Insects: A Novel

by Koloen, John

  67

  Boyd and Johnson made their way to the shed as quickly as they could. Duncan stayed behind at the urging of Maggie Cross. The water was nearly up to their knees in most places, and they were fully engaged in the moment, each carrying a machete. They had only their imaginations to work with, and that accounted for Boyd’s inordinate fear of giant snakes and Johnson’s mindless fear of being eaten alive by piranha.

  The double doors of the shed, constructed of steel panels that were now mostly covered with rust, were open. The water flowing in and around it glistened with oils and gasoline.

  “This is toxic,” Johnson said as they approached, using sticks to keep their balance. The dirt floor had turned into mud, making it difficult for them once they got inside. Fuel cans, crates, and tools were scattered about, and petroleum fumes were present but not bothersome.

  “We need diesel for sure,” Boyd said, pulling out a rusty eight-liter can. He managed to unscrew the rusty cap and sniffed its contents. “Gasoline here,” he announced, holding the can up.

  “We should stack the good stuff somewhere,” Johnson said.

  Built on a slightly higher elevation than the surrounding forest, the floor was under a half foot of slowly swirling water. Johnson pulled a small table from a corner of the shed and set it upright near the entrance. He leaned on it to bury the legs in the mud and then Boyd set the fuel can on top.

  “Let’s put something heavy on the top,” Boyd said.

  “Yeah, it’s a little wobbly.”

  Boyd pulled a small rusty sledgehammer from a pile of debris and laid it on the table and continued checking cans and drums for fuel. It took only a few minutes to find three additional eight-liter cans, two of which they determined were at least half full of diesel fuel. The fourth can was empty.

  “You know what would be great,” Boyd said, “if we could find a sprayer of some sort.”

  “A sprayer?”

  “Yeah, you know, like for pesticides. We could use it like a flamethrower.”

  “You’re kidding.”

  “No, why not?”

  “Well, first of all, a sprayer is not a flamethrower. How would you ignite the fuel? Hold a lighter up as you spray? Good way to self-immolate.”

  “Yeah,” Boyd said grimacing slightly. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

  “You know what we could use?” Johnson asked rhetorically. “Torches, or better yet, flares. I wonder if there’re flares here. You would think they’d have flares, wouldn’t you?”

  “They’re prolly under water, but they got lanterns,” Boyd said, pointing to several banged up kerosene lanterns hanging from nails pounded into the wood frame. He grabbed one, held it near his ear and shook it.

  “It’s got fuel,” he said happily.

  “Let’s take a couple.”

  “What about kerosene?” Boyd asked.

  “I’ll bet they’ll burn diesel. I don’t think there’s a big difference between kerosene and diesel.”

  “You know, I was just thinking, there might be flares in the truck.”

  “Could be.”

  In addition to the fuel cans, which they placed on the table, they added a small pile of hand tools and rusty machetes, ignoring discarded chainsaws that were piled in a corner. They used rope they found in the shed as shoulder straps to hold their machetes. Johnson carried two cans and Boyd the third as they left the building and started the trek to the truck, leaving the empty can and lanterns behind.

  68

  Despite neither knowing much about old diesel trucks, Duncan and Suarez understood that starting the engine was the most important thing they could do. The hood raised, they peered into the shadows of the engine compartment, willing to do what was necessary, but lacking the skill and knowledge to do more than guess at what needed to be done. Duncan was moderately familiar with automobile engines, but only enough to be able to change spark plugs and filters, not enough to deal with fuel injectors or the electrical system. Suarez had experience working on his brother’s cars, but they were nothing like the truck, which was at least thirty years old.

  “I’ve never been a car guy,” Duncan said. “Anyone here know anything about motors?” he called out.

  They weren’t certain that there was diesel in the fuel tank. They rapped it with their knuckles several times, and it sounded hollow but not empty.

  “I think it’s low, but there’s fuel in there,” Duncan told Suarez, who nodded in agreement. “Maybe it’s not getting into the engine. What do you think?”

