Pray for Darkness: Terror in the Green Inferno

by James Michael Rice

  “You must do this,” repeated Ernesto. “It is your final gift for to set him free.”

  The inhuman looked up at Ben with its mangled face—a face that still held some of Cooper’s features, now twisted and distorted into a haunting parody of the attractive young man whose body it had stolen—and its filmy eyes studied him with detached interest, as though detecting his hesitation. From within the occupied regions of the brain, something peered out through the bulbous eyes, some malevolent presence too terrible to comprehend. Ben could sense it growing stronger and he had to lower his head; he knew if he looked into those soulless eyes for one more second it would drive him mad. A new sound bubbled out of the gaping maw, a deep vibrato, like someone trying to sing underwater.

  It’s laughing, Ben thought. Then: It’s laughing at my pain.

  Ben bit back a scream as the remaining chunks of Cooper’s scalp began to break away, falling to the forest floor in a snarl of bloody hair. Two hornlike stroma punched up through the gore, glistening with the whitish goo of brain matter. Things were spilling out of the opening, tiny squirming things that looked like maggots. They spread across his face and then stopped, seeming to die in the air. As they died, they hardened into something that resembled bone. When all was done, the thing that used to be Cooper looked to be a thousand years old, its head encased in a calcified shell, withered as a mummy.

  “Cooper, if you can hear me, I’m sorry.” Ben trembled, choking back tears. “I’m so… sorry.”

  The inhuman stumbled and fell to one knee as it tried to learn the mechanics of its new host.

  Ben gripped the machete in both hands, raising it high above his head. Now the inhuman was rising slowly on muscles that creaked and bones that popped. Mind racing, heart thumping, Ben searched the upturned face for something recognizable, some sign of the familiar boy from his childhood. But the hostile takeover of Cooper’s body had rendered him an empty shell—the obsidian eyes and the fragmented skull with its twisted horns and leering smile held no trace of the handsome, good-natured friend he once knew.

  Ben was still considering these things when he caught a sudden flurry of movement out of the corner of his eye. Something streaked past him, nearly bowling him over. As he regained his balance, Ben turned and saw Brooke racing forward with her spear.

  Ernesto reached for her, but he was too late.

  The sharpened point punched through the creature’s mouth and emerged, glistening, on the other side of its skull. Pushing forward with all her weight, Brooke forced the body backwards and staked it to the ground. The obsidian eyes glared up at them with a cold, alien hatred as the impaled body twitched and writhed like an insect on a pin. The bulbous eyes popped with a hiss, leaking black vitreous fluid across the bonelike crust of its face. The creature’s feet continued to dance for a few more seconds. Then, at last, it was still.

  Standing over the body, Brooke’s shoulders began to hitch as she gave in to her sorrow. “I had to...” she said in a trembling voice. Tears sprang into her eyes and she began to cry. “It wasn’t him anymore...”

  The sound of her anguish brought Ben to his senses and he pulled her into his arms. “Shhh…”

  “I’m sorry,” she sobbed, her voice muffled against his shirt.

  “Shhhh,” Ben crooned, stroking her hair. “You did what you had to. I wanted to, but I couldn’t do it.”

  Wilting beneath his touch, Brooke buried her face against his chest and wept until the well was dry. When she looked up again, she saw Ernesto watching them from a respectful distance.

  “Come,” he said. “We must prepare the raft.”

  Brooke wiped her cheeks, quickly composing herself. “But it’s not finished…”

  “They’ll be coming,” Ben said gravely. “Whether the raft is done or not.”

  Brooke raised her heart-shaped face toward him. Blinked the tears back from her eyes. “Okay,” she said, nodding. “We have to try.”

  An animal barreled past them in the darkness, too fast for Ben to get his light on it. A few seconds later, a flotilla of leaves fluttered down into the clearing, and Ben raised his headlamp in time to see a troop of squirrel monkeys scurrying through the treetops in the same direction as the mystery animal.

  “What’s happening?” Brooke asked.

