by John Koloen
The old man barked at Suarez when he asked to use the jumper cables.
“Why are you yelling at me?” Suarez said in Portuguese, startled.
“You haven’t paid me for the ATVs.”
“Well, since they wouldn’t start, I thought if I started them you’d let us use them.”
“That was before you started them. Now they start. It’s a different situation.”
Suarez conferred with Boyd.
“How much?”
“Five hundred reals.”
“That’s what you charged us yesterday, and I didn’t have to work on them.”
“Five hundred for both,” Santiago said. “Someone else, I rent them for five hundred reals each.”
Disheartened by what he felt was unfair treatment, Suarez turned to Boyd, shaking his head.
“I don’t know why he’s treating us this way,” Suarez said.
“Maybe he’s still angry at us.”
Suarez exhaled heavily. As if defending himself, he told Boyd how he managed to start the motors. Boyd was sympathetic but feared losing the vehicles, which in his mind would be the worst thing that could happen.
“He’s cheating us,” Suarez whispered angrily, “and he knows it.”
“Tell him we’ll get the money,” Boyd said. “I’ll go back and get it. You stay here, make sure he doesn’t rent them to someone else.”
While Suarez talked to the old man, Boyd ran to the campsite, bursting into the tent he shared with Duncan and Suarez. Duncan was upbeat, sipping his second cup of coffee.
“How much is five hundred reals?” Duncan asked as Boyd.
“Something like a hundred twenty-five dollars.”
“That’s not bad, is it, for both ATVs? I don’t suppose he takes credit cards.”
Boyd laughed, as Duncan inspected his wallet.
“I got maybe a hundred dollars, not reals.”
“I’m sure he’ll take dollars. They’re good anywhere.”
“What about you?” Duncan asked. “You got any money?”
“About what you got,” Boyd said, holding his hand out for Duncan’s dollars.
“It’s all I got left, in cash. You know, we should get them to pay for it,” Duncan said, nodding in the direction of Murphy’s tent.
“No time,” Boyd said, and hurriedly left the tent.
86
WHILE SUAREZ WAITED impatiently for Boyd to return with the cash, Gruber and one of his assistants arrived to claim their ATVs, followed by media who claimed the remaining machines. Suarez felt helpless as he watched the machines drive away, taking their batteries with them.
“Boy, it looks like everyone’s in a hurry,” Boyd said, as he arrived at the administration building, handing the currency to him. Santiago took the money and nodded toward the remaining ATVs.
“They’re yours,” he said, without asking for a deposit.
Neither of the ATVs would turn over, which is what Suarez expected. Since both had manual transmissions, he was confident they could push start them, but they needed at least one more person to do the job. While Boyd ran to Mitchell’s tent, Suarez checked the fuel tanks. They were almost empty. Santiago pointed to a 55-gallon drum with a hand-operated pump near where the ATVs were parked. It stood among a dozen similar barrels. Santiago’s price was double the price of gas in Manaus, but Suarez was in no position to bargain. When Boyd returned with Mitchell and Joe Robinson in tow, Suarez delivered what he thought would be unhappy news, but the Americans paid without complaint.
“The last thing we want to do is run out of gas,” Boyd said. “By the way, we’re gonna need a cart or something to haul everything.”
While Suarez and Robinson fueled the ATVs, Mitchell and Boyd scanned the junkyard behind the administration building. As they scavenged, they saw that Nolan Thomas and his crew were headed into the forest, each of their vehicles towing a small cart, followed closely by the remaining ATVs carrying media.
“Hey,” Boyd said, pointing at Thomas’s vehicles, “there goes our cart. Why the fuck would they do that?”
“Murph told me yesterday that they were gonna set traps. Looks like they needed extra room,” Mitchell said. “It didn’t occur to me that they’d be using ours. That sucks.”
“Sucks isn’t the word,” Boyd lamented. “You know, Mitch, these things hold two people each and there’s three of us and two of you. And we’ve got a bunch of traps to carry.”
“I thought you were working for us,” Mitchell said pointedly.
