by WW Mortensen
Sanchez agreed. “Let’s rest and regain our strength a little, maybe wait for them to drop their guard. We’ll make a break in a couple of hours.”
Owen nodded, but then a thought flashed into his mind. “And what then? Return to Base Camp? It’s decimated.”
“Base Camp is our only option,” Sanchez said. “Maybe we can salvage something. If not, there is always the Zodiac. We can use that to summon help.” He looked at Owen, lowered his voice. “Amigo, if we can get out of here, we can still send that chopper.”
42
It was too cramped in the small tent for the three of them—four, counting Priscilla—so Rebecca took her in her arms and retired to her own. They seemed safe enough for the moment and had agreed they should rest while they had the chance. It was easier said than done. Like the others, Rebecca was exhausted, but still full of adrenaline.
Restless, she lay on her back and stared at the tent’s ceiling, unsure how to feel.
They wouldn’t have survived the night if these people hadn’t arrived when they had—hell, they wouldn’t have lived through the next minute—but what it spelt now was a mystery. She, Ed, and Jessy were captives, that much was certain, but if these men were drug runners or gun runners or some rebel or paramilitary group, why keep the three of them alive? What’s more, where was the chopper? She was worried about Owen and Sanchez.
She had other, more personal concerns, too, but tried to suppress them. She got the feeling—thank God—that the door that had cracked open to invite the fears of her childhood had been slammed fully shut by the sudden gunfire.
You can’t be certain of that, Bec.
No, I can’t.
And what if, while it was open, something came through?
She silenced the thought and tried to calm herself.
The single upside—if there was one—was the irony that there were now eight, heavily armed men outside, not just keeping watch on them, but on their surroundings, too.
Rebecca closed her eyes. The evening’s events—and the questions—played over in her mind.
She tried to sleep.
43
Owen had just closed his own eyes when he heard a noise outside.
It came again; a low shuffling, then a voice, and he sat up—
—just as the door to the hut exploded inward. Half a dozen tribesmen burst inside. Owen lurched to his feet but tripped in the confusion and fell. Sanchez was already up and fighting—Owen saw him knock two men to the ground with swift kicks—but his resistance was short-lived. Lightning fast, four more attackers converged on Sanchez, clubbing him furiously with their fists and raining blows upon his head. Sanchez stopped struggling and fell limp. When his assailants cleared away, lifting Sanchez and binding him with lengths of vine, blood poured from great gashes in his forehead and dripped down his chin.
The remainder of the tribesmen—eyes wide and full of intense energy—turned on Owen. He submitted.
This is bad.
They’d been caught hopelessly off-guard, and Owen felt a flush of panic. Clearly, they’d made a terrible misjudgement and should have run when they’d had the chance.
Hurried and excitable, the men hauled Owen to his feet, strapped his arms to his sides and wrapped strips of vine around his torso. Like Sanchez, only his legs were left unrestrained. Several hands pushed him towards the door. Sanchez, still dazed from the attack, staggered in front. The men supported most of his weight.
It was drizzling outside, and the night sky was unusually dark. The two of them were ushered to the fire.
It seemed the entire tribe had reassembled around the blaze—men, women, children—all whooping and yelling, their expectant faces glowing red in the firelight. They parted as Owen and Sanchez approached.
Only one of them held his ground as they neared. He stood in front of the fire, in silhouette, awaiting them silently. He took shape as they pushed through the throng, and Owen gasped.
In that moment, looking upon the figure, it all came together.
Earlier, he’d been mistaken in thinking he was the first Caucasian these people had encountered. Now, he knew exactly who they were. This was the lost tribe Rosenlund had discovered.
The Yuguruppu.
It all made sense. Owen knew from the notes Rosenlund had copied into his field diary that the Yuguruppu worshipped certain gods who resided in a sacred part of the jungle. These gods had been awakened by a ‘foreign tribe’ that had settled in the sacred place and built within it a great city. In failing to repel the foreigners, the Yuguruppu had displeased the gods and were banished from the sacred place. Rosenlund’s notes hadn’t revealed the nature of these deities, maybe because the Yuguruppu, wary of another foreigner, had kept this secret.
