Insects: Braga's Gold

by John Koloen

  The men clustered around their fellow miner who, after catching his breath, wailed that he had found his cousin’s body, shaking the bow in one hand for emphasis. This excited the miners. Several wanted to see the body and urged the anguished cousin to lead them to it, which he dismissed with an exaggerated shaking of his head. One of his friends told them they should return the body to the camp for a proper burial.

  “You don’t want him lying in the forest like that,” one of them said in Portuguese. “The animals will eat him.”

  Others agreed. One of them left and returned quickly with a tarp, while others grabbed machetes. The day had started like any other and suddenly it was different. They couldn’t work, through no fault of their own. They didn’t expect to be paid for the day. And now one of their fellows was dead and perhaps being feasted upon by the very animals that he would have hunted. This thought was too much for the cousin to accept, but the men wouldn’t follow him until Braga looked at them and waved them off. Within moments they were moving hurriedly away from the sandy camp, across the barren zone and into the leading edge of the unharvested strip of forest where little light reached the ground.

  The men became quiet as the shadows enveloped them. The cousin stopped several times to get his bearings. The men sensed they were getting close. The excitement they’d shown when the cousin had returned to camp had by now been internalized. Each felt a kind of nervous thrill, expectant but not knowing exactly what he would see, like the first time he’d seen a naked woman. Several wondered how the cousin had located the body, when it became apparent that he couldn’t have missed it. The scent of decomposition was unmistakable. A hole had opened in the forest canopy to admit a shaft of light illuminating a small patch of denuded ground covered in sandy loam and, lying within it, the obviously mutilated body of their co-worker.

  “Mother of God,” several whispered in Portuguese, as they jockeyed for the best position from which to gawk.

  33

  What was left of the body lay on its back, shirtless, its bony hands around its throat, its knees drawn up, its stink lingering on the windless forest floor. Some men crossed themselves. Some fell to their knees, though it was uncertain whether they did it out of respect for the deceased or to get a better look. Strands of blackened flesh dangled from his exposed ribs, his internal organs a soupy, coagulating mess. His face had been gnawed to the bone, puddles of black tar staring toward the canopy from the depths of his eye sockets. Decomposition made it impossible to tell how dreadful the damage had been. All that they knew for certain was that the victim had died a horrible death, eaten alive by something that left no tracks. They could not imagine the animal that could have delivered such devastation, though now the corpse was crawling with voracious ants, so much so that the men moved back to avoid them.

  They were hard men who made a living the hard way. But nothing had prepared them for this. All of them knew the victim in some way. Some wanted to bury him on the spot. Someone pointed out that they had no shovels. Ramon, the victim’s cousin, was furious. He told them to go to hell, that he would return the body to the camp by himself, if he had to. Half of them left. The remainder used their machetes as levers to roll the body onto the tarp, face down, recoiling in horror at the sight of dozens of what they thought to be large cockroaches protruding like cigar stubs burrowed into his otherwise intact back. One of them summoned enough nerve to pull on one of the stubs, only to have it break off, and he discarded the remnant in disgust.

  Seeing how fearful his companions had become, Gaspar quickly rolled the body tightly in the blue polyethylene tarp.

  There was no question what they would do with the body after returning with it to camp. They buried it. The stench was too much even for the victim’s cousin to take. They put the body, wrapped in the now leaking tarp, in a four-foot deep hole and quickly backfilled it, marking the grave with stones to which the cousin added a primitive cross fashioned from scrap lumber, amateurishly carving the deceased’s name into the cross piece.

  Their boss was not amused.

  Not long after the men had left, Braga had repaired the generator and spent several hours waiting impatiently for their return so that they could make up for lost time. But they were preoccupied with the death of their former co-worker, the underlying fear being whether they were at risk of becoming the next victims. Braga told them that Victor’s mistake was going into the rainforest alone, which made sense to them, since most of them had little direct knowledge of the forest, having grown up in urban environments. They concluded that the victim had made a stupid mistake.

