Rumors of Savages

by Carrie Regan

  The porters, too, had grown edgy. Their once lighthearted campfire conversations were reduced to somber, suspicious whispers. Restless, their eyes darted around the perimeter of the camp, expecting an enemy to strike at any moment. Even without looking at the map, they could all detect the subtle shift, the heaviness in the air, the suffocating density of their strange new surroundings. They were about to enter the Nburu.

  Unbeknownst to the team, within the thick jungle, their travels didn’t go unnoticed. Eyes were upon them, watching, waiting…

  CHAPTER 15

  “TV Crew Braves Deadly Jungle in Search of Famed Anthropologist.”

  A slow smile spread across Bill Warner’s face as he read the headline of the popular industry gossip column. While it didn’t mention the Adventure Channel or Max Carrington by name, it dropped strong hints. He’d planted the seed, and once people began to make the connection, they’d start calling…and Adventure would be back.

  He’d planted the leak carefully, late enough into his team’s trek so no one could scoop them, yet early enough that Adventure would garner weeks of free publicity from the event as the world awaited the crew’s return. It was a risk, but a well calculated one. After his conversation with Max, Bill realized with horror that if the crew emerged from the jungle without the famed anthropologist, they’d be hard pressed to stir up any interest in the story. But if he worked the media strings now in just the right fashion, his crew would emerge heroes for risking their lives, whether they found Thompson or not. And if they did? Well, the media blitz – and ratings – would be beyond imagination.

  Adventure’s small PR department was prepared. They’d already created a highlight tape of Max’s adventures for the press, and had scheduled a “Max Carrington Marathon” during primetime – a fact prominently mentioned in the press release Bill had personally drafted. He’d also instructed the PR department that he’d handle all calls from journalists directly. This was his baby, and he was going to see it through to its spectacular finish. His phone rang and, eager for the media frenzy to begin, he pounced on it before his secretary had a chance to pick up.

  “Bill Warner.”

  “Warner, why is that coot Carrington all over my T-V screen?” the southern drawl hollered without even a hello.

  Feigning cordiality, Bill greeted the CEO. “Good morning, Lee. How are you today?”

  “Just fine, until I saw that old dog on my cable channel. You know how I feel about him, Bill. I done tol’ you twice.”

  “Well, we’ve got something special planned, Lee, and I think if you’re patient you’re going to be pleasantly surprised.” Bill eyed the news ticker that played across the bottom of one of his television screens and pictured the headline “TV crew saves famed anthropologist in central African jungle.”

  “I’ve been patient enough. We don’t have months to dick around, Bill. I’m talkin’ days, days…” Lee hollered.

  “I’m talkin’ days as well,” Bill said, unintentionally mimicking Lee’s accent. “If you don’t see Max’s name in print and a ratings spike by week’s end, I’ll tell him personally we’re killing his contract. Until then, you’ll have to trust me with this week’s schedule. Deal?”

  There was a long pause, then a heavy sigh. “Well, I don’t know what you got brewin’. I ‘spect it has to do with that junket you got my nephew on…but I’ll trust you. And if you talk to Troy, you tell him to call his momma! I tell ya, I try to do the family a favor. If I have to listen to her screamin’ and cryin’ about her baby boy any more. Good God, you’d think he’d never been weaned.”

  CHAPTER 16

  “The boy,” meanwhile, was stumbling up a narrow jungle path after the porters and crew, huffing and puffing and wondering what had possessed him to sign on to the trip in the first place. Troy realized too late that his skin-tight tee shirt, jeans, and chunky black boots, while stylish on the streets of New York, were not the ideal wardrobe for the central African jungle. He now sported an extra pair of Buddy’s oversized pants cinched at the waist with rope. With no other shoes, his boots left painful blisters that had to be treated each night and swathed in moleskin.

  As branches slapped his face and thorns gripped his clothing, he concluded that documentaries just weren’t his gig. He didn’t have the heart to tell his uncle, but Hollywood was where he belonged, not some savage jungle.

