Amazonia (16 page)
The only topic of discussion was the sugary yams. Nathan had asked from where such an abundance had come. "It's unusual to find so many plants." The professor had returned with an efficiently constructed backpack of palm leaves filled to the brim with wild yams.
Kouwe nodded toward the deeper forest. "I suspect the site where I found these was an old Indian garden. I saw a few avocado trees and stumpy pineapple plants in the same area."
Kelly straightened with a fork half-raised. "An Indian garden?"
For the past four days, they had not encountered a single soul. If Gerald Clark had obtained his canoe from a Yanomamo village, they had no clue where he got it.
"It was long abandoned," Kouwe said, dashing the hope that had briefly shone in Kelly's eyes. "Such sites dot the riverways throughout the Amazon. Tribes, especially the Yanomamo, are nomadic. They plant gardens, stay a year or two, then move on. I'm afraid a garden's presence here does not mean anything significant."
"Still, it's at least something," Kelly said, refusing to dismiss this bit of hopeful news. "Some sign that others are out there."
"And besides, these yams are damn good," Frank added, munching a mouthful. "I was already getting sick of the rice."
Manny grinned, running his fingers through his jaguar's ruff. Tor-tor had feasted on a large catfish and lay stretched by the fire.
The Rangers had set up a second campfire a short distance away. At sunset, they held a short service for their fallen comrade. Now they were sullen. Only a few muttered words were shared among them. It was unlike the previous nights when the soldiers were full of ribald jokes and loud guffaws before settling to their own hammocks and posts. Not this night.
"We should all get to sleep," Kelly finally said, pushing to her feet. "We have another long day tomorrow."
With murmured assents and a few groans, the party dispersed to their separate hammocks. When returning from the latrine, Nate found Professor Kouwe smoking near his hammock.
"Professor," Nate said, sensing Kouwe wanted to speak to him in private.
"Walk with me a moment. Before the Rangers activate the motion sensors." The shaman led the way a short distance into the forest.
Nate followed. "What is it?"
Kouwe simply continued until they were deep within the jungle's gloom. The camp's two fires were only greenish glows through the bushes. He finally stopped, puffing deeply on his pipe.
"Why did you bring me out here?"
Kouwe flicked on a small flashlight.
Nate stared around. The jungle ahead was clear of all but a few trees: short breadfruit palms, oranges, figs. Bushes and low plants covered the forest floor, unnaturally dense. Nate realized what he was seeing. It was the abandoned Indian garden. He even spotted a pair of bamboo poles, staked among the plantings and burned at the top. Normally these torches were filled with
tok-tok
powder and lit during harvest times as a smoky repellent against hungry insects. Without a doubt, Indians had once labored here.
tok-tok
powder and lit during harvest times as a smoky repellent against hungry insects. Without a doubt, Indians had once labored here.
Nate had seen other such cultivations during his journeys in the Amazon, but now, here at night, with the patch overgrown and gone wild, it had a haunted feeling to it. He could almost sense the eyes of the Indian dead watching him.
"We're being tracked," Kouwe said.
The words startled Nate. "What are you talking about?"
Kouwe led Nate into the garden. He pointed his flashlight toward a passion fruit tree and pulled down one of the lower branches. "It's been picked bare." Kouwe turned to him. "I'd say about the same time as when we were hauling and securing the boats. Several of the plucked stems were still moist with sap."
"And you noticed this?"
"I was watching for it," Kouwe said. "The past two
mornings, when I've gone off to gather fruit for the day's journey, I noticed some places that I'd walked the night before had been disturbed. Broken branches, a hogplum tree half empty of its fruit."
mornings, when I've gone off to gather fruit for the day's journey, I noticed some places that I'd walked the night before had been disturbed. Broken branches, a hogplum tree half empty of its fruit."
"It could be jungle animals, foraging during the night."
Kouwe nodded. "I thought so at first, too. So I kept silent. I could find no footprints or definite proof. But now the regularity of these occurrences has convinced me otherwise. Someone is tracking us."
"Who?"
"Most likely Indians. These are their forests. They would know how to follow without being seen."
"The Yanomamo."
"Most likely," Kouwe said.
Nate heard the doubt in the professor's voice. "Who else could it be?"
Kouwe's eyes narrowed. "I don't know. But it strikes me as odd that they would not be more careful. A true tracker would not let his presence be known. It's almost too sloppy for an Indian."
"But you're an Indian. No white man would've noticed these clues, not even the Army Rangers."
