by Darren Hale
‘Pare!’ Startled by the sudden movement, her guard sprang forward and knocked her to the ground.
‘Wait! You don’t understand. This man is in shock. If you don’t let me help him, he’s going to die!’ she said, raising her hands to shield her face.
The guard hesitated.
She cautiously got to her feet. ‘He has a fever. We must get his temperature down, otherwise he will die. Do you understand?’ she said, placing a hand on Eduardo’s brow.
It was hard to know if he’d really understood, or whether it had been the desperation in her voice that had compelled him, but he seemed willing to give her the benefit of the doubt. He backed away.
‘I’m going to need medicines. Medicamentos. Understand?’ She gesticulated in the direction of the medical tent.
She was later surprised to learn that her request for supplies had not gone unheeded. Lacking any more than a rudimentary understanding of Portuguese, gleaned from the books she’d read when she’d been most bored, she was not to know that her request had even been passed on amidst the terse exchange of words that had then passed between her escort and the gun-toting colleague he’d summoned to join them.
‘Will this help?’ said the new arrival, returning with a large plastic crate, which he then deposited on the ground next to her.
Having given him a nod and a weak affirmation, she opened it and removed an apron, mask, and gloves, along with the requisite bits of equipment for siting a drip.
Her young guard watched with curiosity, but did not interfere as she dressed herself in the protective garments. And then, taking Eduardo’s hand in hers, she inserted a needle in his arm to which she attached a bag of fluids – one of a very few she’d brought with her just in case…
‘And this will make him better,’ her young escort asked.
‘I’ve done my best,’ she replied, without thinking to ask why he cared.
The guard smiled. He was young and had not spotted the deceit behind her words. She had, after all, answered truthfully – though not in response to the question he had asked.
Although she had indeed done her best, he would not be getting better.
She had never treated a disease like this before and knew little of what to expect, though she had attended many a dying man and recognised that glazed film that had appeared like cataracts on his eyes, and the waxy complexion that had embalmed his skin.
******
‘Well, I guess we don’t need to guess at who sabotaged the radio,’ Angus groaned. He’d tried to sit up, but the pain in his thigh had caught him short and he’d fallen back, almost passing out once more. For him, the day had passed in the blink of an eye. He’d been unconscious for most of it. His last memories had been of Catherine tending to his wounds. He could remember her saying something about it being a clean “through and through” that had missed the major blood vessels, and had naively imagined that her words had mitigated any further investigation. But no… She’d then gone hunting for the bits of dirt and clothing that might perhaps have been carried into the wound.
And that had been the last thing he’d remembered.
Until now…
‘What a bastard,’ he exclaimed, ‘I hope he dies!’
‘Angus!’ said Catherine admonishingly, pulling his bandage just that bit tighter before tying it.
‘Ow – was that really necessary?’ he winced, despite the cocktail of painkillers she’d administered before embarking on her examination.
‘Yes,’ she said, with a certain lack of sympathy. ‘A nice firm bandage will help to stop any bleeding.’
‘Look – I’m sorry to say it, but this bloody great hole in my ass has kind of changed my perspective on a few things.’
‘Still…’ she said. ‘You should be grateful. If not for Eduardo, I would not have been given the painkillers, antibiotics, and dressings you’re now benefitting from.’
‘But I thought you said he was unconscious?’
‘I did…’
Having returned to the inevitable questions about her wellbeing and whereabouts, Catherine had detailed Eduardo’s plight in full. And it had not taken Angus long to figure out that one important detail that had not, until then, entered her mind. The question of “who” had in fact sabotaged the radio.
‘But why would he do such a thing?’ Catherine asked, without giving the matter much thought.
‘That’s obvious isn’t it,’ Angus snorted. ‘He’s after the money. Those artefacts are going to be worth a fortune.’
‘In which case – why are we still alive? What do they need us for?’ Oki’s words were like a vacuum, extinguishing all other thoughts and leaving a silence that persisted for longer than was comfortable.