  Who in their right mind would want to do this for a living anyway? Too much hiking, no decent catering, and no real assistant to manage his needs so that he could focus on the story at hand? It was barbaric. Worse yet, the crew had stopped taking him seriously. He was merely along for the ride, and he knew it. No one even pretended to care about his opinion or ask for suggestions anymore. They just put up with him as they would a rich tourist who’d bought the trip in a high-priced auction. A cluster of stubborn thorns tore a hole in his filthy, oversized pants, and he mercilessly hacked at the responsible branches. Savage, simply savage.

  As he watched the porters glide effortlessly up the incline in front of him, thwacking at brush and moving in a steady, easy rhythm, he wondered if he could persuade one of them to turn back. Lord knew the crew wouldn’t miss him, and he wouldn’t miss this jungle. The team would mock him for leaving, and he’d have some explaining to do to his uncle. But he’d find a way to spin it. He’d tell Uncle Lee he was forced to leave because he couldn’t bear the crew’s incompetence any longer. The bastards would never work for the Adventure Channel again. It would keep him from looking weak in front of the family and preempt any criticisms the crew might have about him upon their return. He studied them as they puffed up the incline in front of him. Buddy was nice enough, lending him clothes. Maybe he’d be spared. Liz defended him in front of that prick AJ, but she could be hot and cold. AJ was too damn arrogant, and Max was just as bad as AJ. Yeah, he’d take down at least those two.

  Gasps came from the porters as they crested the incline ahead, reaching a level area where trees yielded to a bald peak and blue sky. The porters, silhouetted against the sky, dropped their packs and gazed in wonder at the view from the top of the hill. One by one, the rest of the crew scrambled up the incline, racing to see the cause of so much intrigue. Troy yanked his pants free from yet another set of thorns and used his last reserves of energy to propel himself to the top.

  “Holy shit,” he gasped as he reached the peak. In front of them, the hill gently descended to a river, then jumped across into a lush tangle of Technicolor green, far denser than the jungle they’d been traveling through. Troops of painted monkeys called from the canopy, flocks of colorful birds dive-bombed the treetops, and elephants splashed along with banks of the river, trumpeting a greeting.

  AJ folded the map down to a single square. With his finger, he traced the thick blue line that represented the river below. Just beyond that natural boundary was a darker section, clearly labeled. If it wasn’t obvious, the map confirmed it. They had reached the Nburu jungle.

  AJ, reveling in sensory overload, shot vistas and slow pans of the jungle. With every shot he found three others that were even more spectacular, and he had to force himself to stop shooting the scenic landscapes and grab some transition shots of Max. With the crew and porters cleared from the scene, Max crested the incline, reacted to his “first” glimpse of the jungle, then disappeared down the ridge and into the valley.

  By noon, AJ had his fill of filming and they were ready to continue. The beauty of the jungle acted as a narcotic, erasing any memory of the horrors the crew had associated with the Nburu so far, and spirits were high. The porters once again laughed and joked, and even Troy dismissed thoughts of returning. They pushed on with renewed energy, and plenty of time to reach their evening camp on the opposite bank of the river — their first camp in the Nburu.

  They followed the slope down to the bank of the river and were once again faced with the dilemma of how to cross the wide, rushing stretch of water.

  “You guys wait here. Moe and I will scout downstream,”
AJ said, suggesting a replay of their earlier strategy.

  “I’ll scout it out with Moe. You’ve been shooting all day. Take a load off,” Liz said. She felt restless, enticed by the unknown — and eager for more of a leadership role on the expedition.

  AJ paused, then nodded with a slight smile as he removed his pack. None of the men ever felt threatened if he offered to advance them on a section of trail or haul a heavy load, but with Liz it was always different. “You want to scout it out? Be my guest. I could use the rest.”

  “We’ll call you,” she said, waving her radio as she tromped into the jungle with Moe and a machete-slinging porter.

  “Ah, Liz! Why do you bring this upon yourself?” Moe asked.