  34

  “What am I looking at?” Duncan asked, holding Boyd’s iPad.

  Leaning over his shoulder, Boyd pointed to a place on a satellite image with a topographical overlay.

  “That’s the place.”

  “What’s the place? There’s nothing there.”

  The image revealed a barren, rugged countryside surrounded by forest.

  “This is only a couple days old,” Boyd said, using his fingers to zoom in on the image, revealing what appeared to be a collection of small structures next to a pond.

  “I don’t understand. What am I looking at?”

  “I know, I know. It doesn’t look like much. But that’s where the company thinks Reptilus is right now.”

  Duncan shook his head skeptically, handing the iPad to Boyd.

  “It doesn’t look anything like the habitat we documented,” Duncan scoffed.

  “I know, I know,” Boyd responded quickly. “It’s crazy. Not to mention how far it is from where we found them.”

  “How does the company know anything? Have they been there?”

  “They’ve sent teams in and they’ve been monitoring social media and rumor sites. They hired people who are fluent in Portuguese, at least that’s what they told me. They’re scrambling to recover. It must’ve cost a ton to get these images.”

  “If they’ve already had people on the ground, why are you involved?”

  “I guess because they haven't been successful. Aside from you, I know more about Reptilus than anyone. And I’m willing to do it. It’s all about the Benjamins for me.”

  Duncan had no reason to doubt his former assistant’s sincerity. The money could change his life for the better. He knew him to be levelheaded, but sometimes his enthusiasm got the best of him. He wondered if this was one of those times.

  “There’ve been reports, rumors mostly, of dead animals in the area.”

  “Fake news?”

  “We had a guy in Jacareacanga a few days ago and he talked to some miners, and they told him about seeing carcasses near some mining camps.”

  “We? Really? You a company man now?

  “Okay, they. Anyway, that’s what they told me. The company sent him there to follow up on some rumors. I don’t know anything more.”

  Duncan’s skepticism turned to concern almost immediately.

  “That doesn’t sound good.”

  “Yeah, I know. Go figure. But that was before I left. I haven’t kept up with it. Maybe he contacted them by now. All I know is that photo shows what looks like a mining camp, and that’s where I’m headed.”

  Boyd had returned to his seat across the table, facing Duncan. The former professor stared at the satellite image on the iPad, which lay on the table between them.

  “So, what do you think?” Boyd asked, expectantly.

  “I wish I could be more encouraging, but it just sounds, I don’t know, like a wild goose chase.”

  Boyd frowned. It wasn’t what he wanted to hear, but it wasn’t unexpected. He knew Duncan to be deliberate and not the type to jump without knowing where he was going to land.

  “I kinda figured you wouldn’t come but I thought it was worth a shot,” Boyd sighed, rising, placing the iPad in his backpack.

  Duncan left his seat to embrace his friend.

  “I suppose you get the money only if you produce specimens, is that right?”

  “I’m ge
tting paid but, you know, the big bucks are for the bugs.”

  “When are you leaving?”

  “Tomorrow. The company’s in a hurry. I was hoping you’d come, but I understand. You’ve got other things to deal with.”

  Duncan watched Boyd as he left the courtyard. As energized as he was when the younger man had arrived, he returned to his room disheartened, afraid that he’d rained on his former protégé’s parade, or worse, that he’d let him down.

  35

  The three Americanos did their best to look inconspicuous, but it wasn’t possible in Jacareacanga. The locals were darker skinned, and the Americans were noticeably taller than the largely indigenous population. Flying in on a charter flight from Manaus, they planned to meet a local guide who would lead them into the interior. However, no sooner had they unloaded their gear than the plan started to unravel. The guide wasn’t there to greet them as expected and he wasn’t answering his phone. The airport attendant suggested they go into town, which had been in decline for years, its population of twenty-four thousand in 2000 having shrunk by two-thirds. The mile hike down a dirt road into town convinced them that they would find no help, though Cody Boyd continued to call the guide. With no hotels to use as a base of operations, they returned to the airport and prepared to spend the night camping behind the ranch-style terminal building, after getting the attendant’s permission.