‘Cheers for that,’ said Angus finally. ‘And here I am on the brink and all that…’
‘Oki has a point,’ Simon interjected. His words ever-so-slightly slurred as they battled the fug of antibiotics and fever. ‘Why are they going to the trouble of keeping us alive if they don’t have to?’
‘Steady there my boy, let’s not be getting all morbid shall we,’ grumbled the professor.
‘The professor’s right,’ said Carmen in a rare display of solidarity. ‘Let’s try and keep positive about this. We ARE still alive after all. Which means there’s always a chance…’
His pride assuaged, the professor huffed contentedly and said no more.
Angus brightened. Though one might have expected the painkillers to have dulled his wits, the pain and a good rest had doubtless had the opposite effect. ‘Juliet…’ he enthused. ‘Did you hear any word on Juliet?’ He kept his voice to a whisper; wise to the fact that the walls of the tent were thin and there were guards outside.
Catherine shook her head.
‘So that’s a good thing,’ he said. ‘If she did indeed manage to get away?’
‘She’ll what?’ said Rufus a little more testily than he might have intended, perhaps aggravated by how often the word “Juliet” seemed to issue from Angus’s mouth these days, along with “has anyone got a cigarette?”. It was not hard to imagine that Angus had become rather fond of that quirky and scatter-brained manner of hers. And her own feelings had been equally clear, masquerading behind the odd flirtatious smile and the warm flush that came to her cheeks whenever he spoke to her, despite the fact that most of their conversations turned into arguments about the simplest of things. ‘Juliet is hardly the most capable young lady. She gets lost on the way to site B. I hardly think she’ll demonstrate enterprise enough to rescue us.’
Marina gave him one of her scathing looks, reminding him that he’d overstepped the mark without having to utter a word.
‘No,’ said Simon weakly. ‘But we do also have Martin and Arno…’
40
Friday 20th October:
Juliet yawned. Then, throwing her arms wide, she stretched the tension from tired and knotted muscles. It had been an uncomfortable night, tortured with the memories of her friends and visions of bloodshed and death, while being prodded and poked at all angles by the tangled mat of roots and vines that coiled like slumbering serpents beneath the tent.
She wiggled her way out of the sleeping bag, located the blouse she’d been wearing the night before, its soiled fabric still mottled with grime and rank with the smell of a day gone by, and slipped it on.
Martin sat hunched next to a fire, turning the carcass of some unidentifiable animal on a spit. The meat was blackened and charred where the flames licked its surface. ‘Good morning princess. I trust you slept well,’ he said as she stepped outside.
‘Not really.’ Juliet could see Martin’s hammock cradled between the trees and for a moment she wished she had traded places with him, swapping the presumed security of the tent for its precarious comfort.
‘Pull up a seat – breakfast is almost ready. I’m afraid I’m not much of a chef, but you’re welcome to what I’ve got.’
Juliet pointed towards the fire pit. It popped and hissed as sap-laden twigs
kindled to flame, belching lazy tongues of smoke that meandered towards the heavens. ‘Aren’t you afraid someone will see the smoke?’
Martin peered towards the canopy and watched as the smoke was swallowed by the trees. ‘I don’t think so. But I’d be happy to serve breakfast raw next time.’ He lifted the carcass from the fire and tore off a leg. The tender meat parted with ease. ‘Looks about done to me… Do you want some?’
Juliet eyed the burnt offerings with apprehension. It didn’t look like much, but the heady smell of roasted meat, laced with the pungent aroma of wood smoke, was too much to resist. ‘Sure – if you’re offering…’
He pulled off another leg and handed it to her.
Juliet took a mouthful of the rich, gamey meat. ‘Hmmm, not bad. Dare I ask what it is?’
‘Monkey…’ he said between mouthfuls.