  “What do you mean?”

  “AJ was perfectly willing to come look for this crossing while we rested on the bank of the river, and yet you prefer to come fight the tsetses instead? I don’t understand you American women.”

  As though to punctuate his point, Liz swatted at a swarm of tiny sweat bees that had clustered around her face. “What’s not to understand? Maybe I didn’t feel like hanging around waiting. You think a woman isn’t capable of finding a river crossing as well as a man?”

  “No. I just wonder why you think you need to prove to everyone that you can. Look at Buddy. Buddy is a fat, happy man. If AJ wants to go running off into the bush, and says, ‘Stay here,’ Buddy is happy about it. He won’t say, ‘No, AJ, let me go.’ He is far more clever than you.”

  “Maybe I like the challenge. In fact, I bet you I’ll find it before you!” With a flash of a smile, she dashed after the porter. Moe started to give chase and promptly stumbled, tripping over a low vine.

  As he raced to catch up, he spotted Liz and the porter ahead, stopped at the end of the path, focused on something before them.

  “That wasn’t fair. If I hadn’t tripped-“ he began as he drew near them—until he, too, spotted the gruesome scene in the clearing ahead, leaving him at a loss for words.

  CHAPTER 17

  “Not human,” the nondescript forensic pathologist stated succinctly, peering over her thick, black-rimmed glasses.

  “Not human!” Bill exclaimed, pleasantly surprised by the good news. When he first heard about Lawrence Julian Thompson’s bloodied belongings, he simply assumed that the blood was that of the explorer—bad news for his story, not to mention Thompson himself. If the blood wasn’t human, though…

  Bill shook off any speculation and returned to the purpose of their shoot at the city medical examiner’s office. “Let’s try it one more time, and don’t forget, full sentences,” he directed, gesturing for his cameraman to roll.

  “The blood’s not human,” she repeated tiredly, glancing at her clipboard. “A basic Takayama test followed by microscopic analysis confirmed the presence of blood on all swatches. From there, we subjected the samples to an Uhlenburth, or, as it’s commonly known, precipitin test. The samples, when introduced to human antiserum, failed to produce any clotting, indicating, obviously, that its source was definitely not human. We then subjected the samples to antiserums of a dozen common animals, and-”

  “Ah-interesting. But let’s try it once more. This time, let’s avoid the scientific goobledy-gook. Our viewers won’t understand a word.”

  The pathologist cleared her throat. “Preliminary tests clearly indicate that…well, basically, that the source of the blood in the sample was not human. Or dog, cat, alligator, rat, chicken, or cow, for that matter. And most likely not from any primate.”

  Bill waved her words away. “Sorry. Let’s try it one more time, looking at the camera this time. And you can leave out Noah’s ark.”

  “So what do you want me to say? You’re not exactly leaving me with a lot of options.” She took off the glasses. “And why do I have to wear these?” she asked, annoyed.

  “They’re like the lab coat. Shorthand, along with the microscope and beakers, telling our viewers ‘I’m a scientist,’” he said, gesturing to the collection of props he’d artfully arranged on the countertop behind her.

  “But I am a scientist. Just a scientist with good vision. And we don’t use microscopes in this room.”

  Bill frowned, pitying her. He’d been spoiled in his later years as a producer, working with professional talent like Max, and had forgotten how difficult it was to work with ordinary people. They always made things so complicated—especially the brainy types, who tended to over think the simplest things.

  “Trust me, no one will ever know, or care. Just give it to me one more time, the line about it not being human blood. With the glasses, please. And remember, this is big news. Pretend you’re on CSI,” he said.

  Annoyed, she put the glasses back on, determined to give him her melodramatic best. As the camera rolled, she glanced down at the sheet, looked up at the camera, and took it over the top. “The test results are in, and it’s shocking. The blood from the sample is simple not human.”

  “Perfect.”

  CHAPTER 18

  Deep in the Nburu, it was a different story.

  “They’re definitely human,” Buddy whispered, voice cracking.

