They were coming up on the bend in the river when they heard a familiar singsong.
“Is that—” Brooke asked, unable to finish.
“Oh, my God!” Ben whispered.
Where the river snaked around the bend, a tree had fallen into the water, creating a kind of natural strainer. There, amongst the driftwood and other detritus, was something that looked like a man clinging to one of the lower branches.
“It’s Auggie!” Ben shouted. “Auggie! Hey, Auggie!”
Overwhelmed by emotion, Ben kicked wildly, steering them toward his friend.
“Ben!” Brooke shouted. “Ben, no!”
But Ben did not hear her. He continued to scream his friend’s name, splashing wildly to reach him.
Floating face down, Auggie’s headless torso bobbed in the water, the stump of one leg poking up from the surface, severed at the knee. Caught in the crook of a low-hanging branch was a single scrawny arm, still attached to the body by rags of flesh. Still strapped to the wrist was the familiar black band—a timepiece for a young man with no more time to spare.
“Auggie…” Ben murmured, trembling.
Brooke choked back a sob as she remembered the sad-looking introvert, so intelligent and polite, whose memory did not mesh with this lump of tattered flesh and bone that floated before her.
“Ben, we shouldn’t go near him. It… it might still be around.”
Ben lowered his head to the raft, his broad shoulders heaving as he convulsed in misery. Then, without warning, he lifted his head and roared at the sky, a long and agonizing cry that echoed through the jungle and sent a few nearby birds fluttering skyward. He slammed his fist against the raft again and again until it was bloody. He had broken two knuckles in his rage but could hardly feel anything but the pain within.
“Oh, Ben. I—I’m so sorry. Ben? Look at me, please.”
Ben opened his mouth to respond, but the words did not come. There was nothing he could say to convey his anguish, for words could not conjure the memories of his lost friends, all the times they had shared together, both good and bad—and so he said nothing at all.
She reached a trembling hand across the raft and laid it on top of his. Her touch seemed to calm him. He gave several violent shudders before the tension left his body and he relaxed against the raft with his head turned to the side.
They floated that way until they had rounded the bend and Auggie’s body disappeared behind them. Then, like a mirage, Brooke spotted two peki-pekis bobbing on the water. They were anchored to the shore beside the long stairway that led to the research center, a place that now seemed like a decades-old memory.
“Ben,” she whispered, squeezing his hand. “Ben, we made it.”
Ben ducked his head beneath the surface and then popped up again. When his face reappeared, he had a wide, uncomprehending look in his eyes, as though he wanted to but did not quite believe her. Brooke smiled gently, trying to soothe him. “Ben, everything’s going to be okay. We made it. The lodge is right over—”
Brooke stopped in mid-sentence when she noticed how his squinty blue eyes had widened into circles, his features frozen with a look of unblinking and unadulterated terror.
The black caiman had been following them since they trespassed near its kill, drawn by the scent of blood seeping from Ben’s leg. It had already taken an exploratory bite of Ben’s right foot, and now it was coming back for the rest of him.
Ben’s backpack was sitting on top of the raft. Unzipping it quickly, he snatched his waterproof bag and shoved it across the logs toward Brooke. “Take this!” he cried, forcing it into her hands. He spoke quickly, grimacing at the pain, his words rushing out in a torrent of agony. “Listen to me carefully. When I say ‘go,’ I want you to swim as fast as you can.”
“I won’t do it—” Brooke protested weakly. This could not be happening. It could not end this way, not when they had already suffered so much, not when they were so close to safety.
“Someone needs to make it. Someone needs to let the world know what happened.” Caressing her hand, he managed a tragic smile. “It’s okay. I need to do this.”
Ben turned his head toward the water behind him. Brooke did not see anything back there, but he must have seen something, because his head spun around, fast as a top. “GO!” he screamed.
Not waiting for a response, Ben shoved away from the raft, turning to face his fate. Treading water with his one remaining leg, he pulled the knife out of its sheath and gripped the handle with the blade facing down. Behind him, he heard Brooke splash away from the raft as she swam for the shore.