  “I’m not liking this,” said Brian Cooper, at thirty-seven the oldest member of the group.

  “It could be worse,” Brett Harden said as he helped Cooper erect the three-person Big Agnes tent.

  Nodding at the overcast sky, dark in the distance, a light breeze bringing with it the scent of rain, Cooper said, “I’m not doubting that.”

  Like his companions, Harden was a former Biodynamism employee. He had worked in the security division and, suspicious by nature, was prone to hypervigilance when in unfamiliar surroundings. The brief foray into town made him so anxious that he talked nonstop, mentioning everything that he saw as a potential threat. Boyd, the leader, was the only one who could speak Portuguese, though with limitations in comprehension and mostly in present tense. They spoke to none of the locals and, when a group of children started to follow them, returned to the airport.

  The tent went up quickly as if they were trying to beat the rain, but by late afternoon the dark clouds had receded, the overcast brightening to light grey, the threat of rain replaced by ninety percent humidity as the mild, refreshing breeze faded. Settling in for the night after sharing a pot of freeze-dried stew, stretched out on top of their sleeping bags in the crowded tent, they talked quietly about their mission and whether they should turn back.

  “You guys give up so easily,” Boyd chided.

  “The least you could do is call the company and let ’em know what’s going on,” Harden said. “We only got four days, right? Hell, just give me the sat phone and I’ll call.”

  “You gotta learn to relax, man,” Cooper said. “We just got here.”

  “Yeah, I know. And that’s a problem. Things already aren’t working out.”

  36

  The mission was a much bigger deal to Boyd than to Cooper or Harden. For them, it was a combination holiday and adventure from the daily grind while for Boyd it was a down payment on a house and the start of a new life, of which his companions were unaware. He didn’t want anything to jeopardize the outcome he’d envisioned, and reporting a problem at the start was not what he had in mind, especially over something as trivial as a tardy guide. He’d swallowed his doubts about whether the guide would ever show up. He had no way of vetting him. The guide had been hired by someone else who, as far as Boyd knew, picked him out of Craigslist or its Brazilian equivalent, OLX. But it didn’t matter. He would work with the resources at hand. He’d find a way to his destination. It was no more than fifty miles away. If for nothing else, he needed the guide’s ATV. He’d buy it from him if he had to.

  Boyd lay awake near sunrise, glanced at his watch and mentally debated whether he should start the day when the unmistakable sound of an out-of-tune ATV followed by a wave of exhaust fumes made the decision for him.

  “What the fuck is that?” Harden asked loudly.

  “It’s the guide,” Boyd said confidently.

  The three poured out of the tent, having slept in their clothes. Balancing clumsily while pulling on socks and fastening hiking boots, all three approached the ATV, which the driver had parked in front of the terminal before cutting the engine and restoring peace to an otherwise tranquil, overcast morning.

  “What a piece of shit,” Harden said, not noticing the driver, who was standing nearby.

  “Shhh,” Boyd whispered, nodding toward the driver, whom he approached with outstretched arm.

  “Bom Dia,” Boyd said. “Como você está?”

  “Muito bom,” the driver said.

  Boyd hesitated as he searched for a phrase to continue the conversation but was struggling.

  “What did you say to him?” Harden asked.

  “I said how are you.”

  “I speak Inglês,” the driver said, smiling. “My nome is Josias Ikon.”

  “What’s a nome?” Harden whispered to Boyd.

  “Name, in Portuguese.”

  “Ask him why he’s so late,” Cooper whispered, annoying Boyd, who was trying to introduce himself and the others.

  Boyd shook his head, moved away from his associates and led the guide into the terminal’s entryway, out of earshot. Josias explained that he was having trouble with his cellphone.

  “But I am here now, Senhor Cody, and I am ready to take you on a beautiful ride,” the guide beamed.

  Boyd smiled faintly. From the maps he’d seen, the ride would be anything but beautiful.

  37

  Seeing Cody Boyd had lifted Duncan’s spirits. He understood this because of how disappointed he became after returning to his hotel room where he debated with himself whether to join his former assistant on his mission to collect specimens of Reptilus blaberus. There was no question he could be of assistance. He was the world’s leading expert, after all, and had studied their behavior both in the wild and in the laboratory. Despite having left his profession behind in the years since leaving Biodynamism, he felt his interest piqued by the suggestion that the insects were either migrating great distances or extending their range. He feared the latter, speculating about the havoc that could result from a tiny predator that reproduced prolifically with no natural enemy to restrain it other than a fungus that apparently no longer threatened it.

  “Imagine how bad it could get, especially if they get into urban areas,” he told Maggie the next day, having spent the evening scouring the internet for rumors and sightings. He’d told her about his meeting with Boyd.

  Maggie, who was sitting in her living room nursing a cup of herbal tea, wasn’t certain what to make of his apparently revitalized interest in entomology.

  “You’re not thinking of joining Cody, are you?”

  “It’s too late for that. I think he’s already gone.”

  “I’m glad you showed some self-restraint when he asked.”

  “What could I do? I got these hearings hanging over my head and I’m not supposed to leave the city, although—”

  “Although what?” she asked pointedly.

  “Nothing,” he said. “I’m just thinking aloud.”

  “What exactly are you thinking?”

  She could hear him sigh from Brazil.

  “I was just thinking maybe I’m not restricted to Manaus. You know, I don’t think there’s a formal order. At least I didn’t see one. Maybe I’m just supposed to stay in the country. Maybe he asked me to stay in Manaus as a courtesy to him. But I don’t owe him anything. In fact, he owes me.”

  Maggie nearly spilled her tea as she shook her head.

  “I don’t like where you’re going with this. Please tell me you’re not going to do something, something, I don’t want to say stupid, but that’s what I’m thi
nking.”

  “Oh, I won’t. Like I said, he’s gone and, you know, maybe I’m just bored and need something to do.”

  George Hamel, who was eavesdropping on the conversation, couldn’t resist adding a comment.

  “Why don’t you go to a movie or something?”

  Duncan grimaced. He thought he was having a private conversation.

  “They’re in Portuguese, George.”

  “I wish there was something I could do,” she said, shushing Hamel and gesturing for him to leave the room.

  “I know what you could do,” Duncan said suggestively.

  “I know. But I can’t.”

  38

  Andre Montes couldn’t get over the feeling that he’d been misled by the assistant state prosecutor. Marcelo Lima scheduled another hearing, this one with a day’s notice, which he suggested could close the case. Duncan was ecstatic after hearing this and entered the hearing room in high spirits. In his mind, he was already on his way out of the country, his packed belongings waiting for him at his hotel. Until this day, meeting with Cody Boyd had been the highlight of his two-plus weeks in Manaus, but now the focus was on returning to Chicago.

  Montes was in a similar mood until it became clear that the hearing wasn’t a continuation of what had preceded it. Although Lima presided, an attorney for the Cardoso family asked the questions. Montes raised objections immediately.

  “Since this isn’t a trial, Senhor Montes, I am allowing it, as long as it does not become argumentative or contradict civil procedure,” Lima said. “We are here to gather information.”

  Duncan sat in a wooden armchair several feet apart from Lima at the front of the room. Facing him were his attorney, the Cardosos’ attorney and his assistant, a court reporter and Lima’s assistant. Several rows of empty metal folding chairs were arrayed behind them. Given that much of the conversation between Lima and Montes was in Portuguese, Duncan sensed his attorney’s discomfort but could not say why. Still, he had every reason to believe this was little more than a formality and that he’d be on his way in no time.