Insects: Braga's Gold

by John Koloen

Duncan watched the process with the skepticism of someone who’d seen the best laid plans fall to pieces so many times that he’d lost count. He, Suarez, Paulo and Grimaldi sat in chairs near the cook shack sipping the remaining coffee while Boyd, Harden and Cooper gathered whatever of their gear they could find so as to be ready when the moment came. The smoke from the fire passed over them like the dark, fast-moving clouds of an incoming weather system, blocking out the sun. They could feel the warmth that attended the smoke, dry and penetrating.

  Grimaldi and Suarez were engaged in an animated conversation in Portuguese, when Boyd had returned with his specimen boxes, taking a seat next to Duncan. The two fell into a conversation about Reptilus and whether they should leave now that they were free. Just as the miners’ attitude had gone from fear to greed, Boyd’s mindset had shifted from escape to his original goal of capturing specimens.

  “It’s the only reason I came, you know,” Boyd said. “It’d be a shame to have gone through all this for nothing.”

  “You’re alive, aren’t you? Isn’t that enough?”

  “Easy for you to say,” Boyd said, more sharply than he’d intended.

  “I see,” Duncan said.

  “I didn’t mean it that way,” Boyd said quickly. “You know, I appreciate you coming after me and all. It’s more than I had any right to expect.”

  “But now you don’t need to be rescued,” Duncan said, “Am I right?”

  Boyd sighed.

  “Yes and no. I don’t know. I sometimes think I shouldn’t have looked you up. It wasn’t my intention to get you into trouble. It’s just that—”

  “I know. I was in Manaus. You were in Manaus. I would’ve done the same if I’d known you were in town. But, you know, I don’t like what I’ve been seeing.”

  “You mean Braga?”

  “No, Reptilus,” Duncan said, nodding toward the riverbed.

  “You mean the way they buried themselves?”

  “Yeah. Why? Is it the heat? I mean it’s not that hot, is it?”

  “Maybe it’s the sand,” Boyd said, finishing his coffee.

  Duncan looked mildly incredulous.

  “It’s something we never really looked at,” Boyd said. “The sand is really loose. Maybe it’s a defensive mechanism. But as long as they’re underground, we should be okay. Right?”

  “I don’t know,” Duncan said, absently staring at the area where the colony had interred itself. “I’d really like to know how deep they are.”

  “Well, there’s plenty of crustaceans that burrow in sand. And beetles, you know.”

  “I’m not talking about burrowing,” Duncan said ominously.

  “Really?”

  “I wonder if they’re able to move around under the sand. I’m trying to think of a species that can do that.”

  “I can’t think of any. Why do you even think they can? Where’s that coming from?”

  “Doesn’t seem likely, does it?”

  Boyd shrugged.

  “Let’s hope not. I think we’ve got enough to worry about. It won’t be long before that fire’s here.”

  93

  “I’ve got it,” Duncan blurted loudly to nobody in particular.

  “You got what?” Boyd asked.

  “Skinks,” Duncan said. “I knew there was something that maneuvers under sand. It’s a reptile. The genus would have to be Scincus, right?”

  Boyd paused in what he was doing, seemingly to think.

  “What else could it be?”

  “I think it’s called a Sandfish because of the way it swims under the sand, unless I’m mistaken. I’m pretty sure it lives in the Sahara.”

  “Well, isn’t that wonderful?” Harden said.

  “Don’t be so sarcastic,” Boyd said.

  “And as I recall, they do it to escape the heat. There’s a precedent for you.”

  “What’s the point?” Harden asked.

  “The point is the bugs might be doing the same thing,” Boyd said.

  “What? Swimming in the sand?”

  “All I know is that skinks are much larger than Reptilus,” Duncan said. “I don’t see why they couldn’t do it in a pinch. That could explain why Paulo said there were bugs jumping up at them out of the sand when they took him prisoner.”

  Duncan looked at Suarez who had been listening to the conversation, who in turn questioned Paulo in Portuguese.

  “That’s what he says. They were jumping out of the sand. That’s why they had to run,” Suarez said.

