“Whatever,” I say, ignoring his odd-sighted justification. I look back down at the dead pool area. It looks impossible. “This place around the forest . . . it's not anything the same as far as the types of foliage. That's not normal, is it? Nobody ever commented on that?”
And then I considered what Juan had told us about the volcano erupting every 15 or so years. “And another thing, those trees looked older than fifteen-years old. So, if the volcano is always spewing magma all over everyone. Then how does this forest area pop up so quickly? That's not even natural.”
“No,” Ms. Josephine agrees. “Dere are serious problems wit dis place. But you've only seen 'alf of it.”
Ricky points to the other side of the mountain, near a smaller cone that only slightly interrupts the large cone.
“ La Cabeza del Inca ,” Mr. Green says as my eye focuses in on the second forested area. It's obscured from plain view by large boulders and rock formations.
“From the ground you'd never see it,” Ricky offers as he slides me the same image, but with the thermal overlay. “Check this out.”
I see little dots. Small red shapes in a rather curious gathering near the middle of this impossible forest.
I look up, “Wait, this is another hidden forest?”
They all smile.
I look back down, trying to make sense of it. Two forests that defy not only their environments, but also logic and botany and common sense. And I don't know much about any of those.
I suppose that there could be a kind of false environment created by the heat from the volcano and the moisture that is present from the clouds and melting snow. I don't know, fellas, this doesn't make sense to me. I remember a show about Venezuela a few weeks ago that had a similar hidden jungle, way up in the mountains. Had all sorts of freaky spiders and snakes and stuff. And they claimed that no human had ever stepped foot inside.
But then, I'm not smart enough to understand it. “What are we looking at, exactly?” I ask them all.
“These two wooded areas,” Ricky says profoundly, “they really shouldn't exist. And yet, the conditions exist for them to thrive. Everything in the first area, as you know, was devoid of life in that dried-up pond. But . . . ” he says, tapping his pen near the other forest, “this second one is hot.”
I look back down at the satellite images again. I study the dead pool. I slide across the volcano to the hidden forest we haven't searched. The other one that should not exist. And I see all the tiny splotches of red and orange.
I close my eyes, saying, Are these heat signatures big enough to be human?
“Yeah,” Ricky answers. “Hal did the calculations last night.”
And are they small enough to be children?
Ms. Josephine puts her hands on my shoulders, “Yes, Jack.”
I lean back in the uncomfortable hotel chair, squinting my eyes to relieve some of the double vision I'm starting to get from being so damned tired. I feel like I haven't slept in a week.
I sigh, Well, then . . . I have to go and get those kids back.
“ We , Yack. We.”
Juan and I grip hands. I trust this man with my life. And I believe that he'd take a bullet for me. Sure, maybe not in the chest, but definitely in the arm or lower leg.
“Well, you know I'm in,” Mr. Green says, as if it shouldn't even need to be asked.
“Estoy con ustedes,” Mr. Blue chimed in.
“We're together on this one,” Ricky said. “Besides, it may take several of us to get this done.”
Okay, I say to them. But, in the event that these are who we think they are, then you need to listen to my instructions and no matter how crazy it gets, just follow my lead.
Everybody nods in agreement.
When do we go, then? I ask.
“Two hours to prep,” Mr. Green says.
“Four hours to sleep,” Juan adds, his eyes swollen and puffed underneath.
Mr. Green checks his watch, “Everyone be ready to roll at four-thirty.”
“Cool,” Ricky says. “Now let's get to work.”
76
Las Montañas Hotel.
10:11 am . . .
Tonight we're going to the second hidden forest to hunt down the evil that we hope lurks there. That really sounds stupid, I know, but it's our only chance of getting a choke-hold on the 23 Evils. But, let's face it, there's no way of knowing for sure if it's them.
All of this might be the sinful residue of Kristen and her band of wickedness. But it could also just be some diabolic anomaly that is basically comprised of the kind of human evil that Hal is always going on about.
The intrinsic evil in all of us.
The monsters we see in the mirror.
In my mind, when shit starts glowing and bugs start popping . . . it's evil enough to pay attention to. And like Ms. Josephine says quite often, how can I ignore evil, any evil, at this point? Whether I like it or not, I'm here to fix this place. Sure, I messed it up, but that's water under the bridge. That's spilt milk. Well, I don't like to swim, and I'm lactose intolerant.
The missing children, the dead pool, all of it spells trouble.
We discussed the significance of the dog that I found in the middle of the pool. My gut tells me that bloodless puppy dog was the first to be exsanguinated. That shriveled, gnarled little animal was the beginning.
The first victim.
The index case.
The prime link in a daisy-chain of horrible events.
I had the presence of mind to bring Ricky some blood samples. I got one from the cow, a lamb, and the dog at the center of it all. I told them how they were glowing, and how death seemed to radiate outward from that point.
That place, the dead pool in the surreal forest of my passages from life to death to life, I believe it is more central to all this than we understand. I have a theory about this, but I'm keeping it to myself until it's distilled in my mind.
Hal and I and Billtruck have been engaged in a conference call for the last couple of minutes. They're taking turns giving me their theories and related warnings.
