Pray for Darkness: Terror in the Green Inferno

by James Michael Rice

  Brooke had started walking toward him when, behind her, a single branch snapped beneath an invisible weight. To her frightened ears, it seemed as loud as a firecracker, a gunshot, a stick of dynamite. She shivered, her legs suddenly boneless. Somehow, she wasn’t sure how, she knew she was being watched. The sensation was almost palpable, like a cold fire that started in the pit of her stomach and worked its way into her heart. She managed one more step and then froze, unsure if she could move even if she wanted to.

  Eyes—watching her. Studying her.

  The logical part of her was convinced this was simply her imagination running rampant. If a tree falls in the forest and there’s no one there to hear it… does it make a sound? Sure, yeah sure. Except she was there to hear it, and that’s probably exactly what she had heard, just some rotted old branch falling off a tree. And even if she was right, even if there was something out there watching her, it was probably just a monkey or a pig or some other little creature. But even as she told herself these things, the undeniable reality was this:

  They were not alone.

  Thirty-four

  Cooper awoke to the sound of voices. He could hear someone crunching around outside his tent, and he was sure he had heard Ben calling out to someone close by. Slipping out from under Janie’s arm, he crawled to the door, unzipped it, and stuck his head outside.

  “Yo,” he croaked, wiping the grit from his eyes. “What the hell’s going on?”

  Ben was walking toward him with a baffled expression. “Everything’s fine, man. Go back to sleep.”

  Cooper watched as Ben walked over to the neighboring tent. Brooke was standing just in front of it, so still that Cooper had not noticed her at first.

  “What’s wrong?” Cooper heard Ben ask.

  Cooper strained his ears, but they were talking in whispers now and he could not make out what they were saying. Eyes wandering slightly uphill to the fire, Cooper saw Ernesto’s small frame as he stood watching them.

  “Cooper?”

  Shit. Janie.

  She was propped up on her arms, her hair hanging down around face in wild tendrils. She was wearing a tight tank top, and her revealing cleavage glistened with perspiration. Once again Cooper felt that painful longing he could not quell.

  “Is everything alright?” she asked sleepily.

  Cooper smiled at the confusion of this tough-as-nails girl who typically seemed so composed. “Yeah,” he whispered. “Everything’s—”

  A dark shadow on the back wall of the tent stole his thoughts. As he watched, the shadow seemed to grow taller, finally taking on the shape of a man. A second shadow rose beside it, quickly followed by a third.

  Before Cooper could even comprehend what was happening, a rip zigzagged down the middle of the tent wall and the shadows spilled inside. Arms reached into the tent, yanking Janie through the opening with such brutal force that it looked as though she were chained to the back of a truck. Janie let loose a single, bloodcurdling scream, and then all that remained was a ragged hole in the back of the tent, the deafening roar of insects and tree frogs, and the darkness of the jungle beyond.

  Janie Castellano was gone.

  Thirty-five

  After a protracted search in which not a trace of Janie was found, they made their way back to the campsite where Ernesto urged them to pack their belongings as quickly as possible. For thirty seconds or so, no one moved save Oscar, who had already lumbered off to repack his gear. They could just see the yellow orb of his headlamp bobbing about as he stripped his bulky rucksack of its nonessentials.

  “I tried to help her,” Cooper murmured. His eyes were round as marbles, glassy and bloodshot and desperate for absolution. “I tried to reach out for her, but… it all happened so fast…”

  “It’s not your fault, Coop.” Ben touched him on the shoulder, but this small act of kindness only seemed to deepen his despair.

  Cooper winced at the contact. “It all just happened so fast…” he repeated, staring off into the darkness as though trying to piece together those final moments in his head. “I reached for her and… and she was gone.”

  “Ben-ah?”

  Ben shifted his attention to Ernesto, who had taken several steps away from the group. Ben saw the urgency in his eyes and nodded. Ernesto lingered for a few more seconds until he was certain that Ben understood the message before wandering off to help Oscar with the packing.

  When Ernesto was gone, Ben turned to them and said, “I’m sorry, but Ernesto wants us to get moving. We should pack as light as possible, so let’s gather what we need before we leave.”