Owen, however, could guess the gods’ identity.
As they came to a halt in front of the fire, Owen looked up at the shaman in front of him.
On his head was an elaborate headdress, in the shape of a giant spider.
• • •
Owen’s mind raced. Religious veneration of spiders was common amongst primitive societies on almost every continent, and he was aware of tribes in the Amazon who considered spiders sacred. But he knew, too, that the creatures worshipped by the Yuguruppu were of a type no other culture could have possibly imagined.
Sanchez murmured through blood-caked lips. “What’s the story with this guy?”
The shaman approached Owen and paused to appraise him. He was an old man, small of frame, with dark, wise eyes and a wrinkled, inquisitive face. If not for the frightening adornment atop his head, he would have seemed amiable. Owen stiffened as the old man stooped, drawing the grotesque face and eyes of the spider level with his own. Glinting red in the firelight, the eight glassy orbs bored into him, and for a moment, returning their gaze, Owen was convinced the shaman had lowered himself purely to allow the thing atop his head a decent look. Of course, he was being ridiculous. The headdress was no more than carved wood, the eyes no more than polished stones, the eight disproportionate legs that sprang from its bloated and blackened abdomen—stretching halfway down the shaman’s back and shoulders—no more than strips of thickened tree bark.
Yet still…
Owen shivered. “I don’t know, but I’ve got a feeling we’re not going to like it.”
The shaman undertook a similar appraisal of Sanchez before pushing past and raising his voice to the assembled crowd.
“What is he saying?” Sanchez asked.
Owen shook his head. “I’ve no idea. I’m not familiar with the dialect. A tribe of this size usually has its own.”
They kept their voices low. Around them, spurred by the shaman’s hoarse, melodic tones, the tribespeople began to whoop and dance and chant wildly. In all the excitement, they seemed to forget about Owen and Sanchez.
“What do we do, just stand here?” Owen said.
“We should have fled earlier. Maybe we should do so now, take our chances.”
But Owen knew there was no hope of success. They were surrounded by three or four dozen people in the full glow of the fire. The Yuguruppu might presently be ignoring them, but clearly, he and Sanchez were the guests of honour.
No chance of leaving unnoticed.
The Yuguruppu continued their frenzied dance, the ceremony working its way into full swing. Owen wondered how long it would go for… and what awaited them at its end.
It would be several hours before he’d find out.
44
To her surprise, Rebecca obviously had, at some stage during the night, drifted off to sleep. She realised this when Ed’s voice came suddenly to her ears, rousing her from another troubling dream. She sat up with a startled jolt.
Priscilla, also startled, leapt into her arms.
It was just after first light. Rebecca checked her watch and figured she must have dozed for almost four hours, still in her clothes and boots. The tent was steamy, and she felt clammy. Ed’s voice came again, and Rebecca unzipped the flap to find him out
side, urging her to follow.
Apprehensively, she peered out of the cave, and the events of the previous night came back with a rush.
The guards were still there. The rain had stopped, too, and Rebecca saw through gaps in the canopy a glorious, clear blue sky. It was just as humid outside the tent, and strangely, smoke hung in the air. The moderate fire of the night before had been replaced by a bonfire, the men feeding it with armfuls of shredded tree limbs and assorted arachnid parts. Minus several trees, the clearing looked almost normal.
She got a few stares from the men. All of them had discarded their ponchos, mostly in favour of fatigues or black or khaki singlets. Like Ed had said last night, they obviously weren’t regular army. This morning, they looked more like a band of militia.
She slipped into Ed’s tent, Priscilla in her arms. “Ed, what’s this about?”
Jessy, who was awake, smiled faintly in greeting. Ed had reapplied her dressings.
