If We Survive

by Andrew Klavan

  Palmer reached the trees. He never hesitated. He just charged on and quickly disappeared from view into the heavy foliage. Meredith and Nicki went in next, then Jim. And finally, I reached the edge of the jungle.

  From the outside—from the airstrip—it didn’t look like there was any path, but when I got close, I saw that there was. Brushing a humongous frond out of the way, I saw a narrow dirt trail that twisted between more humongous leaves and low bushes and the humped roots and outstretched branches of the surrounding trees. Palmer must’ve known the trail was there because he headed right for it and was now walking along quickly and surely. The others stumbled after him. I stumbled after them.

  The thunder rolled again as we walked, and the rain hammered hard and loud against the roof of the jungle, rattling the thick covering of leaves. The water dribbled down from above in steady streams. It poured through my already dripping hair and soaked through my already soaking clothes. It was all pretty miserable.

  We didn’t go far, though. Not far at all. After a few moments, I glanced back over my shoulder and saw the airfield just disappearing from sight—and as soon as I looked forward again, I saw the others had stopped and were gathered right in front of me. When I reached them, I saw Palmer, holding up his hand to bring us to a halt.

  He spoke softly, quickly. “Get low,” he said.

  He gestured for us to get down. We all squatted. I felt the damp earth squeeze up around my ankles.

  “Ew,” said Nicki.

  “Ssh,” said Meredith, and Nicki was quiet.

  Palmer listened—and so we all listened, crouched there, dripping and shivering in the rain.

  The downpour was really loud here, thudding relentlessly on the leaf covering above us. At first, I thought it had drowned out the sounds of the engines, but then I realized, no, the engines had stopped. The next moment I made out a series of clunking noises. It was the trucks, I realized: the doors of the trucks opening and closing.

  The rebels had reached the airstrip.

  I heard a voice barking orders in Spanish.

  Mendoza. My mouth formed the word, but I didn’t dare say it out loud.

  Palmer was suddenly up and pushing past me. He didn’t say a word, just headed quickly back down the path, toward the airstrip, keeping his back bent, his head low. I hesitated for a second, uncertain. He hadn’t told me what to do. He hadn’t told anyone. But then it occurred to me, you know, that I was the only other one of us who had a gun. If Palmer got into trouble, if he had to fight, I might be able to help. That’s what I thought, anyway, so I decided to follow him.

  I hurried down the path—imitating Palmer, bending over and keeping my head as low as I could. I retraced my steps until I found Palmer down on one knee, close to the edge of the jungle.

  Weirdly, he seemed to be expecting me because without turning around, he held up his hand, gesturing me to stop, and then waved me down. So I went down, knelt down as he had. Instantly, the cold mud seeped through my jeans. Nicki was right: Ew.

  Palmer peered through the trees and the falling rain so I did too. We were very close to the airfield. I could see it clearly through the gaps in the leaves. I could see two green trucks parked there now, one on either side of our black van. And I could see the crowd of armed rebels milling around in the storm. I counted a dozen of them and I noticed right away that one of them, just as I had thought, was Mendoza.

  Unlike the others, the rebel leader was standing very still. Only his head moved as he turned it slowly to scan the edge of the jungle. He was looking off to our right but panning his eyes relentlessly in our direction.

  Then he stopped—and he seemed to be looking right at us.

  I caught my breath.

  “Stay cool,” Palmer whispered.

  Good advice. I wished I could take it. But my heart was pounding so hard I was afraid Mendoza might be able to hear it.

  The rebel went on staring at us—that’s what it felt like he was doing, anyway. Then he started barking orders again.

  “What’s he saying?” I whispered.

  “He’s remembered this path. He knows we must’ve taken it.”

  “Will they come searching for us?”

  Palmer shook his head. “I don’t know. It’s gonna be dark soon. He doesn’t want to be out here in the jungle at night.”

  Yeah, I know how he feels, I thought.