  “Leave?” Brooke asked in a tiny voice. “We can’t just leave!” Beneath eyes that trembled with tears, she was smiling incredulously. Ben thought it was probably the most heartbreaking thing he had ever seen. “No, no, no.” Brooke shook her head so violently that her hair tumbled across her eyes. “She’ll be back. You’ll see. She’s coming back. I know it.”

  “The best thing we can do for Janie,” Ben said gently, “is to go get help and then come back and—”

  “WE DON’T EVEN KNOW WHERE THE FUCK WE ARE!” Brooke screamed shrilly.

  Cooper and Auggie were loitering close by, and they both flinched at this unexpected outburst.

  Ben caught Brooke by the sleeve and pulled her closer, wrapping her up in his arms. “No!” she cried. She pounded her fists against his chest.

  “Shhhh,” he whispered, brushing the hair out of her face. “Everything’s gonna be okay…”

  She gave a halfhearted effort to pull away from him, but in the end she put up little resistance.

  Five minutes later, the others gathered around them. Ben still held her fast, though the sobs had given way to sniffles, and the tears had run their course for now. Even in the most tragic of moments, one could shed only so many tears before the well eventually ran dry.

  And so, having gathered their meager belongings, they once again fled under cover of night, abandoning the two tents as they were, and leaving Janie Castellano alone to an uncertain fate in the darkness.

  Thirty-six

  A full day passed with no sign of Janie or her abductors, whoever they were. With Ernesto in the lead and Oscar bringing up the rear, they walked on through the forest, sick with fear and exhaustion. And thirst, always the thirst. Overhead, the pink sky slowly darkened to purple. Soon the traitorous sunlight fled the forest. Night was upon them, with its intensity of sounds and untold terrors.

  They stumbled along, silent in their misery, as Ernesto sought a proper hiding place. Restlessly they followed, eager for the reprieve; however long it might last. Finally, they arrived at a massive Ceiba that dominated the earth and sky, its buttressed roots fanning out in all directions. The roots created natural pockets, each one deep enough to conceal three or four grown men. Ernesto removed his backpack and hung it on a low branch nearby. As the others squeezed through the underbrush, he looked at them in turn. Clothes, arms, and faces smeared with sweat and grime, the four Americans were almost unrecognizable. Only Oscar, with his apelike gait, hooked nose, and lazy eye, was a familiar face as he lumbered along at the back of the line, occasionally stopping to clutch his mangled arm to his chest in pain.

  Shining his headlamp, Ernesto appraised the natural fortification of the tree, the thick encroachments of the roots that would shield them from view. Like the leg of some monstrous elephant, the grayish trunk of the Ceiba tree dominated the landscape, rising perhaps a hundred feet or more before its limbs splayed like an umbrella, blocking out the sky. Caught in its lofty boughs was a thin veil of mist that hovered like the spirits of their dead. For some reason, this gave him pause to think of his family back at the little house in Puerto Malaka. Carmen would be waking up to feed little Liana, their three-year-old girl. He pictured their faces: Carmen’s oval face, wide-set eyes, and kind smile; Liana’s small features, long lashes, hair so black and shiny it was almost blue, her tiny voice. At such a young age, would she even remember her father if he never ca
me home? The thought saddened Ernesto.

  Still, he had a responsibility to complete his job, and his job was to ensure the safety of the turistas, so he would do whatever possible to get them back to the research center in one piece. And after? Well, he supposed he would take some time off to spend with his family. Surely, in light of all that had happened, Fabian, his boss, could not expect him to jump right back into the jungle with the next group of tourists. There would likely be an inquest, a brief one, to review the company’s safety measures. Surely his employer would understand Ernesto’s need for a short vacation.

  Then Ernesto remembered the inhumans. Los muertos, Felix had called them. That was the last thing Felix had said to him—the last thing he had said to anyone—before they had helped bring him to his tent, only to be murdered a few hours later by one of his closest friends. Los muertos. The dead. There had always been stories, Ernesto recalled, of evil spirits that lived deep in the untouched heart of the jungle. But even as a boy, he knew these were simply cautionary tales, traditional myths and legends passed down from tribal elders to teach one lesson or another. In the many years since, Ernesto had experienced numerous close calls with the jungle’s deadliest creatures, but he had never before known the true meaning of fear, not until he stared into those desolate black eyes and smelled the foul stink of death rising from the pit of those hungry, snapping jaws. “We stop here,” he murmured, nodding with conviction as if in response to an unanswered question.

