by WW Mortensen
Rebecca held Owen in a tight embrace, barely believing that he and Sanchez were here, alive.
The two men told how they’d used the GPS receiver to guide them back to Base Camp. With no radio or satellite phone to be found, and with no other means of communication, they’d taken the Zodiac—which had still been there, tied up securely—to get help.
Never in a million years had they thought they’d stumble upon their four companions like this, in the middle of the river, in a crippled boat—and with three soldiers in their company to boot.
“Suffice to say, it’s a long story,” Rebecca said.
“Save it,” Owen said with a faint smile. “You can tell me over a beer somewhere far from here.”
Another round of hugs. Owen and Sanchez proceeded to share in greater detail their encounter with the Yuguruppu, as well as the fates of both Elson and Martins.
There had been so much death.
After a quick transfer, they headed downriver in Owen and Sanchez’s Zodiac, the boat purring through the greenery. Hopefully, they’d pass another vessel before the day was out, hitch a ride, and get some help. Either way, they’d be on the river for some time.
Rebecca leaned against the side of the Zodiac, the sun tingling her skin and the sounds of the jungle lulling her into a sense of peace.
119
Rebecca lost track of time. Her eyelids were getting heavy when Ed’s voice came to her softly.
“I gotta thank you again,” he said. “For what you did… for coming and getting me, I mean. I won’t forget it.”
Rebecca straightened, and Ed smiled at her. On his other side, Jessy dozed. Priscilla, too, was asleep, clinging to Rebecca’s chest like an infant. She stirred briefly and settled.
“I’m just glad you’re alive,” Rebecca said.
She appraised him. Alive, yes, but not well. In the full light of day, it was apparent just how sick he was. Sweating profusely and unusually pale, he seemed thinner—the after-effects, she assumed, of his envenomation. Sanchez, too, had been bitten, and Owen had ingested a dose of venom. All three needed medical attention and monitoring. Hell, the whole group did. Still, everyone, including Ed, seemed alert and upbeat, which was all she could hold onto.
After a while she said, “You know, what we saw in there, that object, that energy… the implications for humankind—for the future—are enormous.”
Ed studied her, as though unsure how to respond. It was some time before he replied. “I said to you once there were things in these rivers better left alone. The jungle is no different.”
Rebecca stared into the distance. Maybe she believed that, believed him, but she wasn’t sure. Something so significant wasn’t easily ignored or forgotten.
“The colony,” she said quietly. “It’ll recover. Now that the Female’s gone, the strongest surviving member of the royal caste will take over. Either that or the sterile females will develop ovaries and reproduce.” Discreetly, she tossed her head at the three soldiers behind her. Kriedemann was on the satellite phone while Bull and Tag stared vacantly at the jungle. “After what they’ve seen, this isn’t over—it doesn’t matter what you or I decide. Their superiors, the powers that be… they’ll want answers.”
Ed said nothing.
Rebecca braced herself against the side of the Zodiac as Chad steered the boat around a clump of floating debris.
“So earlier,” Ed said, “when you told me those things were…alien…you weren’t pulling my leg, were you?”
Like before, Rebecca kept her voice low. “It’s the only scenario that fits.”
Ed shook his head. “Who would have thought it—you telling me something like that? Go figure.” He looked pensively at the passing vegetation, as though filling in the blanks. “And the smaller sphere, the one in the temple. You think it might have been a power cell of some description? Removed from the larger sphere in the chamber below?”
“Or severed somehow in the crash—I don’t know. Clearly the Intihuasi had handled it—maybe they found a way of opening the larger sphere and removed it. Whatever scenario, I believe it came originally from inside the larger object and was somehow connected—perhaps to its engine, or its heart.”
With that, Rebecca remembered something off-topic and reached down, pulled an object from her pocket. To her dismay, the waterlogged pouch had come undone at the top. Gently, she squeezed out the water and peered inside. “This was a little heavier when Oliveira passed it to me back in the chopper,” she said to Ed. “Guess I’ve misplaced a few.”
She handed him the pouch. Carefully, he upended the bag into his open palm, and as the sparkling contents spilled forth, Rebecca was relieved to see that a good number of the stones had survived. Ed smiled and shook his head. Replacing the diamonds, he moved to give them back. Rebecca pushed his hand away, closing his fingers over the pouch. “Might be difficult explaining bling of this magnitude to customs,” she said. “I was hoping you might pass them on to Enrique’s family; Elson’s and Martins’, too. What do you think?”
Ed smiled warmly. “I think that’s a wonderful idea.”
He knotted the pouch and placed it in his pocket.
