by David Faxon
CHAPTER NINE
That night, the longest of his life, each sound, each rustle of leaves, prompted him to tighten his grip on the spear. Eventually, exhaustion brought welcome sleep. But it was short lived. Soon after midnight, he awoke to find ants attacking his leg wound, biting his flesh, crawling on his chest and down his pants. Frantically brushing them away, he crawled hastily on all fours to the shallow stream, seeking relief from the demon insects. He remained there the rest of the night, weighing which was worse; another possible encounter with a snake or the biting sting of fire ants. After what seemed an eternity, a misty dullness lit the forest as a new day began. With it came the rising sound of monkey chatter. Thankful the night was behind him, he made his exit from the stream.
As he wrung his tattered shirt dry, he saw movement in the bushes about thirty feet away, obviously something large, something unafraid of him. His eyes shifted to the ground. Next to his foot lay the remains of the snake he had killed. Whatever was in the bushes would soon challenge him for it. How could I be so stupid? He picked up the carcass and threw it as far as he was able, then decided to put as much distance as possible between himself and whatever was in the bushes. It was a prudent concession.
He waded into the warm water, wincing each time he stepped on a rock. Using the spear for support, he cautiously followed the stream as it twisted and turned through thick growth, past mossy tree trunks with exposed roots, past hanging moss, past an occasional small animal that stared in wonderment. Insects buzzed his face, neck, and arms, stinging repeatedly, especially the large black flies. Their bites were particularly painful, covering him with spots of blood.
It took an hour or more to travel less than the distance of a football field, but it seemed like he had gone miles. He would continue until there were no signs of fuel in the water. If his thinking was correct, he would then be just beyond the source. Once he could see no trace of fuel, he'd head into the jungle, hopefully toward the wreckage.
Eight o'clock; already the temperature was near ninety with a dew point to match. The air was thick and clammy as he made his way through choking plant life. Shafts of filtered light made it possible to see more clearly than when he first began the search. Insect bites were a continuous torment. He thought, if this didn’t make one of the ten levels of hell, it certainly qualified.
Another twenty minutes passed before he noticed the stream was clear. Inadvertently, he had gone beyond the point where it entered. He turned. He was near the source. The strong odor guided him as he climbed from water on to mushy soil. Another fifty yards, the odor of smoke grew stronger. Then he saw it.
Standing on end, supported by trees and vines, was the right wing. Liquid spilled from its massive tanks, winding toward the stream. The fuselage couldn't be far. He touched the towering object almost reverently, cupped his hands under the fuel and splashed it over his body. Almost immediately, this brought welcome relief from biting insects. Looking up to the high branches, he saw clothing; shirts, underwear, pants, all torn from bodies or ripped from luggage as if someone hung them to dry.
He searched among the bushes looking for anything of practical use. Instead, he found laptop computers, books, magazines wallets, papers strewn everywhere. He picked up a wallet and opened it. Inside, a face stared at him from a driver’s license, then a picture of two children, then a woman, smiling. If she wasn't with him on the flight, did she know by now his plane was missing? That he would never return?
It was all too bizarre. His world turned upside down in the space of a day. Now, less than twenty four hours later, he stood alone in the middle of the Amazon, staring at a man’s picture. How important was his four billion dollar hedge fund now? What about the yacht he never found time to use? Or the vacation home in France where he stayed only once? He'd trade it all for one kit with medical supplies.
He scoured the area and made an invaluable find; a pocket lighter somehow missed by security at the airport, then an unopened can of Coke and a box of assorted safety pins he kept to use as fish hooks. There were no medical supplies, or food among the debris. Before leaving, he searched the array of clothing a second time, finding a pair of pants and a shirt in much better condition than his. Because of the heat and humidity, he considered cutting the pant legs above the knee, then thought better of it, too many creatures feasting on him. More practical to keep the pants long and button the shirtsleeves.
What he really needed was a pair of shoes. He saw several but none matched or were the wrong size. He pushed aside some foliage and found a pair of size ten running shoes in perfect condition, laces tied together.
