by Greig Beck
*****
Alonzo Borges watched as the man was stretchered from the jungle. His emaciated frame made it easy for the bearers to carry him. He had a matted beard, rags for clothing, and a face marked by abrasions, rashes, and deep grime. There were also deep gashes along his ribs that had festered. But his eyes still blazed from his feverish face.
Being the police captain, Borges had all manner of problems brought to him, from the town or jungle. But it was the first time a strange westerner had been found wandering alone in the jungle. The stretcher-bearers laid the man at his feet, and the captain crouched beside him.
Borges laid a hand on the poor soul’s forehead, immediately feeling the fierce heat of fever. He guessed he was not long for this world. He clicked his fingers to a small boy watching. “Get the nurse.” He pointed at another boy. “You, water, rápido.”
He turned back to the figure. The man’s pale blue eyes remained wide, and his fever-red face made them stand out like blue lights. In his hands, he tightly clutched a leather-bound notebook. It seemed all he had left.
Borges was handed a cup of water, and he wiped greasy hair from the man’s brow, feeling once again the heat emanating from his skin. Borges spoke Spanish and a little English, but if the man spoke any other European language, then he would remain a mystery.
“Drink.”
He lifted the man’s head and allowed him to sip from the cup, but most of the water ran down his bearded cheeks. Borges gently laid him back down.
“Who are you?”
The man’s rolling eyes fixed on him. “Ca, Cart, Cartwright.” His voice was a croak and he licked flaking lips, already out of breath.
“Señor Cartwright, was there anyone else with you?”
Cartwright nodded his head. “Baxter. He was.”
“And where is Señor Baxter now?” Borges leaned closer.
Cartwright sprung forward, making the captain lurch backwards. The man’s eyes were so wide they looked about to pop free of his face.
“Eaten…alive.”
Cartwright grimaced in agony and hunkered over his mutilated side. Dark blood pulsed out onto the stretcher.
Borges turned. “Doctor!”
The luminous eyes fixed on Borges again and the man held out a shaking hand, holding the leather book. “Get this…to…Doyle,” he wheezed and gritted his teeth in agony. “Arthur Conan Doyle; important.”
Borges took the book and only then did Cartwright lay back. “He’ll know…what to do.”
The pale eyes closed, and a long breath came from his mouth and his body seemed to collapse in on itself. Borges made the sign of the cross over him and imagined that his last breath was his spirit leaving the torn and battered body.
The captain stood slowly as the nurse finally came running. He turned to her and shook his head. “No hurry now.” He lifted the book, opening the string and flicked through several pages, looking over the drawings. After a moment, he shook his head.
“Scribbling of a madman.”
He sighed and closed the book, and turned to head back to his station. Señor Cartwright was off to meet his maker. Now he needed to see if someone wanted to claim the body, and as a dying man’s last wish must always be honored, he would also see that the book found its way home.
CHAPTER 14
Later that evening, Ben sat in his room with the map sketches laid out in front of him. In the military, all soldiers had to learn basic cartography, map reading, and landmark plotting. Bottom line, if you got separated, you needed to be able to find your way home or to a rendezvous point with a map, sun/star positions, or just your memory.
Following his reading of the notebook, he now believed that there was something unimaginable down there; and something dangerous and unique. Benjamin the 1st had a skilled eye for landmarks and mapping, and today, Ben could use modern maps, satellite images, and even photographic libraries to pick up the trail.
He knew that the fateful expedition of 1908 had been somewhere deep in the eastern jungles of Venezuela – that was good and bad.
The good being that it was still largely thick and unmapped jungle, meaning that if there were any secrets, they still might be hidden there.
And the bad being that it was still a thick and unmapped jungle, meaning that if there were secrets there, it’d be damned hard to get there, find them, and also survive.
Ben knew jungles; he’d been to the Amazon, the Congo, and to the jungles of New Guinea. Frankly, the Amazon was the best and the worst of them, as the humidity was at a constant 90%, the ground cover was as thick as the overhead tree canopy cover, and everything that could possibly slither, creep, bite, nip, and infect you lived down there.
