“I’m the fucking job, aren’t I?” he said. “Just fucking rescue me, will you? Once we get that gold out of that rock, I’ll make you all rich men.”
Wiggins looked up at Banks from where he was trying to lash three poles together with a braided rope made of stripped bark.
“I still like my idea of using him as a canoe,” he said.
“Best idea you’ve had in years, Wiggo,” Banks replied. “But the lad’s father is a big shot back home and wants him back. Although I’m fucked if I can see why.”
He spoke loud enough to ensure that Buller heard, and waited to see if there would be a comeback, but the man stayed seated, staring out at the river. Banks went back to helping Wiggins lash poles together.
*
By the time they were nearly ready to get their raft into the water, the sun had already passed its highest point overhead, but they’d been allowed to go about the build without anything attacking them. It seemed that, if their escape had been noted, nobody was all that bothered about finding them. But that thought only got Banks thinking about snakes again, and to wondering how long it might be before they returned to human form, to themselves.
He didn’t want anything more to do with Buller than he had to, but he had questions, and the man might have answers. He left the others to get the raft in the water and test it out for strength and buoyancy, and went to talk to the man they were tasked with rescuing.
“Where are they?” he said, without preamble.
“They mostly come out at night,” Buller said, not looking around. “I think they don’t like the sun.”
“Then we’re safe?”
Buller laughed bitterly.
“That’s not the word I’d use. But we’re as safe as we’re going to be as long as we stay out here in the open. But I’m not a fucking expert, you know?”
Oh, I know that just fine.
He didn’t say it, and didn’t push for more information, for by that time the others had the raft floating below them, with Wiggins using a large paddle as a rudder. McCally and Hynd were using two smaller, spade-like paddles to propel the structure, somewhat unsteadily, along the side of the quay.
Banks got Buller to his feet and the two of them stepped gingerly aboard. The raft wasn’t that much larger than a wide door, and it rocked alarmingly, then steadied under their weight.
“Careful, Cap,” Wiggins said from the back. “She goes well enough in a straight line, but she’s a bit too chunky for anything complicated. A bit like the sarge’s wife.”
Buller sat squarely in the middle, cross-legged, and already looking off into space. Banks ignored the man and knelt at the front where he could give direction, and warn them of anything ahead in the water.
The quay sat in a sheltered inlet, and they managed to navigate easily enough in the relatively still waters on their way out to the river itself. Banks looked up, to the wall that towered high above to his left, and picked out his climbing route of the night before, now marveling that he’d managed it without falling and getting dashed on the rocky hill below. He was also looking out for any attack, for now would be a good time for one, if their opponents had any tactical savvy. But no arrows, rocks, or spears came down from higher up, and they emerged out into the Amazon, where the current hit them side on and immediately threatened to tumble them away at its mercy.
The first few minutes were a frantic flurry of paddling and rearranging their weight while Banks tried to gauge the river ahead and shout out a course of least resistance to the flow. Several times they nearly tumbled over completely and river water washed over the top of the raft, threatening to sink them. But eventually Wiggins got the hang of the makeshift rudder, and McCally and Hynd were able to work in tandem to stabilize the raft and get it moving with rather than against the flow. By the time they got going in a straight line, they were 30 yards and more from the right-hand bank, heading down river almost sedately.
Banks had a last look back at the high tower where they’d been held. It already looked much smaller, almost insignificant when measured against the magnificence of the wide snaking river. Then all his attention was on the water itself, as he watched for eddies or cross currents that might throw them off course.
- 12 -
The squad seemed to have the hang of controlling the raft, and they made good time with the help of the current, but now the main thing worrying Banks wasn’t the river itself, but the baking sun above them, and their complete lack of protection from it. They had hours on the water ahead of them yet, and he already felt a vise-like grip around his skull, and a tightening of the skin across his shoulders. Heatstroke, and crippling sunburn, was an all too real threat.
The left bank of the river was in shadow and would stay that way now for the afternoon and evening to come, but that was 100 yards away across the strongest of the current—there was no certainty they could make it across without being toppled. When he saw a large inlet on the right side bank ahead, with a heavy overhang of canopy, he didn’t hesitate.
“Hang a right, Wiggo,” he shouted. “Over to the bank. Let’s get out of the sun and wait it out for a bit.”
Buller looked up at that, and for the first time Banks saw a worried look on the man’s face.
“It’ll be dark again before you know it,” he said. “We haven’t come far enough yet.”
“We’ll fry if we try to go any farther in this,” he replied.
“It might be worth the risk,” Buller said, but still wouldn’t look Banks in the eye. And although Buller was the mission, the squad needed to be strong and fit enough to see it through.
And for that, we need to find shade. Right now.
Wiggins didn’t hesitate, and steered them, hard and fast, toward the bank. Helped by a cross current at the mouth of the inlet, they got pushed inside, only to come up hard against the keel of a boat that was already berthed there.
As luck would have it, they had found their guide.
*
Giraldo was in no state to welcome them. When they clambered up into the boat, they found the guide in a cot under the makeshift tent that covered the rear end of the vessel. The man lay, staring into space, eyes wide open. At first, Banks thought he was dead and gone, but as he got closer, he saw the sweat at the man’s brow, and the slow, too slow, rise and fall of his chest as he breathed.
