Insects 2: The Hunted

by John Koloen

  Although it had been his idea to hide under the boxes, Boyd thought better of it when it became apparent that most of the crates were unusable and only the equipment boxes offered protection. Without a word, he bolted to the nearest açai and climbed it like a frightened cat. The thin trunk swayed under his weight as he clutched the lower part of the tree’s crown, twenty-feet from the ground. Afraid that moving would cause him to lose his grip, he stared down at the others as they ran out of time and the bugs filled the air with the hair-raising whirring of their wings.

  Boyd and Suarez, no more than thirty feet apart, battling fatigue and sleepiness, watched and listened in silence as beneath them hostages and hostage takers alike fought for their lives against waves of advancing insects. For what seemed like hours, they were tortured by the excruciating screams radiating throughout the camp and beyond it. Boyd felt relieved when the noisy generator finally died and the camp was engulfed in total darkness. Although the screams now seemed louder and more tortured, he could no longer see the squirming bodies on the ground. He wanted to cover his ears but there was no way he would let go of the tree and the hope that the bugs weren’t climbers.

  113

  SEVERAL HOURS BEFORE sunrise the screams had mostly stopped, replaced by low, painful moans and the rainforest’s normal ensemble of insects and monkeys. As daylight slowly returned, Boyd and Suarez, who prayed through the night, studied the ground intently, looking for insects. Boyd feared that the bugs would remain for days as they consumed their victims and that he would eventually fall out of the tree from lack of sleep. Several fidgeting bodies lay scattered about, but none of them were covered with feasting insects. He wondered how many of his companions had survived and whether Duncan had made it through the night. At the same time he feared the answer. Focusing on what he would do next, he slowly descended from his perch, until about half-way down his fatigued hands lost their grip and he slid the remaining distance to the ground where he nearly fell on one of the captors, whose empty, bloody eye sockets stared at him.

  Suarez followed quickly as both of them stood on a bench and surveyed the campsite.

  “They’re gone,” Boyd said quietly. “They just killed these guys and moved on. What the fuck is that about?”

  Rather than try to make sense of the insects’ behavior, he anxiously approached the boxes and crates where the others had taken refuge. In the back of his mind was the fear that thousands of the bugs were hiding under the containers waiting to launch themselves at him. Almost as bad was the prospect that he would find nothing but bodies under the boxes. He was exhausted and fear was a ferocious opponent.

  “You can come out now,” he stammered.

  114

  DUNCAN WAS THE first to emerge from his stronghold, a rectangular wooden box that originally held tools. It was sturdy and built of heavy plywood. He was grateful that it didn’t have a knot hole.

  “My God,” Duncan said as he pushed himself to his feet. “You’re alive.”

  “So are you,” Boyd said, embracing his boss.

  Boyd explained that he and Suarez had spent the night in trees. As they talked, others began to emerge from their fortresses. Robinson, Gruber and Thomas’ assistant all emerged, tired, hungry and ecstatic about surviving the night.

  “Where’s Dr. Thomas?” Gruber asked, after getting his bearings.

  “I don’t know,” the assistant said. “Did he run?”

  “Dr. Thomas, you can get out now. The insects are gone,” Gruber said loudly.

  A low groaning came from a longish, narrow crate. Afraid of what they would find, they gently lifted it, revealing Thomas’s ravaged body.

  “God,” Gruber cried, turning away to vomit.

  It was fortunate Thomas couldn’t see the men as they leaned over his bloody body, trying to determine the extent of his injuries. His face was an oozing mess. Strands of flesh dangled from his cheeks, and his mouth looked like a macabre Halloween mask where the insects had chopped away enough flesh to reveal portions of his teeth, which were clenched tightly. The fear was that the bugs didn’t stop there and that, like Walker, Thomas was undergoing a slow, excruciating death.

  At the same time, Duncan took Boyd aside.

  “Cody, we can’t stay here. I’m surprised the colony isn’t here yet. But that’s our good fortune. Let’s not waste it. See about gathering supplies, water, food, whatever. Make it quick.”