  In answer to Mendoza’s shouts, two rebels had now gone running up to Palmer’s black van. One leaned inside the driver’s seat. A moment later the van’s hood popped open. The second rebel approached the hood. He unhooked a hand grenade from his belt.

  I heard Palmer whisper a curse. “I’m still paying for that van,” he muttered.

  Then Mendoza shouted something, which I’m pretty sure translated into, “Run!”

  The second rebel pulled the pin of the grenade and tossed it under the van’s hood.

  The rebels scattered, running off across the airfield in all directions. Mendoza, meanwhile, calmly walked away from the van, casually getting out of range just as the grenade exploded.

  The noise of the blast was huge in the open field. An enormous fireball engulfed the van—a huge blossoming dome of orange flame rising into the gray rain and the black sky. If the van hadn’t been our last means of escape, it would’ve actually been kind of awesome to see. Even as it was, I knelt there mesmerized by the strange beauty of the vehicle’s fiery destruction.

  It took a couple of seconds for the sound of the explosion to subside. Then Mendoza shouted again and waved his hand to get his gunmen to follow him. Toting their machine guns, they all gathered at once and started walking across the airfield. They were walking straight toward us.

  Palmer was up in the next second. He pointed down the path.

  “Here they come, kid,” he whispered sharply. “Time to go.”

  CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

  I moved as quickly as I could in that crouching run. I felt Palmer rushing along just behind me. Up ahead, I saw the others—Meredith, Nicki, Jim—still squatting miserably in the rain, waiting for us, watching for us, their eyes large, their mouths open.

  As we reached them, Palmer brushed past me. I heard him whisper to the others, “They’re coming after us. Move fast and low. Follow me.”

  He took the lead and the others were up and after him at once.

  We rushed down the trail, brushing past the jungle leaves, squelching through the mud, gasping through the rain. The thunder rolled and the rain was loud, but when I listened, I could hear the rebels right behind us. I could hear them crashing through the branches. I could hear Mendoza calling to them, “Vamanos.” Let’s go.

  I glanced back over my shoulder. Their fatigues were hard to see amid the green leaves, but I caught glimpses of them. I wondered if they could see us too, but it didn’t seem that they had yet.

  They would soon, though. We were moving fast, but they were moving faster. Of course they were. They didn’t have to keep their knees bent and their heads down like we did. If they spotted us, they would open fire and almost surely wipe us out in an instant, so we kind of had to run and hide at the same time. There was no way to do that and outstrip them as they just came marching on, relentless.

  In my growing fear, I thought of calling up to Palmer: They’re gaining on us! But how could I? If Mendoza heard us, it would all be over. Anyway, I had faith that Palmer knew the rebels were catching up. It was the sort of thing he would know. And I told myself he must have some kind of plan. He must have.

  Funny. A few hours ago I’d really disliked this guy. His arrogant attitude. His mocking glances. His ironic drawl. He really rubbed me the wrong way. Now my life was in his hands and I was glad—glad, I mean, that he was the one who was leading us. As jealous as it made me feel, I understood now what Meredith had meant when she said he was exceptional— a hero. She was obviously right. That’s obviously exactly what he was—or, at least, what he was meant to be. Fearless, tough, decisive, and ready to risk his life for us�
��a bunch of kids he hardly knew. I guess you don’t always have to be a nice guy to be a good man.

  Anyway, like I said, I figured he must have a plan—and sure enough, he did.

  Rushing down the trail, I glanced back over my shoulder again. What I saw made my heart clutch in my chest. The rebels were close. Really close. Any minute now they were going to spot us and riddle the jungle—and us—with bullets.

  I turned back, feeling I really had to say something now, to warn the others—and the others were gone!

  I had a second of real panic. Where were they? Then I saw them. They had followed Palmer off the trail to the left. They had plunged into the depths of the jungle and were now disappearing and reappearing into view as they pushed their way through the heavy leaf covering.