“Hey, that reminds me!” Rebecca said. “One more thing!” Again, she shot a hand into her shorts-pocket. “I can’t believe I almost forgot!”
“Forgot what?”
Excitedly, Rebecca pulled out the palm-sized, stone disc they’d used to power the lift—the disc Ed’s grandfather had given him all those years ago.
Ed’s eyes lit up. “How did you get this?”
Rebecca smiled. “When the platform started losing power, I knelt, remember? I wanted to see what was wrong. Just before it receded, and before Oliveira grabbed me around the waist and fired the grappling hook up into the temple, I plucked it out. Then everything went to hell and I totally forgot about it.”
Ed hugged her close. “Thank you. Again.”
When he pulled back, he had tears in his eyes.
“Hey, you okay?” she asked.
Ed turned the disc in his hands, studying it. He then lifted his eyes to again gaze out the front of the boat. “Yeah, I’m okay.”
“You sure? What is it?”
Ed sighed. “I don’t know. I guess…” He looked at her, chin quivering. “I wish he could have been there, you know? Seen it himself.”
“Your grandfather?”
“It was all he wanted in the end. To see it.”
Rebecca placed a hand gently on Ed’s knee. “Hey, come on. I’m sure he did see it, Ed. I mean, you showed it to him, after all. You found it. He was there, in his own way.”
Ed smiled faintly.
The boat droned onwards, and for some time, there was silence between them. Rebecca stared at the jungle. After a while, she turned back. She saw that Jessy had buried her head in Ed’s chest. He was holding her hand.
Strangely, Rebecca felt no twinge of jealousy. If anything—and surprisingly—she realised as she looked at the two of them that she was entirely okay with it. At first, she wasn’t sure why. Just hours ago, she would have felt differently. Of course, she still had feelings for Ed—strong feelings. She probably even loved him, as she probably always had and probably always would. But as much as she knew that he, too, loved her, she got the feeling that just now, in the clear and rational light of day, he’d made his decision. To her, it seemed the right one—was the right one. That she could feel nothing but happiness for him led her to realise that in some deep and profound way, she’d changed. More than that, it dawned on her when this change had been triggered: the moment the Male had her underwater, and she’d thought—truly—she was going to die.
In that moment, she’d gained something. Equally, she’d left something behind.
At that, Rebecca smiled, hugged Priscilla close, and tried to get some rest.
EPILOGUE
6 MONTHS EARLIER…
“It’s beautiful, isn’t it? But I don’t understand. How did you get it here, through the jungle
?”
Seconds passed as the question was relayed. Nordberg sat cross-legged on the ground and waited for Dominguez to translate the old man’s answer.
“He says it walked here of its own accord,” Dominguez said. “Just like the others.”
Nordberg cast his gaze about the clearing, taking in the numerous statues around him. There were eight in total, set in a circle facing inwards. Each was about ten feet high, except for the individual carving to which they referred. This huge totem was positioned at the circle’s northern end and towered a full twenty feet high, dwarfing the others. Like them, it too bore an uncanny resemblance to the moai of Easter Island.
Nordberg frowned, curious. He looked at the old man. Despite his age, the tribal chieftain was taller than expected, and broader, his skin a different tone than most of the indigenous people Nordberg had encountered here in the Amazon. Drawing upon his years in the field—and thinking about it more carefully—it struck him that the old man didn’t appear typically indigenous to this region at all, did indeed have a look that was more—Polynesian perhaps? For that matter, so did the other members of his tribe, every one of whom sat quietly in a ring around them. That, and the presence of what appeared to be several Easter Island moai seemed suddenly too coincidental. Nordberg’s interest had been piqued. He was on to something…
Fortunately, the dialect spoken by the old man bore some of the usual commonalities. Nordberg had brought his assistant Dominguez—himself an anthropologist fluent in several of the local dialects—as well as Tepikan, a member of a neighbouring tribe who knew no English but could converse with the old man. He would translate for Dominguez, who in turn would translate for Nordberg. The process was long and involved, but it worked.
And already, Nordberg had been relayed some amazing stories.
Most exciting of all—particularly in the context of this new revelation—was the one about a tribe of people that had come from over a great expanse of water, and then over the mountains, to settle in a place not far from here. The ‘old place’.
The old man and his tribe were descendants of that original tribe.
Now Nordberg wondered: Could the great expanse of water be the Pacific Ocean? The mountains the Andes, perhaps?
He could barely contain his excitement. Statues were one thing. But ancient settlers from Polynesia?
The old man seemed to sense Nordberg’s eagerness. He spoke.