As he neared the crash site, two other parties searched for the same thing, separated only by short spans of time. They would soon converge. The lone hunter, Teman-e, sought the meaning of a message he thought would greatly affect his people. The homicidal Uxhomeb thought his find would bring him greater power. Connery wanted only to treat his injuries, find a way out of the mess he was in. He continued on, following the drifting smoke.
Towards noon, both the heat and jungle cacophony were increasing. Locating the crash site was more than elusive, and he was tiring quickly. Thirsty and dripping with sweat, the can of warm Coke once again appealed to him. As he drank, he noticed a little more light coming through the trees, as if there might be a clearing ahead; an encouraging sign- he had to be close. He swallowed the last of the soda and moved forward. Light penetration increased steadily as he neared a swath of toppled trees. All at once, the jungle opened. He stared in disbelief. Directly in front of him loomed the huge tail section, nearly as high as a five-story building, towering like a monolith, starkly out of place in the canopied forest. Surrounding it were pieces of wreckage, still aflame, as if they were votive candles lit to honor the presence of so many who had died, in a place that had no name.
From where he stood, the cockpit section was barely visible, bent grotesquely at a right angle from the main fuselage. The tail and rudder sections seemed undamaged. Emblazoned on the tail were enormous letters in red and blue, GLOBAL AIR, superimposed over the company’s logo. This is what he searched for, but wasn’t prepared to see. It was incomprehensible that he was aboard that same plane, and lived. What separated him from over two hundred others lying somewhere in that hideous wreckage? Could there be anyone else alive?
Just then the skies opened, and a heavy shower added to the unbelievable scene before him. Everything about it, the patter of raindrops, cawing of birds, broken plane, smoke wisps, odor of jet fuel, now etched in his mind for as long as he lived. There was no burning inferno as he anticipated. The jet hit the trees with such force it tore off both wings. They contained most of the fuel. A gaping hole in the fuselage sucked out passengers. Fate was ruthless to all but him. The gap meant life.
Reaching the fuselage was difficult. Splintered tree trunks, burning embers, twisted pieces of sharp metal and body remains blocked his path. He stepped cautiously, as if through a minefield, knowing that once inside the cabin, the scene would be even more disturbing.
The opening where the tail had broken from the main section, beckoned. It tilted skyward, too high to enter. He found another entry, closer to the ground, just large enough to squeeze through. Careful to avoid tearing himself on sharp pieces of metal, he managed to crawl inside. Sweating profusely and breathing hard, he rested his head on the cabin floor, afraid of what he would see. The smell of death filled the air.
It was worse than he imagined. Approximately one hundred fifty bodies posed grotesquely, many strapped in their seats, torsos oddly twisted, heads showing serious trauma. At least two gazed from inside open luggage compartments. What incredible force could have propelled them? Others lay against the forward bulkhead, shoeless, clothing torn away. The nightmarish scene sickened him. He climbed over bodies to where he thought the medical supplies would be, somewhere near the galley. Two of the attendants stared with blank expressions. He recognized Anne Carlson. A cold chill ran through him. Until then, they were faces
without names. But he knew her, had talked with her only the day before.
In the galley, he pulled on cabinet drawers that were jammed shut. He used a piece of metal as a lever. Inside he found only cups, plates, utensils, and large linen napkins used for first class. He took the napkins and a sharp knife, then pried open a large cabinet door. Inside was a white metal case with a red cross on its cover. He opened it and found exactly what he was looking for; gauze, anti-bacterial solution, ointments, tourniquets, scissors, painkillers, and two critical items, a large needle with thread. He carefully removed the hasty bandage, revealing his ugly wound. What he feared most hadn’t occurred, no sign of gangrene. A case of bottled water was off to his side. He bathed the wound first, then applied the solution. It was deep, a lot of white, fatty flesh showing. As distasteful as it was, he had to close it. He threaded the needle, held it under the flame from his lighter, pinched the pieces of flesh together and pushed the needle through. Blinding pain made his eyes water, but he looped the thread over and did it again, eighteen more times, making sure to leave a small hole for drainage. Again he cleaned the wound, then bound the area tightly with gauze. Exhausted, he opened a bottle of water, drank, then fell asleep amid surroundings that could only be described as macabre.