Theory : These creatures are experimenting on whatever they can find.
Warning : The animals that were experimented with were tested due to their relative similarities with humans. It's given them a path towards their lust for human blood. A path that climbs slowly up the evolutionary food chain.
Hal treats the creatures responsible for all this as some kind of invading virus, or parasite. The computations he does with his advanced microchips and world-scale data mining assume all the different ways a complex but small organism can prosper in an environment like ours. One that is new and relatively unprotected.
It doesn't, however, ascribe conceptual thinking and mental acuity to the invading species. It can't assume what the Evils will think . And that means Hal's assessment will necessarily lack the human quality.
The randomness.
The plotting and conniving.
The need for vengeance.
Debauchery and psychopathology.
Hal will be able to tell us how a specific invading organism might be able to conquer his environment, under what circumstances and time constraints it might all be possible. But he can't ponder what one, pissed-off, evil soul might do to a group of scared children.
For questions like that we have Ms. Josephine.
Theory : This improbable environment—the false symmetry of the two lush forests on the side of the volcano—is highly unstable and is connected to the whims of the volcano. Ergo . . . when the volcano erupts and all of the peripheral earthquakes radiate outward, the two impossible forests will be covered in super-heated ash and molten lava. No one and nothing will survive.
It will be as if they never existed.
Warning : All seismic indicators—including recent geological surveys, ground tremors, tectonic stress in nearby plates—suggest that an eruption is imminent.
This means we're literally playing with fire. And although we don't know it,
our time is quickly counting down. We save these children soon, or we all get burned in hot ash.
Theory : The invading species may not be contained to a single body. There may be some form of transfer.
Warning : They could seemingly disappear right in front of us . . . for good. Or worse, they might be able to multiply in the right setting.
That's something new that none of us had really considered. If the Evils are here, could they produce offspring? Could they mate and beget progeny that might be evil, too?
“Imagine how that promulgates outward,” Billtruck poses. “Is Evil riding on a dominant or a recessive allele? Does the evil gene express itself in the first generation, or is there some combination of non-expressive, partial evil genes?”
Hal continues, “ . . . imagine it like a male with both X and a Y chromosomes. When he mixes with the double-Xs of the woman, his X chromosome is suppressed almost completely as the female Xs kick out most of his genetic information . . . especially if he has a son. With a daughter there is a better chance that his genetic information will be passed on to her, as she had one X from both parents.”
“Shit,” Billtruck interjects. “I didn't even think it that far through.”
What?
“Well, if we're looking at it from a mating perspective, it's possible that the males genetic information could be hidden for a generation. Like, he has a daughter, and then her son gets his genetic information again due to her two X chromosomes finally passing down the grandfather's information.
“Wow . . . ” Billtruck gasps, “generation skipping evil! We're going to need new machines. We'll need to get some of their blood and do a full genome-phenome work-up. This is fascinating.”
“These are all your concerns”, I say. “You and Hal do all that stuff. I don't really have any idea what the hell you two just went on about. I'm more of a hands on, traditional Evil hunter.”
“This is really interesting stuff, Jack.”
I say, “You know, the more closely we look, the more cumbersome this task becomes. We need to deal with these bastards, now.”
“ . . . is killing them enough?” Hal ponders rather grimly. “There are too many variables in this experiment. Will simply killing these creatures be sufficient to eradicate the problem?”
No , I say. There's more to it than that.
“Do you need any special weapons? Chemicals?” Billtruck asks.
I've got almost everything I'll need. The rest will take care of itself when the time comes.
“That's a rather ambiguous assertion, Jack,” Hal says. “I do not follow your path of reasoning.”
Reason isn't always enough, Hal. Sometimes you have to go with your gut. Faith.
“The belief in things for which there is no tacit evidence and no testable, repeatable proof, that is not a prudent course of action. It is an unsound base to theorize from,” Hal explains to me.
And . . . he's right. Faith alone won't cut it. Hopes and prayers and wishes, and all the faith in the world won't stop the 23 Evils from taking root.
We're going tonight, I say. I'll sort it out, one way or another.
“We'll be watching and listening,” Billtruck says. “Anyway, watch out for small tremors and a possible eruption that might suddenly kill everything in its blast radius. That place is incredibly tense.”
Thanks, Billtruck.
Thanks, Hal.
“Tell the gang we said, Hi.”
I will.
“Hey,” Hal asks, oddly out of character, “have you spoken to your girlfriend since you got to Ecuador?”
She wrote me a letter.
“ . . . oh .”
It's complicated, I say to our computer. She's complicated. I don't know how much I can tell her about all this, so it's a difficult issue. But I like her . . . a lot.
“Try not to die, for real ,” Billtruck says all sing-songy and gleefully.
I'll keep that in mind as I'm ridding the earth of pure Evil.
77
Las Montañas Hotel.
11:01 am . . .
Everyone else is bouncing around, getting bags packed, gear prepped, and praying to their respective gods. I'm so tired I could sleep standing, in hot coals, naked. I took a hot shower and watched as the invisible grime of persistent dismal melancholy washed away. Death mixed with children is disheartening.
Add that the kids are being slowly devoured, drained of their life-force, and it's absolutely unimaginable.