  “I don’t know for sure, Mr. Howard. I worked on a couple diesel when I worked in a garage. Maybe it’s the fuel filters. They need to be filled with diesel, or they won’t work. And maybe the fuel line could have an air pocket. That’s all I know about diesels.”

  “Do you think the fuel is stale?”

  Suarez shrugged. He could think of nothing else to say and stared awkwardly into the engine compartment.

  Duncan noticed a commotion on the truck bed as Peeples and Rankin pointed toward the clearing. Boyd and Johnson were within shouting distance.

  “What you guys got?” Rankin shouted. “I hope it’s gin.” Turning toward Peeples, she whispered, “I shouldn’t have said that, should I?”

  Peeples smiled wanly, pursed her lips and shaped a silent “no.”

  “Gas and diesel,” Boyd shouted.

  Duncan sloshed around the side of the truck, careful not to slip off the submerged roadway, smiling broadly. When they reached the truck, he asked them to pour one of the cans into the tank and to give one to Suarez.

  “When he’s done with it, go ahead and add it to the tank,” Duncan said. “We need to do this fast. Antonio, get busy on the filters and tell us what we need to do to check for air pockets.”

  While Johnson poured the diesel into the tank, Suarez located the dry fuel filters and filled them with diesel. He showed Boyd how to work the injector pump and instructed him to do it until there was pressure in the fuel system. He pointed out the bleeder valve and told him how to bleed the air out of the system.

  Everyone on the truck bed watched intently as the men hustled to get it ready to start. Duncan assigned Suarez to start the engine. He hadn’t decided who should drive. Nobody had experience driving on a road covered by six inches of murky, moving water. It would be stressful no matter who drove, he thought. It would be stressful for everyone. Everyone had just as much to lose as everyone else. He had been able to ignore the big picture by focusing on details. Now the seriousness of their situation hit him in the face. They could all die. Including himself. What should they do? Drive in the hopes that they would find high ground? Sit tight and hope that the water didn’t continue to rise and push the truck into the current? He wondered whether they could save themselves. He was not counting on being rescued.

  69

  Daniel Rocha was worn out by the time Captain Juarez turned off the Rio Negro into the tributary that led to the cabin where he was supposed to retrieve Professor Azevedo and the Americans two days ago. Juarez puffed on a Derby cigarette as he slowly guided his boat into a lake. Everything looked different. Almost as if he’d never been there. This bothered him. He was sloppy about a lot of things, but not when it came to his boat and his role as a captain. He was a lousy bookkeeper, but his wife did that. Not recording the GPS coordinates was sloppy. Not making mental notes of landmarks was sloppy, and now it meant he moved more slowly and stopped more often.

  Rocha was relieved when the boat turned off the river and out of the raging current. He’d struggled the entire trip to keep the small boats from banging each other into oblivion. During that time, he’d perfected his technique, learning how much rope to give them and how to keep the ropes from tangling, but it became easy when they were out of the current. The boats fell in line like ducklings waddling behind their mother. No longer concerned with the boats, he looked
around him and wondered where the lake had come from. Though he had never been to this place, he had been in the forest numerous times but had never seen anything like this. He got the impression quickly that the captain wasn’t sure where he was going. He watched Juarez in the tiny wheelhouse as he stared at the fish finder.

  “Are you looking for fish?” he asked, puzzled by what the captain was doing.

  “I’m trying to keep the boat in the middle of the channel,” he replied curtly. “This tells you the depth, so I’m trying to keep the boat in the deep part. There was only one channel when I was here last week, and not this deep. It looks different.”

  He felt confident that he had turned into the correct tributary though it was impossible to know for certain, given the flooding.

  “I wish we could contact them somehow,” Rocha said.

  “You’re telling me? I just want to find the cabin.”

  “Is there anything I can do to help?”

