Richard Zane and Anna Fong hurried through. Next Olin and Manny followed, trailed by Tor-tor. Last, Kelly, Frank, and Kouwe passed.
“C’mon,” Kelly said to Nate.
He nodded, glancing back to the shabano. Waxman oversaw the last of the Rangers, who would guard their rear. Two soldiers were gathered over something in the middle of the yard.
“Let’s move, ladies!” Waxman ordered.
The Rangers stood. One, a corporal named Samad Yamir, gave a thumbs-up sign to Waxman. The corporal seldom spoke, and when he did, his voice was thick with a Pakistani accent. There was only one other fact Nate knew about Yamir. He was the unit’s demolitions expert.
Nate eyed the device left in the yard with suspicion.
Waxman found Nate staring. The captain pointed his rifle toward the opening. “Waiting for a personal invitation, Dr. Rand?”
Nate licked his lips and followed after Frank and Kelly.
Again he found Private Carrera marching behind him. She was now outfitted with a flamethrower, too. She studied the dark forest with narrowed eyes. Beyond her, Waxman and Yamir were the last to leave the shabano.
“Stay close!” Waxman yelled. “Frag or fry anything that moves.”
Carrera spoke at Nate’s shoulder. “We’re going to make for a knoll about five klicks ahead.”
“How do you know it’s there?”
“Topographic map.” Her voice sounded unsure.
Nate glanced over his shoulder questioningly.
Carrera lowered her voice and nodded to the side. “The stream wasn’t on the map.”
Kelly glanced over, looking sick, but she remained silent.
Nate sighed. He was not surprised at the inaccuracy of the map. The waterways through the deep jungle were unpredictable. While the boundaries of lakes and swamps varied according to the rainfall, the smaller rivers and streams were even more changeable. Most remained unnamed and uncharted. But at least the knoll was on the map.
“Keep moving!” Waxman ordered behind them.
As a group, the team fled into the jungle. Nate stared around him, his ears pricked for any suspicious rustle. In the distance, he heard the babble of the small stream. He imagined the Indian villagers racing up the nearby footpath, unaware of the danger lurking so close, oblivious of the death that lay ahead.
Nate tromped after Frank and Kelly. A flicker of flame lit up the jungle ahead as Corporal Okamoto led the way. Few words were shared as the group scaled the gentle slope away from the river. All eyes watched the jungle around them.
After about twenty minutes of climbing, Waxman spoke to the soldier at his side. “Light the candle, Yamir.”
Nate turned. Samad Yamir swung around and faced the way they had come. He shouldered his M-16 and loosened a handheld device.
“Radio transmitter,” Carrera explained.
Yamir raised the device and pressed a button, triggering a red light to blink rapidly.
Nate frowned. “What is—?”
A soft boom sounded. A section of forest blew upward in a ball of fire. Flames shot high into the night sky and mushroomed through the surrounding forest.
Stunned, Nate stumbled back. Shouts of surprise arose from the other civilians. Nate watched the sphere of flames die away, collapsing in on itself, but leaving a good section of the forest burning. Through the hellish red glow, a scorched hole in the forest was evident, every tree stripped of leaf and branch. At least an acre. There was no sign of the shabano. Even the motion-sensor alarms had gone silent, fried by the explosion.
Nate was too dumbstruck to speak—but his eyes, furious, met Waxman’s gaze.
The captain waved them all on. “Keep moving.”
Carrera urged Nate forward. “Fail-safe method. Burning everything behind us.”
“What was that?” Kouwe asked.
“Napalm bomb,” the corporal explained dourly. “New jungle munition.”
“Why weren’t we told…at least warned?” Frank asked loudly, walking half backward.
Captain Waxman answered, marching and waving them on. “It was my call. My order. I wanted no arguments about it. Security is my priority.”
“Which I appreciate, captain,” Richard Zane called back from up ahead. “I, for one, commend your actions. Hopefully you’ve annihilated the venomous bunch.”
“That doesn’t appear to be the case,” Olin said with narrowed eyes. Their Russian teammate pointed to the stream, now visible due to the blaze. A section of the waterway on their side of the fires frothed with the leaping, racing bodies of thousands of small creatures. A roiling stampede climbed up the stream, like salmon spawning.
“Get moving!” Waxman yelled. “We need to reach higher ground!”
The pace of the party accelerated. They scrambled up the slope, less concerned with watching the forest than with speed. The creatures were flanking them off to the right.
Flashes of fire marked the point man ahead. “I’ve got water here!” Okamoto called.
The group converged toward him.
“Dear Lord,” Kelly said.
Fifty yards ahead, another stream cut across their path. It was only ten yards wide, but was dark and still. Beyond it, the land continued to rise toward the knoll, their destination.
“Is this the same stream?” Frank asked.
One of the Rangers, Jorgensen, pushed out of the forest. He had his night-vision glasses in his hand. “I’ve scouted down a ways. It’s an offshoot of the other stream. This one feeds into the other.”