  “I don’t know,” Ben murmured, and the answer came before he even realized he was going to say it. “It’s like they’re running away from something.”

  And now they looked at one another in fearful understanding.

  From deep within the jungle came the deafening shriek of the inhumans.

  “Come!” Ernesto shouted, grabbing their arms and pulling them toward the raft. “There is no time! We must go!”

  Fifty-two

  Yes, the jungle had a soul. But it was a soul without direction, without purpose, save for its own self-preservation. Auggie was glad of this revelation, for it suggested that the jungle was indifferent to him, which meant that he had a better chance of overcoming it, of making it back to safety.

  He continued through the forest, muttering to himself in a voice that seemed not to be his own. The backpack kept getting caught in the brambles and was hindering his progress. Several times he considered leaving it behind, but no. That damn Boy Scout had thought well ahead, and there were too many items he, Auggie, might find useful. There was the headlamp, for one thing. The lighter. Poncho. Excedrin. One full Nalgene bottle. A little bottle of iodine tablets. Finally, the Malarone. No, he could not carry these things without the backpack, and so he kept it out of necessity, hindrance though it was.

  As he threaded his way through the undergrowth, it occurred to him that he had never felt more alone in his life. Yes, he was still frightened, but now the fear exhilarated him and he felt alive. More alive than he had ever felt before. Cooper was not there, with his randomness and childlike wonder. Nor was Ben the Boy Scout there to guide him or protect him. So he would have to look after himself. This thought filled Auggie with something akin to pride. In spite of his loneliness, he felt strong. He didn’t need those others. From the beginning they had all paired off. Did they think he was blind? As much as he wanted to, he could not fault Cooper for this. It was hard to fault Cooper for anything, even now. Did they really think he was stupid; that he couldn’t see the way Ben and Brooke had eye-fucked one another from the instant they met? How they were always sneaking glances at each other and stealing off into the jungle to take their little “walks”? Did any of them really believe that he, Auggie, was oblivious to the conspiracy and how they laughed at him behind his back?

  Auggie’s eyes began to sting. He stopped for a moment, using the front of his shirt to wipe his face. The shirt came away dark and moist, and he felt better. Only sweat, that’s all, he assured himself. This damned humidity…

  Auggie shrugged off the backpack and took three big gulps from the Nalgene bottle. It tasted like shit with the iodine tablets, but that was a fine trade-off for untainted water, he supposed. Suddenly, his wristwatch started chirping, and he tapped the OFF button. It was a little past four o’clock. He untwisted the cap from the Excedrin container and shook a few pills into his hand. Perhaps a dozen tablets clicked together in his open palm. Though most of the pills were white, five or six of them were red. Fortunately for him, Ben had not thought to check the Excedrin; otherwise he would have discovered Auggie’s emergency stash of Malarone. More than enough, he estimated, to carry him through the next three or four days. He didn’t think it would take that long to reach the research center, but it was a consolation that he had them just in case. Plucking up a Malarone pill, he dumped the others back inside the container. Popping the pill into his mouth, he chased it down with a swig of water. Even with the water, the pill was difficult to force down. He had always had trouble swallowing pills, and this one was particularly bitter and jagged. It nearly lodged in his throat, forcing him to take another gulp of the nasty water, leaving an awful taste in his mouth and a sort of scratchiness on the walls of
his throat. He set the alarm forward twelve hours for the next dose, shrugged the backpack back on, and started walking, thinking he was the clever one, and he had proved it by outsmarting them all.

  ***

  There was a light up ahead.

  It was a dull light, but Auggie’s heart jigged at the sight of it. He was strong, yes, and had managed just fine on his own, but the light and all it represented lured him like a beacon. He picked up his pace, ignoring the wrath of the brambles that pulled at his clothes, slashing through to the skin and drawing little rivulets of blood. He had now grown accustomed to the ritual of untangling his backpack and himself from the vines, and he did so now almost mechanically, no longer frustrated, no longer noticing the pain. So was his interest in the light.

