by Mark Alpert
Sullivan leaped forward, lightning fast, and ripped the knife out of his mother’s hand. Then he pressed his pistol to her chest and fired.
Elizabeth’s death changed everything. As John watched the Chief Elder fall, his fear was so great he nearly collapsed, too. He knew there was no one to stop Sullivan from hurting Ariel now. Although John had resigned himself to his own fate, he was horrified by the thought of Ariel in pain. Sullivan knew this, knew how much it would tear John apart, so he was sure to keep hurting her for hours, torturing and maiming her in front of everyone on the muddy riverbank. And in the end, Sullivan would kill her. He’d force John to watch the light go out of her eyes.
Ariel knelt beside Elizabeth’s body, her hands slick with her mother’s blood. She was crying silently, staring straight ahead as the tears trickled down her face. John tried to go to her, but Marlowe and Percy held him back. Although everyone there was gazing at Elizabeth’s corpse, the sight seemed to have a special fascination for the Riflemen. They must’ve felt like they’d just witnessed the death of a god. The men gazed at Ariel too, looking for signs that she was afraid, but she gave them nothing but that blank, paralyzed stare. John realized she was doing the same thing he’d done. She was resigning herself to her fate.
John let out an anguished cry and struggled with Marlowe and Percy, twisting in their grasp. Sullivan was right: this agony was worse than the pain in his head and face. He couldn’t let them kill Ariel! If she died, who would plant the garden? Who would turn the earth into Paradise?
Meanwhile, Sullivan paced back and forth along the riverbank, still gripping the Mauser in his right hand. He seemed more agitated than ever. His eyes were bloodshot and his neck was shiny with sweat. He avoided looking at his mother’s body and stared at the ground instead, specifically at the ruined sack that had formerly held the bullet ants. Finally, he turned to the pair of Amazon tribesmen, who were still squatting in the mud a few yards away.
“Get me another one!” he shouted, pointing at the sack as he strode toward the tribesmen. When they looked at him in confusion, he bent over and slapped the nearest one in the face. Then Sullivan pointed at the tents on the other side of the lagoon. “Do it now! Before I shoot you!”
Cowering, the tribesmen slunk away and ran down the length of the peninsula. Sullivan watched them go, then turned to Reyes. “I apologize for the delay, Comandante. There will be a brief intermission while we wait for our native friends to prepare the second act.”
Reyes chuckled. “It will be a long wait, señor. Those men won’t return.”
“What do you mean?”
“They’re going back to their village. I think you frightened them.”
Scowling, Sullivan raised his Mauser and aimed it at the fleeing men. But they were too far away, and after a moment he lowered the gun. His hands were trembling. With great difficulty, he slipped the pistol back into his shoulder holster. “Heathen knaves,” he muttered. “They’re more like apes than men.”
“Señor, may I ask a question?” Reyes stepped forward and pointed at the six women from the Caño Dorado expedition. “Are you planning to kill these girls, too?”
Sullivan looked confused. He probably hadn’t thought that far ahead. “They’re my sister’s allies, so they bear no love for me. If given a chance, they wouldn’t hesitate to slit my throat. Killing them would be the safest option, I suspect.”
“But they’re such beautiful young girls.” Reyes stepped toward Mariela and reached for her long red hair. He laughed as she twisted away and cursed him in Spanish. “It seems such a shame.”
The guerillas behind Reyes murmured their agreement. The men nodded and nudged one another and slapped their rifles. The Riflemen showed some interest too. Marlowe and the others stared hungrily at their cousins. The fact that the women were sweaty and bedraggled and had their hands tied behind their backs seemed to make no difference.
After a few more seconds Sullivan grinned. A look of astonishment appeared on his face, as if he couldn’t believe he hadn’t thought of this idea himself. He nodded rapidly, sweat dripping from his hair. “You’re right, we shouldn’t kill them yet.” He turned to Marlowe. “Bring my sister over here.”
Marlowe let go of John and stepped toward Ariel, who still knelt beside her mother. She didn’t resist as he pulled her up and dragged her to Sullivan. John winced as she walked by without even glancing at him. She was resigned, defeated. Her face was blank because she’d withdrawn her soul to the farthest corner of herself. The Riflemen could do whatever they liked with her, and she wouldn’t feel anything.