"Maybe." Kouwe sounded unconvinced.
"We should alert Captain Waxman."
"That's why I pulled you aside first. Should we?"
"What do you mean?"
"If they are Indians, I don't think we should force the issue by having an Army Ranger team beating the bushes in search of them. The Indians, or whoever is out there, would simply vanish. If we wish to contact them, maybe we should let them come to us. Let them grow accustomed to our strangeness. Let them make the first move rather than the other way around."
Nate's first instinct was to argue against such caution. He was anxious to forge ahead, to find answers to his father's disappearance after so many years. Patience was
hard to swallow. The wet season would begin soon. The rains would start again, washing away all hopes of tracking Gerald Clark's trail.
hard to swallow. The wet season would begin soon. The rains would start again, washing away all hopes of tracking Gerald Clark's trail.
But then again, as he had been reminded today by the caiman's attack, the Amazon was king. It had to be taken at its own pace. To fight, to thrash, only invited defeat. The best way to survive was to flow with the current.
"I think it's best if we wait a few more days," Kouwe continued. "First to see if I'm correct. Maybe you're right. Maybe it's just jungle animals. But if I'm right, I'd like to give the Indians a chance to come out on their own, rather than scare them away or force them here at gunpoint. Either way, we'd get no information."
Nate finally conceded, but with a condition. "We'll give it another two days. Then we tell someone."
Kouwe nodded and flicked off his flashlight. "We should be getting to bed."
The pair hiked the short distance back to the glowing campfires. Nate pondered the shaman's words and insight. He remembered the way Kouwe's eyes had narrowed, questioning if it was Indians out there.
Who else could it be?
Who else could it be?
Arriving back at the site, Nate found most of the camp already retired to their hammocks. A few soldiers patrolled the perimeter. Kouwe wished him good night and strode to his own mosquito-netted hammock. As Nate kicked out of his boots, he heard a mumbled moan from Frank O'Brien in a nearby hammock. After today's tragedy, Nate expected everyone would have troubled dreams.
He climbed into his hammock and threw an arm over his eyes, blocking out the firelight. Like it or not, there was no fighting the Amazon. It had its own pace, its own hunger. All you could do was pray you weren't the next victim. With this thought in mind, it was a long time until
sleep claimed Nate. His final thought: Who
would
be next?
sleep claimed Nate. His final thought: Who
would
be next?
Corporal Jim DeMartini was quickly growing to hate this jungle. After four days traveling the river, DeMartini was sick of the whole damned place: the eternal moist air, the stinging flies, the gnats, the constant screams of monkeys and birds. Additionally, closer to home, mold seemed to grow on everything--on their clothes, on their hammocks, on their rucksacks. All his gear smelled like sweaty gym socks abandoned in a locker for a month. And this was after only
four
days.
Pulling patrol, he stood in the woods near the latrine, leaning on a tree, his M-16 resting comfortably in his arms. Jorgensen shared this shift with him but had stopped to use the latrine. From only a few yards away, DeMartini could hear his partner whistling as he zipped down.
"Fine time to take a shit," DeMartini groused.
Jorgensen heard him. "It's the damn water..."
"Just hurry it up." DeMartini shook out a cigarette, his mind drifting back to the fate of his fellow unit member Rodney Graves. DeMartini had been in the lead boat with a few of the civilians, but he had been close enough to see the monstrous caiman rise out of the river and rip Graves from the other boat. He gave an involuntary shudder. He was no plebe. He had seen men die before: gunshots, helicopter crashes, drowning. But nothing compared to what he had witnessed today. It was something out of a nightmare.
Glancing over his shoulder, he cursed Jorgensen.
What's taking the bastard so long?
He took a deep drag on the cigarette.
Probably jerking off
. But then again, he couldn't blame Jorgensen if he was. It was distracting with the two women among them. After setting up camp, he had covertly spied upon the Asian scientist as she had
stripped out of her khaki jacket. Her thin blouse beneath had been damp from sweat and clung invitingly to her small breasts.
What's taking the bastard so long?
He took a deep drag on the cigarette.
Probably jerking off
. But then again, he couldn't blame Jorgensen if he was. It was distracting with the two women among them. After setting up camp, he had covertly spied upon the Asian scientist as she had
stripped out of her khaki jacket. Her thin blouse beneath had been damp from sweat and clung invitingly to her small breasts.
He shoved back these thoughts, ground out his smoke, and stood straighter. In the dark, the only light came from the flashlight taped on the underside of his rifle. He kept it pointed forward, toward the nearby river.