“I am,” Boyd said, backtracking.
Mitchell gave Boyd a critical look.
“OK, I’m working for both of you,” Boyd said.
“Look at your contract,” Mitchell said censoriously. “You’re supposed to work for us exclusively.”
“OK, OK,” Boyd said. “I don’t wanna argue. We got work to do or you’re not gonna get any video and we’re not gonna get our traps out. And you don’t wanna piss Howard off. Look at him. He’s practically jogging. He’s in a hurry.”
“What’s the hold up?” Duncan demanded as he approached Boyd and Mitchell. “Thomas is already gone.”
“We’re looking for a cart,” Boyd said.
“Dr. Thomas took the one we used yesterday,” Mitchell said.
“That’s not good. What are we gonna do?”
“We’re lookin’,” Boyd said, agitated.
“We’re already late.”
“I understand that,” Boyd said, barely able to conceal his frustration.
“How we gonna carry the traps?”
“I don’t know, Howard,” Boyd sneered. “On our heads?”
“Don’t get pissed at me. You’re the one who said we had ATVs. I see them over there with Antonio, but I don’t see a cart.”
“Sorry. I’m just frustrated. Seems like everything we do is a big hassle,” Boyd said.
“It hasn’t been easy, but let’s focus on the problem. If we got no cart, what’s Plan B?”
87
THOMAS UNFOLDED THE map on the hood of his ATV while his assistants huddled around him. Each was expected to install a half-dozen traps at precisely marked locations. None understood nor asked how he determined the locations. They speculated that his primary criterion was how difficult each location would be to reach or some kind of voodoo. Each carried his supply of traps in a canvas bag along with a trowel, water and snack bars in his day pack. Rather than working in pairs, each moved separately toward different quadrants.
Gruber thought he’d uncovered a pattern when the first two traps he set were near where the oldest carcasses were found. As he understood it, the insects had been through the area multiple times, easily determined by the scattered remains. But it was apparent that they too foraged in a somewhat predictable way insofar as their victims were laid out in relatively narrow swaths, as if avoiding areas they had recently covered. Gruber didn’t think it mattered, as he placed the third trap near one of the recent kills. He assumed the others were experiencing the same thing.
What bothered him the most was how difficult it was to step through the forest floor, which was covered with vines and roots that made it difficult to dig even the smallish holes required by the pitfall traps. Not equipped with a hatchet, he struggled to clear enough vines to more than scratch the surface with the trowel. Even then, under the vines, he found roots, which formed a nearly impenetrable subterranean web. Gruber wondered if Thomas would check their work as he battled mosquitoes and wiped sweat off his forehead. Worse for him was the presence of the young videographer flitting about like a butterfly, contorting his body in search of unusual camera angles, he and the soundman capturing Gruber’s frustration as the simple act of digging a small hole proved almost too much for him.
At the same time, he worried about unwittingly stepping into a swarm of insects, which slowed him down even more. With each step he paused to stare at the ground around him, peering into the vines and debris to where, presumably, blaberus would travel.
Using
their wireless radios, the assistants checked in with Thomas, who sat on a camp chair alongside Murphy on the hill. Behind them the half dozen, mostly Brazilian, media went in various directions, puzzled by what Thomas’s group was doing. They knew he was looking for killer insects but didn’t know how he was going to do it and had no idea what would happen if he found them. Murphy did his best to keep them away from Thomas, who was understood only by two Manaus reporters who spoke English. One of them had acted as translator during his impromptu press conference.
Thomas’s radio crackled with static, making it difficult to carry on a conversation. Were it not for the uneven terrain, the dense growth, the towering trees, the steep embankments and bluffs to absorb and deaden the sound, they might have communicated simply by shouting. But as it was, sound didn’t carry far.
Gruber was the first to finish and, along with the film crew, moved to the edge of the valley where the footing was easier and made his way back to Thomas’s location. Thomas looked at his watch.
“Three hours. What took you so long?”
“I needed a chainsaw to cut through the vines. They’re everywhere, not to mention roots. I’ve never seen anything like it. What about the others?”