  I went after them. I felt the roots and bushes close over my legs. I felt wet fronds slapping at my already soaking face and clothes. I felt the uneven ground under my feet and when I looked down, I couldn’t see where I was stepping. And, yes, that made me worry about snakes—about stepping on some gigantic jungle snake I’d never heard of that could take off a man’s entire leg with a single bite. Or something.

  But Palmer was moving so quickly—and the others were keeping pace. There was no time to think about it. So I didn’t think about it. I just charged on.

  This time when Palmer vanished, he vanished right before my eyes. I could see him up ahead through the jungle foliage, moving fast, bent low. Then he seemed to stoop even lower. Then he was gone.

  The others went after him—down, down, and gone. And as I caught up I saw what was happening.

  There was a ravine here: a steep-sided groove running along the ground, with a stream burbling along rapidly at the bottom of it. Palmer had dropped over the ravine’s side. He was leaning against the dirt wall, his feet and ankles braced against rocks in the running water. He gestured to us and we got down too, leaning in a line against the wall. Down there, I realized, we would be hidden from the sight of anyone above us standing more than a yard or two away.

  I looked along the line. Palmer was down at the other end. Then Jim next to him. Then Nicki, then Meredith, then me. Each of us was pressed against the mud of the wall. Each of us had our feet down in the stream at the bottom of the ravine. We all had dirt splattering our faces. Our clothes and hair were soaked. The cold water of the stream was running through our shoes.

  We waited. It was noisy here—really noisy. The rain on the forest roof and the sound of the rushing water covered up every other noise. The air was getting darker by the second. Colder too, it felt like.

  I shivered. My teeth chattered. I clamped my jaw tight to get them to stop. I glanced down the line and saw Meredith with her arm around Nicki, holding her close, keeping her warm. But Meredith herself, always pale-skinned, was incredibly white under the mud that splotched her cheeks. She always reminded me a little of a statue and now, in the freezing cold, she really did look like she was turning to white marble.

  After a while, Palmer moved. He edged up the wall of the ravine until he could just peek over the top. I watched him as he watched the jungle. Then he turned to me. Pointed at me. Pointed at his eyes. Pointed at the wall.

  I got it. He wanted me to look too. He wanted me to be ready for whatever happened, because I had the other gun.

  I did what he did. I edged up the side of the wall. It was slippery and cold, the mud scraping against me. I got my eyes up over the side of the ravine and looked into the jungle.

  I caught my breath. There they were, the rebels. I could make them out through the jungle foliage. They were marching over the trail. They were right alongside us, going steadily by. They thought we must be still on the trail up ahead of them. Another minute and they would go right past us.

  I smiled grimly. I began to have some hope again. I began to think, Hey, maybe we could get around behind these guys, sneak back to the airstrip and steal one of their trucks and make a run for it . . .

  The rebels went marching by on the trail—and then they were past.

  All except one of them.

  All except Mendoza.

  Wouldn’t you know it? Just as I was about to breathe a sigh of relief, I saw that the rebel leader had not joined the others as they marched on. He had stopped. I peered through the trees, trying to see exactly what he was up to. After a moment, I understood: he was looking around him. He was studying the ground and the leaves to either side of him.

  He knows we’ve left the trail! I thought.

  Mendoza had been paying more attention to his surroundings than his rebels had. Sure, I thought. He’s their Palmer. He’s the one they counted on to think and plan and keep them alive—and to track us down and kill us.

  Even over the pounding rain and the rushing stream, I heard him shout an order to his gunmen—who were still marching forward on the trail.

  “Alto!”

  I guessed it meant stop, because they all stopped. Then Mendoza said something else—and the rebels started coming back toward him.

  I lay against the mud wall, peeking over the top. My teeth had started chattering again and I couldn’t stop them now. I was just too cold. I watched as the rebels gathered around their leader. I heard the low murmur of Mendoza’s voice but couldn’t make out the words. I could pretty well guess what they meant, though.