  It was becoming increasingly brighter up ahead. Still dull, but giving off more ambience. At length his feet discovered a new kind of soil, and, shedding one last copse of trees, he stumbled forward and fell to his knees. When he looked up, he saw that he had arrived at a blackwater creek. Leading up to the oily, scum-covered pool, the low bank was fringed with a confusion of brush, vines, and fallen trees. To his left, the water seemed to taper off as it continued beyond view. Auggie instantly recognized this as part of a floodplain forest, which meant that he must be close to the river. The river! The blessed river, his path to safety! Crawling forward to splash some water on his dirt-caked face, he flinched in terror.

  A skull grinned up at him from beneath the water. Denuded of flesh, it gleamed, a pale death’s head that floated just beneath the rippled surface. Auggie withdrew in revulsion, shrinking back against the muddy bank. For a moment, he could not move, not even to blink his eyes, but then he saw the simple truth behind the illusion. He had learned about it in a college psych class, and the term now swam forward from the depths of his mind.

  Pareidolia. It was called Pareidolia, Auggie remembered. The psychological need to find familiar shapes in random things, like clouds or stars.

  Tossing his head back, Auggie laughed at the sky. Even to his own ears, the effect was frightful and obscene; it was not the laughter of a sane man. Hands and knees sinking into the mud, he crept forward to get another glimpse of the water, to see if he could train his mind to not see a skull there. He leaned his head over the water. Yes, the illusion was now obvious. Not a skull at all, but the moon. He poked the reflection with his finger and watched the ripples spread, transforming it into something that would have given Picasso nightmares. Suddenly, a memory flashed through Auggie’s mind. He was sitting in the peki-peki on the first day. Cooper was listening to his iPod and Ben was grinning mysteriously as he gazed at the shore. Auggie had looked to the side and caught his reflection skimming along the river, and it had sent waves of fear to his very core. But Auggie was no longer afraid. He was going to make it back to civilization on his own, with no help from Ben or the others. He was a man now, a true explorer. Gone was the frightened little rabbit (I’m late! I’m late! For a very important date!), the tagalong who trembled at the sight of his own shadow. He was strong now, and when he returned to the lodge, he would be…

  A hero?

  Auggie laughed at the thought. Again the laughter spun itself into something darker, something sinister. Alone on the muddy bank, Auggie was the master of his own universe. Still, the thought returned to him, that inner voice that rippled as delicately as the surface of the moonlit creek. Run along now, Auggie. Run along. But Auggie was through with running. Even as his reflection trembled and the great beast lifted its dripping, cavernous maw out of the water, he did not run.

  Fifty-three

  The forest echoed with their hungry screams.

  No! thought Ben. We’re not ready!

  But they would have to be ready because the inhumans were crashing toward them through the jungle and he could hear them moving closer.

  “Hurry!” Ernesto shouted, and Ben realized with a sort of dim fascination that it was the first time he had heard fear in his guide’s voice. Lifting the jumbled collection of logs that was their life raft, they hastened to the edge of the embankment with Brooke trotting along beside them, keeping watch on the tree line.

  When they had reached the edge of the embankment, they dropped the raft into the tall grass and pushed from behind. Heaving, they tipped the raft up and over the edge, where it grinded along the earthen slope to the shallow water below.

  “My backpack,” Ben said, darting back to the clearing. Mind wiped clean by terror, he could not remember what was so important about his backpack, only that it was important.

  “No!” Brooke screamed. Then, seeing that it was too late to reason with him: “Ben, hurry!”

  Crouching down to grab his backpack, Ben could hear them getting closer. Any moment now they would burst out of the jungle to finish what they had started. Tossing one strap around his shoulder, he stood up and ran as fast as his wounded leg would take him.

  Ernesto was standing on the edge of the drop like a third-base coach, telling him to Go! Go! Go! for home. Ben slid over the embankment, skidding down on his backside to the place where Brooke was waiting at the bottom.

  “I can’t lift it!” she cried.

  The raft was stuck on an outcrop of grass. Reaching into the shallow water, Ben grabbed hold of the slippery logs and pushed. Ernesto appeared behind them, still holding his spear.