  “Squeeze in here and watch the depth finder while I steer. Keep us where the water is deep. That will get us there,” Juarez said.

  70

  Late that morning, Augusto Santos and Julio Carvalho watched sheets of water slowly pass under Raul Barbosa’s raised cabin. They’d moved in after repeatedly telling guide Javier Costa that a flood was imminent and that they should abandon the expedition until the threat passed. Costa refused. He told them that he needed the money “and the Americans are doing important work. Ciência.” This happened shortly after the group crossed the shallow stream that turned into a torrent, preventing the group from retreating. The pair had backtracked across the stream before it became impassable and returned to the cabin, which they admired. Santos and Carvalho had grown up in the same gritty neighborhood in Manaus. Both had dropped out of Catholic school in the eighth grade and made their living as laborers and jacks of all trades with occasional thefts to tide them over during lean times.

  Santos was tall and athletic-looking while Carvalho was short and stocky. Both were in their mid-thirties. They had worked for Professor Azevedo on several of his forays into the forest. Carvalho served as a cook and laborer, and Santos managed scientific equipment. They had told Azevedo that they could do anything from guiding to security, even though neither man had done either for pay. When Azevedo called them about accompanying the expedition, they told him that they needed money to purchase ammunition and supplies. Each purchased ancient shotguns at a pawn shop. One was a double barrel and the other a single barrel. After buying ammunition, they went to the river bank to try them out. Each man fired several shells at floating debris. Both were satisfied with their purchases. Carvalho joked that he was surprised his gun didn’t blow up in his face.

  The area around the cabin had not flooded when they reached it, exhausted from the long hike. That night, they heard the water as it rippled across the landscape. By morning, everything within sight was under water, but they felt secure since there was plenty of food and water, and the wind turbine and photovoltaics supplied electricity. They fiddled with the radiophone but couldn’t figure out how to make it work. It was while both were standing on the deck that they saw the approaching boat.

  “How deep do you think it is?” Santos asked in Portuguese.

  “I don’t know,” Carvalho replied, spitting over the railing. “Too deep for me.”

  “You think there are snakes in the water?”

  “Probably.”

  “And caiman?”

  “I suppose.”

  Carvalho leaned over the railing and spit again, the spittle arcing into the muddy water, splashing for an instant before being absorbed by the ripples.

  “I’m not going to leave this place until it’s dry,” Santos said, waving his arm expansively.

  “I’m with you,” Carvalho smiled and then grew serious as he squinted at something in the distance. Rubbing his eyes, he stared again and then ran into the cabin where he grabbed binoculars that dangled on a leather strap from a nail. Returning to the deck, he aimed the binoculars at an object moving slowly toward them. It looked like a boat, but was too far away to see clearly, even through the binoculars. He couldn’t even tell whether it was moving.

  “What you see?”

  “I don’t know,” Carvalho said, “see for yourself. Looks maybe like a boat to me.”

  Santos agreed.

  “And it is coming this way.”

  “Maybe they can get us out of here,” Carvalho said, hopefully. “And maybe they got beer.”

  “And cigars and dancing girls,” Santos said sarcastically. “I’ll be happy to get out of here, at least until the flooding is over. Then, maybe, I’ll come back. This isn’t a bad place. It’s got a lot going for it, and what I heard was that the guy who owned it is dead and got no relatives. So, you know, I might come back.”

  “I was thinking the same thing,” Carvalho said. “Exactly the same thing.”

  “We might do it together, at least until one of us gets tired of living in isolation, all alone in the forest. Suits me,” Santos said.

  Carvalho wasn’t certain whether Santos was being sarcastic or simply making an observation. He was something of a wise guy. He wondered whether his friend was trying to lay claim to the cabin or whether he was simply fantasizing about living in the forest. He felt tension as a result and didn’t want to concede anything but didn’t want to commit to anything either. But he forgot about it as he watched the boat approach, pulling several boats behind it. Having made out the wheelhouse, he knew it was the same boat that had dropped them off. He and Santos gave each other high fives. Any thought of being stranded vanished, and instead of thinking about living in the forest, they began looking forward to returning to Manaus.

  With each moment, their elation increased as Santos started waving a large towel. Carvalho looked on approvingly. As the excitement of rescue passed, he said quietly to his companion, “Let’s not tell them we deserted the Americans, okay? Let’s just say we got separated.”

  71

  Suarez said a silent prayer before trying to start the truck. The engine turned over on the first attempt but did not start. On the second attempt, it turned over a bit faster and then backfired, sending an explosive cloud of black smoke billowing out of the tailpipe. It startled everyone. The third try resulted in the engine shuddering and shaking so violently that Suarez feared the motor mounts had cracked. The battery seemed to be fading, and he worried about how many more attempts he could make before it ran out of juice. One? Two?

  He waited a moment, lowered his head until his forehead touched the steering wheel and turned the key again. Another backfire, a cloud of black smoke, and the engine was running roughly as the guide manipulated the choke and tap danced on the gas pedal to keep from giving too much or too little fuel. He did this for several minutes until the motor had warmed up and ran relatively smoothly. He pushed the choke in and slowly removed his foot from the pedal. The engine continued to run smoothly. He sighed and crossed himself.

  Duncan watched Suarez through the cab’s missing rear window. Confident within his areas of expertise, including expeditions in dangerous places, he was feeling the effects of sleeplessness, hunger, and anxiety. The same could be said of everyone. Rankin walked a fine line between hysteria and mere fear and had difficulty controlling her emotions. Her friends tried to reassure her but, failing that, avoided saying anything that might set her off. Duncan was so upset that he would have sent her packing had that been possible. Now she had become just another distraction that he tried to ignore.

  “How much fuel’s in the tank?” Duncan asked Suarez, who left the engine running and climbed from the cab onto the bed. Suarez shrugged.

  “The fuel gauge is broken.”

  “Can we put a stick or something in the tank?”

  Hearing this, Boyd lowered himself to the ground. The truck had two fuel tanks, one on each side of the cab b
ehind the running boards. The fuel cap was missing from one tank and the second tank had a cap but had lost its gasket. He checked the fuel level in each tank by inserting a stick he’d picked up in the muddy water.

  “Only a couple of inches each,” he said as he lifted himself onto the bed. “I guess we didn’t bring enough diesel. We’re gonna need more, or we won’t get far.”

  With each passing moment, it seemed that either the water was rising or moving faster, and Duncan realized that it would take more than a couple of cans to fill the tanks. Boyd and Johnson wouldn’t be able to do it alone, so he volunteered himself, Hamel and Suarez, to return to the shed for diesel. With two empty cans in hand, the group shuffled its way toward the shed. All the while, Hamel was hyper-alert for reptiles. He was so anxious that he could not resist talking about his fear, which spread his anxiety to Boyd, who had his own issues with snakes. Duncan felt an urge to slap Hamel. But his fear was not irrational. They could feel things sliding against them in the murky water, and they sighted several snakes resting on debris piles in the clearing.

  “That’s a python,” Hamel shouted, pointing nervously toward an object floating in the water a hundred feet away.

  “Looks like a log to me,” Boyd said.

  “Really?” Hamel said suspiciously. “You think so?”

  “Just keep moving,” Duncan said. “Whatever it is, it’s over there, and we’re over here. Just keep moving.”

  Hamel kept his eye on the object, which moved slowly with the current. Picking up the pace, he moved splashily to the front of the line next to Duncan. If it was a snake, he was determined not to be the first victim.

  They paused as Johnson led the way into the shed. Somewhat spooked by Hamel’s sighting of a snake, he entered cautiously, scanning the water and the walls for reptiles. Seeing none, he waved the others inside. The water had risen several inches since their first trip.

  “Okay,” Duncan said, “we’re here for diesel. Check the drums first.”