  Thomas wasn’t the only one suffering. Some of the hostage-takers were enduring their own agonizing deaths. Of the kidnappers, only four remained in the camp, the others having fled into the forest like Murphy and his crew. Suarez separated himself from the group gathered around Thomas and, having picked up a machete, approached each of the victims. All clutched at their abdomens as if they’d been slammed with a wrecking ball, their legs folded in a fetal position. Two of them had been blinded, what remained of their shorts saturated in blood, their bodies covered with lacerations. There was little evidence that the insects had done any feeding. The scouts had brought down their quarry and it was up to the colony to digest them.

  Standing over the leader, whose one eye stared at him in a fixed gaze, Suarez peered down at him sympathetically, backing away as the man reached toward him with a bloody arm.

  “Me mate,” he whispered hoarsely. “Me mate, por favor.”

  Suarez shook his head as Boyd joined him.

  “What’s he saying?”

  “He wants me to kill him.”

  The young American spat.

  “Doesn’t matter to me what you do,” Boyd said bitterly. “This is the one who killed Walker, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “Let him suffer.”

  “I can’t,” Suarez said.

  “Can’t what?”

  “I can’t kill him.”

  “Why not?”

  “I feel guilty about what I did to your friend in the flood. I thought I was doing the right thing, but then I was arrested and I’ve had time to think about it.”

  “Nobody’s gonna care.”

  “Someone will talk about it,” Suarez said solemnly. “That’s how I got into trouble. Besides, I broke God’s law. God is the judge, not me.”

  Boyd shrugged and asked Suarez to help him scavenge supplies. The campsite was a mess. Benches were overturned and out of place. The stove and pots were scattered on the ground along with tools and utensils.

  “What are we looking for?” Suarez asked as he slowly moved away from the groaning leader.

  “Water, food, weapons.”

  “You think the others will come back?”

  “Don’t know, but we need to get out of here ASAP.”

  “ASAP?” Suarez said.

  “Right away. The main colony has to be close by. Grab what you can. We need to get outta here pronto.”

  Boyd took the kidnapper’s shotgun, which was loaded, and he and Suarez grabbed several machetes, water bottles and a few snack bars that the thieves had taken from them. While they did this, the others built a stretcher using a plastic tarp and several boards, two long ones around which they wrapped the tarp and a pair of shorter boards that they wedged between the two long boards so that the stretcher would maintain its shape while carrying Thomas.

  While idly watching the men assemble the stretcher, Duncan thought he saw something move under a nearby crate. It was a rough-hewn wood case with large gaps between slats. Moving closer, bending over for a better look, he was startled to see several blaberus feasting on what remained of a small lizard. With a sudden rush of anticipation, he slowly backed away, afraid that his movement would cause the bugs to scatter. Excited by this opportunity to achieve his goal of capturing specimens, he moved about the wreckage hunting for a container to hold them.

  “Cody, Cody,” he whispered breathlessly, “have you seen any canisters?”

  “What?”

  Duncan put his hand on Boyd’s shoulder and took a deep breath.

  “There are live blaberus under that crate,” he
said, pointing. “I need something to hold ’em.”

  Boyd gave him an incredulous look.

  “Shouldn’t we be getting out of here?”

  “Of course, of course, and we will. But this might be my only chance to get specimens and I’m not gonna let it go. Just tell me, have you seen anything I can use?”

  Boyd puffed out his cheeks with air and slowly exhaled.

  “I saw some glass jars over there, by the stove.”

  Duncan stepped quickly to the overturned stove.

  “I don’t see them,” he said, scanning the ground madly.

  “To your right, by that sack of beans.”

  Rummaging through several jars, some of them broken, he lifted a one-liter bottle with a wide mouth. Inside was a dark red powder. The cover was intact but rusting and removing it took all his strength. Elated when it came off, he sniffed the powder and dumped it on the ground. Using his sweaty bandana, he removed the remaining powder that coated the interior.