“Fuck,” Waxman swore. “This place is a goddamn water maze.”
“We should cross while we still can,” Kouwe said. “The creatures will surely come this way soon.”
Waxman stared at the slowly flowing water with clear trepidation. He moved beside Okamoto. “I need some light.”
The Ranger fired his flamethrower across the waters. It did little to reveal what lay in the murky depths.
“Sir, I’ll go across first,” Okamoto volunteered. “See if it can be crossed safely.”
“Careful, son.”
“Always, sir.”
Taking a deep breath, Okamoto kissed a crucifix around his neck, then stepped into the water. He waded into it, his weapon held chest high. “Current’s sluggish,” he said softly, “but deep.” Halfway across, the waters had climbed to his waist.
“Hurry up,” Frank mumbled. He had a fist clenched to his belly.
Okamoto climbed to the far side and out of the water. He turned with a grin. “It appears to be safe.”
“For now,” Kouwe said. “We should hurry.”
“Let’s go!” Waxman ordered.
As a group, they splashed through the waters. Frank held Kelly’s hand. Nate helped Anna Fong. “I’m not a good swimmer,” Anna said to no one in particular.
The Rangers followed, guns held above their heads.
On the far side, the party climbed the steep slope. With wet boots and the mud still slick from the rains yesterday, trekking was treacherous. Their progress slowed. The tight group began to stretch apart.
Jorgensen appeared out of the gloom, night scope in hand. “Captain,” he said, “I’ve checked the other stream. The waters seem to have calmed. I don’t see any more of the creatures.”
“They’re out there,” Nate said. “They’re just not in a frenzy any longer.”
“Or maybe now that the fires have died down, they fled back to the main river channel,” Jorgensen offered hopefully.
Waxman frowned. “I don’t think we should count—”
A sharp cry interrupted the captain. Off to the left, a body slid down the slick, muddy slope. It was a Ranger. Eddie Jones. His limbs flailed as he tried to break his fall. “Fuck!” he screamed in frustration. He tried to grasp a bush, but its roots ripped out of the thin soil. Then he hit a bump in the slope, and went cartwheeling, his weapon flying from his fingers, and landed in the stream.
A pair of Rangers—Warczak and Graves—ran to his aid.
He
popped out, coughing water and choking. “Goddamn it!” He clambered to the stream’s edge. “Fuck this jungle!” As he straightened his helmet, more colorful obscenities flowed. He climbed out of the stream.
“Smooth, Jones…very smooth,” Warczak said, running his flashlight up and down the man’s soaked form. “I’d give you a perfect ten in the jungle slalom.”
“Cram it up your ass,” Jones said, bending to finger a rope of sticky algae from his pant leg. “Ugh.”
Corporal Graves was the first to spot it: something moving atop the other man’s pack. “Jones…”
Still half crouched, the man glanced up. “What?”
The creature leaped, latching onto the soft flesh under Jones’s jaw. He jerked. “What the hell!” He tore the creature from his neck, blood spurting. “Ahhhhh…”
The small stream suddenly frothed and burst forth with another dozen of the creatures. They leaped at the man, attacking his legs. Jones fell backward, his face twisted in agony. He hit the stream with a loud splash.
“Jones!” Warczak stepped nearer.
Another of the creatures leaped from the water and plopped in the wet mud at the corporal’s feet, gill flaps vibrating. Warczak scrambled backward, as did Graves.
In the shallow stream, Jones writhed. It was as if he had been thrown in boiling water. His body jerked and spasmed.
“Get back!” Waxman yelled. “Everyone uphill!”
Warczak and Graves were already running. From the stream, more of the creatures leaped and bounded in pursuit.
The group tossed caution aside and scrambled up the slope, some half crawling on hands and knees. Kelly’s legs suddenly went out from under her. Her muddy hand slipped out of her brother’s grip. She began a deadly slide.
“Kelly!” Frank called out.
But Nate was a couple yards behind her. He caught her one-handed by the waist, falling on top of her, holding his shotgun in his other arm. Manny came to their aid, hauling both back to their feet. Tor-tor paced anxiously back and forth behind him.
The Brazilian waved the jaguar ahead. “Move your furry ass.”
By now, the three were the last of the group. Frank waited a few yards up.
Only Private Carrera was still with them. She stood and sprayed a jet of fire behind them, her flamethrower roaring dully. “Let’s pick up the pace,” she said tensely, backing up the slope, herding them upward.
“Thanks,” Kelly said, her eyes swiveling to encompass the entire group.
Frank met them and took his sister in hand. “Don’t do that again.”
“I’m not planning on it.”
Nate kept a watch behind them. He met Carrera’s gaze. He saw the fear in her eyes. This momentary distraction was all it took. One of the creatures sprang at the Ranger from the surrounding underbrush. It had slipped past her firewall.
Carrera fell backward, fire spitting into the sky.
