp.” Then she hiked down the incline.
The trio stood at the edge of the marsh. A group of tapirs on the far side studied them, snorted in annoyance and ambled off. Catalina gazed out at the marsh. Almost every inch of its surface was covered in circular floating plants, some easily ten feet around.
Pointing to them, she asked, “What are those giant pancake looking things?”
Micah said, “They’re Queen Victoria lilies.”
“Do they eat people or spit poison?”
“Nope, they just float around. After dark, their flowers bloom. It’s really pretty.”
Catalina turned and walked to the edge of the stream, dipping her hand in.
Micah shouted, “Don’t drink that!”
“Seriously? It’s clear running water.”
He scanned the area. “Give me a minute and I’ll find something safe.” After a few minutes of searching the area, he shouted, “Over here!”
Faye and Catalina rushed over. Micah stood at the edge of a smaller waterway branching off the marsh. The stream bed was black and the water the color of tea.
Micah scooped up a palm full of water and tasted it. “This’ll work.”
Eyeing the brackish water suspiciously, Catalina said, “It looks nasty.”
“Welcome to the rainforest where up is down and dirty is clean. It’s a blackwater creek, but the black is just sediment deposits, decaying plants create tannins that seep in—”
Catalina cut him off. “Yes or no. Can we drink it?”
“Yeah, the tannins leave it almost sterile. Next best thing to rainwater.”
“You’re the expert, now step aside.”
The ladies took turns drinking and splashing each other.
Micah sniffed the dead piranha, and, satisfied it hadn’t turned, began slicing off strips. “When you two finish your water fight, how about getting a fire started?”
Looking embarrassed, Faye confessed, “I lost most of the kindling. Sorry.”
After a deep breath, Micah said, “That’s okay, we’ll find something.” But he knew that every twig around the marsh would be sodden. In the rainforest, something as simple as dry firewood could be the difference between survival and starvation.
Catalina dug into the satchel she’d been toting. “I think I’ve got something that’ll do the trick,” and produced a butter stick-sized chunk of Semtex.
Faye’s eyes widened and she asked, “Isn’t that the exploding stuff?”
“Yup, one hundred percent pure Compound Four explosive.”
Micah just stared at her.
Catalina peeled the waxed paper off, explaining, “Relax, plastic explosive only goes off with blasting caps or detonators. You can’t set it off with a match or by dropping it or even shooting it with a gun. It’s safe as milk and makes a great campfire. And, since it didn’t come with any detonators, that’s about all it’s good for.”
With a shrug, Micah said, “You’re the expert.”
#
Javier knelt down, studying some footprints at the base of a sharp incline. The three Americans must be close. Tracking them had been easy, almost to the point of embarrassing.
He muttered, “Amateurs,” and tied a strip of cloth to a tree branch, marking the trail for the queen.
The American bastard had killed Umberto, the queen’s first executive officer and his best friend. Now it was his turn to inflict some pain. He waved his three men forward. They trotted over, rucksacks clanking.
Javier whispered, “You idiots sound like a fucking samba band.”
The men all mumbled apologies.
“Shut up! Remember, the man and the kid have to be taken alive. The woman’s mine, at least until I’m done with her.”
“But the queen said—”
“Who’s the executive officer here?”
The trio nodded then silently moved up the incline.
Javier reached the summit first. Down below he could make out a marsh connected to a stream, all surrounded by hundred foot kapok trees. He heard something and raised his fist. The men halted. At first the sound was faint; then he distinctly heard laughter.
Using a stick, Javier drew a diagram in the mud, explaining, “They’re down there. I want one man left, another right. Once you’re in position sit tight an
d don’t move until I do. Juan, you come down the center with me.”
The men obeyed. Javier crawled forward until he saw the Americans nestled under the trees near a marsh. They were cooking food over a fire, and the smell wafting up reminded him how hungry he was. After allowing enough time for his men to get in position, he crept forward, keeping to the trees, thinking, It’ll be hours before the queen gets here. Plenty of time to get payback for Umberto and have some fun to boot.
Chapter Twenty
Micah bit into a piece of roasted Megapiranha. The burning Semtex lent the fish a chemical odor, and the blackwater stream water tasted as bitter as three-day-old coffee. It was the best meal he’d ever eaten.
He asked, “Do you guys realize we’re the first human beings to ever eat a Megapiranha?”
Catalina spat out a bone and said, “Maybe you can do a cooking show next.”
“My TV career’s as extinct as this fish is supposed to be.”
After swallowing another hunk, Catalina lay back on the ground, listening to the chorus of frogs coming from the marsh. “Those frogs make this place sound almost serene.”
Faye said, “You have to be really careful of the frogs out here.”
“Yeah, I heard. The poison dart frogs are really bad.”
“But there’s also the cane toads that spray poison.”
Micah said, “And don’t forget about the smooth-sided toads; touch one of those bad boys and you’re really in trouble.”
Not to be outdone, Faye added, “And there’s the Amazon milk frog. They’re super-duper dangerous!”
Catalina playfully tossed a chunk of piranha at Faye and said, “Okay you two, I get it. In the Amazon even Kermit the Frog’s a killing machine.”
Her joke earned a round of laughter, but to Micah it felt forced—like whistling in a graveyard.
The ambient light dimmed, as if a giant shadow was passing over them. Catalina looked up but could barely see the sky through the canopy of trees.
She asked, “Is it nighttime already?”
After swallowing another hunk, Micah said, “Nope, not for another three hours. The trees are so thick it’s always twilight down here.”
A flash of lightning lit up the treetops. Faye jumped a little and slid closer to Micah.
Primeval Waters Page 17