  “Do you have any water to rinse this out?” he asked Boyd.

  “How much you need?”

  “Just a half-cup. You can take it out of my share. It smells like, ah, what is that, ah, not chili powder but hotter, ah, like cayenne pepper.”

  Boyd shook his head but poured a small amount of water into the jar, which Duncan swished around and poured out.

  Like a man possessed, he stepped quickly to the crate, relieved to see that the insects were still inside. He knew that he had one shot to capture as many of the creatures as he could and that they would not be cooperative and would likely immediately attack his bare hands. But there weren’t any gloves and even if there were he felt rushed and couldn’t afford any delay.

  “Cody, Cody, come here.”

  Boyd, whose focus was on gathering supplies and getting away from the campsite, dutifully approached his boss, holding a heavily laden day pack.

  “Help me, OK. It’ll only take a minute. I’m gonna lift the box and we need to grab as many of these guys as we can and dump ’em into the jar.”

  Sighing, Boyd knew it was pointless to resist. That would only cause further delay. Positioning themselves on either side of the box, Duncan reached under one side and deftly raised it so that it came to a rest on its opposite side. The insects did not react until both of the scientists had each grabbed two of the insects and without injury dropped them into the jar. All four of them immediately scratched at the glass sides but gained no purchase. As Duncan screwed the top on, the remaining insects scuttled into nearby debris. Duncan stood up triumphantly, holding the jar eye high, smiling with admiration.

  “We did it, Cody! We did it.”

  Boyd smiled faintly.

  The men who had assembled the stretcher, watched Duncan with growing impatience. Thomas lay on the blue tarp, issuing muffled moans. They’d done what they could to clean him up but other than patting his mouth with a wet bandana, there was little they could do to relieve his discomfort.

  “We need to get going,” Robinson said heatedly. “We’ve been ready to go for five minutes.”

  “You guys go ahead, I’ll catch up. Antonio, Cody, you go too. I just need to find something to carry this jar with.”

  115

  WITH GRUBER AND Thomas’s assistant carrying the stretcher, Robinson, Boyd and Suarez made their way from the campsite in the general direction from which they thought they had come. They could not be certain they were retracing their steps since the last mile or two had occurred at night. Meanwhile, Duncan hurriedly scavenged the campsite for a pack to carry the specimen jar, which he’d set on a small wood table used by the camp cook. Having pulled a khaki green daypack from the debris near where the gang’s leader lay groaning, he was adjusting the straps when he felt something grab his ankle. Instinctively, he tried to pull his foot free.

  “Agua,” the dying man stammered hoarsely. “Agua, por favor.”

  Duncan looked down at the disfigured face, one eye replaced by a bloody crater.

  “You want water, is that it,” Duncan said softly, as if talking to himself.

  Duncan nodded sympathetically at the dying bandit, no longer a threat, and in a single muscular tug, yanked his foot free. Another man lay groaning nearby but he ignored him as he searched for and found several bottles of water. Two of them he stuffed into his pockets and the third he brought to the suffering leader. Keeping his feet beyond the man’s reach, he leaned over and brought the bottle to the man’s lips and held it securely so that the he could take several sips. He then placed the bottle in the man’s hand.

  “Me mate,” the man groaned. “Me mate, por favor,” he said, letting go of the bottle.

  The man repeated his request multiple times, his voice cracking, blood dripping down his chin.

  “Eles estão me matando.”

  Duncan wished Suarez was there to translate, but he understood that the man wanted to die. Yesterday, when he posed a threat, Duncan thought he would have granted his request but he no longer felt anger toward him. The man was paying the price for his crimes. Duncan assumed insects were mutilating his esophagus and that it was only a matter of time before he would be dead. Until that happened, he would experience excruciating pain. With one eye ravaged and his cheeks deeply pitted with wounds, he didn’t look human.

  “Goddamn, you’re a mess,” Duncan whispered, “but I gotta get going.”