  “Get on!” he ordered. “I will push.”

  The raft dipped into the water as Brooke shimmied onto it. “It’s too shallow!”

  Ernesto forced the sheathed knife into Ben’s hand. “Take this,” he said. “Is okay. Go on.”

  Taking the knife, Ben pulled his upper body onto the raft, struggling to find purchase on the slippery logs. It’s not big enough, Ben realized as the raft tilted in the shallow water. It won’t hold us.

  Lips pressed firmly together, Ernesto leaned his weight against the back of the raft and pushed. They felt the raft scrape bottom, and then it was free, buoyed by the deep water.

  “Get on!” Ben cried, reaching out his hand.

  Ernesto looked at him calmly. “Is okay,” he said. “I will stay here for to slow them down.”

  “No!” Brooke screamed, but it was too late. With a final push, Ernesto sent the raft out into the middle of the river where the current took possession of it.

  Drawing his machete from its sheath, Ernesto turned around just as the remaining inhumans appeared at the tree line.

  “Ernesto!” Ben screamed. “You can still make it! Come on! Swim!”

  Ignoring Ben’s pleas, Ernesto stood facing the top of the embankment. The inhumans lingered for a moment, a row of shadows in the gloom. Their jaws clicked together inquisitively as they passed a message up and down the cordon. Then, all at once, they raced down the embankment toward the small Peruvian.

  Swinging the machete in a wide arc, Ernesto screamed as the inhumans surged over him.

  Unable to watch, Ben and Brooke pressed their faces against the top of the raft and closed their eyes. He reached across to the other side and took her hand. Although he could not see her, he could hear her crying softly in the darkness.

  There was one final shriek—whether man or beast, they could not tell—and then the mighty river pulled them around the bend and out of sight of the slaughter.

  A few minutes later, a sliver of pink appeared on the horizon as dawn broke the sky.

  Fifty-four

  The sun lifted its golden crown above the horizon, its honeyed rays filtering down through the trees and along the river. The clouds were gone, and the sky was the kind of clear, optimistic blue that made it seem as if anything were possible.

  At some point during the waning hours of darkness, Ben looked at the far shore and thought he spied two or three inhumans crouched beneath the trees, watching them as they floated by on the makeshift raft. An hour or so later, just as the darkness began to fade, he could have sworn he’d seen them again, though he never mentioned either of these sightings to Brooke.

&nb
sp; But now it did not matter, anyway, because the sun was shining down, and they were going to be safe. Safe…

  High above them, a scarlet macaw looked down at the unfamiliar shape that floated down the middle of the river. Wings beating the air, the macaw squawked a warning cry and flapped away from this unknown danger, seeking shelter in the trees.

  Ben heard the shriek and lifted his head. He was cold and wet and utterly confused. Then he remembered Brooke and jerked his head around in a panic. But Brooke was still there, apparently asleep but still clinging to the makeshift raft. His sudden movements caused her to stir, and she lifted her head slowly, as though the effort was more than she could bear.

  “Hey,” Ben said. “Did you hear that?”

  Brooke had said little since the previous evening, and she did not answer now. She only stared at him from across the raft with a curious expression on her face and her head cocked to one side like a puppy.

  They listened, and soon they heard the scream again. Then another. And another.

  Bright flashes overhead, like a moving rainbow.

  “Ben!” Brooke shouted with the brightness of hope. “It’s the macaws!”

  For a moment, Ben looked at her blankly, not comprehending the significance of this at all.

  “Don’t you see?” Brooke said, pushing the hair back from her face, and now Ben saw that the passionate fire was slowly coming back into her eyes. “They’re heading to the clay lick!”

  “The clay lick?”

  “We’re almost there! The research lodge must be just around that bend.”

  Ben smiled boyishly. He dunked his head and squirted a stream of water at her and Brooke laughed, splashing him with her hand. “Relax. Remember, no sudden movements.” But she could hardly contain her own joy.

  A few minutes later, they passed the clay lick, its red walls alive with parrots and macaws.