Sullivan positioned himself so that John could see what he was doing. As Marlowe stood behind Ariel and took hold of her arms, Sullivan reached into one of the pockets of his bomber jacket and pulled out the knife he’d taken from his mother. Very slowly, he pulled out the blade and held it in front of Ariel’s face. At the same time he glanced over his shoulder at John. “Watch carefully, paramour. You might learn something.”
He gripped the collar of Ariel’s shirt and pulled it toward him. The fabric stretched in front of her and strained against the back of her neck, but she didn’t react. Her face was as expressionless as a mannequin’s. Then Sullivan lowered the blade to the collar and began cutting downward. The tip of the knife sawed back and forth, less than an inch from her throat.
John’s stomach twisted. He could hardly breathe. He wanted to throttle Sullivan, to strangle the bastard, to grab the knife out of his hands and stab him in the heart. But John knew it was hopeless. He might be able to wrench himself out of Percy’s grip, but what would he do then, with his hands tied behind his back?
Sullivan cut halfway down Ariel’s shirt. Then he stopped, hands trembling, and stared at the lace cups of her bra. His hands shook so violently he could barely hold on to the knife. He closed his eyes for a few seconds, as if trying to control the tremors through sheer force of will. Marlowe leaned forward, still pinioning Ariel’s arms, and asked, “You okay, Sully?” Nodding, he answered, “Yes, yes, of course!” But then he dropped the knife and stepped away from her.
“Keep her here,” he barked at Marlowe. “I’ll be back in a moment.”
While the Riflemen looked on curiously, Sullivan stepped toward the water’s edge, facing the shallow strait that separated the peninsula from the mainland. His back was turned, but John saw him reach into the pockets of his jacket. From his left pocket he removed a syringe. From his right he pulled out one of the vials of Fountain.
A light went on in John’s head. Now he knew why Sullivan insisted on wearing that heavy jacket in the rain forest. He needed the jacket so he could stash the syringe and vials in its pockets, and he needed to keep the protein close at hand because he was addicted to it. He probably got hooked before he started his rebellion, when Ariel tested Fountain on him. After the protein ran out, he must’ve gone into withdrawal, but he’d obviously craved the stuff ever since. He’d given himself an injection only an hour ago inside the cavern, and now he already needed another. And as Sullivan stood there at the edge of the river, pulling the stopper from the vial with trembling hands, John saw what had to be done. It was the only way.
With a ferocious twist he freed himself from Percy’s grasp and started running toward Sullivan. The bastard was trying to hold the vial steady so he could dip the syringe’s needle into the yellow fluid, and he was so intently focused on this task he didn’t hear John coming. Marlowe yelled, “Hey!” and lunged to intercept him, but at the same time he let go of Ariel. She spun around and kicked Marlowe in the crotch, stopping him cold. Running past them, John lowered his shoulder like a linebacker and plowed into Sullivan, knocking him face-first into the river. The Fountain protein spilled out of the vial and spread across the water in a yellow smear.
Luckily, John kept his footing on the river’s muddy bottom. Because his hands were tied behind his back, he would’ve had a hard time getting back upright if he’d fallen. He felt an urge to stomp on Sullivan’s neck and pi
n him underwater, but he didn’t have the time. Instead he left the bastard behind and waded as fast as he could across the strait. The water deepened as he reached the middle of the channel and soon it was up to his shoulders. He sloshed frantically forward, taking huge strides. Then he heard Sullivan’s furious voice behind him.
“Go After Him! I want him alive!”
Within seconds John climbed out of the water and up the muddy bank on the other side of the strait. He didn’t stop until he reached the high ground, twenty feet from the water’s edge, and when he turned around he saw thirty men coming after him. Sullivan had picked himself up and ordered the Riflemen and guerillas to wade across the strait. Now everyone was in the water except for Marlowe and Comandante Reyes, who stayed behind to guard Ariel and the six women from Caño Dorado. While Sullivan paced along the riverbank, screaming orders at his men, Marlowe and Reyes stared across the strait at John. They were probably wondering why he just stood there instead of running into the rain forest. Taking advantage of their inattention, Ariel quickly bent over to pick up the pocketknife that Sullivan had dropped in the mud. Then she turned to Mariela and gave her a hand signal. A moment later all the women took a couple of steps backward, stealthily moving away from the water’s edge.
