Rumors of Savages

by Carrie Regan

  “Were you sleeping?” It was obvious he hadn’t slept at all.

  “Of course I was sleeping. Well, trying to. What’s wrong?”

  He leaned on the door’s frame. “I just wanted to make sure we were cool. You know, from my kidding you about Troy and all. I don’t want you to think that I’m still thinking of us as…as something, you know. Or that I’m jealous, because I’m not,” he said, trying to sound convincing.

  “That’s why you got me out of bed?” She saw him peer past her into the darkness of the room, and it came to her: he didn’t want to make sure she was okay, he wanted to make sure she was alone.

  “AJ, that was over a year ago. Ancient history. I’ve seen plenty of guys since then,” she assured him, struggling to remember even one.

  “Good. That’s healthy. Glad to hear it. And if you’re really interested in Troy, by all means, don’t hold back because of me.”

  “I’m not interested in Troy,” she said, laughing at the absurdity, “and I’m not holding back because of you. I’m holding back because he’s an arrogant little prick.” They met each other’s gaze and held it a moment before Liz looked away.

  “So, if that’s all, I’m going to bed,” she said, stretching her arms overhead and forcing a yawn.

  “Right, to bed. See you tomorrow then.”

  “See you tomorrow. Sleep well,” she said, slowly shutting the door. He remained watching her until it closed completely. After a moment, she heard him shuffle off to his room.

  Damn, Liz thought. He’s doing it again, just when she was finally over him.

  It’d begun a year earlier, in Central America, while working on a film about volcanoes. The shoot required them to trek into a remote jungle inhabited by the last holdouts of a guerrilla movement battling to overthrow the government. A German engineer had been taken hostage in the area just before their arrival, setting the entire crew on edge.

  Stress, she learned, was an aphrodisiac for AJ. He seemed to need an outlet for the energy it created in order to be composed when shooting, and female members of the crew were the perfect outlet. Liz had never worked with AJ before, and was unaware of his reputation. She allowed herself to be swept away by the romance, sneaking off to his tent in the middle of the night, taking long baths together in out-of-the-way streams, unaware that the relationship would end once the shoot was over. Back in the States, after an awkward airport embrace, AJ didn’t call her. He didn’t return her calls, either.

  A year had given Liz the time she needed to forgive and forget. In the process, she found out that she wasn’t the only one who’d fallen prey to AJ’s charms on a shoot, which somehow made it easier to bear. He hadn’t rejected her because she wasn’t desirable. He had issues, she told herself. She’d just be more careful the next time.

  And now it was the next time. When she called him for the Africa shoot, she was cordial and businesslike, as though nothing had ever passed between them. He seemed willing to play along, and had never mentioned their liaison from the previous year, to the point where Liz wondered if he’d forgotten that it had even happened. Until now.

  Lying on the thin mattress, she counted the months since she’d last been with a man – since last year, since AJ. She remembered the passion, their steamy midnight encounters in the jungle, wrapped in one sleeping bag, trying not to make a sound, exchanging subtle glances when the crew was around, and furtive embraces when they weren’t.

  It wasn’t just the sex; AJ’s laid-back approach to life had a soothing effect on her as well, calming her in moments of crisis when she would otherwise instinctively panic, encouraging her when she became frustrated on the job. In AJ, she’d finally found a man who balanced her out perfectly. Or so she’d thought.

  She could have it all again. At least she’d know the rules this time, she told herself, would know when and how it would end. She would be prepared, could prevent herself from getting hurt. Why not indulge a little?

  No, she thought, pulling a pillow over her head as though it could block out the thought. She’d have to control herself, control her desires. She couldn’t, wouldn’t allow him to play with her emotions again.

  CHAPTER 11

  Early the next morning, in front of a crowd of curious onlookers, the porters loaded the team’s gear into two large, flat-bottom wooden boats. After several attempts to start finicky outboard motors that seemed too small to propel the 35-foot crafts, the engines finally caught and the team set off along the broad, flat river.

