Rumors of Savages

by Carrie Regan

  “Yes. Buddy hasn’t called you?”

  She paused, and he panicked for a moment, wondering if he’d pushed it a step too far. “No,” she said plaintively.

  Bill sighed audibly in mock exasperation, secretly relieved. “Well, there’s not much we can do about that. We provide a satellite phone in the field specifically so our teams can keep in touch with their loved ones.”

  “But I don’t understand. Buddy would never-“

  Bill interrupted quickly. “I wouldn’t blame him entirely. We work our teams pretty hard out there, and there’s not always time to take care of personal business. You just hang on. I’m sure he’ll call.”

  “Well, he better! My daughters are traumatized. They haven’t been able to sleep. I had to pull them out of school today because the other kids were saying things.”

  Shit, Bill thought. He has kids. Buddy had better turn up. “Well, next time I talk to the team, I’ll tell Buddy to call.”

  “Please do. And tell him I’ll kill him for making us so scared!”

  “You’ve got it!” Bill said.

  He hung up, pleased with himself for skillfully diffusing the situation. He didn’t consider his comforting words to be lies. It was entirely possible, he tried to convince himself, that the team was faking their dramatic reports from the field. Max knew full well what elements would make the story more compelling, and was no doubt aware that this was his last hurrah, his final chance to save his career. The crew was surely just as excited by all the attention as he was, and having fun with it. For all he knew, they were sitting in a local pub, swilling beers and laughing as they crafted entertaining lies to feed America each day.

  Yes, Bill thought, tomorrow the team would probably discover Buddy alive and well, but end up in some entertaining new predicament that would keep viewers coming back for more. Damn, that Max was good.

  CHAPTER 35

  Max shifted in his sleeping bag, cursing both Bill Warner and his bad back as he struggled to find a comfortable position. This would be the last shoot of its kind, he decided. No more camping. No more crazy adventures. In fact, he’d had enough of this trip, period. Whether Buddy turned up or not, he’d propose that they leave this hellhole tomorrow. His mind made up, Max rolled onto his side and eventually drifted off to sleep.

  Hours later, Troy awoke with a start, sweating profusely and panting audibly. What had caused him to wake up so suddenly? He paused, quieting his breath for a moment, listening to his surroundings for clues. The jungle was filled with its usual cacophony of nighttime noises, but nothing out of the ordinary.

  Had he had a nightmare? It would explain why his heart was pounding like a jackhammer, though he couldn’t recall a single detail from his dream. He tried to roll over onto his stomach, but was tangled in the cocoon of his sleeping bag. He sat up, pulled himself out, untwisted the bag, slipped back in, and tried lying on his stomach, shifting positions a few more moments before finally finding one he could tolerate.

  Everything had to be such a goddamn production, he thought. He recalled the days not so long ago when he’d taken a good night’s sleep for granted. Merely a month earlier he’d been in his loft apartment in the Village, sprawled out over his king-sized mattress, tucked under the weight of his down comforter, air conditioning blasting, blissfully ignorant of the Bambada, the Nburu jungle, the skin sores, the stomach ailments, of all things African. He’d give anything – his cheap parking spot, rented from a widow too senile to know the true market price, his two-seater BMW coupe, even his trust fund – to be back under his comforter right now.

  Closing his eyes tightly and reopening them, he half expected his wish to be granted. Instead, he found himself in the same damp tent. He readjusted the dirty pile of clothes he’d adopted as a pillow and settled back down. At least I don’t have to piss, he thought.

  As soon as he acknowledged how inconvenient it would be to have to urinate at that moment, Troy felt aware of a subtle yet distinct pressure in his bladder. He tried to convince himself that it was nothing but a self-fulfilling prophecy, a sensation that would pass, but the pressure was there. And the more he thought about the hassle involved in the process – putting on his shoes, climbing from his tent, finding a spot – the stronger the urge became.

  His first instinct was to wake up Buddy. The two had an unspoken agreement in just such situations. But Buddy wasn’t there, while the person or persons (or creatures or whatever took him) might very well be.

