Insects: Braga's Gold

by John Koloen

  “So, the day after tomorrow?”

  Suarez nodded.

  With daylight diminishing they redistributed their gear, food and water so that no one carried too much. Duncan, who also carried an assortment of first aid supplies, recorded their location, marking it on Suarez’s map. They were several kilometers from the mining camp, which they had previously marked with a circle based on GPS coordinates Boyd had given to Duncan. It was all they had to go on. Duncan hoped it would be enough to lead them to Boyd, but in the back of his mind he feared it would be a dead end. Boyd hadn’t been heard from for days and there was no telling where he was.

  They hiked through uneven open space that gave way to a strip of thick forest, followed by open space where the forest had been harvested, followed by forest. Suarez and Paulo used their machetes to cut their way through the tangles of vines, wearing themselves out in the process until they found themselves resting at the approach to another patch of forest, which blocked out the failing sunlight. Duncan recorded the GPS coordinates on the map, remarking how quickly night fell. With plenty of scrap wood they built a small fire, erected the tent on the loamy fringe of the forest and prepared to spend the night.

  Each ate a can of tuna while the beans warmed over a folding grate set over the flames. Paulo spooned the steaming legumes into the empty tuna cans to finish off their meal. Nobody complained about the menu, though Duncan wished he’d had the forethought to pack a pint of bourbon. Physically exhausted from the long day, sleep-deprived from the previous night at the hotel, wishing they’d had more time to prepare and finally agreeing with Maggie that a larger party would have been beneficial, he needed something to knock himself out. He envied his companions who chatted good-naturedly in Portuguese. Suarez, being the youngest, showed the least wear while Paulo, ten years his senior, was the first to turn in, his snores shortly competing with the chirps and high-pitched calls filtering from the forest.

  Suarez eyed the quiet Duncan in the shadowy glow of the embers, a streamer of white smoke drifting upward in the windless night. Duncan was squinting at the map, which he’d unfolded across his lap.

  “Do you see something?” Suarez asked.

  Duncan lifted his head slowly.

  “I was so sure of myself when we left but now, seeing how things are on the ground, I’m not so sure.”

  “Sure about what?”

  “About finding Cody.”

  Suarez grew pensive. Duncan had never faltered and he had total confidence in him. Much of his success resulted from Duncan who, even when they were captured by criminals, led their escape.

  “We will find him,” Suarez said encouragingly.

  Duncan shook off the cloudiness in his head. He knew his role. No matter what happened he couldn’t afford to let on that he was troubled, that his disappointment in the pilot threatened to overwhelm the good they were trying to accomplish.

  “You know the pilot, right?”

  “Sim. I have used him before.”

  “Do you think he’ll come back?”

  “I think so,” Suarez said, “but that is for another day. Today we are here. Tomorrow we will find Mr. Cody.”

  Duncan smiled, nodding in acknowledgement if not agreement.

  72

  From somewhere in the forest near where the trio slept came an inhuman wail. A moan so deep, so low that it hid in the background of the noisy daytime only to find its release in the dark. Duncan heard it during a fitful night, drifting in and out of sleep, thinking at first the barely audible sound came from one of his tentmates who, except for their intermittent snoring, could have been mistaken for dead. This is how it always was for him. The first night anywhere but in his own bed, or Maggie’s, was fraught with tossing and turning, waking and drifting into a kind of sleep that by his watch could last only minutes before the next interruption, sleep sometimes lasting an hour but mostly less. At a certain point, having given up on rest and not willing to use ear plugs for fear that they would block out the sound of something threatening, he longed for an early sunrise so that he could reenergize himself with coffee, hopeful that the second night would be restful. As if to play a trick on him, not long before he expected to crawl out of the tent, his exhaustion numbed his overworked mind and off to dreamland he went for two hours before awakening to the penetrating warmth of the sun brightening the tent walls and the enticing aroma of coffee.