“Come on!” Ben whispered, leaning forward so that his eyes were almost even with the surface. Several yards away, the river swirled as something moved below. He lowered his head too far, accidentally swallowed some water, and spat it out in a jet between his teeth. Sensing death was near, he gripped the knife tighter. Then the water erupted just a few feet away, and he saw the bloodstained gullet of the river monster as it surged toward him, jaws creaking open, eclipsing the sun. There was a low rumble, a kind of watery growl, and still the massive reptile’s mouth opened wider and wider.
Twisting its neck, the caiman slammed against him, latching onto his midsection. Several ribs shattered instantly as the crushing jaws clamped down with unimaginable force, tossing him about from side to side. The air rushed out of Ben’s lungs and he gasped, struggling to draw it back in. With a powerful tug, the caiman began to drag him down into the murk, where it would likely drown him or rip him to pieces in a death roll. As the water rose above his shoulders, neck, and face, Ben raised the knife and plunged it deep into the monster’s snout. The caiman released him with a hiss, and all at once, he could breathe again.
The violent struggle, which had lasted but a few short seconds, was over, and now Ben found himself floating alone in the water. He couldn’t feel his leg anymore, and he was pretty sure one of his ribs had punctured a lung because, even though his head was above the water, he suddenly felt like he was drowning.
Gripping the knife, he leveled his eyes at the water’s surface. Turning his head, he saw that Brooke had almost reached the shore. There was no sign of the massive reptile. Where the hell are you hiding, you bastard? Ben turned and turned, until at last he spotted it. The caiman had reappeared some twenty yards away and was now floating motionlessly on the surface, tracking his every move with age-old patience. Water twinkled along its dark scales, from the tip of its snout to the end of its tail. All sixteen feet of it.
Ben beat the water with his hand, trying to get the beast’s attention. “Come on, you motherfucker! What are you waiting for?” There was a sudden, blinding stab of pain in his side, and then his mouth filled with something warm and coppery. Turning his head to spit, Ben saw a vivid splash of red appear on top of the water, and he knew his time was short.
The caiman remained perfectly still for several seconds, perhaps trying to decide whether or not the prize was worth the fight. Its yellow eyes blinked slowly as it regarded him with hungry interest. To Ben it seemed that the creature possessed a cruel intelligence, capable of formulating thoughts that far surpassed its killer instinct.
As if in response to this false line of thinking, the caiman launched itself toward him, surfing across the water like a torpedo. As it drew near, its jaws cracked open, wider, wider, until it seemed it would swallow him whole.
The early sun winked off the wet steel as the Boy Scout leaped forward with a scream, his knife raised high above his head as he prepared to meet his glory.
***
Brooke swam furiously through the brown water, lungs burning as she held her breath, heading in the direction where she hoped she would find the dock, the tiny beach, the research lodge, and most of all, safety. She looked back only once and saw the flip of a long tail, a yellowish underbelly crisscrossed with scars, and a bloody froth on the river’s surface, and then she could look no more.
At last, she pulled herself up onto the muddy shore. Th
e current had taken her a little ways past the dock, but that was of little concern to her now. Finally free of the river, she collapsed on her stomach, winded and in shock. The long hours in the water had taken its toll; her legs were useless, and every muscle in her body ached like a bruise. Desperate for warmth, she slowly curled herself into a ball, her entire body heaving with violent, shuddering sobs. But this did little to alleviate the icy chill within her. And in spite of the sun, she seemed to be getting colder with each passing second. It seemed to take possession of her until even her blood felt cold. Soon the shudders turned to violent convulsions, and her eyes rolled back into her head. Then, mercifully, she was still.
Fifty-five
As the shadows filled the space between the trees, Brooke Harlow stumbled down the well-worn footpath that would return her to the safety of the research center. Squishing along in her wet boots, she tried to pick up her pace, but her legs were leaden, hopelessly cramped from the long hours in the river, and the best she could manage was this awkward, bumbling gait. At some point she realized that she had dropped Ben’s waterproof bag, and was forced to turn around. She discovered it a few hundred yards back, dangling from a lattice of vines on the side of the path, and even though she could not remember what was in the bag, or why it was so important, she all but wept at the sight of it.