  Troy shifted positions again as the urge to urinate intensified. He’d converted his spare water bottle into a “chamber pot” for just such circumstance, but had left it behind when they’d reduced their load. Still, he thought, there must be a spare bottle in his kit that would serve the same purpose. He sat up, fumbled through his belongings, and pulled out his one remaining water bottle. It was large enough, but then he’d be down a water bottle, unless… No, he told himself. Out of the question. No amount of cleaning would ever make him want to drink from it again. Summoning his courage, he yanked on his sneakers and unzipped the tent.

  Standing in the crisp night air, he felt slightly foolish for even hesitating. It was a beautiful evening, the air outside far fresher than the fetid air in his tent, the jungle aglow in the moonlight.

  As he walked along the river, he momentarily lost his footing and nearly slid into the water. At the last moment, he grabbed an overhead branch, which fortunately supported him until he could regain his balance. He exhaled in relief at his luck, unaware that it was about to run out.

  He took a step and was suddenly airborne. Above him, a branch whipped upward, scattering a troop of monkeys who screeched their dissatisfaction. His legs jerked out from under him, and he was suddenly dangling by one foot in mid-air, upside-down.

  It took him a moment to get his bearings and realize what had happened – that he was likely caught in one of Alex’s traps. Momentum swung him gently, and with each pass low shrubbery raked his face. If he stretched, he could almost touch the ground, though he wasn’t sure it would be of much benefit. He could call for help, but he was already the object of great ridicule. Better to work it out himself.

  He contracted his stomach muscles in a modified sit-up – pleased to put the results of all those crunches to work – and raised his upper torso so that it was parallel to the ground. A sudden rustle in the nearby bushes sent his heart racing, and he released back toward the ground, wondering how he could possibly fend off a wild animal from such a position. Upside-down and wide-eyed, he spied a shadowy figure approaching along the narrow path.

  A shaft of moonlight illuminated the familiar face, and Troy relaxed. “Hey, man, so glad to see you. Mind giving me a hand here?” He continued to slowly spin on the rope and was facing away as the person drew near, so he didn’t see the rising rock. He felt the brief sting of the blow, then nothing.

  CHAPTER 36

  “That’s him, Alex Lloyd Chambers,” Ned said, pointing to the color photo. He’d received the digital image earlier that day and placed a rush order at the lab. It added an impressive splash of color to his file.

  Tony Graham, the executive producer of AM Live, studied the photograph. “What have you got on him?” he asked, cutting to the quick.

  “He’s insane, according to his last employers.” Ned flipped through his carefully assembled file. “Alex Lloyd Chambers was last seen at the central African base of an Australian mining company Mineride International eight months ago. His supervisors noticed that he’d begun acting strangely, rambling on about a fantastic fortune hidden somewhere in the jungle, disappearing for weeks at a time without explanation. He was a smooth talker, they say, and always able to charm his way back into a job. Then, one day, he just snapped.”

  “Snapped?” Tanya asked.

  “One of his coworkers turned up dead, butchered. They blamed it on the local people, thought it was part of some black magic ritual. Then they found Alex holding the knife, not to mention the kidneys and heart. He claimed that h
is coworker had been spying on him, trying to steal the intel he’d gathered on some mysterious tribe and their hidden fortune in the Nburu. Local police took him into custody but he escaped, probably by bribing his way out of prison. Hasn’t been heard from since. They assumed he went mad and died in the jungle. Looks like they got the first part right.” Ned flipped the file closed and handed it to Graham.

  “You’re sure this is the same guy?” Graham asked.

  “Absolutely. There’s only one mining company in the region, and he’s the only Australian named Alex they’ve ever employed. I checked with other mining operations in the country, just to be sure. Didn’t have any employees, past or present, who matched the description.”

  “What a story. You know what this means, don’t you?” Graham said to Tanya. Ned glanced between them, sure of two things: the crew was in grave, grave danger, and he deserved a big, big promotion.

  ”Yeah,” Tanya said, a smile spreading slowly across her face. “This story’s going primetime.”

