Amazonia

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.

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?

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?

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 br**sts.

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.

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 f**k!” 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.

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.

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.