Juliet paused, suddenly aware that members of her meal’s family might well be watching from the high branches. Her guilt was fleeting. It wasn’t the first time something unusual had appeared upon her plate, although she had to concede that monkey was probably a first. ‘Anything to drink?’
Martin tossed her a canteen.
She unstopped it and took a generous mouthful. The water seemed to curdle against her tongue. She spat it out.
‘Hey – don’t waste it. I really don’t want to have to fetch more.’
‘But it tastes awful...’
‘I’m sorry angel, but we’re all out of the Chablis. You’re going to have to make do with ground water and purifying tablets from now on; something of an acquired taste I’m afraid.’
‘You’re sure it’s safe to drink?’
‘Pretty much… It might give you the shits, but it won’t kill you.’
‘That’s good to know…’ replied Juliet dubiously. She took another mouthful of the rancid water and quickly followed it with a bite of the robustly flavoured monkey meat.
They finished the rest of their meal in silence. When they were done, Martin collected up the remains of the monkey and threw them into the jungle.
‘Right then – I’m ready. Isn’t it time we got going?’ Juliet asked.
‘And just where did you want to go?’
‘I thought you said you had a spare battery for the radio, back at the camp?’
‘I did – but it doesn’t mean I have any plans to wander back in there and try and get it.’
Juliet stamped her foot. ‘Those are my friends back there! If we don’t try to help them, they might die.’
‘And they might not… But if we go charging in there, guns at the ready, then we probably will. Now, my life might not be very much to write home about, but I have to say, I’m kind of attached to it.’
‘Look you bastard! You and your friends got us into this mess, so the least you can do is help get us out of it.’
‘I did no such thing. You got yourselves into this mess – not me! I just tagged along for the ride.’
Juliet tried another tack. ‘Look, as far as I could tell, there weren’t that many of them – seven or eight at the most. And you’ve already managed to dispatch one of them.’
‘And you got a good look at how many of them there were as you ran naked through the trees?’
‘Well no…’
‘So, there could be twice that number for all you know. Look, it makes no difference whether there were just seven or eight of them, or a hundred. They’re mean, they’ve got automatic weapons, and they’re going to be pretty pissed at us when they find that body.’
Juliet stared levelly into his eyes; her arms crossed in defiance. It was a tactic that had won more than its fair share of arguments against her father, but one that seemed doomed to failure when pitted against Martin’s indomitable will.
‘And?’
‘Well, if you’re not going to help me save my friends, then I guess I’m going to have to do it myself!’ A machete lay embedded in the ground, its tarnished blade viridian-stained and sticky with sap where it had been used to gather wood. She snatched it up, and hefting it like a broadsword, stomped off into the jungle, venting her frustration in a wide swathe of destruction.
Martin waited.
Startled by the noise, a group of watchful monkeys scampered for cover beneath the jungle vault.
‘Shit!’ Juliet exclaimed as she stormed back into view. Her face smouldered with emotion. ‘I can’t believe you’re going to let a defenceless young woman wander all alone in the jungle!’
‘That’s all right. You weren’t going to get very far.’
‘Oh – is that so! And why is that?’ she said, bristling with anger.
‘Well – for starters – you were going the wrong way…’
Juliet screamed and threw the machete to her feet. From somewhere deep within the jungle she could hear the barking cries of a troupe of howler monkeys mocking her.
‘Look, if you are so intent on getting us both killed, I’ll help you. But, right now, I think it best that I hold onto that machete – don’t you?’
41
Friday 20th October:
The sound of an explosion split the morning’s silence.
Then came the cracking protests of sundered wood and sighing sounds of leaf-laden boughs toppling to the ground as another great hole was torn through the canopy.