  From the edge of the clearing, the team gazed upon a grim scene of recent carnage: four leathery skins stretched tightly across four inclined frames. The frames were built with tree limbs and branches, lashed together with vines and stained in places by dark, rotting fluids. In the heat of the jungle, the skins had grown shriveled and stiff.

  Buddy and Troy shifted uncomfortably. “If they’re not human, they’re the best damn imitation I’ve ever seen,” Buddy said, pulling his cap down tighter.

  “Yeah, not like all those bad imitation human skins on the market,” Troy said, attempting a joke, but unable to hide the fear in his voice.

  “Can it, you two” Max ordered, nodding toward the porters. “They’re scared enough without having to listen to you two whimpering fools!”

  It was just what the porters had been anticipating—a sign confirming their deepest fears about the Nburu. Glancing at the skins, they argued in harsh whispers, fear clear in their eyes. Moe tried to calm them, but his words had little impact.

  “What do you think?” Max asked as AJ knelt over one of the skins.

  “Hard to say. I’m not familiar with all the animals here, but if I had to stake my life on it – so to speak – I’d say they were human. Look at the color, the traces of hair, the shape...they’d be hard to fake.”

  “Guys, look at this,” Liz called. She was standing over a long stone slab stained with a dark substance: blood? A circle of rocks next to it held the ashes of a campfire, and AJ squatted, stoking the charred remains with a stick. Among the sooty ashes were random bits of white, and AJ dropped the stick to fish for them by hand. Liz covered her mouth in horror as he extracted a tooth, then a curved plate of bone that looked to be part of a skull.

  “We’ve gotta shoot this,” he said soberly.

  “Damn straight,” Max said. “Get my good side.”

  “I don’t know, AJ. It’s so gruesome. It seems almost sacrilegious.”

  “Sacrilegious or not, there’s no way we’re not getting it on tape. People hear stories about this sort of thing, but how many come back with proof?” He raised the camera and began rolling, shooting several takes of Max arriving at the scene, and close ups of him examining the skins and bits of bone.

  Liz, meanwhile, retreated to the edge of the camp, where Moe was surveying the scene. “This isn’t good. Not good at all,” he began.

  “What are the porters saying?”

  “What do you think? You’ve all doubted our stories, thought we were being foolish and superstitious, but now you’ve seen it for yourselves. They’re saying that the Nburu is no good, and that we need to go.”

  “And what do you think,” she asked, taken aback by a serious side of her friend she’d never seen.

  He paused, then looked her in the eye with determination. “I think they’re right.”

  CHAPTER 19
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  Bill Warner paced back and forth in the greenroom of AM Live, the top-rated morning show in America. Where were they? He’d sent a text message to the team’s satellite phone yesterday. Of course, to save battery power they only turned the phone on to call in once every day or two, but Bill had been willing to gamble that they’d see the message in time, and that the first live interview with Max Carrington from the wilds of central Africa would come off without a hitch.

  After all, his other gambles had paid off. As expected, the media had jumped on the story, and his phone had been ringing constantly with requests for more information and interviews. Bill shrewdly paced himself. He knew that if he made too much information available too quickly, the story would come off as a cheap publicity stunt, without any reach beyond the television gossip columns. Instead, he parsed out the details and stopped short of revealing any major facts, offering them instead as exclusives to the major papers and morning shows that agreed to promote the story.

  Of course, AM Live wanted more than a reel of Max’s greatest hits. They wanted live video from the field, which would be impossible on an ordinary low-budget Adventure shoot. But this wasn’t any ordinary shoot, and Bill had planned ahead. He’d packed Troy off with a videophone, a battery-powered satellite phone system like those used by war correspondents, capable of transmitting video from remote locations. When broadcast, the footage was a bit grainy, but it meant the team would be able to do interviews and even transmit live footage of Max Carrington finding Lawrence Julian Thompson straight from the field. You just couldn’t put a price on the kind of publicity such footage would generate.