Blood Forest (Suspense thriller) (7 page)

She looked back at him, stunned. “Nothing.”

Was that even me?
he wondered, feeling guilty for snapping at his wife.

She moved ahead, putting distance between them. She jogged ahead, staying close to the river. He ran, hopping over twisting roots, catching up to her. She had stopped and was staring straight ahead.

“Sam, I’m sorry,” he said as he came up behind her.

“It’s beautiful.”

He followed her gaze to a clearing where the trees hung over a large patch of grass. Sunlight poked through, lighting the carpet in an explosion of reds, purples, and blues. The grasses and the trees were adorned with beautiful flowers and the whole forest seemed to rise up around them, creating a barrier around the garden. She walked forward, stepping lightly through the grass. The canopy provided just the right amount of cool shade so the grasses didn’t grow too thick. A stream trickled nearby.

She stopped in the middle of the field and nudged a resting branch with her foot, then stooped to pick it up. It was blackened and charred. She dropped it back onto the ground and stirred a pile of objects with her toe. He saw several patches of blackened ground where it looked like leaves and branches had been set aflame. Some were burnt into coals, but in some places the green leaves had only dried and curled up from the heat.

“What is this place?” she asked him.

He gazed at the nearby undergrowth. Some of the plants appeared to push apart, forming a trail off into the jungle. “I think it’s a camp,” he offered. He examined the burnt piles. “These branches look like they were part of some kind of house.”

“Like a hut?”

“Yeah.”

“I wonder where the people went.”

“Pygmies are hunter-gatherers, right? They probably use this place and then move on when the season changes or game gets scarce.”

“Do they burn their huts?” she tromped off, investigating the abandoned camp further.

The clearing was large enough to accommodate dozens of the small buildings. Many of the charred patches were overgrown with thick, flowering vines, suggesting that the burning wasn’t recent.

Sam stopped in a patch of mud. She kicked up wet clumps of dirt. “Brandon, come look at this.”

The thick muddy patch covered a few hundred square feet at the corner of the clearing. His foot kicked against something in the dirt—something thin and small. At first, he thought it was a sharp twig of a broken root still deeply embedded in the soil, but when he looked down he saw a fleck of white. He stooped down to investigate.

“What is it?” Sam asked.

As he looked closer, he saw fleshy ligaments on bone, blackened in places. The twig was, in fact, a finger bone. “I think this is . . . a grave.”

She paused, looking around in shock. “The whole thing?”

“Yeah.”

“Oh, my God.”

He felt cold waves across the back of his neck. How many bodies were buried under their feet? A whole family? A whole tribe? He suddenly had the urge to move, and he strode carefully, but quickly, off the upturned soil. Sam followed suit, keeping close behind him. She looked pale in the fading light. Around them, the brook still bubbled and the leaves and flowers blew gently in the breeze, suggesting a serenity that neither of them felt. She stepped up close to him, wrapping her arms around his neck.

“There’s a well-worn path over there,” he said. “We could try taking that instead of following the river. It might lead to a village.”

“Or to another grave,” she finished. Then she perked up a little and added, “But I think you’re right. We should take the trail.”

He nodded and pulled off his pack, unzipping it and digging inside. “We should refill the water bottles first.”

“I think we have enough,” she interrupted.

He paused, looking at her. “Just to be safe.”

“I just don’t want to take water from here,” she answered.

Brandon nodded, and they headed toward the trail, the canopy thickening overhead. They stepped carefully as the world grew dark once again.

6

B
aKokwa was a much smaller settlement than Michanga’s village. Only a few buildings sat in the center of the village, and the plantations did not extend very far into the jungle. Instead, much of the cleared space was left untended and twisting jungle vines crept in at the outskirts, choking the soil that had once borne rice.

In the rare moments when a wind blew through, it picked up dust in a billowing cloud and swept it between the bamboo huts. The place was dry, dirty, and hot. Let the jungle consume it, Ike thought bitterly.

Nessa and Alfred had managed to talk the three mercenaries into accompanying them to the hidden village—if the place even existed. They had offered a nice bonus to sweeten the deal.

When they drove into BaKokwa, Ike hadn’t been able to spot a single militia soldier—not even the Mai-Mais, who in his experience were slightly reasonable. The only people on the streets were unarmed Bantu villagers, weaving through the huts on their daily business.

Unlike at the other Bantu villages, no identifiable town leader came out to greet them. Instead, the children watched them curiously and the adults walked to and fro from the huts.

Alfred got out immediately and began speaking to the closest men and women in both French and the local tongue. Ike watched as the phytochemist tried to strike up a conversation with a Bantu woman, trailed by two young girls. Although the woman seemed to understand French, she kept insisting that there was no other road out of the village besides the one they came in on, so how could there be another village? The other settlement would need trails and roads to bring the things that they needed in and out. Villages did not exist by themselves in the forest.

Ike agreed with the Bantu woman, and so he leaned back against the Jeep with his arms folded, expecting nothing to come of the conversation. Delani sat in the Jeep with Gilles.