  Graham matched her grin. “Hang on to your hats, kids. I smell an Emmy.”

  CHAPTER 37

  Max woke to a throbbing pain in his cranium and settled back down on his inflatable pillow with a whimper. The mustard-yellow nylon walls of his tent seemed to pulse, keeping time with the blood thumping painfully through his brain.

  He knew what was coming. The first set of chills would shake his body, joined by a deep ache in his joints. The combination would render him feeble against the raging fevers to follow. Then it’d begin again, an endless cycle of chills and fevers as parasites multiplied in his bloodstream while his body fought to exterminate them. It was malaria. He’d had it before, but this time, with the closest medical facilities days away and their food dwindling, he was more vulnerable than ever.

  At least Tanya will be impressed, he thought sardonically. Malaria was one of those sexy diseases whose mere mention encapsulated the danger and drama awaiting the white man in deepest, darkest Africa. When he thought about it, a good bout of malaria was exactly what the story needed. Bill would be pleased.

  He heard muffled voices from outside the tent and tried to call out, but raising his voice above a whisper caused a vibration in his skull that sent bolts of pain radiating through his head. Bad idea. They’d find him eventually.

  An immeasurable amount of time later, Max became aware of someone unzipping his tent. From the edge of his consciousness, he heard a woman’s voice calling his name. Margarite? She’d come for him! Bless her soul.

  “Max?” the disembodied voice called quietly.

  “Ma…Ma…” he whispered in response, his dry mouth trying to form the name.

  “Max, wake up,” Liz began. “You’ve slept through the morning. Troy’s missing. Come on, we need your-“ She reached in to help him up, then stopped short. He was pale and shivering, mouth opening and closing like a guppy’s, knuckles white as he clutched the sleeping bag tightly around his chest.

  “Max? Are you okay?”

  “Malaria,” he croaked.

  “Oh, shit,” she said, wishing AJ and Alex hadn’t disappeared to look for Troy.

  “Max?” she said gently, trying to stir him. His eyes slowly focused on her, and she seized the window of apparent clarity.

  “Have you taken anything?”

  He shook his head, groaning.

  “Good. I’ll be right back.” She dashed to her tent and rifled through her medical kit, grabbing a dose of Fansidar, three magic pills that would hopefully halt the spread of the disease.

  “These will help.” Hands trembling, she pulled the package open and punched each pill out through the foil backing, then supported Max’s head and shoulders. “Okay, let’s get these pills down.” She placed one in his mouth and brought a bottle of water to his lips, the majority of which spilled down the front of his shirt. Fortunately, he swallowed enough to bring the pill home. She did the same with the next two pills, then a couple pain relievers, and finally laid his head to rest.

  “I’m going to call the doctor,” she said. “I’ll be right back.”

  In all the times she’d carried the pills with her, she’d never had to use them, had never been with someone who actually contracted malaria. She had no idea how long the medicine would take to kick in, and what more she might need to do. She should have paid more attention during their medical training, she thought, unzipping her tent and pulling her backpack to her. Something was wrong; it was too light to contain the phone. She unzipped the bag and looked nonetheless, prodding among the energy bar wrappers, a musty tee shirt, a molding paperback, and various gels and ointments intended to repel insects, kill fungi, and stop itching and scratching. The phone wasn’t there.

  She shoved the bag aside and scanned the inside of the tent, trying to remember where she’d placed it the previous evening. Anxiously, she tossed aside her sleeping bag, patted the spare clothes lying around the tent, and re-checked her backpack once again. There was no sign of it.

  Had someone used it after her? AJ? Alex? Troy? She’d have to check their tents.

  Slipping into AJ’s tent, she drew in his familiar scent, a mixture of sweat, camp soap, and mosquito repellent, and had the urge to crawl inside his sleeping bag and stay there until help came for them. She assessed the situation: Buddy and Troy missing and Max down with malaria, leaving only three healthy people. She grew desperate, patting down AJ’s sleeping bag, searching through his cases of tapes, rifling through his backpack. The phone was nowhere to be found.