  “This isn’t the desert,” Cooper said. “I’m sure it’s much hotter in the Sahara.”

  “Unless they know the fire’s coming and this is how they’re going to ride it out,” Boyd mused.

  “This is crazy talk,” Harden insisted. “We should just get the hell outta here while we can. Let’s just get outta here and wait for the plane.”

  Boyd counted heads.

  “There’s six of us and the plane holds three.”

  “So, it takes three of us to that little airport in Jaca, Canga or whatever it’s called, and comes back for the rest of us. It’s not that far.”

  Grimaldi listened surreptitiously to the Americans. He now believed Boyd’s claim that they were expecting an airplane to fly them out and now he knew when. He was certain Braga would want to know about it. The boss had made many assumptions about the fire, how long it would take to reach them and how much time they would have to escape. The truck they depended on was beat up from the abusive nature of the terrain and had sat idle for a month. Yet, Braga had yet to send anyone to start the ancient four-wheel drive, red Chevy D-20 pickup, its cargo box replaced with a wooden flatbed and slatted sides.

  Four skinny miners could squeeze into the single cab but only one if sandwiched between the plump cook and beefy Braga. Given their previous conversations, he feared the consequences when the men learned that Braga didn’t expect to evacuate all of them, that he planned to take the most valuable equipment with him. Grimaldi didn’t argue about it since he was guaranteed a seat but it troubled him.

  Nonetheless, the truck might not even start, or it could break down at any time. And then what? As the oldest and fattest member of the crew, he feared that he couldn’t endure a long hike through the jungle, that at some point he would fall farther and farther behind until, like a lame dog, he would be left to fend for himself. He hadn’t gotten to the ripe old age of fifty-six by relying on luck. He’d had plenty of time to think about what he would do if the ship he served on sank in a storm. They held drills. Every seaman knew what to do. But here it would be every man for himself and it frightened him.

  An airplane would change everything but he was now reluctant to tell Braga about it, knowing that his boss was a shrewd and greedy man with a penchant for violence. It didn’t take much imagination to foresee him hijacking the plane and leaving everyone behind. They might still have the truck but Braga was the only one who knew the route to Jacareacanga, which was less a road than a patchwork of tread marks and ruts made on previous trips. Since nobody suspected he knew about the plane’s imminent return, he kept it to himself but made sure to pack his knives in his military surplus canvas shoulder bag, along with several bottles of water and canned goods.

  “Every man for himself,” he mumbled in Portuguese.

  94

  For the only time since he started his operation, Braga had all three portable sluice boxes working simultaneously. Men carefully shoveled sand and gravel into the top of each box while others sprayed water, washing the sand so that the heavy gold flakes would drop into burlap mats while riffling its way to the bottom. This was not the ideal process and it frustrated Braga who went from one sluice to another criticizing the operators. The aluminum sluice boxes were intended to be set up in a stream bed where the natural flow of water would do the work. However, limited to the flow of a one-inch diameter hose, it was next to impossible to keep the water flowing over the entire sluice at an even rate. The operators were equally frustrated but knew better th
an to argue with their boss.

  Frustrated, agitated by what he saw as an unfair race against the oncoming flames, he ordered the men to clean out the sluices frequently, dumping the accumulated fine grains of sand so that the minerals could be panned out. The procedure was wasteful as he was certain the finer-grained and flour gold wasn’t being captured but he didn’t have a Miller’s Table, which would have allowed them to filter the tiniest grains. But Braga had no regrets. Using a Miller’s Table was a time-consuming process and the one thing they didn’t have was time.

  An hour into the operation, he stepped back momentarily to calm himself, fighting an urge to take over one of the sluices and show the men how the work should be done, though there was no certainty he could do any better given the circumstances. The men knew their jobs but there was nothing they could do about water pressure. Even so, he shook his head disconsolately when Grimaldi approached with a steaming cup of coffee.

  “The men are working hard,” the cook said in Portuguese as he handed the cup to his boss.