They’d all arranged to get shots for malaria, diphtheria, tetanus, typhoid, hepatitis, rabies, yellow fever, fungal infections, and a half-dozen other shots for blood-borne parasites. He even knew of certain flies, like the chigara, that burrowed into skin, releasing maggots just under the surface to feed on the living flesh.
“We’re all mad,” he mused. Taking a team of novices was lunacy. Most people when they imagined jungles conjured images of lush green plants, rainbow-colored birds, and maybe clear streams with sharp-toothed fish. But he knew they were really hot and wet miasmas that sapped strength, health, and sanity. “I’m mad,” he added.
He went back to the online map of Venezuela. The first major clue he was given was the large river that wended its way into the northeast of the jungle. He groaned as the number of candidates were listed – dozens and dozens, and way too many to explore in their window of opportunity. And as he only had drawings and descriptions of some aspects of the waterway he was looking for, he’d need more clues. But at least he had a start and a good piece of the puzzle.
The notebook described a place of permanent cloud cover, but it also indicated that this cover was an unusual event that only occurred during the wettest of wet seasons. Still, he knew there were several drainage basins in the Amazon where cloud cover could remain collected for months or even permanently, only ever rising slightly and then sinking back depending on the humidity, temperature, and prevailing winds.
There was a small notation on one of the pages. “Must hurry, only days until Primordia returns.”
A ship for their transport? Ben wondered.
He exhaled through pressed lips. He needed to take it back a few steps. There were clues, but he’d need to tease them out. In the notebook, the original Benjamin and Baxter arrived at the edge of the jungle and then travelled east, overland for several days on horseback, before boarding a riverboat. Given that a fully laden packhorse would only travel about 5 miles per hour, travel for about 10 daylight hours and only break for an hour in that entire time, then that should be between 40 and 50 miles per day, before arriving at their river.
Ben went back to his map, using the scale and plotting to where he believed they ended up. He found a promising candidate – the Rio Caura. It emptied into the Orinoco Basin and was termed a black-water river – that meant the water was the color of dark coffee from being stained by all the tannins leaching out of the rotting vegetation. The problem was it split into dozens of tributaries.
Ben sighed as he tried to find names for them – most didn’t have one – at least not to the mapmakers. He checked the renditions in his ancestor’s book again and read the notes.
He smiled. “Benjamin, I’m afraid the sound of drumbeats or an indication of where Professor Challenger lost some specimens is just not going to cut it.”
But there were other indicators more promising – rocky slopes, large plains of tree ferns, low hills, and spongy morass of swamps – they would be something a local should recognize. And then there was the area that was headed, concealed river. Ben knew that places like this existed, where a narrow and remote tributary had large trees on either side growing up over it to meet in the middle. From line of sight, it was invisible, and if you didn’t know it was there or weren’t travelling along it, it didn’t exist.
He stared hard at the map, concentrating on an area of river and surrounding geography that might just suit the profile for Benjamin’s expedition, making notes as he went.
The knock on the door was almost welcome and he sat back and rubbed tired eyes. Ben checked his wristwatch – 9pm – whoa; he’d been staring at maps, old notes, and pencil drawings for hours. Ben got to his feet and crossed to the door pulling it open.
Andrea stood there in jeans and casual cotton shirt, collar up, and unbuttoned down to just show the top of a pair of full breasts. In her hand, she held two bottles of a local dark beer and a pair of glasses. She held them up.
“Nightcap?” She smiled, showing a neat line of expensive white teeth.
“Um.” He wasn’t sure this was a good idea and wracked his brain for a polite excuse without hurting her feelings. “Well…”
“Well, thank you.” She ducked past him.
“Huh?” He watched her shapely figure walk lightly to the small table and two chairs, and then use a napkin to twist the top off one of the bottles, while the tip of her small pink tongue just touched her top lip.
