by John Koloen
“What? Dying?”
“They were attacked by the bugs.”
“What bugs? What kind of bugs?” Santiago said.
“Killer bugs. The forest is filled with them.”
“We have to help them,” the sobber muttered. “They may not be dead.”
The administrator had never heard of such a thing and was skeptical. He had lived his entire life in the village and had never heard of killer bugs.
“It’s what those scientists were looking for.”
“Where are they?”
They described what they’d seen, the incineration of one of the Americans, their friends going down, the Americans climbing to the top of the bluff to escape. Santiago was doubtful as he peppered them with questions, suspecting a plot to steal ATVs. He asked about the other ATVs.
“Don’t you get it?” one of them said angrily. “People are dying.”
Santiago was not impressed after they described the insects.
“Little things like that. What are they, cockroaches? You guys are up to something. And you, young man, stop crying. You’re not fooling me,” Santiago said.
“We have to go back to help them.”
“Not with my machines, not the way you drive them.”
“Don’t you get it old man? Don’t you understand what we’re saying?”
“I understand, but I don’t believe you. Your story is preposterous.”
The one who had been sobbing suddenly grew angry. His red eyes widened, his nose flared and before his companions knew what was going on he launched himself at Santiago, grabbing him by the shoulders and pushing him backward until he collided with one of the heavy posts supporting the roof. The old man slumped to the ground, his back against the post. Before he could do anything else, his companions pulled him away from Santiago.
“What the fuck are you doing?”
“I can’t believe this piece of shit. My friend Alex is still out there and this shit won’t lift a finger.”
“What can we do to help them? We ran away, remember. We were afraid for our lives. There’s nothing we can do. We have to notify the authorities.”
Momentarily stunned, two of the men gently assisted Santiago to his feet. Santiago cast an angry glance at the perpetrator, who quickly apologized for his behavior, draining the emotion from the moment. Santiago nodded appreciatively, returning to his perch behind the counter.
“You want to call the cops?” he asked, rotating on his stool and reaching for the microphone to his radiotelephone. “You talk, I’ll work the dials.”
98
THE YOUNGEST MEN reached the tree line quickly and, with an excess of adrenaline flooding their veins, they immediately started giving themselves high fives and cheering the others as if watching a track meet. They had made it, and for them it seemed like an easy run. The insects didn’t have time to react, so Carl Murphy, Andy Wilson, Antonio Suarez, Cody Boyd and Bob Mitchell, all in their twenties, arrived without a scratch. As the young men raced through them, the scouts started leaping into the air, perhaps surprised by the sudden rush of feet, perhaps a part of their strategy. In any case, when the insects descended, some of them landed on the wave of slower runners. It wasn’t that the older men were far behind the younger men, it was simply bad timing and the effect of gravity. If the insects weren’t in the air, the men might well have gotten through as easily as the young guys.
Thomas and his assistants ran awkwardly as a group. It was clear that none of them were athletes as they rushed across the field, waving their packs in front of them like unwieldy clubs. Beside them, his face set in grim determination, Joe Robinson limped on his painful knees while Jack Walker, who had hesitated at the start, lumbered behind him, now facing an alert and aggressive foe. Somehow, Robinson got past the last row of insects without one of them landing on him, though he was certain he had knocked several out of the air with his fists. It was not the same with Walker, who stumbled before reaching the first row of insects, his face a mask of reddish dust. As he pushed himself to his hands and knees, he could feel them landing on his back, their tiny forelimbs chopping at his shirt and drawing pinpricks of blood. While the initial assault came from the air, it was the insects on the ground that scuttled across his bare legs, forcing themselves under his khaki shorts at one end and others shimmying up his arms and from there leaping to his beard and the back of his neck. He knew he had to get to his feet and somehow move forward but specks of dirt irritated his eyes and clogged his nostrils. He could hear the others shouting but didn’t know what they were saying.
The men screamed as loudly as they could. Get up. Get up. Run. Move forward. Keep your mouth closed. Don’t let them get to your eyes. Run, for God’s sake, run. Some even took steps toward him, but others held them back. Duncan put his arms around Boyd to keep him from bolting.
“There’s nothing you can do for him,” Duncan said.
“We can’t just leave him out there,” Boyd protested.
While Duncan restrained Boyd, the others, with the exception of Gruber, threw sticks and dirt at the bugs, inching closer and closer to narrow the range. Thomas joined Duncan in urging them to stay back, but they weren’t listening, caught up as they were in the moment. Seconds later Thomas and Duncan joined in. They had to do something, even if it was futile. Gruber was the only one who wasn’t participating as he stood by himself, watching from behind. Tall, lanky, reserved, ten years older than the young guys, he didn’t fit in. He saw how pointless their actions were. There was no way they were helping the struggling soundman by throwing sticks. Even those that landed among the insects did no damage. But he understood why they were doing it. They were doing what they could, fruitless as it might be, in an effort to avoid the guilt that would come with having done nothing. Ironically, he’d done something and as a result was consumed by guilt. But if he hadn’t tried, if he hadn’t strapped on the flamethrower and tried to help his colleague, he knew the guilt would be equally inescapable.