  “I suppose,” Braga sighed. “I’m afraid we’re missing a lot and the panning is taking too long. I don’t know what to do about it.”

  It was a rare moment when Braga admitted self-doubt and Grimaldi picked up on it immediately.

  “We can only do our best,” Grimaldi said sagely.

  “I know, I know. I know they’re working hard but all I’m thinking about is how much we’re missing.”

  Braga held up a jar nearly filled with gold and black sand.

  “This is from the first cleanout. The bigger stuff that washed out in the sluices. I’m afraid we’re losing the finer grains.”

  “How much?”

  Braga shrugged.

  “Maybe seven ounces.”

  “That’s very good, isn’t it?”

  “It is very good, but it’s wet and will be less after it dries. It’s the best we’ve done but I can’t help but think if we had more time there would be more.”

  “A bird in the hand—”

  “Yes, I know,” Braga said sharply.

  The two watched the miners in silence while Braga finished his coffee.

  “What about the truck?” Grimaldi asked.

  “What about it?”

  “Shouldn’t we start it up, make sure it runs, you know, get it ready?”

  “I can’t spare the men right now,” Braga said, returning the cup to the cook. “You want to do it, go ahead. You can drive, right?”

  “Of course,” the cook said as Braga saw something he didn’t like and shouted at the miners, marching toward them.

  “Where’s the key?”

  “In the truck.”

  95

  Boyd, Cooper and Duncan watched the cook as he walked the length of the camp, disappearing around a slight bend in the riverbed.

  “Where’s he going?” Cooper asked.

  Without another word, the three got up from their chairs to follow him.

  “Where you going?” Harden asked.

  “We’re looking to see what the cook’s up to.”

  “Well, come back with some food. I’m starving, man. Those dough balls weren’t enough.”

  Although Grimaldi didn’t pause as he stepped onto the sandy river bottom, Duncan hesitated, putting his hand on Boyd’s shoulder. The former scientist studied the sand and surrounds.

  “What?” Boyd asked.

  “I’m thinking about Reptilus.”

  “Oh, yeah. Good idea,” Boyd said, as he and Cooper stepped back.

  “Maybe I’m just paranoid,” Duncan said. “Doesn’t look like the cook has any problems.”

  “Can’t be too careful with the bugs, as you well know.”

  As a precaution, Duncan probed the riverbed with a stick, swishing through the sand in broad arcs, before tossing it aside and proceeding around the bend where they found the cook standing in front of Braga’s red pickup. Grimaldi welcomed the Americans.

  “Spending most of my life at sea, I don’t know much about trucks,” he confided.

  “Where’s the key?” Boyd asked, answering his own question as he peered through the driver’s window. “I see it.”

  The bench seat was covered with cardboard, which Boyd lifted, revealing torn upholstery and several springs poking through the cloth. Popping the hood he recognized the engine as a diesel, stamped with the manufacturer’s label. According to a metal plate on the driver’s door frame, the truck was manufactured in 1987 in Brazil.

  Following the inspection, the men stood in front of the vehicle like buyers considering a purchase.

  “It’s been sitting here a month,” the cook said.

  “I can tell by the cobwebs,” Boyd said, after circling the vehicle. “The tires look soft.”

  “Do you think you can start it?”

  “I’ll give it a try.”

  Everyone was surprised when the engine started on the first try, coughing and sputtering to life as if it had been waiting for such a moment. Once the billowing, oily smoke cleared, the engine hummed with a steady clacking of valves. However, the transmission filled the air with metal-on-metal grinding sounds as he tried to shift into first gear.

  “You’re killing it,” Cooper shouted good-naturedly.

  Frustrated, Boyd floored the clutch and jammed the shifter into second gear. Almost immediately the engine died as the truck lurched forward. His next move was to floor the clutch while pulling on the shifter to put it into neutral, but it wouldn’t come out of second gear. Boyd stepped down from the cab after several fruitless minutes, slamming the door behind him.

  “That happens all the time,” the cook said. “Braga knows how to fix it.”

  “At least it starts,” Duncan said.