Enrique looked on in satisfaction. His men had made a good start to the morning’s labours, wrapping cable-like loops of explosive “det cord” around the trunks of trees and then blowing them asunder, dozens at a time, so as to make room for the impromptu airfield they were building. Ramon would be arriving in the next day or two with a shipment of cocaine ready for export and they would need somewhere to fly it from. Siting the airfield so close to the English camp was risky, and they both knew it, nevertheless, they could not conceive of any better options under the circumstances. Though Eduardo had disabled the radio for them ahead of their arrival, it was conceivable that the ensuing silence had been enough to pique someone’s interest, and they wanted to be far away before anyone came looking.
‘Camarada Barrera – we’ve found it…’ Felipe’s face had been pocked and scarred by many an untreated malady, yet he’d chosen to remain cleanly shaved, wearing the marks as a reminder that he’d endured regardless.
‘You’ve found the treasure?’ Enrique turned to face him.
‘Si camarada.’
‘Eduardo talked?’
‘In a manner of speaking… His words are nothing more than the ramblings of a madman, but they gave us some clues where to look. Our patrol then discovered the site about ten minutes from here. And it is a fabulous treasure indeed,’ he said with a broad smile, though it was not ordinarily in his character to display feelings in this way.
Enrique smiled. Things were looking up. ‘And what of Roca?’ he asked, referencing the one remaining hitch in their operation – the soldier who’d been missing since their attack.
Felipe’s shook his head solemnly. ‘No… Though we did find some signs of a possible disturbance.’
Enrique had been expecting the news. It had been almost twenty-four hours since his disappearance and the jungle would not leave a free meal sitting on its table for long. ‘And we’ve checked the camp to see if anyone’s missing?’
Felipe nodded. As ordered, he and his men had checked the tents, looking for clues as to who had occupied them. Roca had been a reliable soldier and it seemed unlikely that he would have walked away or otherwise fallen prey to the jungle. And, if foul play had somehow been involved, it would likely have been conducted by someone who had not been accounted for. Their prisoners would not have had the opportunity. ‘Two… as far as we can tell. One man… a naturalist we think… And a young woman.’
‘It seems unlikely they would have gotten the better of a man like Roca…’ Enrique mused.
‘Would you like us to question the prisoners?’
Enrique shook his head. ‘No – I do not think that will be necessary. They will remain docile enough – as long as they
are well treated. And their two fellows, alone in the jungle, are unlikely to present any threat to us. If indeed, they survive the night… Now take me to the treasure.’
The temple clearing lay ten minutes away, along the vaguest suggestion of a path. It was no wonder it had taken them so long to find it. The trees there had been casually hewn and hauled aside to expose a small area of open ground surrounding a large stone slab and tarpaulin, now pulled to one side, revealing steps that descended past a multitude of skeletal remains.
Felipe led the way, without looking to see if he was being followed, and stopped inside a chamber that had been clothed in stucco-lined walls and decorated with brightly painted pictographs.
Enrique searched the room with his eyes. The pictures on the walls were like nothing he had ever seen, though the skeletal figure lying upon the central plinth was something of a disappointment, the few trinkets adorning its remains falling someway short of the treasure he’d expected.
‘Through there…’
Felipe pointed to a hole in the rear wall of the chamber.
Without needing any further encouragement, Enrique crawled through the hole, and into the beam of a torch and the sonorous crack of breaking pottery.
The light fell away to reveal a guilty-looking Gomez standing next to a broken urn. The clumsy dolt had evidently toppled the thing as he’d blundered around the room.
‘Stay where you are and give me that!’ Enrique ordered, as he accepted the torch from the man’s tremulous grasp.
At first glance, the chamber was much like the one he’d just left. The walls were of white stucco plaster covered in paintings, though more macabre in their nature, and a central plinth supporting the mummified remains of another body that was, this time, more richly adorned with a headdress, necklaces, rings, and other jewellery made from gold and jade. Heart fluttering, he shone the beam around the rest of the room, its radiance discovering hints and flickers of gold everywhere he looked, as well as other more mundane items – pots and urns like the one Gomez had so carelessly murdered.