Nessa stood quietly off to the side, alternating between watching Alfred’s struggle and examining the edges of the forest around them. Ike found his eyes roaming, drifting down her back, where her ponytail hung loosely. Her shirt was baggy, masking her narrow waist, but her pants clung to the curve of her hips.

Ike had been in the jungle too long, he decided. He found himself hating Nessa Singer more than ever today, and yet his eyes would inevitably find their way over. The woman seemed unaware that she was beautiful. She had a reserved, shy way of conducting herself, and she never smiled. She lacked sensuality, always cold and distant.

Nessa turned suddenly, and his eyes rose up guiltily to meet hers. Ike swallowed and shifted against the Jeep, turning to look at the forest leaves. She had caught him looking at her—not an ideal situation. He didn’t need her to know that she held any sort of power over him.

He looked back to see her still looking over, a perplexed look on her face. Her brown eyes were wide and girlish.

Aw, what the hell?
Ike thought and gave her a wide toothy grin.

Nessa’s face reddened and she looked angry and embarrassed, as if Ike had made fun of her. That was understandable—usually when he smiled at her, he was doing just that. She looked away, turning back to the village.

Ike wondered about her response as he continued to watch her from behind. Maybe she really is shy, he thought. And here I thought it was an act.

The Bantu woman was tiring of Alfred’s questions, who would not relent no matter how much he was stonewalled. Finally, she insisted that if Alfred wanted to know about the forest so badly, he should go and talk to a pygmy. As she walked away, Alfred called after her, asking where he could find one of the pygmies. The woman huffed and pointed across the village at a hut on the outskirts. Ike could make out a few silhouettes sitting on the porch.

She added, “Good luck getting them to tell you anything.”

Alfred yelled a
merci
after the woman and returned to the Jeep. He said, “I’m going to head across the village to go have a chat with the pygmies. Would any of you like to come with me?”

“You want protection?” Delani asked with a doubtful grin. “From the pygmies?”

Gilles let out a small laugh, and Ike cracked a grin. Alfred turned to walk away.

“Hold up,” Ike called. “I’ll go with ya.”

They made their way through the dirt streets. As they approached the front of the hut, the three men looked up, stopping their conversation.

One of the pygmies was wearing a dirty, torn shirt that hung down past his waist. The other wore a high-quality but worn-out and dirty polo shirt. He also wore a pair of khaki shorts, making him look very well dressed for a pygmy.

The third man was Bantu, with white hair and a crooked jaw. He watched Alfred and Ike approach with suspicion.

Alfred called out a greeting, spreading his arms out wide. Ike noticed the men’s eyes lock on the chemist’s hook. The well-dressed pygmy spoke first. He answered Alfred’s greeting and followed it up with a phrase from some Bantu dialect. Alfred responded. Alfred’s ability to learn many different dialects astounded Ike, who spoke only pieces of Swahili. Unfortunately, in the Ituri Forest only a small percentage spoke that most widespread of Bantu languages.

Alfred’s next question, in the Bantu language, caused the Bantu man to raise his eyebrows and mutter.

When the chemist began to elaborate, the Bantu man cut him off. He grew animated, gesturing with his hands and speaking forcefully. Alfred’s queries only angered the man further.

As the conversation intensified, Ike kept his eyes on the two pygmies, who had fallen silent.

Alfred nodded to the three men and apologized for interrupting them. Then he turned away, Ike trailing closely behind. When they got out of earshot, Ike asked, “What was that all about?”

Alfred shook his head in disbelief. “He did not want to say anything.”

“He didn’t seem to like the questions you were asking.”

“Silly superstition.”

The sky darkened, the green canopy turning blue as dusk fell. The others were still waiting at the Jeep when they arrived.

“Any luck?” Nessa asked, taking a few steps toward them, her feet crunching in the wet dirt.

“No luck,” Alfred replied. “These people don’t want to talk to me.”

“I think it’s the hook,” Ike offered. Alfred turned an icy glare toward him, but the effect was lost in the fog on his glasses.

“It’s not the hook,” Alfred insisted. “The Bantu man explained everything.”

“What did he say?”

“According to him, the people of this village believe that the forest to the east is haunted.”

“Haunted?” Nessa asked doubtfully.

Alfred nodded. “They believe that something terrible happened there long ago and now it is home to a powerful spirit. The spirit, he said, drives the animals of the forest mad and commands them to attack all that enter its lands. He said that the spirit can possess you and can take control of your mind. He also said that none who go in there ever come out.”

Ike was not a superstitious man, not even a semi-religious one, but he felt his heartbeat quicken. He remembered sitting around a campfire as a small boy as his uncle told him ghost stories and feeling the same thrill.

“What about the village?” Nessa asked.

“He didn’t know of one,” Alfred answered, shaking his head. “He said they call it
Msitu wa Damu
.”

“Forest of blood,” Ike repeated, recognizing the Swahili words. He noticed Delani and Gilles shift slightly. The South African gazed into the shadows of the surrounding forest.

Dark clouds moved across the sky, warning of a coming storm. With those clouds, came a light breeze, moving through the treetops. The canopy rustled overhead.

“Do the pygmies go there?” Ike asked.

“He said that pygmies no longer live in the forest there. Not even they will go inside,” Alfred said.