  Settlements lined the shores for the first few miles, revealing glimpses of daily village life: women washing clothes and fetching water, young boys scrubbing worn-out bicycles and bathing in the shallows, fishermen casting nets. Some greeted them enthusiastically, while others stared with suspicion and curiosity at the motley crew motoring past.

  Signs of human habitation gradually grew thin, then disappeared altogether as thick jungle swiftly engulfed the shores. The boats snaked their way down the center of the river, porters in one, sleeping off the previous night’s excesses, television crew and Moe in the other, equally exhausted from their uncomfortable night in the dingy hotel, but captivated by the strange world.

  A rustling by the shore caught their attention, and they turned in time to catch a crocodile slipping into the water. Moments later, a freakishly large bird with a cry much like a human being strangled dipped overhead.

  “Dude, this place is savage. Totally ‘Hearts of Darkness,’” Troy said to no one in particular, removing his glasses to wipe the sweat from his face. It was still early, so they had yet to feel the full force of the tropical sun, but Troy’s tight black tee and jeans only magnified the effects of the midmorning rays.

  “I guess we’ll be sleeping on the boat, huh?” Buddy asked nervously.

  “On no,” Moe said quickly. “You don’t want to be out on this river after dark. People believe the Bambada drag people from boats at night and drown them in the river. The porters and boat captains won’t go out after sunset.” He noticed AJ’S obvious skepticism. “Even if you don’t believe in the Bambada, the hippos should make you think twice.”

  Troy swallowed. “And what will protect us from hippos on shore?”

  “Not to mention the Bambada,” Buddy added.

  “The porters will take turns keeping watch and maintaining a fire.”

  AJ nodded to the porters, who snoozed under the canopy of the boat. “And why doesn’t that make me feel any better?”

  Moe waved their concerns aside. “They’ll be fine! Just resting for the long journey ahead.”

  As the day wore on, the river grew narrower. Trees crowded the shore, their branches draping over the water, casting dark shadows on its surface. Max described the goal of their journey for the camera as the dark, imposing jungle engulfed them on all sides. Crocs slithered into the river, hippos surfaced menacingly, and elephants spied on them through thick foliage while AJ eagerly captured it all on tape.

  About an hour before sunset, they pulled into a landing of sorts with a small muddy beach. The captains tied the boats to the thick trunks of towering trees, and the team followed them a short distance to a clearing that would serve as their first camp in the jungle.

  “Looks like we’re not the first to discover this place,” AJ said, motioning to the remains of a fire and some scattered animal bones.

  “Poachers’ camp,” Moe noted, studying the bones. “They butchered a forest elephant here. Brings bad luck. They’re highly endangered. It’s illegal to kill them, but the tusks can fetch more money than a year’s honest work.”

  “Poachers, huh? What’ll they do if they find us here?” Buddy asked, pulling his cap off and wiping his forehead with a handkerchief.

  “As long as we keep a fire going, they should stay away.”

  “And if we don’t?” Buddy muttered to AJ. AJ patted him on the back to comfort him, but looked rather unsettled himself as he scanned the surrounding jungle for signs of life.

  The team rapidly set
up their tents, racing against the swiftly sinking equatorial sun. Liz, determined to avoid temptation, pitched her tent away from AJ’s, nestling it between Max and Troy’s – or what should have been Troy’s tent. The rest of the crew watched with amusement as he attempted to figure out how the aluminum poles and nylon/polyester cloth conspired to create a shelter. Covered with sweat from the effort, he had stripped off his shirt and was considering the mess before him.

  “What do you say? Should we help him?” Max whispered to Liz.

  “I’ll do it,” AJ offered, brushing past them. Liz wondered what he made of her decision to camp so close to Troy, and relished the thought that he might be jealous.

  “Can I give you a hand there?”

  “Sure. Thanks. Didn’t use tents in Outward Bound. Just slept under the stars.”

  “Right,” AJ said, expertly inserting the poles into the tent’s sleeves and popping it up into a standing position. “Should be all set.” He clapped Troy on the back and pretended to notice his tattoos for the first time. “Cool tattoos.”