I let the hot water rain down on my back. As soon as I got used to it, I turned it hotter. Then hotter. Then up to the point where it was almost scalding. This is my penance. My self-torture. My own kind of personal torment and crucification.
I need to suffer more.
I have to be held accountable.
My sin was my lust for a woman I knew before I forgot everything that caused all this.
So I let the nearly boiling water rain down on my voodoo marked skin. My tattooed, sometimes dead, sometimes cold skin suit. I'm living long pork, slowly cooking. A walking, talking brisket.
I get out, looking at my face in the mirror. As I shave both my face and my head, I look at the casual transformation into a different person. I'm cleaner, now. I'm me 2.0. Maybe I'm not Todd Steele handsome. But Angela . . . she saw something in me.
This tired face.
My eyes that have seen way more than I'll ever remember.
My relatively symmetrical nose that seems to have only been punched out of place a few times.
A shower and a shave, and I'm new and improved. I'm ready to take your company public. I could argue your case in court. I can get you financing on that house, whether you can afford it or not. I can be anyone.
And as I look at the me in the mirror, I finally get it. I'm average. I'm just a face in a crowd. I'm not the guy that the ladies swoon over. Or the man that the store clerks watch to see if I'm shoplifting. No, I'm just that guy on a bus, or in the supermarket, or walking down the crowded street. The one you don't pay attention to.
The guy we all don't notice . . . just background.
I'm the actor in the back of the scene. Screen filler.
I'm the painting that's next to the really impressive, famous paintings.
I give my face a splash of water, get the rest of the inhumanity off my face, watch it swirl its way around the sink basin. Oh, look at that, the sink and the toilet still flush the same way they do in Texas. Debunked that myth.
I throw on my fatigues, a black pair that Ricky got for me at StartaWar.com, or wherever it is he shops. And then I fell into the surprisingly comfortable bed. As my eyes close and I feel nothing but the rhythmic staccato of the ceiling fan blowing down on me I can think only of her.
Angela, in my mind, she's curled-up in a little ball next to me. She's not talking, or making even the tiniest of noises. She's just quiet and cute and warm and perfect.
And I'm out.
3:59 pm . . .
Juan shakes me awake. “Levantate, Yack. Es la hora!”
Wake-up, Jack. It's time.
Groggily I sit up, coughing a couple times, my throat dry as if I'd been eating rolls of toilet paper in my sleep—that cheap, recycled kind.
“This is it, isn't it, Juan,” I say groggily.
He shrugs, “Ahora o nunca.”
Now or never.
I throw on a brown shirt, a black vest with about 50 different pockets, and I notice Juan pulling one of the small Heckler & Koch , MP-5 Submachine guns out of a black nylon pouch. He carefully slides back the cocking mechanism on the upper-left side of the weapon. He seems satisfied and lets the chamber close with a clean metallic clink!
He fits six long, banana-shaped magazines into his vest, jiggling each one several times to make sure they are secure.
“That's one-hundred and eighty rounds, Juan. Are you sure that's enough?” I ask sarcastically.
He looks at me, his eyebrows pinched in the middle, considering my words, “You're right, Yack.” And then he gr
abs two more magazines and fits them into place.
I was kidding .
He picks up a duffel bag and laughs at me like I just don't get it. Like the magnitude of all of this has somehow escaped me. “Yack . . . we're going to kill chupacabra.”
It might not be a chupa-cabra , I tell him as I gather my bags up.
“Vampire, Dracula, it doesn't matter. It's killing children. This is the first time since I can remember that I'm doing something positive with my skills. I've killed for other people's money. Other people's principles. Now, I will kill for the sake of us . For the people.”
And with that we took one last look at our room, hoping we'll be returning to it tonight or tomorrow. There is a very real chance that we don't all make it back from this. If this is all some elaborate trap, we're walking right into it. If the 23 Evils have engineered all of this to lure us into a pitched battle, or an ambush, they'll have a decisive advantage.
But then I'm reminded of something that Detective Todd Steele always says on his way into a fight. He says, ' The only thing better than ambushing your enemy, is knowing when they're trying to ambush you. ' He theorizes that it makes you almost omnipotent on the battlefield.
Sure, he's a fictional character who lives out a thousand adventures a month, saying all the right things. Of course he knows all kinds of super-ninja fighting stuff that no one human could possibly learn in five lifetimes. But that doesn't mean old detective Steele can't teach us a thing or two.
Knock, knock, knock!
We hear a pounding at the door followed by Mr. Greens' gruff voice, “Let's roll, gents. Vamos!”
As we leave I wrap my knuckles against the black wooden threshold a couple of times, just for good luck. When we get into the hallway, Juan says, “I thought you didn't believe in suerte?”
I don't, I tell him. But it can't hurt.
78
Cotopaxi Mountain.
5:48 pm . . .
Cutting our own swath through the rocks and tall grass, we're making our surreptitious path towards the second hidden forest. We've been discussing how to engage whoever we find, if we find anyone at all.
“Wound them? Kill them?” Mr. Green queries. “Just let us know the rules of engagement.”
See Jack Hunt (See Jack Die) Page 30