“You’re the first.”
Gruber smiled, moved down the narrow path to the ATVs and sat in the front seat, munching on a snack bar and washing it down with bottled water. Whether his boss cared or noticed, being first was important to Gruber. He was the senior assistant and as such felt a need to be ahead of the others, if for no other reason than to retain their respect. That’s the way he felt, even though it was unlikely they would ever disrespect him in such a way that he would find out. Just as Thomas controlled an important part of his future, he likewise had partial control over theirs. More than anything else, it was something he had to prove to himself—that he was faster, better than everyone else.
The second assistant finished a half hour later followed shortly by the third, all of whom checked in with Thomas before joining Gruber relaxing in the ATV. When Covelli hadn’t returned, they listened as Thomas spoke loudly into his radio, almost shouting as his voice seemed to be swallowed by the static. There was something urgent about Thomas’s voice, Gruber and the two assistants thought as they exchanged concerned glances. Murphy used his compact binoculars to scan the area where Covelli was supposed to be. Thomas spoke into his radio again. No response, just static.
Wordlessly, Murphy, soundman Jack Walker and videographer Andy Wilson grabbed their equipment and started to make their way in the direction of where they thought Covelli would be. Unlike Covelli, who was supposed to be trudging through the vine-covered central part of the valley, the trio struck out for where the valley met the bluff, which was much easier to travel. Several hundred yards out they saw someone running toward them, tripping and nearly losing his balance several times. While Wilson watched through his LCD screen, the man nearly ran into Murphy. He recognized him as the translator from the press conference. He struggled to catch his breath.
“You must come,” he said desperately, pulling on Murphy’s sleeve. “It is terrible what is happening. He needs help.”
88
HOWARD DUNCAN FRETTED as the morning wore on. He and his group had two ATVs but no way to haul the bottle traps nor the video and sound gear without leaving people behind. As it was, three men would have to crowd each other on one of the ATVs. Duncan could not afford to leave Antonio Suarez or Cody Boyd behind while Bob Mitchell and Joe Robinson were adamant about using the second ATV even though Duncan and Boyd had paid the fee from their own pockets. Mitchell claimed his company would reimburse them, but Duncan knew from experience that reimbursement required receipts and the old man didn’t provide receipts.
While they waited with the ATVs at their campsite, perpetuating the deception that the two scientists were employees of Broken Tree Productions, Suarez was somewhere in the village looking for a solution. He told them that he’d seen several small wagons when he scored the bottles and was hopeful he could rent them from their owners. The wagons were used to haul items from the villagers’ boats to their houses. They were little more than common children’s wagons with oversized wheels and, under any other circumstance, would never have been considered as a solution to their problem. But there was nothing else available and they were desperate to get their traps out. Mitchell gave Suarez a wad of reals to pay for the wagons, which the villagers at first declined until Suarez warned them that they could suffer damage given the rough ride ahead of them. He told them the money was coming from Americans, after which they gladly accepted amounts several times greater than the wagons were worth.
When Suarez came into view, trailing a pair of wagons with crudely assembled high sides, Duncan and the others thought their worries were over and that they’d be on their way in a matter of minutes. Just as obtaining the ATVs had turned into a grueling process, figuring out how to attach and then pull the small wagons behind the hulking ATVs without capsizing them was a clockburner. Using rope, they realized that binding the handle to the ATV’s attachment point would make it difficult to execute turns, while connecting it loosely so that the handle moved freely could result in the handle jabbing into the ground. No matter what they did, they would be moving very slowly. But everyone was in a hurry and, with one wagon piled with bottle traps, Mitchell and Robinson decided to leave the second one behind as neither would trust their equipment to it. Mitchell brought the minimum of sound equipment while Robinson left his heavy tripod behind. Sitting in the passenger seat, Robinson held both his camera case and Mitchell’s sound gear on his lap, hoping for the best.
As they inched their way out of the village and into the forest, Duncan wondered whether there was a better, faster way to get to their destination. His frustration was getting the better of him and he felt helpless to do anything about it.