  Troy looked over his shoulder, as though he were reading them. “Justice, love, and mercy. Hurt like a bitch when I got them.”

  “So you can read Japanese?”

  “Well, no,” Troy admitted.

  “Then how do you know they didn’t mess with you? Tell you they were writing ‘peace, love, joy,’ or whatever, and instead write something like ‘I’m an idiot,’ or ‘kiss my Caucasian ass’?” AJ asked, feigning concern. “I mean, I’m sure they didn’t, but they could have, right? And you would never know the difference. Or maybe the guy forgot the symbol for ‘love’ and just wrote, ‘my back aches like a bitch.’ Wouldn’t that be funny?” Troy looked noticeably uncomfortable, as though he’d never considered the possibility.

  “Hey, man, I’m sure they didn’t mess with you. Cool tattoos, really,” AJ said, clapping him on the back again. He strolled by Liz, giving her a wink. She looked at him disapprovingly, but he continued over to the campfire unfazed. Troy, meanwhile, had snatched his shirt and quickly pulled it back on.

  ***

  Later that night, after a meal of rice with fish freshly caught by the porters, Moe joined the crew around the flickering fire. The porters were gathered around their own fire, closer to the shore, warding off night beasts with the murmur of their shared stories.

  “So, tell us more about the Bambada,” Max said.

  “Does he have to?” Buddy asked.

  AJ’s camera captured Max and Moe’s faces, eerily lit from below by the glow of the campfire. “Good thinking. Establish them early.”

  Moe leaned forward, hands on his knees. “Well, few have actually seen them, but everyone has heard the stories.”

  “What kind of stories?”

  “Stories about their incredible powers. That they can read minds. That they know everything that has ever happened or will ever happen on earth. That they speak every language on the planet, and guard a huge fortune in gold and gems.”

  Troy leaned forward. “You make them sound better than that missionary did.”

  “I haven’t finished. For all their powers, the Bambada don’t exactly like guests. Those who go looking for them don’t return. Correction: a few have, but they never lived more than a few hours after returning to civilization.”

  “Just long enough to add their own stories to the legends,” Max observed.

  “Right, and then die in the most grisly ways,” Moe confirmed. “Most agree that the Bambada are small people, and that they move through the jungle quickly, silently. They’re everywhere, yet difficult to find, always watching, waiting for the right moment. You don’t know they’re there until it’s too late, and then-”

  “We get it,” Buddy interrupted with a shiver. AJ looked at his soundman disapprovingly for spoiling the recording, and Buddy sat back sheepishly.

  “Moe, you’ve lived in Europe. You’re getting a Western education. Do you really believe these stories about the Bambada and the Nburu?” Liz asked.

  “Sure.”

  “Why?”

  Moe didn’t miss a beat. “There’s a lot that Western knowledge can’t explain. How and why humans developed thought and emotion. What happens after death. Who’s to say African theories and beliefs are any less credible than those of the West? And it’s not just crazy, suspicious Africans who believe in the Bambada. Your early explorers have contributed a lot to these legends.”

  “So you think the Bambada really pull people out of boats at night,” Max asked skeptically.

  “I’ll admit, that might be an exaggeration. You see, no one knows for sure what goes on in the Nburu. So the Bambada have become the source of blame for all our troubles. We learn to fear them when we’re just small children. If kids are bad here, parents threaten to send them to the Bambada. Cattle go missing, the Bambada have taken them. Your child is born dead, it’s because the Bambada have stolen his soul in the womb.”

  “An explorer goes missing, it’s the Bambada,” Max said. “Like our bogeyman.”

  Moe gestured to the porters. ”It’s why it was so hard to find men to go on this journey, and why these guys have been drunk since we left.”

  “Liquid courage.”

  “Exactly.”

  “And you’re not afraid?”

  “Of course I’m afraid,” Moe admitted. “Afraid, but curious. And that’s good. You don’t want to go into the Nburu with someone who’s not afraid. People without fear do foolish things.”

  “What are you curious about?” Max prodded.