He slept several hours, then awoke to sunlight penetrating his closed eyelids. His first thought was, they should have been here by now! But as each hour passed, the absence of rescue crews became more perplexing. Soon, he was convinced, the flapping of helicopter blades would signal their arrival.
Waiting gave him time to scavenge the galley. Well into morning hours he became hungry and ate a package of snack food, along with a banana. Morning turned into afternoon, then late afternoon. He was sure that a transmitter, located somewhere in the craft, was activated and sending distress signals, but the sky gave no hint of any search craft. There must be a good reason, but none he could think of. A major carrier had lost a fully loaded plane. Where were they?
He guessed correctly. Inside the separated tail section, a small device triggered on impact, sent anonymous distress signals to orbiting satellites. Aircraft flying near the site could also pick up the signal, but only if the pilot was tuned to the transmitter's low frequency. Operating on less than a tenth of a watt, its weak power couldn't penetrate the dense foliage and towering trees. The result was a lengthy delay in rescue operations. While air traffic control in Brasilia was aware the plane was down, the necessary signals to triangulate the location were inconsistent. Search planes were dispatched, but to an area of eight hundred square kilometers. The three-day delay would change things considerably for Connery.
The precise location could have been made within minutes had Global Air not delayed installation of more powerful emergency locator transmitters. The newer units, mandated by the FAA years before, stipulated installation on new planes only. As long as the older transmitters tested OK, it would be years before they absolutely had to be replaced. While it was too late for the passengers of flight 302, available global positioning technology would be of no consequence to its only survivor. He could continue to wait and hope, or make other plans. Events would soon decide for him.
CHAPTER TEN
Who was he to question his leader? His shaman? Yet he knew what he had seen. It was real, there in the sky, a massive object plunging to the ground. What else could it be but a message from the spirits? His alone to find and interpret, now that Guardara had rejected his plea. It was about a day's journey to where he and Nauoma stopped to rest. He could find it easily then go to where he thought it landed. But what would he do then? That gave him pause. He was fearless before any enemy, but confronting spirits was another matter.
He came to one of several tributaries that weaved through the expanse of forest. Eleven hundred others like it wound toward the Great River before it joined with the Rio Negro. It was getting toward the end of dry season, the water low and placid, easy to negotiate. Soon it would be almost impossible to cross any of the swollen tributaries without risk of drowning. Violent rainstorms would turn mere streams into raging torrents, eroding soil and toppling trees into a maelstrom of water. He had seen many times what the monsoon brought to his land. The Great River would expand to a width of twenty miles in places, sometimes sweeping whole villages away, even changing the topography of the land itself in its rush to the sea. But now it was hot and dry. He cupped his hand, dipped it into the water and swallowed the cool liquid until he drank his fill. Refreshed, he waded in.
Far to his left, a large caiman basked in the sun, eyes open, seemingly unconcerned. Teman-e was wary, for if the reptile had not eaten for a while, it would have a definite interest in him. He immersed slowly, the water reaching only to his knees. Crossing proved easy, and the caiman hadn’t moved. On the opposite side, he ascended the now steep embankment, using exposed roots to pull himself up. Another thirty minute walk brought him to the location where he paused with Nauoma and climbed the tall tree in search of honey. Once again he shimmied up, this time to estimate how far he must travel to reach his destination, and where the sun would be in the sky when he got there. It could take longer than expected, and he hoped enough daylight remained.