It turned out to be his misfortune that he was the only one who had learned to use the flamethrower, albeit he did it only once and then the lesson lasted only several seconds. He’d thought at the time that he would never be called upon to use it and so was content that he’d learned how to turn it on and ignite the flame. He would have needed another lesson to learn how far it could reach and how to properly aim it. That didn’t happen until too late. Shaking his head slowly, staring one hundred feet away at the overweight Walker blindly pushing himself to a stand, his eyes closed by dust particles, his arms outstretched as if reaching for something, Gruber burst through the line formed by his colleagues, stunning everyone. They watched in disbelief as Gruber, propelled by hormones and the notion that he could succeed where he’d failed before, dashed past them, accomplishing more in seconds than all the sticks and stones could accomplish in a lifetime. In an instant, he wrapped his long arms under Walker’s shoulders and with enormous effort lifted and dragged the heavier, shorter man whose shoes barely touched the ground, toward the others who had stopped their meaningless efforts and cheered him on with an enthusiasm that left some of them hoarse. Pushing past them, Gruber continued until he and his cargo collapsed beyond the tree line.
Thomas and Duncan marveled at what Gruber had done. It had happened in a matter of seconds, before they could even form a coherent thought. And now they crowded around Walker, furiously pulling insects off his clothing and body and stomping them into the ground as he laid out on his back like a sack of rice, coughing and rubbing the dust from his eyes.
“You’re safe now, old man,” Joe Robinson said good-naturedly, as Walker raised himself to a sitting position, his upper body bent forward and shaking uncontrollably.
Others had surrounded Gruber, congratulating him, shaking his hand. Thomas and Duncan joined the celebrants, encircling him, their smiles beaming down on him like tiny suns. Their joy was as unrestrained as young men are capable of. For his part, Gruber, sitting in the dirt, sobbed, his emotions ha
ving caught up with him, his hands shaking. Unable to speak, he rolled over onto his hands and knees, cast a glance at Walker who was still coughing, and grinned through his tears. So much had happened to him in the past hour—he’d killed a man and saved one—that when he stood he looked dazed, as if waking from a deep sleep. Others gave him room and as the celebration wound down they discovered that their ordeal wasn’t over.
“They’re coming back!” someone shouted.
99
AS THEY HELPED Walker—who was a complete wreck with dozens of bite marks and tiny, dripping wounds—to his feet, most of them prepared to march into the sparsely wooded forest. They were just waiting for Duncan to give the order. It was because of him that they’d escaped the insects twice. Everyone knew it, though nobody talked about it.
“Shouldn’t we be going?” Bob Mitchell asked. “They’re getting close.”
“What do you want us to do?” Thomas asked.
Duncan didn’t have time to explain everything in the nuanced manner of a professor. He wanted to remind them that they had only seen blaberus scouts and that their job was to locate and cripple prey in such a way that it couldn’t escape. In a short time he’d learned how they scouted as individual groups, how the scout groups converged when victims were located, how they quickly covered huge areas. He’d also learned that they jumped not only for self-preservation but as a means of propulsion, which is what they were trying to do now. Only a slight breeze pushed them back as they gained height. Those scuttling on the ground were making time, relentlessly closing in on the worried men. If only he knew where the colony was. Duncan realized that whatever decision he made could lead all of them to a horrible death. There would be no way they could run through an entire colony and survive. But he didn’t bring any of this up. There wasn’t time. They were waiting for an order. Any order.
“Don’t run,” he commanded. “We’re gonna cut through the trees. Keep together. Single file.”
“Do we know where we’re going?” Someone asked.
“Doesn’t matter as long as we’re outta here,” someone else responded.
100
IT WAS IMPOSSIBLE to keep the group together. There were no discernible trails, so they made their way by avoiding obstacles and following the path of least resistance, stomping through deep grass and marching through forested areas. What maps they had they’d left with the ATVs. Murphy had brought a satellite phone but lost it along with their video and sound equipment. With no cell towers, their smartphones were useless.
The young guys from Broken Tree Productions took the lead and seemed unable to maintain a slow pace, impatient at waiting for the others catch up. They joked about how much slower the old guys were, meaning anyone not walking with them. They eagerly shared observations and remembrances of their recent adventures and especially their narrow escapes.
Behind them were Thomas’s group, who stuck together, followed by Duncan, Boyd and Suarez, with Robinson and Walker shuffling in the rear. All of them easily outdistanced the insects to the point that after a half hour the fear that initially drove them gave way to a false sense of security that their troubles were behind them. Duncan refrained from bursting this bubble of blossoming confidence and let them enjoy what was becoming an amiable hike. It was early afternoon, the sun was high and the morning breeze had faded as they weaved their way into the unknown.
Duncan sent Boyd ahead to get Murphy and his men to take a break anywhere they could find shade. He’d been formulating a plan since they started, conferring with Boyd and Suarez about what to do if they needed to find shelter. He’d also kept an eye on Robinson and Walker and thought they could use the rest. But he was also troubled by how unprepared he was, how for the second time he was running from blaberus with no way to defend himself except keeping them at a distance. He’d grown complacent about the danger, so focused had he become on capturing specimens. When they left the village that morning, the only thing on his mind was installing the traps and reaping the rewards the next day, as if that were a foregone conclusion.