  “Think about it: for over two centuries, the white man has been conquering and controlling Africa. But people in this region, they’ve seen white men return from the Nburu, bleeding from the eyes, vomiting blood, babbling on and on about the Bambada and their strange world. Imagine, Africans living in the middle of nowhere who have managed to outwit the white man and all his tools and tricks and knowledge for centuries. It’s terrifying, but also so curious.”

  “Do you really think we’ll see them?”

  “I doubt it. There’s a reason no one survives an encounter with the Bambada. We’ll have to be smart, and very careful. If we’re lucky, we may get as far as the Nburu, where your friend disappeared. But if we see any signs that it’s time to return, we’ll have to turn back.”

  A screech cut through the night and the crew jumped, gasping in unison. A bird fluttering overhead repeated the cry and they relaxed in titters of relief.

  “I think it’s time to check in with New York,” Liz announced. Eager to change the subject, the rest of the crew swiftly agreed, and she excused herself to retrieve the satellite phone from her tent. In a not-too-distant corner of the camp, she set it up on a tree stump and dialed.

  ***

  Six thousand miles away, a cell phone rang and Bill Warner excused himself from a table of well-dressed industry insiders.

  “So sorry – could be our crew in Africa,” he said apologetically. He crossed the large banquet hall, weaving through tables of recognizable faces from programs like 20/20 and 60 Minutes, before finding his way to the lobby.

  “Bill, are you there?” Liz’s voice crackled over the line.

  “Yes, I’m here,” he responded, half shouting. There was a long delay as his response passed through a series of satellites en route to Liz’s phone.

  “It’s Liz, just checking in. We left Kimkali this morning, and are on our way into the jungle. So far it’s-“

  “Great, Liz. Good to hear it. I’d love to chat, but you know these sat phones. Could go out at any time. Put Max on, will you?” he said, glancing around to see if anyone noticed he was on an Important Call; that while yes, it’s true, he was standing outside the dining room of the Ritz Carlton, he was still in the trenches. While other network executives were swept up in the glamour and glory of the awards being presented inside, he was no-nonsense enough to know what really mattered – the story in the field.

  Annoyed, Liz dropped the receiver and called Max
. It could be worse, she thought. At least he didn’t ask for Troy.

  Max took the phone and treated Liz to his side of the conversation. “Hi Bill! Yeah, having great luck so far. This place is spooky as they come. Fabulous, just fabulous footage… Great stuff with the missionaries… Yeah, still had the bloody bag. They said they’d ship the swatches to you immediately, so keep an eye out for the package. Spectacular footage… Today’s river trip will look fantastic.”

  “Sounds like you guys are getting great stuff, but do you think you’ll actually be able to find Thompson?”

  “The missionaries had Thompson’s GPS, and all his coordinates were still stored in it. It won’t be as hard as we thought to find his trail.”

  Bill’s heart leapt. “Great. I know you guys are anxious to get into the jungle, but make sure you take time to shoot some traveling footage and stand-ups. I want a good sense of the journey in.” He looked around. Anyone? Anyone noticing what an important job he had, giving orders and advice to his crew halfway around the world? A cleaning woman came out of the bathroom, sneakers squeaking as she wheeled her cleaning cart past him.

  “Of course. As always.”

  “Great. Keep up the good work, and feel free to call me anytime, day or night.”

  “Sure thing. We’ll bring back a good film, whether we find him or not. Might be best to keep those expectations low, though. The jungle is pretty thick already. He could be ten feet from us and we’d miss him. But we’ll do our best.”

  Bill’s high spirits instantly deflated. He thought of the investment they’d already made sending the crew off on a moment’s notice. “That’s all I can ask,” he said before hanging up.

  He snapped his cell phone shut and stared at it for a moment, considering the sad state of affairs at the Adventure Channel. Keep those expectations low? What were they thinking?! If his crew emerged from the jungle with Thompson, alive or dead, the publicity would be overwhelming. A burst of applause echoed in the adjoining hall, and Bill believed for a moment that the crowd was responding to the very concept. Then again, if the crew didn’t find Thompson, they’d have nothing to show for the journey but their own failure.