The creature had latched onto her belt, but squirmed for a meatier purchase.
Before anyone else could react, a sharp crack split the night. The creature was flung away, the two halves of its body sailing high. Both Carrera and Nate turned to see Manny snapping his short bullwhip back into ready position.
“Are you just gonna sit there gawking?” Manny asked.
Carrera scrambled up with Nate’s help. The group sped up the hill. At last they reached the summit. Nate hoped putting the rise between them and the amphibious creatures would be enough.
He found the others gathered on top.
“We should keep moving,” Nate said. “Keep as much land between us and them as possible.”
“That’s a good theory,” Kouwe said. “But putting it into practice is another thing altogether.” The shaman pointed down the knoll’s far side.
Nathan stared. From this height, the stream below shone silver in the moonlight. Groaning, he realized it was the same stream they had been avoiding all along. Nate turned in a slow circle, recognizing their predicament. They had made a fatal error.
The small waterway they had crossed a few minutes ago was not a feeder draining into the larger stream, but actually a part of the same stream.
“We’re on an island,” Kelly said with dismay.
Nate stared upstream and saw that the flow of the waterway split and ran around both sides of the knoll. Once past the hill, it joined to become a single stream again. The party indeed stood on an island, in the middle of the deadly stream, water all around.
Nate felt sick. “We’re trapped.”
2:12 A.M.
WEST WING OF THE INSTAR INSTITUTE
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Lauren O’Brien sat at the small table in the communal galley, hunched over a cup of coffee. At this late hour, she had the place to herself. All the other quarantined MEDEA members were either asleep in their makeshift bedrooms or working in the main labs.
Even Marshall had retired to their room with Jessie hours ago. He had an early morning conference call with the CDC, two Cabinet heads, and the director of the CIA. He had eloquently described the meeting as “a preemptive strike before the political shitstorm hits the fan.” Such were the ways of government. Rather than attacking the problem aggressively, everyone was still pointing fingers and running for cover. Marshall’s goal tomorrow was to shake things up. A decisive plan of action was needed. So far, the fifteen outbreak zones were being managed fifteen different ways. It was chaos.
Sighing, Lauren stared at the reams of papers and printouts spread atop her table. Her team was still struggling with one simple question. What was causing the disease?
Testing and research were ongoing in labs across the country—from the CDC in Atlanta all the way to the Salk facility in San Diego. But the Instar Institute had become scientific ground zero for the disease.
Lauren pushed away a report from a Dr. Shelby on utilizing monkey kidney cells as a culture medium. He had failed. Negative response. Up to this point, the contagious agent continued to thwart all means of identification: aerobic and anaerobic cultures, fungal assays, electron microscopy, dot hybridization, polymerase chain reaction. As of today, no progress had been made. Each study ended with similar tags: negative response, zero growth, indeterminate analysis. All fancy ways of saying failure.
Her beeper, resting beside her now-cold cup of coffee, began to buzz and dance across the Formica countertop. She snatched it before it fell off the table.
“Who the heck is paging me at this hour?” she mumbled, glancing at the beeper’s screen. The Caller ID feature listed the number as Large Scale Biological Labs. She didn’t know the facility, but the area code placed it somewhere in northern California. The call was probably just some technician requesting their fax number or submission protocol. Still…
Lauren stood, pocketed her beeper, and headed over to the phone on the wall. As she picked up the receiver, she heard a door open behind her. Over her shoulder, she was surprised to see Jessie standing in her pajamas, rubbing at her eyes blearily.
“Grandma…”
Lauren replaced the receiver and crossed to the child. “Honey, what are you doing up? You should be in bed.”
“I couldn’t find you.”
She knelt before the girl. “What’s wrong? Did you have another scary dream?” The first few nights here, Jessie had awoken with nightmares, triggered by the quarantine and the strange environment. But the child had seemed to adjust rapidly, making friends with several of the other kids.
“My tummy hurts,” she said, her eyes sheening with threatening tears.
“Oh, honey, that’s what you get for eating ice cream so late.” Lauren reached out and pulled the girl into a hug. “Why don’t I get you a glass of water, and we’ll get you tucked back into—”
Lauren’s voice died as she realized how warm the child was. She reached a palm to Jessie’s forehead. “Oh, God,” she mumbled under her breath.
The child was burning up.
2:31 A.M.
AMAZON JUNGLE
Louis stood by his tent as Jacques strode up from theriver. His lieutenant carried something wrapped in a sodden blanket under his arms. Whatever it was, it appeared no larger than a watermelon.
“Doctor,” the Maroon tribesman said stiffly.
“Jacques, what did you discover?” He had sent the man and two others to investigate the explosion that had occurred just after midnight. The noise had woken his own camp mere minutes after they had settled in for the night. Earlier, at sunset, Louis had learned of the discovery of the Indian shabano and the fate of the villagers. Then hours later the explosion…
Amazonia: a novel Page 20