  Their collective relief was instant. It rippled through the group, moving from person to person, as palpable as an electric current. Their lungs laboring against the humid air, Cooper, Auggie, and Brooke looked at one another wearily as they dropped to the ground. Of the four Americans, only Ben remained standing, his jaw set with a stubborn resolve. Oscar was whispering to Ernesto in Spanish, and Ben went over and stood by them, dutifully awaiting his orders. Ernesto looked at the boy and thought about telling him to go back and join the others in their rest. Ben’s legs were trembling with exhaustion, and he was panting like a dog, but the look of resolve in his eyes made Ernesto reconsider. He liked this boy, just as he liked all of the Americans, but Ernesto also found that he was gaining a deep trust and respect for them as well.

  “Ben-ah,” Ernesto said. “We are going to gather the branches for to make a shelter.”

  “I’ll help you,” Ben said firmly.

  Ernesto unfastened the knife from his belt and offered it to Ben. “You keep for now.”

  “Are you sure?”

  “Is good knife,” Ernesto said. “My cousin make this knife. I might need for sometimes, but you keep for now.”

  Ben accepted the knife with a nod. “Thank you.”

  “Stay close.”

  Ben nodded again. “I understand.”

  Using the knife to cut the leafy boughs, Ben, Oscar, and Ernesto set about the task of feathering their makeshift nest while the others lingered on the moist ground, eager for whatever respite they might find in the shade. Crawling on his hands and knees, Ernesto completed a careful inspection of the area, and though he did not say it, they understood that he was making a sweep for any snakes or poisonous spiders that might be lurking by the base of the great tree. When this task was complete, they settled in among the branches and leaves.

  Auggie was in rough shape. His face and body were crisscrossed with wounds wrought by the underbrush, and a thin trickle of blood oozed down his mud-mask. Even worse, the sand flies and other insects were a constant torment, and he was peppered with bites and stings. Cooper and Brooke had to help him to their new refuge. “We have to make sure he takes the Malarone,” Ben said, checking in on them. “We don’t know what kind of things those bugs carry… Malaria, dengue…”

  Brooke put the back of her hand against Auggie’s forehead. She looked at Ben, frowning. “Ben, he’s burning up. It might be heat stroke. Either way, he needs lots of water, and some rest.”

  Ben fished the Nalgene bottle from his backpack. Shaking the bottle, he frowned. “We’re almost out of water.”

  Just then, Ernesto appeared beside him. “Come,” he beckoned.

  Ben followed Ernesto to the other side of the clearing, where Ernesto paused before a thick, twisting vine that went up and up into the canopy. Ben watched with interest as Ernesto brandished the machete and began to hack away at the tangled vine. Ernesto made short work of cutting through, and immediately the purpose was obvious as a clear fluid began to leak from the severed end.

  Ernesto cupped his hand under the trill and drank. “Is good,” Ernesto assured him.

  Beneath the trickling water, the Nalgene bottle filled up quickly. “Thank you, Ernesto.”

  When he was finished, Ben returned to their resting place with his new supply of precious water. Brooke was holding Auggie’s hand as he shivered, his eyes shut tight.

  “Here,” Ben said. “Take my hydration tabs.”

  Auggie’s eyes were both angry and frightened. “I don’t need your help,” he said, trembling.

  Ignoring him, Ben shook two tablets out of the tube and handed them to Brooke. Crushing the tablets with her fingers, she poured the powder and leftover fragments into the Nalgene bottle. The water began to fizz.

  Auggie allowed himself to be tended to with a stoic patience. Some part of him knew that he needed the hydration mixture, especially the sodium and electrolytes contained therein, but he hated being the subject of their pity. Auggie had always believed, in a general sense, in the power of the human intellect, that his mind was so much stronger than his body. Now he acknowledged that this was not simply a wild hypothesis but a truth, at least for him.