  Neither of the cousins had heard the moaning. They were already sipping coffee when Duncan stumbled out of the tent, stretched, yawned and held out a plastic cup as Suarez filled it with the potent, steaming brew. Duncan sniffed it like a connoisseur and sipped slowly so as not to burn his tongue. It was just as well, as along with the liquid came the grounds, only partially filtered by his teeth. He chewed them reflexively as if they were granola only to spit most of them out.

  Paulo snickered.

  “Good coffee,” Duncan said, holding the cup up as if for a toast.

  Duncan savored his instant oatmeal while his companions ate snack bars. After breaking camp, Suarez led the way into the forest, pungent with vegetative decay, gaining the attention of howler monkeys and a chorus of birds that diminished as the intruders cut their way through the ubiquitous vines and thickets of ferns the size of small trees. Now that the loudest inhabitants had quieted, the air filled with the background hum of insects. Ten minutes into their march, Suarez found an easier way as he came upon an animal trail. They stopped as Duncan checked his compass to make certain they were headed in the right direction. Like a walk in a park, he thought, until the vegetative smells were gradually overpowered by the unmistakable putrescence of death. Duncan knew the odor well.

  Paulo pressed his fingers against his nostrils, a look of disgust on his face. Suarez pointed with his machete at a form just off the stream bed that had once been a giant anteater but was now a stinking pile of fur. The young Brazilian looked worried as he poked his machete at the hollowed-out carcass, which was crawling with beetles and larvae. Duncan shook his head as he watched. He hadn’t given Reptilus blaberus a thought, even though Cody Boyd was looking for it. This rescue mission had nothing to do with the bugs. His focus was entirely on finding Boyd and returning to safety.

  “We should go,” Suarez said nervously.

  “We must go back,” Paulo said, taking several steps in the direction from which they had come.

  Duncan hesitated. His senses heightened as he peered into the surrounding foliage. Letting his eyes adjust to the obscuring shade, he collected details that under normal conditions he would not have noticed. Nodding to Suarez, the guide continued slowly, scanning the trail, noticing everything. But it took only a few steps to recognize that the odor of death moved with them. Through the shadows they could see other stinking lumps—agouti, squirrels and the remains of small animals they could not identify. Paulo, whose reluctance to proceed was evident, spoke agitatedly with his cousin. Duncan couldn’t follow the conversation but he recognized Paulo’s fear. He felt it himself but fought back with amplified vigilance. They couldn’t go back, as Paulo wanted to do. More than likely Reptilus had moved on. The question was when the colony had moved on. He knew from his lab work that they wouldn’t return to an area they’d already visited. Their scouts prevented it. They weren’t mobile enough to travel long distances quickly nor could they afford to move into areas depleted of food resources. But he wasn’t complacent about it. What they did in their natural habitat could be different. He knew they could leap. He’d seen it in the forest. He’d never seen them climb trees but it could be possible. The one thought that scared him was an attack from above. There would be no way to escape it. But he didn’t want to alarm his companions so he kept it to himself while paying special attention to the canopy.

  One thing was for certain, they were surrounded by death.

  73

  Paulo knew little of his cousin’s previous encounters with the killer insects. Suarez didn’t like to talk about it, at one point having been accused of k
illing an American student. It brought up más memórias. When it became apparent that they weren’t turning back, Paulo followed his cousin closely. Duncan had sweated through his shirt and the two stocky, shirtless Brazilians glistened with sweat. The still, oppressively humid air seemed to close in around them like a warm fog. And he finally saw where the stench was coming from, a body resting against a palm tree, crawling with insects, still putrid. The upper thorax was exposed, the chest cavity empty, the organs having melted into goo, driblets of flesh dangling from the ribs, the face and hands reduced to cartilage and bone, the jaws wide open. Suarez and his cousin crossed themselves. The former scientist studied the scene, trying to understand how the attack had been carried out. There was no telling. Had the victim been attacked elsewhere and this is where he ended up? Or had he rested here only to awaken to find himself swathed in a writhing mass of ravenous insects? Or had he been killed by another animal, the insects happening on the corpse? Other animals had fed on the victim’s extremities, not Reptilus. It was clear from the decomposition that the victim had been dead for weeks and could not have been the source of the moaning Duncan thought he’d heard. Was there another victim?