Now clutching the bag against her chest, she continued toward the research center as the night pressed in and the jungle noises reverberated inside her head like the beating of a heart. The walk seemed longer than she remembered—and more treacherous. Branches seemed to reach just a little bit farther onto the path as she walked by, and the roots seemed to grow a little higher as she stepped over them, as if the forest wanted to do her harm. She told herself this was all in her head, and yet…
From nowhere and everywhere came Auggie’s seething voice: You think you’re prepared. You think you’ve done everything you’re supposed to, study hard, work hard, keep yourself out of trouble, and then—whoosh! Something arrives out of the blue that you never saw coming. Something you never even imagined. Something that’ll knock your little world off its axis. Something that’ll either change your life for the better, or end it forever. Chaos.
Brooke stopped, straining to see inside the tunnel of darkness, but there was no one there. After three or four seconds, she started shuffling forward again.
Someone needs to make it. Someone needs to let the world know what happened. Ben’s voice now, floating through the corridors of her memory, but no less real than if he had been standing right beside her. It seemed a lifetime had passed since that night they sat on the steps of the research center, looking at the stars, ready to share their very first kiss. A hundred other memories of him flickered through her mind, but the one that finally lingered, the one she wanted so desperately to forget was: Ben pushing his waterproof bag into her hands as he prepared to do battle with a monstrous caiman. She remembered the look in his eyes; he knew he was going to die. Then why did he do that? Why did the stupid fool do that? And the answer came to her in the sound of her own voice: he did it for you. It was his final sacrifice, his final act of love. And with this thought, she began to cry like a little girl. As the tears trickled from her eyes, she ordered her legs to go faster, faster.
We have to get back to the lodge, Cooper said. We have to warn people about this.
I will, thought Brooke. I will, I will, I will.
But what if we’re the carriers? What happens if we bring this back into the world? What if it wants us to?
Who had said that? Was it Cooper? Auggie? No—that was also Ben, speaking to her in private the night they slept on the sandbar. But Ben was dead. They were all dead. And she was the only one left to warn the world.
Let us be going now, Ernesto spoke calmly. There is nothing here but death.
Up ahead there was a gap in the canopy, and the moonlight shone down onto the path like a spotlight. Beyond that, she could see the yellow glow of kerosene lamps, and she knew the research center was close. Then a shadow peeled away from the forest, blocking the light. Someone was standing in the middle of the path, facing the direction of the lodge.
“Help…” Brooke croaked. “Help me!” But the figure did not hear her. Using her last reserves of strength, Brooke sucked in the humid jungle air and released it with a piercing scream. “HELP ME!”
Jerking around in surprise, the figure started toward her, loping along at first, and then breaking into an all-out run. In her last few seconds of consciousness, Brooke Harlow recalled the strange behavior of the inhumans, not so much trying to catch them as to chase them, to drive them forward through the jungle… Toward what? she wondered, though the answer was right in front of her eyes. Why, toward civilization, of course…
She managed one more step before her legs betrayed her. As her foot caught a root, she toppled forward, arms spinning as she fell through space.
And when the darkness rushed forward to embrace her, she was glad.
Fifty-six
There was nothing extraordinary about the petite, unassuming brunette who boarded the Delta Airbus 330 in Lima for the red-eye flight to New York. She did not speak to anyone in line and exhibited a deep reservoir of patience as she waited more than five minutes for an American couple to stow their belongings in the overhead compartment (hemming and hawing about the lack of space for their overstuffed carry-ons) and finally take their seats. Quietly slipping into her seat near the back of the aircraft, she leaned her head against the shuttered window and closed her eyes. A moment later, a potbellied man in a New York Jets cap squeezed himself into the row of seats and plopped down beside her with a disconcerted grunt.