  “That’s the important part,” Grimaldi agreed.

  Boyd remained near the truck, talking with Cooper, as Duncan and the cook started to return to the camp.

  “Are you coming with us?” Duncan asked.

  Boyd shook his head.

  “I think I can get it going,” he said.

  96

  Cody Boyd hadn’t expected anything that had happened since setting foot in Jacareacanga. He hadn’t expected to find a colony of thousands of Reptilus. He hadn’t expected to be threatened by a wildfire. He hadn’t expected to be taken prisoner. And he hadn’t expected to be sitting behind the steering wheel of an ancient pickup trying to work the transmission into neutral so he could start the motor, which he did after finally disengaging the shifter. But he wasn’t thinking about the truck. He was thinking about how to achieve his goal of returning to civilization with specimens. Before leaving Manaus, he feared that he wouldn’t find Reptilus in the vastness of Brazil, much less find thousands of them in such a parched place.

  “What’s the plan?” Cooper asked after Duncan and Grimaldi had left, shouting to be heard above the engine noise.

  “I’m trying to figure it out,” Boyd said, cutting the engine, the cab shuddering as the diesel sputtered into silence.

  Moving in front of the truck they talked like two people who had been engaged in an ongoing conversation.

  “I don’t think we can rely on Brett,” Cooper said. “All he wants to do is go home.”

  “So it’s you and me, huh?”

  “Looks that way, unless Duncan’s gonna help.”

  Boyd shook his head.

  “I don’t want him involved. He didn’t ask for this. Right now I wish he wasn’t even here. It’s like I put him in jeopardy for nothing.”

  “I’m glad he’s here. He had a lot to do with getting us freed. He’s a good guy. Can’t fault him. Besides, he’s got a plane that's gonna pick him up. What’s our plan?”

  “I wish I knew. If we can get our hands on the sat phone, we can call Biodyn and they’ll pick us up.”

  “If we have the bugs.”

  “Well, worse comes to worst, we lie,” Boyd said.

  “Really?”

  “Yeah. They won’t know until we get on board. Then it’s
too late. What are they gonna do, throw us out?”

  “Not without a fight, huh?”

  “Look around you, man,” Boyd said. “Between the bugs and the fire, we can’t stay here much longer.”

  Their backs pressed against the ample hood, they watched the smoke billowing overhead, some of it drifting toward the ground but most of it passing like clouds in a strengthening breeze.

  “We’re still gonna, you know, get some specimens, right?” Cooper asked. “I mean, I hate to think we’ve gone through all this for nothing.”

  Boyd grinned.

  “Still want that thirty K, huh?”

  “Damn right. Don't you?”

  “That’s what we’re here for.”

  The two fist-bumped and talked like conspirators about how to meet their mutual goal. They agreed that they couldn’t just approach the colony and grab the first bugs that came after them. More than likely they would be surrounded before they could escape.

  “I’m guessing there are scout teams all over the place,” Boyd said. “That would be our best chance, don’t you think?”

  Cooper shrugged.

  “I have no idea. It makes sense. But how do we find them? How do we even know it’s a scout team and not the colony, assuming we find them?”

  “One thing’s for sure,” Boyd said, after they’d puzzled over their predicament for several minutes without a resolution. “We need containers. If they walked by right now there’s nothing we could do.”

  “Given our luck, that’s exactly what’ll happen.”

  97

  Brett Harden had been nervous from the start. It was one of those situations when he wondered what he had gotten himself into. His background was in security but without any weapons he felt he was little more than an appendage. Still, if the mission succeeded, he’d get a fat check, but so far nothing hinted at success. He tried not to dwell on the situation they were in but it was difficult to overcome the constant state of alert that had been his mindset since they touched down in Jacareacanga. Everything was strange. Everything made him feel uneasy. It didn’t help that Boyd seemed cavalier about the risks, but he’d been through similar situations before and had a comfort level that eluded Harden. Even Cooper had a more settled disposition, perhaps because he’d worked with the bugs in the lab. Or it could be that Harden was just a fraidy cat.