“I should have known,” Ed said.
“Known what?”
“Known what this was about. I couldn’t sleep, so an hour ago I demanded to speak with the leader.”
Rebecca raised her eyebrows. “And?”
“Firstly, we’re safe for the moment. You were right, Bec, they’re connected to that plane, but I don’t think these guys are the owners. The leader’s name is Sandros Oliveira. I think he and his men are working on the owner’s behalf.”
“What do they want?”
“Oliveira insists they’re not interested in us, and if we behave ourselves, do exactly what he says, he’ll let us go. I’m sure he won’t help us out of here, but he’ll leave us to our fate. He claims they’ll be gone by nightfall.”
“If only we could believe that,” Rebecca said.
“Well,” Ed said, “He seems reasonable, and I’ve made arrangements that might give us reason to. I’ve cut us a deal.”
Jessy shot Ed a worried glance. “Cut us a deal? And what did you mean when you said you should have known what this was about?”
A sense of foreboding had overcome Rebecca, too. “Ed, how did they find us here? How did they find that plane?”
Ed answered slowly. “They found it, because they had a guide who had been here before. Felipe Cartana.”
Rebecca tilted her head. The name was familiar.
“Cartana worked for me,” Ed said, “and was with us on the return trip here after Robert and I found this place. He helped transport the first batch of equipment.”
Rebecca nodded. “I remember now. Owen told me the other night. He disappeared suddenly in one of the Zodiacs not long after you got here, didn’t he? You’re saying he’s returned?”
Ed nodded. “I saw him out there when the guards took me to Oliveira. He spotted me and scurried into the jungle.” Ed snorted and shook his head. “When he ran out on us, Robert and I thought he’d lost it, panicked when he saw what was here. Robert was pissed—after all, he’d hired the men, they were his responsibility. Now Cartana was gone and we’d lost a Zodiac, too. Anyway, we assumed we’d never see him or the boat again. Clearly, Cartana recognised the plane and led these men back here.”
“He works for them?” Rebecca asked.
“Directly? Who knows? We didn’t exactly ask for CVs. Maybe he’s couriered for them in the past.”
“You think they’re drug runners?” Jessy asked.
“Most likely. Drugs, and guns too. Out here, the two go hand in hand. Commonly, the locals are dragged into the network. And here’s the thing: recently, our government, and the governments of several South American countries cracked down on unregistered private flights, at the same time escalating the number of anti-drug surveillance flights. Harassed from the sky, the drug cartels moved their processing plants deep into the jungle, coercing villagers and indigenous people into moving the drugs on foot through the forest, away from prying eyes. Maybe these people had such a hold over Cartana that he was too scared not to say anything. Or maybe he thought he’d be in line for a big reward.”
“So, again,” Rebecca said, “what do they want from us?”
“They want something from inside that plane,” Ed said. “From us specifically, they want information, expertise.”
“Cartana saw what they were up against,” Jessy said.
Ed nodded. “I think these guys had been monitoring our movements from Monte Oeste; mine, with all the ferrying back and forth of equipment, then probably both you girls, and Owen too, as each of us arrived and took trips downriver in the Tempestade. Not surprising—they’d be cautious of foreigners so far off the tourist track and must have been curious.”
“And when Cartana contacted them, they put it all together,” Rebecca said.
“Right. And so now they’re here with a bunch of experts at their disposal, presuming we’d know exactly how to deal with the situation. And if we were preparing to go in anyway—”
Jessy flinched. “Hang on. Preparing to go in anyway?”
Ed didn’t miss a beat. “I had to make a deal, Jess. It was our only chance.”
The colour drained from Jessy’s face. “What kind of deal?” Her voice cracked before rising. “You don’t mean you offered to go in there, after that plane?”
“I had no choice, Jess. What could I have said?”
She paused, her eyes full of stunned incredulity. “No, Ed, that’s what you could have said! What the hell were you thinking?!” Jessy’s voice climbed with every word, teetering out of control.