“Like a goddamned sardine…” he grumbled.
The girl could sense him watching her, his eyes moving greedily up and down her body. He seemed to expect a response from her, but she kept her eyes shut tight, hoping he’d leave her alone. She had just begun to doze off when a swirly-haired stewardess, conducting her preflight inspection of the aisles, stopped and asked her to buckle up for takeoff. Opening her eyes, the girl looked at her wearily. The stewardess’ bleached-blonde hair was pulled back into a tight bun that sat on top of her head like a pom-pom, and her face was etched with the fine lines of middle age. A gold, rectangular tag was pinned to her lapel, but the girl could not read the name. The stewardess smiled at her, her teeth a dazzling white. Nodding slightly, she buckled her seatbelt and leaned her head back against the window. Before the plane was even in the air, she had already fallen into a deep sleep.
An hour later, the same swirly-haired stewardess returned to make a perfunctory attempt to awaken the girl for dinner—tonight the choices were Salisbury steak with mashed potatoes, veggies, and a brownie, or vegetarian lasagna with apple cobbler—but when the girl did not respond to either choice, the stewardess served the Jets fan (he chose the steak) and continued on to the next row of passengers. Much to the dismay of the nearest passengers, the Jets fan smacked his lips when he ate and slurped his Coke through a straw—and still she did not stir, not even when he knocked his drink over, transforming her hiking pants into a wearable Rorschach test. Once she cried out in her sleep, shuffling her feet back and forth as though trying to run. Four and a half hours passed, and they were somewhere high above the Caribbean when the memories came crashing back to her.
There were faces, faces that should have been familiar to her but they weren’t. They seemed alien, repulsive, grotesque. She was in the jungle again, running through the trees. She was hungry. There were other people there too. For some reason she could not see them clearly; they looked like shadows, faceless shadows. And suddenly she was falling, falling from the steep embankment, splashing down into the liquid darkness. She closed her eyes and when she opened them again, she was on the river, floating with the current. A boy reaching across to her, holding her hand. She heard birds, saw the blinding sun rising up above the trees. There was something else, too, something that floated across the surface of
the water like a log. A log with teeth. The sun winking off a steel blade, the flick of a tail, and then the water churned red… but the boy, what had happened to the boy?
She awoke with a start. The Jets fan was in the middle of a movie when he felt the girl stir beside him. Taking one look at her sallow complexion, he was up and out of his seat with almost comical speed, the girl rushing past him with one hand clamped over her mouth, dragging a small backpack behind her as she raced toward the bathroom in the rear of the plane.
She almost didn’t make it. She banged on the door, but it refused to open. At the last second, a steward appeared from the kitchen area and yanked the door aside for her, folding it against the wall like an accordion. Slamming the door shut behind her, the girl flipped up the toilet lid and vomited until her stomach was empty and her throat was raw. At some point, her legs began to wobble and she slid down to the floor, still retching.
Panting and shaking, she rose slowly, leaning her weight on the edge of the sink.
When she had composed herself, she sat on the toilet, removing the waterproof bag from her backpack. Reaching into the bag, she removed Ben’s video camera and held it between her trembling hands. Reluctantly, she opened the small viewing screen. She hesitated, her finger hovering over the row of buttons. Then, with a sense of reckless abandon, she pressed PLAY.
The screen was broken—or so it appeared at first. A pale speck of light appeared in the corner of the image, and she recognized this as the moon. The moon bounced around the dark screen as the camera shifted to a new angle, and then Auggie’s hushed voice wafted out of the tiny speakers.
“Hey, Ben,” he whispered in a contrite tone. “If you are listening to this message, it means that I’m off in the jungle somewhere. I know—” His voice cracked a little, and there was a long pause as he struggled to compose himself. “I know you’re probably pretty pissed off at me right now, so I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry. I… I don’t know what else to say on that. I’m going to try and find help for you guys. I can move faster on my own, I think, so you just tell everyone to hang in there. Help is coming soon.”
Pray for Darkness: Terror in the Green Inferno Page 27