He gained no comfort from putting the insects behind him because he knew that there could be multiple colonies, each of them with their own scouts, somehow sensing prey. How did they do it? Did they simply send scouts out randomly? That didn’t seem like a successful strategy to him. Did they have olfactory capabilities? It was clear that they were well organized when hunting, wasting no time in locating prey and disabling it. But how did they determine where to look? Was it in their DNA?
The young men had found a shaded area formed by a house-sized boulder with bamboo and brush growing out of it. The loamy soil was cool in the shade. There was plenty of room for each to find a soft spot to sit, with their backs against the huge rock. Thomas’s group sat together as did Duncan, Boyd and Suarez. The video guys made sarcastic remarks as Walker and Robinson finally arrived. Robinson snarled but Walker grimaced as he lowered himself. Duncan noticed that he was rubbing his abdomen and pressing his hand against his throat. He seemed to be in pain. Was he injured? Duncan was going to ask but Murphy interrupted his train of thought.
“What’s next, Dr. Duncan? Do you know where we are?”
“No idea.”
Someone asked how far they’d traveled.
“About two miles, according to my pedometer,” Andy Wilson said.
“That’s not very far.”
“What’s next?”
101
“I THINK WE should keep moving until we’re sure they’re not following us,” Murphy said.
They were debating their next move. Duncan didn’t want to participate as he was tired of making decisions. He remembered what it was like in the flood, how uncomfortable it was to have others depending on him to save their lives. It didn’t matter that most of them survived. What haunted him were the ones who didn’t. When Murphy suggested they split up and the others ruminated, Duncan stood and faced the men. Splitting up would increase their vulnerability, he argued. The more of us there are, the better, he told them.
“I want to get back to the village,” Murphy said, “and so far we have no plan on how to do that. Couldn’t we just walk a few more miles that way?” He pointed toward the north. “That’s kinda parallel to where we were, right. Then we could turn that way and head back. I mean, you don’t think the bugs are everywhere, right? Wouldn’t we be able to get around them that way?”
The suggestion made sense to many. Everyone wanted to get back to the village and safety, Duncan included. Murphy made a strong case. They weren’t equipped to spend a night in the forest. They were running out of food and water. They were fatigued. The adrenaline was long gone. They needed to make it easy on themselves. Several looked at the compass apps on their phones.
“It only took an hour or so to get here, right.”
“Something like that,” Mitchell said encouragingly.
“Maybe it takes two-three hours to get back. Then we find the ATVs and we’re safe.”
Duncan couldn’t disagree. There were no signs of blaberus and even though he felt there could be multiple colonies, he had no proof, not even enough to convince himself. Sensing that the others would follow him, Murphy asked the group for a vote. In the absence of a better plan, hands were raised. Some abstained but there were no votes in opposition. Now that they had a plan, Murphy took the lead, rising quickly and brushing himself off as others around him did the same, all but Jack Walker who, as he tried to raise himself, fell to the ground, groaning and slowly pounding his abdomen with his fist.
Joe Robinson, who was sitting next to him savoring his last cigarette, asked uneasily, “Are you OK, Jack?”
“The bastards are inside me,” Walker said, gagging and pounding his ample stomach.
102
WALKER WAS IN a bad way and no one had a clue how to help him. Blood bubbled from the corner of his mouth, which was set in a grimace, his jaw locked, his bright red face shining with sweat. He lay outstretched on the ground with Robinson sitting besid
e him, his back propped against the stony outcrop. Gritting his teeth until it hurt, the middle-aged soundman struggled to stifle his groans, which periodically morphed into screams that unsettled everyone. Few could remain sitting as Walker became the center of attention.
Robinson pulled back reflexively as Walker’s cheeks bulged only to deflate in an eruption of blood that leaked onto his beard and chest. For a moment he seemed relieved, as if a painful boil had been lanced. He spoke hesitantly, as if choking on his words but actually fighting against his body’s gag reflex.
“They’re killing me,” he said, barely above a whisper, his lips pursed and drawn tight, his eyes filled with terror. “Do something. Goddamn, I can feel them.” Walker choked out the words.
Without warning, he screamed again and again. Robinson held Walker’s trembling hand and looked up at the others as if one of them knew what to do. Nearest were Duncan, Boyd, Nolan Thomas and his group. Carl Murphy and Bob Mitchell huddled at a distance, driven away by Walker’s agony.
“They’re in my throat,” Walker stammered, squeezing Robinson’s arm, gagging like a drunk with dry heaves. “Gimme a knife,” he pleaded. “Kill me.” And then he screamed, a routine that repeated itself for what seemed like an eternity.
As unnerving as it was to be near him, Walker’s screams penetrated the sparsely forested surroundings, inciting howler monkeys to form a chorus, creating even more tension, especially among the younger men. Murphy led his group around the huge rock outcrop, which muffled the screams and allowed himself to be heard without raising his voice. Impatient to a fault, and seeing no other way out, he outlined his escape plan.
“So, we’re just going to leave Jack to die?” Mitchell asked.