“Giraldo?” Banks said, bending over the man. The guide’s eyes flickered, and, painfully slowly, he turned his head. He had tears, whether of pain or sorrow Banks could not tell, in his eyes when he spoke.
“I could not save Mr. Wilkes,” he whispered. “Then I waited, but you did not come. And I waited too long to do anything about this.”
He raised an arm, and Banks saw the two black holes three inches apart in the man’s upper arm. The skin around the wounds was already gray and necrotic.
“I am sorely bit, Captain,” the guide said and, as if that had used all his strength, he slumped back onto the cot, staring at the canvas above him.
“Wiggo, Cally, get us out of here. We need to get this man a doctor, right now.”
Buller spoke at his side.
“It’s too late for him,” the man said, with about as much emotion as if he was commenting on the weather. “I’ve seen the like before. He’ll be gone by nightfall.”
“Aye? Is that so?” Banks replied. “Well, maybe not. We can call in aerial support from the dredger. And if not, I’d prefer it if you shut the fuck up and let the man die in peace.”
“People don’t talk to me like that.”
“Aye, you’ve told me that already. And I just did, again. If you don’t like it, you can always fuck off for a swim.”
Despite the heat, Buller went to sit up the front of the boat, out from under the shade of the tent.
“If the wanker wants to fry, that’s fine by me,” Hynd said at Banks’ back.
“And me, Sarge,” Banks said, and bent again to check on Giraldo, but the guide had said what he needed to say, and had go
ne back to concentrating on staying alive.
“Hang in there, man,” Banks said. “We’ll get you home.”
Wiggins got the engine running at the first attempt, and minutes later they were out of the inlet and back on the river, pushing along as fast as they could manage, heading for the dredger.
*
McCally raided the boat’s stores, which were in a long box under the driver’s seat, and got a pot of coffee brewing on a tiny camp stove while he handed out some tough, dried fish. He held up a battered, almost full, pack of the black cigarettes.
“And I found his stash,” he said, gleefully. “Who needs a fag?”
Banks took control of the wheel. The rest of the squad smoked, drank coffee, and chewed fish jerky and all in all, Banks was starting to feel a lot better about life in general; they’d got their man, although he was indeed a wanker, and they were managing to beat a retreat in some comfort. All that was needed now was to get to the dredger, secure the place, and call in somebody to evacuate them post-haste.
The only source of worry for him was the fate of their guide.
“Wiggo?” The private looked up. “Spell me for a couple of minutes. I want to check on your pal on the cot.”
“Remind him he promised to get me tickets to Brazil’s next match, so he’d better not fucking die on me.”
Banks went to check on Giraldo, leaving Wiggins at the wheel. The bit man still stared, unseeing, at the tent above him. The gray skin around the bites had spread, tendrils, almost black, snaking up and around his upper arm toward his shoulder. His temperature was up, and heat came off him in waves, accompanied by an acrid odor and vinegary tang that was far too close to the snake smells Banks had encountered earlier.
“Can we get any more speed out of this jalopy?” he asked Wiggins.
“Not from the engine, Cap,” the private said. “But we can head farther out into the river and try to catch the main current? That would get the speed up.”
“Make it so,” Banks said. He brushed a pair of black flies from in front of his nose, but others replaced them almost immediately. He gave in to the inevitable and helped himself to one of the cigarettes. Now seemed as good a time as any to return to bad habits.
*
Wiggins was as good as his word, and found the fast current in the center of the river, after which they made much quicker progress. After 10 minutes or so, Buller realized the futility of sulking up front in the baking sun and moved to join the rest under the canopy of canvas, although he still would not look any of them in the eye.
Banks chewed on a second smoke as he sipped at the too strong, too bitter coffee McCally had brewed up. The cigarettes were unfiltered, and rough but strangely familiar to Banks, reminding his of the smell and taste of the full-tar, full-strength ones his granddad had smoked in the greenhouse while Banks helped with the growing of his tomatoes in the summers of childhood. The heat here was more brutal than those long ago days in Scotland, but he held tight to the memory, a guide to see him on his way home from this river.
He’d had enough of the coffee though. He poured the dregs from the tin cup over the side, and was about to flick the butt of the cigarette away when a hot hand gripped his wrist. He looked to his left, to see Giraldo trying to push himself off the cot.
Banks moved quickly to force the man back down, then fetched some water, which the guide swallowed down in two huge gulps.
“Smoke,” Giraldo said. Banks felt obliged to refuse, but the guide was insistent, so he lit another, and passed it over, placing it gently between the man’s lips.
“Obrigado,” the guide said quietly and sucked in a prodigious draw that would have had Banks choking.
“Try to rest,” Banks said. “I reckon we’ll be back at the dredger in a couple of hours, then we’ll get a chopper to lift you out.”
“You are a good man, Captain,” the guide said. “It is a pity your effort will be in vain. The black venom leaves no survivors—we all know that here on the river. I will go with the sun.”