  I glanced over at Palmer. He was already looking my way, as if he’d been waiting for me to turn to him. He gestured to me with his open hand: Stay cool.

  Good advice.

  I looked out over the top of the ravine again. What I saw made my heart sink.

  Mendoza was coming our way, pushing off the trail into the jungle just as we had, following the path we had taken through the trees. The other rebels followed him, pushing the big leaves and branches aside with the butts of their rifles.

  There was a loud crash of thunder. That made the rebels pause a moment. Even Mendoza. They all looked up into the rain.

  The darkness seemed to be gathering around us quickly. I couldn’t tell if it was nightfall or simply the storm. The rain fell more heavily, the leaves around us bending and dripping. The mud of the jungle floor churned up and spattered as the water struck.

  Still, Mendoza came on, came closer, studying the ground, waving the rebels to follow. They followed. Closer.

  “Sst!”

  That was Palmer, hissing to me. I glanced his way. He gestured for me to get down, to hide. Mendoza was almost close enough to see us.

  I slid back down the side of the wall.

  I saw Palmer slide down too. He leaned close to Jim and whispered in his ear. I got it. I leaned close to Meredith and she leaned close to me so she could hear.

  “They’re coming,” I whispered to her in the quietest voice I could. “Keep down, keep quiet.”

  Meredith nodded. She leaned away from me and leaned close to Nicki and passed the message on.

  We lay pressed tight against the mud wall as the rebels kept coming toward us. I knew they were getting close because I could hear their footsteps over the sound of the rainfall and the running stream. I could hear Mendoza speaking to the others in a low, gruff voice. He was close enough now so I could make out the words, but I didn’t understand them.

  Meredith caught my eye, motioned to me. I leaned close to her. She whispered in my ear: “He’s cursing the rain because it’s washed out our tracks.”

  I nodded. Well, that was something, anyway. But the rebels were still coming. I could still hear their footsteps in the mud, the wet sounds getting closer. Mendoza’s voice grew steadily louder. They must be right above us, I thought. I figured it would be a matter of seconds before they took the fatal step and saw the ravine and looked down into it and found us.

  A flash of lightning—the brightness muted by the leaf cover. A guttural roll of thunder like a great beast growling for its food.

  A tremor went through my entire body. I was so cold I could no longer keep myself still. I lay there shivering and listened.

&nb
sp; The rebels’ footsteps had stopped. Had they seen us? No, it couldn’t have been that. There would have been shouting— and shooting—if they had. They must be standing still, looking around, taking stock. They must be right above us, a step or two away.

  Mendoza started talking again. I could tell he was just above me. I couldn’t understand his low, swift Spanish, but the tone of his voice had changed. He sounded discouraged now—even disgusted—as if he couldn’t believe he had been foiled in his hunt by the rain and the gathering darkness.

  That’s what I hoped his tone meant, anyway. I thought— I hoped—I prayed with all my might—that they were about to give up, about to turn around, about to go.

  And I think they were planning to do just that—right up until the moment Nicki gasped.

  It was a short sound but sharp and clear. Meredith moved fast and clamped her hand over Nicki’s mouth, holding her tight. Nicki’s eyes stared over Meredith’s hand and they looked about as large and bright as two of those big spotlights they use to announce a new movie.

  I followed her terrified gaze and felt my belly fill with a blackness of terror and disgust.

  A snake. Slithering up out of the stream. Twisting up over the mud. Coming right toward us. Right toward Nicki.

  It wasn’t huge, but it was big enough, maybe four feet long and as thick around as a hot dog. It wasn’t the size that bothered me, though. It was the colors on its scaly skin. Bands of black and yellow and red. I didn’t know much about snakes, but I knew a little because there are some in California and you just hear about them from hikers and so on. And what I remembered was that there were two kinds of snakes with those sorts of colors: a harmless milk snake and a coral snake, one of the most deadly snakes alive. I remembered a little rhyme a science teacher, Mr. Larue, taught us once so we could tell the difference: