Rumors of Savages

by Carrie Regan

  Intuitively, Richard sensed that Julian was still alive, yet felt an overwhelming sense of powerlessness. For the tenth time in half as many days, he rifled through a large file box in the corner of his cluttered office – just a portion of the extensive research Julian had accumulated for this recent expedition – hoping it would offer clues. The files were stuffed with maps, contact lists, language guides, copies of permits and export licenses for samples, and historical notes of encounters with the legendary Bambada people.

  Withdrawing a file flagged with an orange post-it, he flipped it open and found a dog-eared photocopy of an article entitled “The Bambada of Central Africa: The Final Frontier or Fantasy?”

  “In the thick jungle of central Africa lurks a tribe of diminutive people who are so remarkable, they’ve been able to withstand the centuries of war, epidemics, famine, and foreign invasion that have plagued every other community in the area. Indeed, they’re so wily, so stealth that few who have searched for them have ever succeeded. Adding to the Bambada mystery, all who claim to have found them haven’t lived long enough to share more than the scantest details of the encounter.

  Still, the details those few fortunate – or rather unfortunate – explorers brought back are remarkable. The Bambada, they say, are so advanced, they possess extrasensory abilities like telepathy and carry a deep knowledge of world events – even on the day they occur – despite a lack of modern communications equipment. Their soils are laced with gemstones and precious metals, yet they apparently shun any outside contact that would enable them to exploit these riches. They live in harmony yet are so blood thirsty they’ve exterminated all outsiders who have come into contact with them.

  Is it possible that in one of the most remote wildernesses of our planet there exists a unique civilization more powerful than any other on earth? That in their isolated, idyllic world, unfettered by material possessions and the distractions of the modern age, they’ve harnessed powers of the brain we only dream of? Or is it more likely such a community simply doesn’t exist, except as an illusion in the malaria-ridden minds of a few intrepid African explorers?”

  The article was written half a century ago, but it could have been the central thesis for Julian’s expedition. Further down the page, however, Julian and the author’s opinions split decisively. While the author concluded that the Bambada were nothing more than anthropology’s version of an urban legend, Julian believed they were, in fact, very real. The file box in front of Richard – and the dozens more like it at Julian’s apartment and NYU office – contained a lifetime of research offering strong evidence that the Bambada were real. The only thing lacking, Julian knew, was the definitive proof only an expedition could bring.

  Richard skimmed through the rest of the article, searching for clues. Had Julian fallen victim to one of the many rebel factions in the area? Maybe a simple mugging? Had he gone the way of other explorers, and died at the hands of the Bambada? Or was he still alive somewhere out there, injured and without supplies but roaming the jungle in blind determination? Overwhelmed by the possibilities, each more discouraging than the next, Richard cast the folder aside and rested his weary head in his hands.

  Moments later, his ancient rotary desk phone rang. After the CNN report, he expected queries about Julian to start flooding in. NYU’s PR department had promised to field all calls, and Richard thumbed through his Rolodex to have the number on hand as he reached for the phone.

  “Richard Masters,” he answered reluctantly.

  “Richard? Bill Warner here with the Adventure Channel. I’m calling about Lawrence Julian Thompson.”

  “Masters & Son isn’t making any comment on the unfortunate disappearance of Dr. Thompson,” Richard began wearily, imagining the number of times he’d have to repeat the line. “Please contact New York University’s Public Rel-“

  Bill cut him off quickly. “This is different. I don’t want a statement. I want to find him.”

  Richard paused. He wasn’t prepared for this. “Excuse me?” Everyone from the US Marines to private mercenaries had refused to venture into the Nburu jungle to search for Julian, and Richard had given up hope of finding anyone willing to go.

  “We want to find him. We think it’s tragic, what’s happened, and we’d like to help put an end to the suffering of Dr. Thompson’s friends and loved ones, and perhaps that of Dr. Thompson himself,” Bill offered.

  “Well, we certainly appreciate the offer. Dr. Thompson was – is – a close personal friend of mine.”

  “Great. We anticipate that we can have our crew assembled and on the ground in two days, three max,” Bill began, shifting into executive producer mode.

  “Wait a minute. Crew? Where did you say you were calling from?”

  “Bill Warner, the Adventure Channel. We met at the Wallace’s dinner party last spring?”

  “Yes, Mr. Warner,” Richard said, noticeably annoyed. He recalled the shifty television executive who’d eavesdropped on his conversation. “Didn’t take long for you to pounce, did it? What great television it’ll make, huh? I’m sorry, but we’re not interested.”

  “No, no, no, Richard. It’s not like that. We’re great admirers of Dr. Thompson’s work, and believe that everything possible should be done to find him. And if he isn’t found, well, our documentary would serve as a lasting tribute.”

  “You people disgust me,” he said, about to hang up.

  “Richard, please, listen to me. We’re going one way or another, with or without your blessing. Obviously, we’d prefer your help. We stand a much greater chance of finding Dr. Thompson alive if we work together.”

  “I know what Julian thought of television. He’d never forgive me.”

  “And if he’s lying out there in the jungle injured, and you don’t do everything you can to save him, will you be able to forgive yourself?” Bill let the question float, then continued. “Our crews have experience in places like this. And to be honest, we have a real incentive to find him. Think about it.”

  There was a long silence on the other end of the phone. Richard’s eyes had fallen on a photo on his desk, taken years ago, during a trip he and Julian had taken together into a remote valley in Peru. He picked up the photo, studying it. The two were perched on a peak, smiling at the camera, having just completed an arduous 14-day hike – arduous, at least, by a desk-bound editor’s standards. For Julian, it had been a walk in the park. Still, Richard recalled thinking that if either of them had been injured even a few days into the trek, it could have been disastrous.

  Placing the photo delicately back on his desk, Richard took a deep breath, then replied.

  “What can I do to help?”

  CHAPTER 5

  Burunga wasn’t the type of place that usually attracted tourists. While foreigners frequented game parks in East Africa and the markets of West Africa, this bombed-out central African capital, devastated by decades of ill-conceived socialist policy and civil war, was no Disneyland. With an overwhelming percentage of the country covered by thick, uninhabitable jungle (but getting smaller every day thanks to foreign logging companies), the booming population was mostly crowded into polluted shantytowns. Insects grew to impossible proportions in the constant heat and humidity. A hefty military presence was most noticeable in the trigger-happy teens that strolled the streets in threadbare uniforms, toting AK-47s and demanding booze, cigarettes, and women in exchange for “protection.”

  One such soldier examined Liz’s passport, though odds were he couldn’t read it. He swatted an enormous, slow-moving fly, removed a bent cigarette from the corner of his mouth, and studied her. “What are you doing here?” he demanded.

  Liz hated this part. “We’re here to visit your beautiful country,” she replied, sarcasm hard to suppress as she slapped a fat mosquito. She knew better than to mention their real objective, and all their expensive video equipment.

  “And that?” he asked, tapping the case of video gear with the butt of his AK-47.

  “Those ar
e gifts for the wonderful people of Burunga.”

  He perked up. “What did you bring me?” he asked slyly, moving toward the cases.

  “We thought you’d prefer this,” she said quickly, distracting him from the gear by pressing his “gift” into his hand. He glanced at the crumpled bill, considered it, then waved them through.

  “How much?” AJ asked as they pushed their overloaded luggage carts past rows of eager young African men offering help.

  “Ten bucks.”

  “You’re getting generous.”

  “The least I could do was pay him what your equipment is worth,” Liz shot back, playfully glancing at his crotch. He smiled, mildly amused.

  A sudden shriek cut through the din of the vast, run-down airport hangar, catching their attention. In the distance, two African military officers restrained a young white man writhing in protest. The foreigner was a strange combination of New York urban chic and safari-bound tourist, sporting thick black-framed hipster glasses and a khaki photographer’s vest over a trendy, otherwise all-black ensemble. “You can’t do this to me!” he protested loudly. “I’m an American citizen!”

  “Poor sucker. I wonder what he did,” AJ said. They watched for a moment, then turned to leave when one last shout caught their attention.

  “Ever hear of the Adventure Channel? I’m a producer! You don’t want to mess with the American media!”

  Stopping short, they turned back simultaneously.

  “I guess that’s our fearless leader,” Max said woefully.

  “Troy,” Liz said, considering him over her sunglasses. She walked over to the officer she’d paid off to find out what was up.

  “He insulted our country and its people. He doesn’t know how things work here…not like you.”

  Instantly, Liz realized: With Troy trapped in an African prison, they’d have to let her produce!

  “Shouldn’t we do something to save him?” Buddy asked.

  Liz looked at her shoes. Max shrugged.

  “Guys! You can’t just leave him.”

  “You don’t want to get stuck with this guy, do you? He looks like an idiot. This is our chance to get rid of him,” AJ said, starting to walk away.

  Just then, two additional soldiers arrived and seized Troy by the feet.

  “Guys!” Buddy whined.

  “Oh, go get him,” Max said at last, and AJ and Liz acquiesced.

  Returning to the helpful officer, Liz motioned to Troy. “He’s actually with us. He’s very sick,” she said, spinning a finger around her ear, the universal sign for crazy. “If you explain to your friends, do you think they’d let him go?” She pressed two more bills in his hand. He counted them and motioned for more.

  “There are four of them,” he explained, shrugging.

  Liz dug out another pair of bills. With a sharp whistle, he called to the soldiers, who released Troy, collected their bounty, and set off to look for new prey.

  Troy remained on guard in a pseudo-karate stance, anticipating another assault from one of the many soldiers milling about the airport. He was taken aback when Liz grabbed him by the arm instead.

  “Come on. I’m with the crew. We’ve been waiting for you,” she muttered, pausing just long enough to let him collect his oversized designer bag.

  They approached the rest of the team, who was sizing him up, obviously unimpressed. He ran a hand through his spiky, jet-black hair before thrusting it out in greeting.

  “Troy Evans, producer. Did you see them back off once they found out who I was?” One by one, the men shook their heads instead of his hand and walked away. Only Liz remained with him, out of pity.

  “That’s AJ, Buddy, and Max,” she told him, pointing to the men’s backs. “AJ is camera, Buddy is sound.”

  “And Max? Is he a grip or something?”

  “He’s Max Carrington.” Troy showed no sign of recognition. “Max Carrington, host of Adventure!, the program you’re working on here? The Adventure Channel’s biggest show?”

  “Of course,” he backpedaled, failing to hide the fact that he’d never seen the program. “And you are?”

  “I’m Liz, the associate producer.”

  “So you’re my assistant,” he said, placing the handle of his bag in her outstretched hand.

  “No, I’m the associate producer,” she said firmly.

  “So what is it you do?”

  “Well, I help the producer-“

  “Right, you help the producer. You assist the producer. My assistant,” he said, trotting ahead to the men and leaving her with his luggage.

  “Max Carrington? I love your work. I’ve seen all your programs,” he said, directing his comments to AJ.

  “That’s Max,” AJ said, jerking his head in Max’s direction.

  “Of course, Max! You look younger on TV.”

  Max stopped in his tracks, noticed Liz struggling with Troy’s bag, and shook his head. “Listen, kid. I don’t know whose ass you kissed to get here, but even I carry my own bags. Now go pick that up,” he ordered. Liz dropped the bag with obvious relief and a nod of thanks to Max.

  Troy fetched it and tried to place it on AJ’s luggage rack. “You don’t mind, do you, champ?”

  “Sorry, no room,” AJ said, knocking it off. Liz rejoined the ranks of the crew, leaving Troy to stumble along behind, struggling with his overstuffed bag.

  ***

  Squeezed into a beat-up taxi, the team made its way through downtown Burunga. Smoke from cooking fires collected above sheet metal shantytowns in the dim light of the late-afternoon sun. Banana trees sprouted up behind mud brick walls, adding dashes of green to the earth-colored universe. Barefoot children lined the streets, screaming and waving at the car full of foreigners.

  “What are you looking for?” AJ asked.

  “Wild animals and shit,” Troy said, head swiveling back and forth.

  “This is the city. No animals here,” the driver said. “Maybe goats, chickens, but no wild animals here.”

  “How about in the Nburu jungle?” Troy asked.

  The driver braked hard, sending everyone sailing forward.

  “Why do you ask about the Nburu jungle? No one goes to the Nburu jungle,” he said, glancing at Troy cautiously.

  “Our friend is missing,” Liz cut in, hoping to silence Troy.

  “If your friend went into the Nburu jungle, he’s not coming back.”

  “Why do you say that?” she asked. They pulled up to their destination, a brightly lit yet weathered six-story hotel.

  “No one who goes into the Nburu jungle ever comes back.” The crew exchanged wary glances as they hopped out of the cab. While Buddy and Max helped the driver lower the equipment from the roof, Liz pulled AJ off to the side.

  “Think we should grab an interview?” she whispered. “That was spooky shit. ‘No one ever goes to the Nburu jungle.’”

  “Might as well. Let me get the camera. You prep Max.” But when they turned back to the taxi, the driver sped off without collecting his fare.

  CHAPTER 6

  “Bill Warner here,” Bill answered, leaning back in his cozy chair. Static crackled on the other end and a voice cut through after a long pause.

  “Bill? It’s Liz.” Bill cringed. He knew this call was coming.

  “Liz! How’s it going?” he asked, upbeat.

  “Not so good. It’s Troy,” she shouted into the satellite phone. She was standing on the drab cement balcony of her hotel room, the phone’s laptop-like receiver dish balancing on its ledge. Below, palm trees swayed in the warm breeze around a dirty swimming pool. A tall cement wall encircled the hotel property, blocking the view of neighboring shantytown.

  “Listen, Liz, I know he’s a little green, but he comes highly recommended. You guys should just give him a chance.”

  “He offends everyone. He’s never seen our show, and he nearly managed to get himself arrested before even setting foot outside the airport.” She mustered up an uncharacteristic amount of courage and continued. “Bi
ll, I have more experience in the field than he does, the rest of the crew actually likes me, I’m smarter, and I actually know who Max Carrington is. I should be producing this piece. Give me one reason why Troy deserves this more than me.”

  Damn it, Bill thought. Why, with every associate producer, did it always come down to this? They were never satisfied with being an “AP” for long, always racing to become a full-fledged producer, never willing to invest the time needed to learn the craft. Of course, he knew that Liz was more qualified than Troy, and he needed her there. But was she ready to produce? She seemed so reserved, not the go-getter type the position demanded. She did a fine job handling logistics, but producing a piece on her own required an entirely different set of skills which, he could never admit to her, he rarely found in women. He paused and considered his options. Should he exploit her insecurities, point out her shortcomings, and bully her into retracting the request?

  But perhaps he’d misjudged her. Maybe she did have some hidden potential he hadn’t recognized. And if Troy got into any more trouble, he’d need her out there. He decided to tell the truth, and shifted gears. “Liz, I have to be honest. Sometimes, in this business, you’re forced to make choices that don’t seem, from an outsider’s perspective, to make much sense.”

  “What sort of choices?”

  Bill paused. “He’s Lee’s nephew. You know, Lee, our CEO? But that doesn’t mean he’s not qualified. He just got a degree from NYU film school, and his work has a really fresh edge. You should see his reel.” He picked up the DVD Troy had sent, studied the label, and made a mental note to watch it himself soon. Instead of a reaction, he heard only silence. She was fuming. Full disclosure was his only option.

  “Liz?” Silence. “Liz, I had to do it. For Max. Lee has been wanting to dump him for months. The only way I could keep him on was to give Troy a shot.” The silence continued. “Liz? Still there?”

  She was there, but raging inside. Lee’s nephew?! She tried to control herself, reminding herself to remain calm, professional. “So you did this for Max?”