Several hours passed with no sign of anything. Alone at night, he was aware of his vulnerability. Hunters from an enemy tribe, or worse, the Wakawakatieri, could easily seize him. What would happen after, depended on the ferocity of his captors. There was a wide range of possibilities, none good. One name he feared above others; Uxhomeb. Scourge of the forest peoples, a pathological killer who toyed with his victims before killing them in some creative but hideous way. Capture by him was the worst possible situation. He froze with the thought. If he was caught, his head would be removed from his body, shrunk to the size of a clenched fist and worn around the waist of the hunter responsible for the kill. Teman-e shook it from his mind. He couldn't let that deter him.
Sleeping overnight in the jungle was something he did only when on long hunting trips but always accompanied by fellow tribesmen. There was strength in numbers. Aside from capture by another tribe, his biggest concern was the jaguar. He could handle most any of the other land beasts except that animal; too quick, too fearless when hunting, even known to take on a crocodile. He recalled seeing one as large as eight feet from nose to tail, weighing more than one hundred fifty pounds. The beast killed three of his tribe, including a small child. Both feared and venerated by the Indians, they named the jaguar 'beast who kills his prey in a single bound.'
Unlike other cats that kill by biting the neck, the jaguar has extraordinary power in its jaws and crushes the temporal bones of its victim's skull. Once he had killed one, but came close to dying himself. Only the sheerest of luck saved him when the animal lunged into his well-placed knife, severing the nerve cords that fed its brain.
With night coming, he took extra precautions, found dry wood and kindled a fire the ancient way. A comfortable place to sleep in a tree provided no defense against a jaguar since they are skilled at climbing, so he decided to sleep next to the fire. It was important he stay clear of rotting logs apt to contain fire ants. Satisfied it was the right place, he settled on his haunches and stirred the fire.
The flames cast flickering shadows. Though it was too dark to hunt small game for his meal, he was content since the place he wisely chose provided sufficient fruit. After eating, he fed the fire, held his spear close and remained half- awake to make sure it didn't die completely. He listened to the entrancing sounds of the jungle and thought of what the next day might bring. The night passed uneventfully.
Next morning he continued his search. After several hours, there was still no sign of anything. Conflicted by doubt, he thought maybe he imagined the whole thing. Then an acrid odor, one he didn't recognize because it contained plastics and other man-made materials, permeated the air. It was late into the afternoon when he noticed the change. Something was different. Like Connery a few hours before, he could see far enough ahead where many tall trees lay o
n the ground. He heard stories of men who chopped down large sections of the forest, destroying sanctuaries for wild animals the tribes depended on, but never actually witnessed the devastation.
His pulse raced as he sensed something momentous. He entered the clearing and jumped backwards, dumbstruck by the cavernous opening of the fuselage and the massive tail section reaching toward the sky. Sunlight emerged from behind breaking clouds as he beheld the startling scene. Immediately, he fell to his knees. The spirits led him to this place. He was both grateful and frightened. After several minutes, he dared raise his head. It didn't look anything like a bird, or any creature he knew of. Where were its wings? While he pondered, Connery lay hidden in the fuselage, trying to decide his next move.
Teman-e beheld something he could not begin to comprehend. He didn’t approach the wreck for fear of being struck dead. The spirits sent their message. It could mean his people faced extreme danger, and would be forced to move. Best to turn back and bring the news to his village. As if in a daze, he retraced his steps. Who would believe what he had found? By the time he reached the river, he ran out of daylight.
He would spend another night in the forest. Once again, he chose a place to rest, made a fire and exhausted, fell asleep. About midnight, he awoke to an unfamiliar noise. He rose, took four steps from the dying embers, then was slammed violently to the ground, his head and body pummeled until he lost consciousness. When he came to, he realized it wasn't an animal. Much worse. He was captured by the Wakawakatieri, his fate now sealed.
Jerked from the ground, they began hitting him about the head and back with a club, then spit on him. When he was about to lose consciousness again, the beating suddenly stopped. Then he felt searing pain as a red-hot ember was pressed against his cheek. He wanted to scream until his lungs burst, but resisted. They wouldn't get the best of him.