  “We should bury him,” Suarez said in a hushed tone.

  “We don’t have time or the tools,” Duncan said decisively as he moved away from the body.

  Paulo quickly followed Duncan. The two waited as Suarez silently mouthed a prayer before resuming their hike in silence, emerging into daylight abruptly where the forest ended and the lumbering operation had begun. All around them was devastation, much of the earth scraped and desolate, punctuated by mounds of charcoal and ash. It was a relief to Duncan, who couldn’t shake the thought that Reptilus lay in wait in the trees as they made their way. He more than anyone knew how vulnerable to attack they were, that even a small scouting party could deliver a slow and excruciating death under the right circumstances. Once the insects got into the alimentary canal, there was no hope for survival. But he did a good job concealing his fears as his two companions sighted what looked like a tent. It was small in the distance and the only reason they saw it was that it was blue and everything around it was beige. The terrain was level and they hurried toward it, their packs shifting on their shoulders with every step.

  This had to be Cody’s tent, Duncan thought, shouting his name the closer they got. Breathless after breaking into a run the last fifty yards, he wriggled out of his pack and ducked inside expectantly. Except for a couple of water bottles, it was empty.

  Emerging from the tent, he aimed several full-throated shouts at a grouping of possumwood and palm trees and thick undergrowth that screened what lay beyond them. Suarez and Paulo meanwhile inspected the ground, pointing out barely visible shoe prints headed toward the trees. Duncan hastily recorded the location on his GPS. Everything he felt and saw told him that Boyd was nearby, though he couldn’t explain why he hadn’t left his gear in the tent. Energized by the prospect of finding his friend, Duncan started following the shoe prints, leaving his companions, both of whom were looking elsewhere, behind.

  “Come on,” Duncan said.

  Behind him, Suarez shook his head, nodding toward a line of fresh footprints leading from the tent across the sandy terrain to an opening in the brush. He called out several times in Portuguese.

  The trio watched expectantly as a short, bare-footed man stepped warily into the open, holding a machete.

  74

  Duncan may not have been so impatient if they weren’t speaking Portuguese. He’d fancied he could get by in Manaus with what he understood and what he could say. Important stuff. Like where is the bathroom. But he couldn’t follow what the three Brazilians were saying. At the same time, he didn’t want to interrupt, not when they might learn something about Boyd’s whereabouts. So he paced and checked his GPS.

  “Mister Howard,” Suarez called, motioning for Duncan to join him where he and the others had taken seats in the sand on the shady side of Boyd’s tent.

  “So, what’s up?” Duncan asked as he sat facing the three.

  “This is Josias Ikon,” Suarez said. “He is Munduruku.”

  “Olá,” Duncan said.

  Josias smiled.

  “He says he is Mr. Cody’s guide.”

  “Where is he?” Duncan asked, hopefully.

  Suarez stood and pointed.

  “He says they are on the other side of the trees.”

  Duncan leaped to his feet.

  “Let’s go,” Duncan said, slinging his backpack over his right shoulder.

  Suarez shook his head.

  “What?”

  “He says there are bad men.”

  “Is Cody okay?”

  Suarez shrugged.

  “He says they are prisoners.”

  “Prisoners?”

  Suarez nodded.

  “He says they are miners and the boss is a bad man.”

  This was almost too much for the American who pelted Suarez with questions, which he relayed to Josias, whose guileless responses Suarez translated. Suarez remained patient as he rephrased his questions, encouraging the tribesman to respond in Portuguese rather than his native Munduruku. Even so, the picture remained fuzzy. Josias could not tell how many miners there were. He hadn’t seen Boyd in more than a day.

  “How long have they been captives?” Duncan asked Suarez.