Most of the men were wading through the deepest part of the channel when the piranhas struck. One of the guerillas thrashed in the water, shrieking in Spanish. Then two of his comrades joined in, flailing their arms as they struggled to return to the riverbank. Soon the water began to roil around the men and there was a frenzy of splashing. The Fountain protein had spread to the depths of the channel, its molecules seeping through the skin of the fish and inflaming their primitive brains. Then John caught a glimpse of a long black snake, thicker than a fire hose, coiling around the terrified waders. One of the men disappeared, his head pulled under the water. Then another man vanished. Then another.
There were screams in English too, from the Riflemen in the strait. The maddened piranhas swarmed thickly around the men, jabbing and biting and jumping out of the water. John spotted Percy splashing back toward the peninsula, but when he was just ten feet away from the riverbank he stumbled. As soon as he hit the water the piranhas surrounded him, tearing off chunks of flesh every time they struck his body.
John stepped farther away from the riverbank. So many men were dying in the strait that a bright red stain spread across the black water. He saw the piranhas feeding on another fallen Rifleman. He saw an anaconda drag another guerilla below the surface. And then he looked across the channel and saw Sullivan standing in the mud near the water’s edge, gazing in dismay at the slaughter. For a moment John actually felt sorry for the man. Then Sullivan spotted him, and John could see the rage in his face, even from a hundred feet away. Although Sullivan couldn’t have guessed the cause of this catastrophe, he definitely sensed that John was behind it. He reached into his jacket again, pulled out his Mauser and fired.
John hit the dirt and the bullet whizzed overhead. Sullivan fired again, and this time the shot came closer. John scuttled backward, trying to find some cover, but he was on open ground, with no trees or bushes or tall grass nearby. On the other side of the strait Sullivan stepped closer to the water and held his arm steady, tilting his head slightly as he looked at John through the Mauser’s gun sights. But before he could pull the trigger, the river at his feet erupted in spray and a huge glistening reptile rocketed toward him. A black caiman, at least fifteen feet long, lunged out of the water and clamped its massive jaw around Sullivan’s legs.
He screamed as the caiman’s teeth sank into his calves. The reptile pulled his feet out from under him and he fell backward into the mud of the riverbank, dropping his gun. Then the caiman snapped its jaw to get a better grip on Sullivan’s legs and started crawling backwards, pulling him into the river.
He would’ve disappeared under the water if not for Marlowe. The Rifleman sprinted forward and grabbed Sullivan’s right arm. “I got you, Sully!” he yelled. “I got you!” He dug his heels into the mud of the riverbank and leaned backward, trying to pull Sullivan out of the caiman’s mouth. At the same time, he looked over his shoulder at Comandante Reyes. “Help me, damn it!”
Reyes reluctantly came forward and grabbed Sullivan’s left arm. He and Marlowe pulled together, but the caiman didn’t let go. It snapped its jaws again, fastening its teeth on Sullivan’s thighs. Meanwhile, Ariel saw her chance and gave Mariela another hand signal. An instant later all the women turned around and ran toward the trees at the top of the knoll. John felt a burst of relief as he watched them. Then he started running too, heading toward the place where the peninsula branched off from the mainland.
As he ran he kept his eyes on the other side of the strait. He saw the caiman shake its head fiercely and heard Sullivan shriek as the flesh tore off his thigh bones. Comandante Reyes lost his grip on Sullivan’s left arm and tumbled into the mud. Marlowe kept his hold on the right arm, but the caiman was stronger. It crawled backward, pulling steadily on its prey and dragging Marlowe closer to the water’s edge. “Sully!” he screamed, his face red and frantic. “Hang on, Sully!”
Then Marlowe spotted the Mauser lying in the mud. While holding on to Sullivan with one hand, he picked up the gun with the other and fired at the caiman’s back. The first two shots seemed to have no effect, but after the third shot the caiman twisted angrily. It snapped its jaw once more and gave a final tug on Sullivan’s legs, pulling something loose. Then it retreated into the river while Marlowe dragged his unconscious boss away from the water. Sullivan’s left leg, severed at the knee, spewed blood over the riverbank. Reyes, who’d retreated to higher ground, knelt in the mud and vomited.