“So there’s no village?” Nessa asked.

“It appears not,” Alfred replied with a shrug.

“I wouldn’t be so sure there, Doc,” Ike countered. “Right after we introduced ourselves . . . what was the first question you asked them?”

Alfred thought for a moment, trying to remember. “I asked if there was a village east of here.”

Ike nodded. As soon as Alfred had asked that first question, the pygmies had turned from comedic to silent and distant. They did not have the look of people who were fearful, but rather the look of people who didn’t want to give something away.

“What are you thinking?” Alfred asked.

“I think the pygmies were lying.”

“About what? About the forest?”

Ike shook his head. “Did you ask them about the forest? Did one of them ever mention this spirit the Bantu man spoke of?”

“No.”

Ike grinned slyly at Alfred and Nessa. “I’d bet everything that the pygmies know exactly where this village is.”

Alfred scratched his chin, looking up at the sky as a breeze blew in low, rustling their shirts.

“Why would they lie?” Nessa asked.

Ike shrugged. “They could be protecting someone. Remember what happened to the village we just came from?”

“If that’s the case, we could offer them money to tell us more,” Nessa suggested.

Alfred shook his head. “They are from a hunter-gatherer society. They don’t value material wealth as much. If they are serious about protecting this place, they won’t be easy to bribe.”

“I disagree,” Ike said. “The one who can speak English and French seems like a very worldly bloke, wouldn’t you say?”

“Definitely,” Alfred agreed. After a moment, he added, “For a pygmy.”

“Well, if he is so worldly, then I’d think he’s learned the value of worldly riches,” Ike went on. “You saw the clothes he was wearing.”

“I think you have a very good point,” Alfred said, smiling widely.

“I bet the right amount of cash and a promise of good intentions would get us far with him.”

Nessa’s lips drew into a rare smile, and Ike was shocked to see the expression aimed at him. When he returned the grin, doing his best to keep the crocodile out, she did not look away. For a few rich seconds, he looked straight into her dark eyes.

“Let’s have a talk with him then,” Alfred declared.

Nessa nodded, her smile fading and her body tightening up once again. She folded her arms in front of her chest. As she turned, Ike found his gaze slipping down her profile.

Lightning flashed and thunder rolled in, crashing violently across the sky.

Temba’s eyes went wide when the first stack of American bills dropped onto the table in front of him. They had got him alone on the porch while the others went in to get out of the rain. All around them, lightning and thunder crashed as the rain poured down in heavy, pounding bullets. Three more stacks of money landed beside the first in rapid succession.

Ike focused on the cornered pygmy, who stared transfixed by the sheer size and number of the bills.

Alfred leaned on the table, cut from a slice of an old tree trunk, and waited for Temba to give a reply.

The small man lifted both hands to his scalp and held them there, as though engaged in a personal struggle.

“I will explain,” Alfred offered. “My friends and I are looking for a flower that grows in the forest there. We simply want to pick a sample of this flower so that we can use it to make a medicine.”

Temba scoffed. “Medicine.”

“It’s true,” Alfred insisted. “We are not friends with any of the local militias. In fact, a good friend of mine died at their hands yesterday. We would have no desire to lead them into that forest.”

“If this flower has the medicine you are looking for, others will not come for it?” Temba asked, his expression showing that he knew the answer.

Alfred chose his next words carefully. “If others were to come for it, they would keep it a secret. It is within our best interest that no one else knows about it.”

Temba gave him a doubtful look, until Alfred added, “That way no one else can profit from it. We would move the flower and plant it in our gardens so that we don’t need to come into the forest to get it.”

Temba thought about that for several moments. His eyes glanced back down at the stack of bills.

Ike circled around the table, boots clomping on the floor. He moved up behind Temba, who spun around, obviously not comfortable having the Australian behind him.

Ike spoke quietly. “Obviously this village exists, or you wouldn’t be protecting it. We have a map. So either we go around chopping up the forest until we find it, or you can take the money and lead us there and make sure that nobody follows us.”

“We’re here only for the flower,” Alfred put in. “We’re not loggers, we’re not farmers, and we’re not friends of any of the militias. With you as our guide, we can all make sure this village stays a secret.”

“Kuntolo and I will take you,” Temba agreed. “But only the five of you. No others must know of this place. And we will not lead you into the forest.”

“Because of the spirits?” Ike asked.

Temba shook his head. “There is nothing in that forest for anyone. It is a bad place.”

“You don’t believe in the spirits?”

Temba turned to look directly at the Australian. “Do you?”

When Ike shook his head, Temba grinned wide.

“If you don’t believe in spirits, why do you think the forest is bad?” Alfred asked.

“It is not safe,” Temba answered.

“But why?”

“It is not safe.”

“All right,” Alfred agreed finally. “You lead us to the village and we’ll worry about the rest.”

Temba nodded and reached across the table for the stack of bills. Alfred was faster, however, and he snatched them off of the table with his hand. He held his hook up in warning. “We will pay you
after
we get there.”

Temba grinned and then brushed a hand over his lips, wiping the thin smile away. “We will take you there in the morning. Tell no one where we are going.”