“Jess…” Ed said.
“No, Ed! This is insane! You’ll never make it! The plane’s stuck in the middle of that web, surrounded by those… things. You’re out of your mind! It’s suicide!” Tears had welled in her eyes and began to roll down her cheeks.
Rebecca put a hand on Jessy’s knee and squeezed gently. “Ed. What’s inside the plane?”
“They didn’t exactly say. A package of some sort, I think. If I can get it for them, they’ll leave us alone. Oliveira promised me that.”
“Bullshit!” Jessy said. “You’re simply going to take him on his word? Even if you were able to get this package, you think they won’t just kill us the moment you hand it over? Why leave witnesses?”
Ed sighed. “Maybe you’re right. Who knows if we can trust them? But had I refused, we’d be no better off. I’ve bought us time, if nothing else.” His voice had risen, and he lowered it again. “This is the only way, and it’s gotta be me. They think I’m the scientist, the expert. That’s what I told them. I said they should send me if they wanted the job done.”
The sense of finality in his tone seemed insurmountable. Jessy dropped her gaze and her head fell. Rebecca’s mind spun as she tried to comprehend the mess in which they’d found themselves. For the moment ignoring the lie Ed had told Oliveira about his profession, she asked, “How will you get in there?”
Ed said, “They’ve brought ropes, harnesses, grappling hooks. Hell, they’ve even brought a flamethrower or two. I figure my best chance is to somehow get in over the top—maybe make my way in from this side, through the canopy. I can burn through the web and use the grappling hook to lower myself to the plane from above.”
Jessy shook her head. “Over the top of the web? It rises all the way into the canopy!”
“It’s the only way, Jess. I can’t get in at ground level.”
By the look on her face, Jessy couldn’t believe her ears. “Ed, please. Let’s think this through. Let them go in! We can direct them—relay instructions from out here, over the radio.”
Ed shook his head. “No, Jess. I’ve made a deal. As I said, they don’t need us otherwise. I have to go in, and it has to be over the top. There’s no other way.”
He wouldn’t be swayed. Jessy must have understood that and began to sob again, burying her head in Ed’s chest. He held her.
It was always going to come to this, Rebecca thought. This is exactly what he wanted.
She looked at Ed sadly, wondering about his version of events, curious as to how
many falsehoods lay within it.
“There’s no other way,” Ed reiterated, mouthing it silently to Rebecca as he stroked Jessy’s hair, her head still against his chest.
Rebecca closed her eyes. After a time, she looked at him again and spoke quietly. “No, there is another.”
45
Ed looked confused. “Sorry?”
Rebecca shook her head. “Jessy’s right. You can’t go in over the top. But there’s another way.”
Jessy straightened. “What do you mean?”
Rebecca held up a hand to stop her before she got her hopes up. “I can’t promise it’s safer. And Ed, if I thought I could talk you out of this, I would. But I’m going to help you so there’s a chance of you returning. That said… there’s good reason you can’t go over the top.”
Ed’s eyes narrowed. “And that is?”
“Because of the nature of the web, and the silk it’s made from.”
“You’re saying I can’t get through it?”
“You need to understand what you’re dealing with,” Rebecca said. “Spider silk has more than a single purpose; there’re eight different varieties. Some silks are used for constructing webs, others for lining nests or burrows, others for forming egg sacs. The different silks are manufactured by different glands.” She paused to take a breath, the enormity of his risk washing over her like a flood. “I studied the site for a long time yesterday, and I can tell you there’s no access over the top. You won’t get past that kind of silk.”
Ed frowned and looked over his shoulder, through the tent flap. He turned back. “So, what are you suggesting?”
“Here’s the thing. Just like silk, there are many kinds of webs—designs vary greatly from family to family, species to species. This one is a ‘space web’—a three-dimensional structure different to your more common, two-dimensional ‘orb web’, you know, the type in your garden that looks like a cartwheel.”