“You are not the first white man he has known,” Dominguez translated.
Nordberg nodded. “No, I gathered that.” He looked at the old man. “A white man gave you that hat, didn’t he?” He gestured to the aged, broad-brimmed fedora atop the man’s head, decorated now with several bright macaw feathers.
The old man nodded and smiled. He was missing several teeth.
“Yes,” Dominguez said, “But a long time ago, before his last son was born.”
“And what was the white man’s name?”
“He called himself Ha-Ri.”
Suddenly struck by a hunch, Nordberg said, “And this Ha-Ri, he asked about the old place, didn’t he? He wanted to go there.”
“We warned him not to. We told him there is nothing there but death. It is… cursed. Angry spirits.”
“Is that what drove your ancestors away?”
“Yes, from there into the jungle. Never again did they return to the old place. It is lost to our people now.”
“But Ha-Ri went, didn’t he? Despite your warnings.” Nordberg leaned in close. “Did he find the old place?”
After a time, the old man nodded. “He found it. Yes.” At that, he looked away sadly. “He found it, but he did not return. Just like the other.”
Nordberg frowned. “The other?”
“There was another, more recently. The old place is lost to us, but the spirits of our ancestors still speak.”
At that, Dominguez paused. There was suddenly much banter between him, Tepikan and the old man. Dominguez appeared to be seeking clarification on something before translating. The old man scribbled in the dirt with a stick.
“What is he saying?” Nordberg asked.
At last Dominguez turned to him, though he appeared uncertain. “He says there are signposts, markers, spread throughout the jungle, all around. They look like these.” Dominguez lifted his hand and gestured to the surrounding moai. “When an elder dies the body is taken to one of them for burial. Recently, they found the…” Dominguez paused, searching for the right word, “‘paintings’, or ‘drawings’ of this other white man, discarded at one of their markers.”
“‘Drawings’?”
“Yes, like those of Ha-Ri. That is how they know it must have been another white man.”
Again, the old man scratched at the dirt, nodding as he did.
It hit Nordberg. He said excitedly: “Do you think he means a map—or even a notebook or diary, perhaps?”
“Possibly. He doesn’t know the name of these things you speak of, but he has them in his possession. He will give them to you.”
A map, or a diary, Nordberg thought. If this ‘other’ man was also searching for the old place, a map or diary would almost certainly contain details of its location, information Nordberg was sure the old man would no longer divulge of his own accord. They might therefore be the only existing record of the place and the only means of locating the site. Nordberg felt a growing excitement. This was getting increasingly intriguing. He was sure his colleagues at FUNAI would be fascinated, too, and would want to examine the items the old man spoke of. Nordberg made a mental note to forward them once he’d finished with them himself.
There was a moment of silence, and the old man stood.
“Come,” Dominguez said. “He is hungry now and wishes for you to join him in a meal.”
Nordberg nodded, graciously accepting the invitation. He stood also.
“But first he would ask a favour of you,” Dominguez said.
The old man removed his hat and offered it to Nordberg.
“Take this, he says. Return it to Ha-Ri’s tribe. Ha-Ri was a good friend, an honourable man, but it is not his to keep anymore. This must be done, and he trusts you to do it. He likes you.”
The old man pointed to the hat sadly before turning to walk from the clearing.
Nordberg didn’t want to offend—but return it? He wondered about this man Ha-Ri, who he was, and what had brought him to the jungle. He studied the hat, turned it over. It was then that he noticed something written neatly by hand on the rim inside. A word. A name.
Nordberg smiled, snuffed a laugh.
Well, I’ll be…
Not Ha-Ri, he realised.
Harry.
Nordberg had a grandfather that went by the name of Harry, though it was just a nickname. Like the former owner of this hat, his real name—the one given him by his parents, and the word written here—was Henry.
Nordberg smiled again. If nothing else, it was a start. At least he had a name.
He fell into step behind the old man, and together they followed the path, disappearing quietly into the jungle.
AUTHOR’S NOTE
If you enjoyed EIGHT and would like to know more about the writer or his next thriller, head to www.wwmortensen.com
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
WW Mortensen is the international #1 bestselling author of EIGHT and SLITHERS.
He lives in Brisbane, Australia. He has a passion for writing, and devotes his spare time to honing his skills, being with family, and indulging a love of horror movies, adventure stories and action-thrillers.
For more information about the writer and his books visit wwmortensen.com
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EIGHT: TERROR HAS A NEW SPECIES
Copyright © 2019 by WW Mortensen. All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either
products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this publication can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, without permission in writing from the author or publisher.