“Don’t talk pish, man. Besides, you can’t go yet. Wiggo’s got a date at the next Brazil game, and you said you had a story to tell me.”
Giraldo laughed, then coughed so hard Banks thought he might expire on the spot, before recovering and smiling thinly.
“Ask Private Wiggins to take my boy to the match. And as for the story, I had best tell you,” he said. “For it is a tale you ought to know. But first, I must speak more of last night.”
“You don’t need to speak at all…” Banks started, but Giraldo stopped him.
“But I do. Mr. Wilkes deserves it from me, for I see he is not here, and that only means one thing. The Children of Boitata took him.”
It wasn’t a question, and Banks did not need to answer. He sat beside the man, passing him frequent sips of water, and let him speak.
- 13 -
“Mr. Wilkes was most fretful, almost immediately after you and your men walked into the jungle,” he began. “Several times I had to dissuade him from stomping off after you, and even almost half a bottle of my rum did not settle him—indeed, I believe it made things worse. Emboldened by the drink, he started to berate me, you, the company he worked for, everybody under the sun. Then he loudly proclaimed that he would ‘sort this shit out once and for all’ and before I could stop him, he took out his pistol and jumped up onto the quay. He ran off onto the trail before I even got off the boat. I knew it was madness to try and follow him, and I thought to warn you. I readied a flare, and fired. It had only just gone up, lighting the sky, when I heard shooting. Then, before I could give any thought to going to Mr. Wilkes’ aid, it came for me, out of the jungle, one of Boitata’s children, slithering so fast I did not see it until it was on me.
“I want you to know, my friend, that my first thought was of you, and your safety. I was glad that I had fired the flare. Although it alerted the snake to my presence and cost me this bite that will soon take me to the dark, I regret nothing. Although I did not wait there in the dark for you, you are here now, and safe, and I can go to the darkness with my honor intact.”
The effort of talking had taken what little strength the man had left, and he slumped down on the cot, his eyes sunk in deep black shadows. Banks saw that the black tracery of venom was now creeping toward his neck and across his chest. It would be all over when it reached his heart or his brain; it was only a matter of which went first.
“You did more than any man should be asked to do,” Banks said. “I owe you a debt, so you had better stay with us, for I intend to pay it.”
Giraldo tried to laugh, but all that come out was a dry rasp that turned into a coughing fit. Banks held the man’s head up while he gave him more water. The guide’s skin felt like a hot skillet, and there were flecks of black at his lips when Banks took the cup of water away.
“Thank you, my friend,” the man said. “If you really wish to repay a debt, then I have only one last thing to tell you. Listen to my tale. Perhaps there is something in it that will save you and your men from meeting the darkness yourselves.”
*
Banks thought the man was too spent for further talk, but Giraldo seemed determined, although Banks had to lean close to hear, for the guide’s voice was close to failing completely now.
“I have been on this river every day of my life,” he said, “but I only ever saw Boitata the one time. No one has ever believed me, but I ask you, in honor of our debt, to believe me now, my friend.
“I was no more than a boy, no older than my own lad is now, and it was a day much like this one. The fish were staying down, and I was hot and tired after a long day’s effort for little reward. The lack of fish had forced me farther upstream than usual, and I was in waters previously unknown to me, in parts I had been warned from even approaching. But hungry bellies needed filling, and drove me even farther from home. So it was, as night fell, I found myself under the very same high tower we have so recently left behind.
“And here is where I
need you to believe, my friend, for you have been in that same tower, and know the breadth and height of it. Believe me when I say that I saw Boitata, a snake bigger than any other snake in history, a snake that seemed to take forever to come up and out of the river, a snake that wound itself up and around the tower, in coils thicker than the thickest trees. She looked down at me, great golden eyes in the huge head that was at the highest point of that dark tower, even while her tail was still in the waters of the river.”
*
And with that, Giraldo was indeed spent. He dropped back into the cot, his breathing hard and fast in little gasps. Banks would not have been greatly surprised to see steam coming out of the man’s throat, such was the heat he generated. A great black vein pulsed in his neck, and the man’s stared up at the canvas of the tent, once more unseeing.
For the first time in several minutes, Banks turned his attention away and back to the river. They were still traveling in the center, in the strongest part of the current, but it was getting close to dusk now, with dark shadows stretching across the surface from the trees on the left bank as the sun sank away to the west.
“Do you recognize anything, Wiggo?” he asked the private at the wheel. “Any clue how much longer until we reach the rig?”
To his surprise, it was Buller who answered.
“We’re about 20 minutes away, I’d guess. There’s a long sweeping turn ahead, then we’ll be there.”
Banks checked the sky and the position of the sun.
It was going to be touch and go whether they got back before it got full dark.
- 14 -
Banks took over the wheel for the last stretch, and Wiggins went to join Hynd and McCally for more coffee and a smoke. Buller sat in the belly of the boat under the canvas, keeping his thoughts to himself and staying silent. Giraldo’s breathing got louder, seeming to take more effort, and the man’s condition, while not appearing to be immediately fatal, wasn’t getting any better either. The only thing that gave Banks hope was that the blackness in the veins in the guide’s neck and chest did not seem to be spreading any faster.
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