  Overwhelmed and defeated, she collapsed on the sleeping bag. Lying on her back, she closed her eyes and listened to the sounds of the jungle. She attempted to channel Buddy and Troy, to imagine the world through their eyes, wherever they were at that very moment. Were they wandering through the jungle, utterly alone, helpless, abandoned? Or had they been seized by the Bambada? She lay there for a few moments, working herself into a panic, fighting the image of AJ and Alex being captured by the same savages, of her left alone in camp with a feeble, feverish, dying old man. It was too much to bear. She slipped into the sleeping bag, pulled it up over her head, and began to sob.

  ***

  “See anything?” AJ called to Alex, who was searching a parallel path.

  “Nothing,” Alex responded. “No sign at all.”

  AJ’s shoulders sank. There was no excuse. Two men were now down on his watch, and he felt responsible.

  “There must be a dozen paths branching off this one,” Alex said, rejoining AJ. “It’d take an army to cover them all.”

  “Well, I don’t think we should wander any further from camp. I don’t like the thought of Liz and Max back there alone. Let’s check by the river and call it a day.”

  “See your point about Liz and Max. Tell you what: you go on back to camp and make sure they’re okay. I’ll walk along the riverbank and see if I notice anything fishy.”

  AJ shook his head. “No offense, Alex, but I don’t like the idea of you wandering around alone either.”

  “But I’m not alone. Me mate ‘ere says we’ll be just fine.” He pulled his shirt hem up, revealing the handle of a revolver tucked into his pants. “What are you packin’?”

  “I’m not,” AJ said, obviously taken aback by the gun.

  “What? Came all the way out ‘ere with no protection? That takes guts.” He withdrew his gun and considered it. “Haven’t ever had to fire it, but I feel a damn lot better knowing I have it.”

  “I’ll second that.”

  “Let’s poke around a bit more, then head back to camp. When we’re close, you can check in on Liz and Max and I’ll peel off and check the river.”

  “Deal.”

  ***

  A short time later, Max awoke, disoriented and groggy in his tent. The throbbing pain in his skull had subsided, but he still felt drained, and the inside of his mouth was as dry as sandpaper. Trembling, he sat up, testing his strength. He was still quite weak, but able to stand. He slowly unzipped his tent and stepped out
on unsteady legs.

  It was mid-afternoon, and the light was already starting to fade. The campsite was silent, tents seemingly abandoned. He felt like the last man on earth.

  He remembered Liz bringing him medication. She must still be around, maybe asleep, but he felt no urge to find her. He was in no mood to deal with her frantic, panicked attempts to help; he would enjoy being alone for once.

  He felt the sticky funk of night sweats clinging to his body and slowly headed to the river, where he stripped down to shorts and sandals. The water was surprisingly warm as he continued in, carefully stepping from smooth stone to smooth stone. Midway across, he sunk down into it, allowing it to flow over his shoulders, up to his neck. He dipped his head back and relished the feel of the silken water flowing over his face. When it touched his lips, it tasted like the sweetest water he’d ever known, and despite years of experience in the backcountry that told him he should know better, he opened his parched lips and sipped conservatively. Overcome by the calming, otherworldly experience, he flipped onto his back, found himself surprisingly buoyant, and glided downstream as effortlessly as a twig carried by the current. The water soothed his crippled body, drawing the disease and tension from his pores, rejuvenating him. He swore he could feel his muscles mending, red blood cells multiplying, overheated brain cooling.

  Minutes passed as Max, oblivious to his surroundings, drifted on. A large branch jutting from the water eventually stopped him, and he grabbed onto it, pulling himself up so that his feet settled to the bottom. He felt stronger, unafraid. The logical part of his brain wondered if it was baked beyond repair, if high fevers had left him with a heightened sense of bliss from the slightest stimuli, like a natural form of Ecstasy.

  The pleasant sensation was quickly killed by an overpowering, rancid stench that wafted over from the riverbank. A childlike curiosity pulled him to its source, and he waded out of the water and up the sandy shore, where a narrow animal path seemed to lead in the direction of the scent.