“Can we go a little faster?” he said.
“We go faster, and we lose the wagon. C’mon, Howard, we’re doing the best we can,” Mitchell said.
“I know, I know,” Duncan said apologetically.
It didn’t help that Mitchell was also frustrated by the pace and inhaling exhaust fumes and pulled ahead of Boyd’s ATV.
“We’re gonna move ahead of you and get some clips of you guys driving,” Mitchell said, speeding down the trail, and disappearing around a bend until Boyd could no longer hear their occasionally sputtering motor.
“I wish they wouldn’t do that,” Duncan said.
“That’s their job,” Boyd said. “At least we’re moving.”
“We could walk faster.”
Boyd ignored his boss’ complaint and focused on keeping the precarious wagon from tipping over.
“You know, if there were two of us, we’d be able to carry the traps in a big bag or something,” Duncan said. “We wouldn’t need a wagon.”
“I think we all were hoping for a regular ATV cart,” Boyd said, “We’re doing the best we can with what we’ve got to work with.”
As Duncan and Boyd talked, Suarez felt vaguely hurt. Despite the noisy engine, he could hear most of what they said. He understood perfectly well that the wagons were not a great solution to their problem when he paid for them, but it was either the wagons or nothing. Listening to their back-and-forth banter, he felt that he’d made the wrong decision. Perhaps he was being overly sensitive, but their implied criticism left a bitter taste. He resisted the urge to jump off the ATV, but began to doubt his other decisions, particularly in getting the ATVs to start. The engines weren’t in great shape. He wasn’t certain how long the batteries would hold a charge. Their exhausts were smoky; he cringed at every misfire. He watched the wagon roll back and forth with every bump in the trail like a dugout in a storm.
Finally arriving at their destination, which they hadn’t realized at the time was not far south of the valley where Nolan Thomas’s assistants were placing pitfall traps, they dismounted stiffly while Robinson and Mitchell recorded. Duncan’s legs were sti
ff and he was grouchy, which brought a smile to Mitchell’s face. It was good to see emotion.
All along, since coming up with the idea for bottle traps, they’d planned on having Suarez supply them with bait, though they’d neglected to tell him.
“You should have told me in the village,” Suarez said, irritated. Duncan and Boyd were surprised by the young man’s tone. It was something they’d never heard before.
“What’s the problem?” Duncan asked.
“I could’ve borrowed a bow or a blowgun. How am I going to catch bait with a machete? You should have told me.”
“I’m sorry,” Duncan said, unaware that Suarez had been nursing bitterness throughout the ride. “You’re right. I’m sorry.”
“I think we thought you’re a miracle worker the way you got the ATVs and the bottles and stuff,” Boyd said.
“You shouldn’t think that. Only God works miracles,” Suarez said, softening.
“So, what are you gonna do?” Mitchell asked after he and Robinson stopped recording.
“Find some bait,” Boyd said, pointing toward the area where they planned to set their traps. “There must be at least one dead animal out there somewhere.”
“Too bad we didn’t bring a dog,” Robinson said.
89
FOR THE FIRST time, Suarez felt unhappy with how Duncan was treating him. Sending him out to find bait for the traps with only his bare hands and a machete seemed unreasonable. However, he was not at the point of saying it couldn’t be done, nor of disagreeing with him. Duncan had done many good things for him and was paying him well. It was just that the latest task seemed futile from the start. It was possible that he might stumble upon the remnants of a predator’s kill, however unlikely. But short of that, what could he do, he thought, as he scanned the trees for monkeys, all of which were too high up and too wary to become targets. But as he entered the area where Duncan planned to set his traps, Suarez could not help but notice the smell of decaying flesh. As he moved slowly over the vine and root infested forest floor, the odor grew pronounced, as if a large, decaying animal were nearby, but the odor turned out to be from the bodies of several rats and squirrels. The more he looked, the more he saw the carcasses of other small mammals. It didn’t take long for him to realize he stood in the midst of a killing field.