John turned away from them and kept running. He couldn’t watch anymore. He had to get back to Ariel and make sure she was safe. For obvious reasons, he couldn’t wade back across the strait to the tip of the peninsula. He had to take the long way around the lagoon.
Soon he reached the canvas tents of the guerilla camp, which was empty and silent. All the guerillas were in the water, either dead or dying. As John ran past the camp, though, someone burst out of the last tent with a knife in his hand. The man lunged at him, fast as the caiman, and grabbed John’s arms from behind. Then he used the knife to cut the rope binding his hands. John looked over his shoulder and saw it was one of the Amazon tribesmen, the one Sullivan had slapped. Bowing his head in respect, the man pointed inside the tent he’d just come out of. Leaning against its central pole were three AK-47 rifles.
John darted into the tent and grabbed all three guns. By the time he came back outside, the tribesman had vanished into the rain forest. John offered his silent thanks, then charged toward the peninsula.
The lagoon was still frothing as he ran along the strip of land surrounding it. Corpses bobbed and drifted this way and that, nudged by the schools of piranha feeding on them. He hoped to hell that Ariel and her friends had stayed away from the water. As he approached the wooded knoll near the tip of the peninsula he saw two prone bodies lying at the water’s edge, half-eaten corpses that had drifted onto the riverbank. Then he saw a third body farther away from the water, but this one was alive. Comandante Reyes lay facedown in the dirt, his arms and torso slashed in several places and his shirt soaked with blood. Ariel bent over him, holding the pocketknife to his throat, while Mariela tied his hands behind his back using the same rope that had formerly bound his prisoners. The other women crouched in the brush nearby.
Their heads turned as John came near. Ariel spun around, ready to attack, her tear-streaked face contorted in anger. Then she recognized him. Her mouth opened but no words came out. She dropped the knife and ran into his arms.
It was a brief embrace, though. After two and a half seconds she took one of John’s assault rifles and handed another to Mariela. “We still have to deal with Marlowe,” she said. “He’s on the other side of the trees, and he has the Mauser. I heard him fire a shot a minute ago.” Raising her rifle she headed fo
r the tip of the peninsula. John and Mariela followed her while the other women remained hidden in the brush.
The three of them crept silently under the knoll’s trees. When they reached the kapok they took cover behind the trunk and peered around it. Both Sullivan and Marlowe lay faceup on the riverbank, halfway between the kapok and the water’s edge. Sullivan’s face was as white as paper. He’d died in the mud, bleeding out from his severed leg and the other wounds from the caiman attack. Marlowe was dead too, but he hadn’t been killed by any of the jungle’s animals. The ground under his head was saturated with blood and his right hand still clutched the Mauser. He’d shot himself in the mouth.
John stepped out from behind the kapok and approached the corpses. He saw nothing in Sullivan’s face. The man looked empty, deflated. But Marlowe had clearly died in despair. He’d lost his master, his reason for being. He couldn’t fight anymore and he couldn’t surrender. He couldn’t go on.
In that moment John knew the rebellion was over.
EPILOGUE
The rainy season in the Amazon was particularly bad the next year. In April the Yarí rose so high that it inundated the south bank at the bend in the river. The floodwaters swamped the peninsula and the area where the guerilla camp once stood. But by that point the tents had been taken down and carted away. The Furies had already moved to the network of caves that honeycombed Monte Mariposa, the tall hill south of the river.
The relocation had gone more smoothly than anyone could’ve imagined. Ariel had led the effort from the very first day, organizing the women from the Caño Dorado expedition as they took over the guerilla camp and turned it into their headquarters. She inventoried their supplies and set up a rotation for guard duty. Then she retrieved the expedition’s radio equipment and reestablished contact with the Furies in North America. Over the next few days Ariel worked like a demon, and John started to worry about her. He wondered if she was working so hard just to stop herself from thinking about her mother and Cordelia. Then it occurred to him that the opposite might be true. Ariel, he suspected, wanted to honor the loved ones she’d lost. By preparing her family’s new home, she was carrying out the last assignment Elizabeth had given her before they left for South America. And when Ariel needed to select a code name for the refuge, she chose Mariposa—Spanish for butterfly, Cordelia’s favorite symbol.