  Brooke lowered the Nalgene bottle to Auggie’s lips. As he cupped it between his trembling hands, he felt a searing pain, like hot needles in his brain. As the tears sprang to his eyes, he continued to pour the precious fluid into his mouth. His thirst seemed endless, and the water, though warm, was a blessing.

  Ben was looking at Brooke for guidance. “What about the Malarone?”

  Auggie lifted his head. Nodded weakly. “Yes.”

  Ben gave him a tablet and Auggie chased it down with another gulp of the electrolyte mixture. The lump of his Adam’s apple worked up and down as he struggled to swallow the bitter pill, which felt the size of a golf ball as it scraped along the inside of his throat.

  “Here,” Ben said, handing him the container of pills. “Why don’t you hold onto these?”

  With a trembling hand, Auggie clutched the bottle against his chest. “Th-thanks.”

  Ben nodded, satisfied that this gesture was able to give his friend some small sense of comfort.

  Auggie closed his eyes. He felt the delirium of exhaustion, fear, and dehydration. Thoughts swam in and out of his mind, random thoughts, tattered memories stitched together with no design. At some point in his sleep, he began to murmur incoherently. Something about ice cubes and Coca-Cola. Eventually he fell silent, tumbling back into the pit of sleep.

  ***

  Lying together on the dewy ground, Ben and Brooke faced one another without speaking. A tear ran down the side of her face and he brushed it away with his fingers. Comforted by the gesture, she closed her eyes and breathed deeply, as though meditating. Without opening her eyes, she found his hand and kissed it, a simple act that somehow managed to fill him with joy and made him want to cry at the very same time. Pulling his arm around her, she nuzzled closer to him until their chests touched and they could feel the beating of one another’s hearts. Kissing her on the forehead, he felt a surge of emotions, all of them stemming from the same thought: the need to protect her, to see her through this madness and carry her safely to the other side. This was followed by another, equally powerful knot of feeling, one which confounded and frightened him. Helplessness. He felt utterly helpless.

  In his head he had already exhausted all the various options, all the possible means of escape. Someone could climb a tree; Brooke had experience doing this. If only she could get above the canopy, p
erhaps she could spot some sign of civilization. They could try swimming until they arrived at the research center or one of the other lodges, but of course the river itself presented its own set of risks. Light a fire; maybe someone would see their smoke and come to investigate? But who—or what—would be drawn to their signal? It seemed just as likely that they’d wind up burning the entire jungle to the ground, and them along with it. No matter how hard he tried, he could not visualize an outcome in which they would all return safely home. And what was home? Home was a place three thousand miles away, far beyond this Green Hell, over the snow-capped Andes, and across the great Atlantic. An impossible distance. Yes, they were so far away from home. So far away… from anything. They might as well have been stranded on the moon.

  This is my fault. If I hadn’t pushed them to come here…

  Ben clenched his teeth, squeezed his eyes shut in frustration. Still scrolling through all the possible solutions and their outcomes, his body finally surrendered itself, and sleep carried him away from the horrors of the waking world.

  Later, he awoke with a start. He’d slept fitfully, dreaming of his old bedroom in his parents’ house on Baker’s Lane. The walls of the bedroom were a dark blue, adorned with posters depicting his favorite athletes: Ray Bourque flying down the ice in the now-defunct Boston Garden, a young Tom Brady holding up his first Super Bowl trophy, the entire Red Sox team of 2004 crowded together in celebration of their World Series win. In the corner there was a small desk where he completed his school work and the large closet where his old toys—all said, about one hundred Star Wars and G.I. Joe action figures and vehicles—were packed away in boxes, all but forgotten in his teenage years. In the dream, it seemed that he could even smell breakfast cooking: the mouth-watering aroma of bacon and eggs. It must have been a Saturday morning, then, when his mom and dad were both off from work and the family sat down to a communal breakfast. Young Ben tossed the covers aside and sat up. As his feet connected with the floor, he looked toward the front window, the one that faced the street, and smiled. Outside, the birds were chirping, and the massive oak in the corner of the yard stood tall and proud, like a soldier. He felt the warmth of the sun upon his face and then…