  “Before today, he says.”

  “Before today? That’s it?” Duncan asked sharply.

  Suarez’s shoulders hunched submissively.

  “I’m sorry,” Duncan said. “I’m just trying to figure out what to do.”

  Suarez nodded sympathetically.

  “Did he say anything else, maybe like where they are?”

  “Oh, he knows that,” Suarez said confidently. “They have a camp. I asked him how far but, you know, he doesn’t have words for it. He just points to the trees and waves his hand a little.”

  “How did he escape?”

  “The miners didn’t see him and he hid.”

  “When was this?”

  “He doesn’t know. It was before now.”

  “So, yesterday or the day before?”

  Suarez shrugged again, holding up his hands in bewilderment.

  “Could be longer. He can’t say.”

  “Why is he still here?”

  “He says he is waiting for Mr. Cody.”

  Frustration was getting the better of Duncan as he struggled to clear his thoughts. Suarez watched as Josias avoided eye contact with the American, who towered over him. Suarez rose and took Duncan aside.

  “Don’t be angry,” he said quietly. “He can tell. I don’t think he is afraid. He does not understand what is going on.”

  “But he knows more.”

  “I guess we just have to find out for ourselves,” Duncan said, looking at the Munduruku, who sat cross-legged next to Paulo.

  75

  Duncan studied the printouts that Boyd had given him. The exact coordinates were nearby but the trick was to reconnoiter without being discovered. According to his map, they were not far from the campsite. Paulo remained with the tent and their gear while Duncan and Suarez followed Josias into the bush. They traveled light. At the last minute, Duncan asked Suarez to retrieve the revolver from his backpack, which startled Josias, who cowered momentarily while Suarez reassured him that he had nothing to be afraid of.

  “Do you mind if I hold the gun?” Duncan asked.

  Suarez balked at handing the revolver to Duncan.

  “It’s okay, Antonio,” Duncan said encouragingly. “I have a lot of experience with guns. Besides, you need to bring your machete. This way we’ll both have weapons.”

  Duncan didn’t like the sound of that and immediately wished he hadn’t said it. Suarez simply nodded and Josias didn’t seem to understand a word of it but it made Duncan think about what they were about to do. All they had to go on was what Josias had told Suarez, some of which may have been lost due to Josias’s accent. Portuguese wasn�
�t his first language. He’d learned it while attending a school conducted by Catholic missionaries focused more on conversion than education. Duncan didn’t know that he’d also picked up enough English to occasionally guide Americans, such as Boyd, into the interior.

  The American hadn’t planned on a confrontation. Bringing a firearm was a last-minute decision based on nothing in particular. It just seemed like a good idea. There was no expectation of actually needing it. All along this was a rescue mission. This changed when Josias told them the Americans were prisoners.

  Duncan followed the Brazilians into the bush, mimicked the effortless manner in which they avoided making noise or signaling their location through movement.

  It didn’t take long to reach a place where they had a protected view of the mining camp. He’d seen it before, in the satellite images Boyd had downloaded. On the opposite side of the broad, dry riverbed was a steep bank gouged where parts of it had been washed away by the miners. Beyond and above the bank smoke poured into the sky, the smell unmistakable. They’d been smelling it since they landed but it was stronger now, closer.

  A pump stood silent on the edge of a shallow holding pond, a hose leading from it into the water. They crouched in a strip of vegetation dense with palms that bordered the riverbed but was several feet above it. The camp looked deserted except for two men, one of whom fiddled with the diesel pump while the other hovered behind him kibitzing.

  “Surely there are more than two miners. Where are the rest of them?” Duncan whispered. “Where’s Cody?”

  The camp was on a sandbar that rose several feet above the surrounding riverbed, shaped like a kayak, narrow at the ends and wide in the middle. It looked like a junkyard of equipment and trash with several tents and canopies supported with poles.

  Suarez put his finger to his lips and led Duncan and Josias out of earshot of the camp where he spoke to the Munduruku for a moment.