She poured two glasses of the beer that was the color of dark honey. She sat and slid one of the glasses over in front of the opposite chair. “Come on, sit down and tell me what you’ve found.”
Ben checked his watch again and shrugged. A few minutes wouldn’t hurt. Besides, he kinda liked English beer.
He sat and lifted the bottle – Earl of Brixom dark ale. He sipped and immediately got hints of roasted malt, chocolate, and caramel, and after he swallowed, it turned to a slight, black-coffee bitterness. He liked it, but would have preferred it chilled.
He saluted her with his glass. “Good choice.”
She leaned forward to clink his glass with hers. “All they had, but I still accept your compliment.” She sipped, her eyes on his for a second. “Well…” She nodded to the maps. “Anything interesting?”
Ben bobbed his head from side to side. “Yes and no, I guess. I think I know where we start, but at about 500,000 square miles, if I’m wrong, we’ll never find what we’re looking for.”
“The hidden plateau?” She raised her brows.
“Eventually. We’re just trying to pick up the thread to begin with. Like I said, I think I might know where to start, but the bottom line is we’ll need to rely on Jenny’s contacts on the ground. Local knowledge is going to be crucial once we’re there.”
“Once we’re there,” she repeated softly while looking at her glass. “I can’t believe we’re actually doing this.”
“You and me both; we must be insane.” He gave her a half smile. “Extremely insane.” His smile dropped the more he let himself think about it.
Ben looked up at her. “So why do you want to go? The Amazon is no place for novices. In fact, it’ll be weeks without shelter, and it’ll be hot, humid and uncomfortable, and not to mention deadly.” He leaned forward. “You, me, we could all die there.”
She sipped again. “You’ll protect me.” Her eyes were direct, but after a few seconds, her face broke into a smile. “But honestly, Ben, I’m 32 years old, and haven’t exactly been getting that many casting calls lately.”
“Seriously? You’re still a very beautiful woman, Andrea.” He hiked his shoulders.
“Thank you, but in a land of beautiful women, you need more. I’m tipping towards invisibility in my agent’s office. The thing is, I’m boring.” She put her glass down with a clunk. “The very thought of this fills me with excitement, curiosity, and hope. I’m going to write down everything we do and see, get a writer to turn it into a script, and then I’m going to take it to a producer.” She leaned forward with a cat-like smile on her lips. “And I’m going to play the lead.”
“Good plan. But let’s not count our chickens just yet, Andrea. We might not even make it there.” He sipped again consciously, struggling not to look down at her open shirt.
She also sipped her ale, her eyes on his. The tiny curve of her lips gave Ben the impression she was reading his mind. She slowly put the glass down.
“Well, I for one wouldn’t want to be the guy who was on his deathbed and didn’t bother to see where this adventure might lead.”
Ben grunted, knowing this to be true for himself. “I never said never, Andrea. I’m not trying to be a handbrake, more a…reality check.”
“A shock absorber will do.” She got to her feet.
Ben walked her to the door and pulled it open. She turned in the doorframe and leant forward quickly to kiss him on the lips.
She eased back, but only a few inches. “Never say never; I like it.” She kissed him again, harder.
Ben’s eyes were open, and he couldn’t help his hand finding its way to her waist. She was soft and firm at the same time, and he felt himself become rock hard between them. Over her shoulder, he saw movement and looked up to see a horrified Emma.
Shit, he thought, and immediately pulled back from Andrea who saw the look on his face and turned. She giggled and turned back to him.
“First come first served.” She looked down at his waist. “Ouch, that looks painful.” She then sashayed down the hallway, nodding to a fuming Emma as she went past.
He turned to Emma, but her eyes blazed and her fists were balled. She turned on her heel and also vanished.
Ben groaned as he shut the door and leaned against it. Good grief, he thought. He seemed to stumble from one thing to the next without being in control of any of them.
He sat on his bed and contemplated calling Emma on the in-room phone, but bet she’d never take his call. Ben turned to look at the table with the two beers, one only sipped at and the other, his, empty. The maps, notebook, and old novel stood open. He couldn’t be bothered resuming his research again right now.