  As he moved toward the specimen jar, Duncan wondered why he spoke to a man who couldn’t understand what he was saying. As he carefully grasped the jar he realized he’d neglected to punch air holes in the lid. It took a minute, but he found a screw driver and began the delicate task of poking holes without breaking the lid or the jar. or injuring the specimens. It took longer than he’d expected and he worried that if he didn’t leave soon he might not find the others.

  Satisfied that the insects would have plenty of air, he wrapped the jar in a dirty towel that he pulled from the camp’s wreckage and used it to line the interior of the backpack, which he carried on his shoulder. The man screamed as Duncan stepped around his former captor, his hands pounding his abdomen, just as Walker had done.

  “Me mate,” he screamed several times.

  Duncan wasn’t sure why he stopped. The scream was primal and raised the hairs on the back of his neck. He knew the man wanted to die and there were several machetes laying about in the dirt. The man reached out with his arm in a sweeping motion, but Duncan was out of reach. Though he’d never killed a man, he picked up one of the machetes by its worn wood handle and inched toward the leader. He wondered how many people the man had killed during his lifetime. Duncan knew of at least one.

  Whether he did it in retaliation for his brutal killing of Walker or to relieve the man’s suffering, Duncan surprised himself as he raised the blade and plunged it into the leader’s chest. Blood sprayed into the air, some of it getting on Duncan’s shirt and shorts as he backed away in surprise.

  Acutely aware that the insect colony could be nearby, he left the camp at a rapid pace hoping to make up for lost time, afraid that he wouldn’t be able to find his colleagues.

  116

  AS IT TURNED out, they followed their own footsteps back to the large rocky outcrop where they’d camped and where Walker had been killed. It had taken them less than two hours to reach the place, where they stopped to rest. It was impossible to ignore Walker’s blackening, stinking body. The landscape was flat, with low-growing fields of sparse grasses and brush. For as far as they could see, the sun drenched the ground, interrupted only by the shade of scattered açaí palms.

  They knew by the position of the sun that it was mid-morning and that they would be able to retrace their steps back to the village if blaberus didn’t get in their way. For the first time in several days they felt safe. They were grateful that Boyd had gathered a plentiful supply of water bottles, and wished there were more snack bars to go around but stopping as they did, sitting on the dry, dusty earth, they slowly realized how exhausted they were, having
gotten little if any sleep the past two days. Robinson nodded off, unable to resist his weariness.

  While Gruber and his colleague joked about the fabulous meals they would eat when they returned to civilization, Boyd climbed the rock to look for Duncan. He’d thought his boss would have caught up with them shortly after they left and he was worried that something had happened to him. He was relieved when he saw him walking briskly down the trail. Boyd waved his arms and shouted. Duncan waved back and broke into a jog.

  They hugged when they met.

  “Is that blood?” Boyd said.

  “Blood? Where?”

  “On your shirt.”

  Looking down at his wet, unbuttoned shirt, Duncan shrugged, carefully set his backpack aside and sat next to the now snoring Robinson.

  “He’s got the right idea,” Boyd said as he and Suarez sat next to Duncan. “I’m so tired.”

  “I hear that,” Gruber said. Boyd reached over Duncan so he and Gruber could give each other a high five.

  Starting with Boyd, an infectious yawn flowed through the group. It would be so easy to fall asleep, he thought.

  “You know, boss,” he said sleepily, “if I close my eyes I’ll be out like a light.”

  Duncan wanted to sleep, too. Sitting on the soft earth, his back against the cool rock, he struggled to stay awake. He knew that they weren’t out of danger. Blaberus could be anywhere, but exhaustion was slowly overcoming his fear. Perhaps a cat nap wouldn’t be a bad idea. Just long enough to restore the energy that he’d lost. Then, if they encountered trouble, they’d have the strength to escape. Slowly, his mind surrendered to drowsiness. What he wouldn’t give for a hot shower and a bed. But there was something wrong. Someone was shouting. Instantly, he sat up.