Deeper in the woods, past the laser motion sensors, small lights winked and flitted. Fireflies. He had been raised in southern California, where there were no such insects. So the blinking of the bugs kept him further on edge. The flashes kept drawing his eye, while around him the jungle sighed with the rustle of leaves. Larger branches creaked like old men's joints. It was as if the jungle were a living creature and he was swallowed inside it.
DeMartini swung his light all around. He firmly believed in the buddy system--and even more so right now in this cursed black jungle. There was an old adage among the Rangers:
The buddy system is essential to survival--it gives the enemy somebody else to shoot at
.
The buddy system is essential to survival--it gives the enemy somebody else to shoot at
.
Slightly spooked for his buddy's company, he called back to the latrine. "C'mon, Jorgensen!"
"Give me half a break," his partner snapped irritably from a few yards away.
As DeMartini turned back around, something stung his cheek. He slapped at the insect, squashing it under his palm. An even fiercer sting struck his neck, just under the line of his jaw. Grimacing, he reached to brush the fly or mosquito away, and his fingers touched something still clinging to his neck. Startled, he batted it away in horror.
"What the fuck!" he hissed, stepping back. "Goddamn bloodsuckers!"
Jorgensen laughed from nearby. "At least you aren't bare-assed!"
Staring around the jungle with distaste, he pulled the
collar of his jacket higher, offering less of a target to the bloodthirsty insects. As he turned, the splash of his flashlight revealed something bright in the mud at his feet. He bent to pick it up. It was a tied bunch of feathers around a pointed dart. The tip was wet with blood, his own blood.
collar of his jacket higher, offering less of a target to the bloodthirsty insects. As he turned, the splash of his flashlight revealed something bright in the mud at his feet. He bent to pick it up. It was a tied bunch of feathers around a pointed dart. The tip was wet with blood, his own blood.
Shit!
He dropped into a crouch and opened his mouth to shout a warning, but all that came out was a silent gurgle. He tried to take a deep breath but realized he couldn't seem to get his chest to move. His limbs grew leaden. Suddenly weak, he fell onto his side.
Poisoned...paralyzed,
he realized with panic.
he realized with panic.
His hand still had enough motor control to scrabble like a spider over the stock of his rifle, struggling to reach the trigger. If he could fire his M-16...warn Jorgensen...
Then he sensed someone standing over him, watching him from the dark jungle. He couldn't turn his head to see, but the prickle of some primal instinct sent warnings through his body.
Further panicked, he strained for the M-16's trigger, praying, wordlessly begging. His finger finally reaching the trigger guard. If he could have gasped, he would have done so in relief. As darkness blackened the edges of his sight, he fed all his remaining energy into his single finger--and pulled the trigger.
Nothing happened.
In despair, he realized the rifle's safety was still on. A single tear of defeat rolled down his cheek as he lay in the mud. Paralyzed, he could not even close his eyelids.
The lurker finally stepped over his prone body. In the glow of his weapon's light, he saw a sight that made no sense.
It was a woman...a naked woman, a sleek creature of wondrous beauty, with long smooth legs, gentle curves leading to full hips, firm and rounded breasts. But it was
her large, dark eyes--full of mystery, full of hunger--that held his attention as he slowly suffocated. She leaned over him, a cascading fall of black hair over his slack face.
her large, dark eyes--full of mystery, full of hunger--that held his attention as he slowly suffocated. She leaned over him, a cascading fall of black hair over his slack face.
For a moment, it felt as if she were breathing into him. He felt something course through him, something warm and smoky.
Then he was gone, darkness swallowing him away.
Kelly startled awake. Voices shouted all around her. She sat up too quickly and tumbled out of her hammock, crashing to her knees. "Damn it!" She glanced up.
More branches had been tossed on the two campfires. Flames climbed higher, spreading smoke and a fiery light all around. In the distance, flashlights bobbled through the forests, clearly searching. Shouts and orders echoed out of the jungle.
Gaining her feet, Kelly struggled to find her way through the tangled mosquito netting. She spotted Nate and Manny nearby. Both men were barefooted, dressed in boxers and T-shirts. The large jaguar sat between them. "What's going on?" she called, finally freeing herself of the netting.
The other civilians were now all beginning to gather in various states of undress and confusion. Kelly quickly noticed that all the green canvas hammocks of the Rangers were empty. A single corporal stood between the two fires. His rifle was held at ready.
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