“Tomorrow’s another day.” He stripped down to his boxers and T-shirt and flopped back down on the bed, pulling the duvet up over himself.
In another moment he was asleep.
*****
Ben Cartwright ran, fast and hard, from what he had no idea. He just knew he must not let it catch him.
He put his head down to push harder and suddenly needed to skid to a stop – the jungle ended and he was at the edge of a cliff that dropped away to a ground that was lost in the clouds below. A breeze blew into his face that seemed to come from everywhere at once. He squinted, staring down.
Beneath his feet, the ground shook as something of enormous weight came through the jungle like a truck. The thing that pursued him filled him with a terror he couldn’t even measure.
Ben turned back to the cliff edge as his panic was causing his mind to short-circuit with indecision. Behind him, the foliage burst open and the roar made him cringe with a panic he hadn’t known even when he was under siege by terrorists.
He didn’t want to look back, didn’t want to see, but slowly his head edged around anyway. His teeth clamped together hard and pure horror made the gorge rise in his throat. The thing poured towards him, and he threw his hands up in front of his face.
Ben’s eyes flicked wide open. He was back in the dark of his room, and safe.
But then knew he wasn’t alone.
There was the faintest creak of a floorboard and an impression of movement in the room’s still air. He lay still in the near pitch darkness, listening some more. Ben was sure of it now; there were moving bodies in his room. At first, he was hopeful that somehow Emma had managed to get in and was going to forgive him.
But then he knew different. There was more than one person, being silent as wraiths, and he lay there just using senses other than his eyes. He could smell them then, the tangy sweat of men, musty clothing, and worryingly, gun oil.
Another floorboard complained with only the faintest of sounds, but it told Ben that the men were big and heavy. Anyone else might have wondered if some guests had blundered into the wrong room, but Ben’s covert military experience told him that whoever they were, they knew what they were doing and were determine
d to be as stealthy as possible.
He heard the soft ruffle of papers – they’re going for the notebook – like hell, he thought, and flew from the bed.
He immediately encountered a large boot to the chest. The room was near total darkness, and it told him his intruders must have been wearing night-vision. This was no casual break-in.
Ben had trained for this and went fast, using memory of the room’s layout to avoid obstacles. If they had night-vision, then light was his ally. He came low, lifted quickly and flicked on a bedside lamp. The glow was low wattage, but after the blackness of the room, it illuminated the scene like a flashbulb.
Ben knew when waiting for eyes to adjust from night-blindness, the key wasn’t to wait for everything to take shape, but to just take in enough and react, and let the brain fill in the gaps.
There were two big men, dressed all in black and with Cyclops night-scopes down over the faces. The light would have near blinded them, but instead of recoiling or fleeing, the pair of men turned…to fight.
Ben came low, intending to take the first intruder down, and then use an elbow to his throat or even bridge of the nose to incapacitate him. It didn’t go to plan.
The guy lowered his chest and took Ben head-on. Ben was big, but this guy outweighed him by a good 20 pounds. Ben was skilled in hand-to-hand combat and had the advantage of reacting first. He dived under the barrel chest, grabbed a pair of trunk-like legs, and upended him, flinging him backwards. He heard the satisfying dull thud of skull against wood and the guy stayed down, flat out.
Within the same heartbeat, Ben spun at the second man, who had now ripped off his goggles. The eyes behind the balaclava weren’t wide with shock or fear, but focused and intense – he knew it – professionals.
The straight-hand punch was aimed at his chin and Ben blocked it easily, catching the wrist and twisting it. There was no yell of pain or even a grunt; instead, the man planted his legs and flicked out a flat-hand strike at Ben’s nose.
The blow was meant to bust his beak and cause the eyes to immediately water. Ben turned his head in time to catch the blow to the side of the face. And then it was on; the pair of big men stood toe to toe, trading and blocking blows that would have felled a normal human in an instant.