Pray for Darkness: Terror in the Green Inferno
Page 28
There was an audible click as Auggie pressed the STOP button and the video clip froze on the screen, waiting to be replayed.
She put the camera back inside the bag, folded down the top, and dropped it into her backpack. As she prepared to exit the bathroom, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, but was unable to recognize the glistening complexion and bloodshot eyes of her reflection. Pausing with her hand on the lock, she found herself staring into the cold and emotionless eyes of a stranger. One of her eyes began to twitch, and she leaned closer to the mirror, probing the area with her fingers until eventually the twitching stopped.
She remained that way for a few seconds, her hand on the door, staring into the reflection of her own eyes. But there was something else, something she had not noticed before. She leaned closer to the mirror, until her nose was practically touching it. Pulling her eyelid down, she saw something moving back there, swimming through the bloodshot sclera.
Something black, like a shadow.
Pulling her fingers away, the skin snapped back into place, concealing all evidence of the hellish miracle that was happening behind that lovely green eye.
Stepping back from the mirror, she put on her sunglasses and returned to her seat.
Epilogue
JFK International Airport was congested with travelers from all over the world, more so than usual on that Monday morning in August. Overnight, severe thunderstorms had caused several delays to both inbound and outbound flights, and now hundreds of would-be passengers rushed from one terminal to another, hurrying to get to work, or home, or vacation. They were frustrated, and eager to get on with their lives. They slurped their lattes, gobbled their brunch, yapped on their cell phones, complained about the economy, and argued with the TSA officials about the absurdity of liquid restrictions.
They were busy, far too busy to pay much attention to the breaking news regarding the four young Americans who had gone missing (and were presumed dead) in a remote section of the Peruvian Amazon. The few who did take notice seemed to dismiss the story with an air of self-righteousness: Glad it wasn’t me, was the most prevalent thought. Coming in a close second: Bunch of idiots… why the hell would anyone want to take a vacation in such a Godforsaken place?
But most people neglected to follow what the reporters were calling “A Tragic Story,” just as they neglected to notice the petite brunette who assimilated herself among the throngs of bustling travelers.
She followed the flow of passengers off the plane, through the Jetway, and into the concourse, where she allowed herself to be swept up in the stampede to Immigration. From there, it was easy. She waited patiently in the queue, passing the time by studying the people around her—their bizarre facial expressions and mysterious mannerisms. When it was her turn, she handed her passport and declaration form to the uniformed officer, and placed first her thumb and then her fingers on the fingerprint scanner, just as she had watched the others do ahead of her. After flipping through her passport for perhaps five seconds, the officer handed it back to her and she continued on to the baggage claim area. From there, she circumvented the swarm of people around the luggage carousel, nodded her way through customs, and moved swiftly toward the exit.
As she drifted toward the waiting area, she saw a man and woman waving their arms at her, shouting for her attention. Several others were there too, holding up homemade signs and jumping up and down, apparently very happy to see her.
Walking slowly toward them, she felt a nervous shudder in the pit of her stomach and stopped.
Pausing just before the security gate, she removed the waterproof bag from her backpack—through the thin layer of plastic she could see the rectangular bulge of Ben’s video camera—and tossed it into the gaping hole of a nearby trash bin. Shrugging on her backpack, it seemed as though an enormous weight had been lifted, and she felt a most peculiar tingle as the muscles around her face contracted all at once. Though she did not understand what this odd sensation meant, the cluster of Brooke Harlow’s friends and family interpreted her upward slanting expression as a smile, and several of them—her mother and father included—began to cry with joy at the incredible resilience of their beloved little girl.
Making a subtle adjustment to her dark sunglasses, she veered back toward the waiting area. Toward the waving people. Toward the strange new world beyond.