It's not their fault, I say.
They all look at me like I just smoked a crack rock and got caught trying to pawn the television. And I can't explain what I mean. How I'm pretty much responsible for all of this. It's better for everyone if we're hunting for something as grounded and believable as a giant vampire bat or chupacabras.
Mr. Green nods, “Hombros y rodillas solamente, amigos.”
Shoulders and knees only, friends.
Juan and Mr. Blue nod. I wonder if this is just another job for Mr. Green and the rest of them. Are guys like them immune to emotion? When was the last time they cared who they were fighting for or against? Or is it that they just supress it better, make it as quiet and hushed as their silenced machine guns?
The sun is obscured by thick, cottony grey clouds. It's been raining on and off for the last few hours, and the higher we climb the worse it will become.
Mr. Blue, driving, he looks over at Mr. Green, in the passenger seat, and they slow the Hummer to a stop as they discuss something on a map. Mr. Green's using a GPS to pinpoint our best approach. Satellites can give our exact location, but Billtruck and Hal will be blind unless we give them feeds off of our thermal-night goggles. That, or always calling them.
What's the problem? I say, leaning forward.
“We're trying to find the most impossible approach, and take that one,” Mr. Green explains. “We have to take a path they probably won't be defending against.”
That's 110% Todd Steele, and I like it.
“Problem is,” Mr. Green continues, lowering his voice, “ . . . it's a rough hike into the bush from the awkward side of the Cabeza de Inca.” And he motions his eyes back to Ms. Josephine.
I give it a moment, glancing at the map. “Alright,” I say, “drop Juan and I off, and then you guys circle back around and we'll clear the area . . . give you guys the nod.”
Mr. Green grinds his teeth back and forth as the muscles in his jaw tense and release. “Fair enough,” he says, nodding. “But I go with you two. Mr. Blue can bring Ricky and Ms. Josephine in when the area is clear.
I turn back to Ms. Josephine and Ricky, “You guys catch all that?”
“Just save da babies, Jack,” she said softly. “Save da babies.”
And then she handed these handmade necklaces forward for Mr. Green, Juan, and Mr. Blue. They didn't question her, they just put them around their necks, hiding them under their combat vests.
Cabeza de Inca.
8:23 pm . . .
Just after sunset, the sky growing eerily murky like a boiling cauldron, we were dropped-off on the side of the mountain that was considered the most impassable by all maps, testimonials, and common sense. And so far, that has been the underestimate of the century.
Mr. Green and Juan haven't said a word since we got out of the Hummer and watched it disappear into the darkness.
They do all of their communicating with a variety of hand signals and simple sign language. Since I learned sign language when I was living at the hospital I'm following their signals fairly easily. We're spread about five meters apart, me bringing up the rear.
These guys are moving past large rocks, sheets of ice and snow, and slick patches as if they were just walking down the street.
I'm sucking for air like I've barely escaped drowning. My balance isn't good enough for this kind of maneuvering. I'm like one of those animals they put on roller skates just for a laugh.
Suddenly I see Juan's closed fist shoot up as he freezes. I freeze, looking around the mixture of black lava rock, small shrubs, and sugar-white chunks of snow and ice. I've been instructed to stay out of the snow as much as possible. Mr. Green said, “ . . . it's slick as bat shit, and it silhouettes you against the background, and the moisture will get into your boots and quickly sap all your body heat.”
People die up in the mountains all the time just because they got a little wet , they told me. But I told them that I was already dead, so I should be fine. They thought it was some heroic bravado and gave me a good slap on the shoulder. Them and me, we're warriors. That's a good one.
Juan's hand flattens and his fingers curl towards the ground as he signals me over. He kneels down, waiting for me to crawl to his position. Everything is cold. My fingers, my toes, my nose. We're wearing black wool stocking caps to cover our heads, keep us warm- er .
I make my way to Juan and catch my breath. We've been going for just over an hour on our little hike, but it feels like we've been marching for a week straight. This soldier stuff is really much more difficult than it looks on television. Rambo really is a badass.
Juan makes two little legs with his fingers and does the 'walking' motion— somebody on foot . He holds up the same two fingers that were legs a second ago— Two people . He then cups his hand, palm down, and I think he's saying that we're going to follow. Then he points past a black wall in the surreal darkness.
Now, bear in mind that I haven't seen anything, yet. I'm just taking his fingers for it. I'm doing my best to simply stay upright.
We put on our thermal-night goggles and everything becomes nice and bright. We're less than a football field away from the impossible forest. We'd have walked right past it if we didn't have the satellite pictures to guide us in. I can understand people never finding this place.
Without a sound we make our slow crawl to Mr. Green. Once there, he and Juan trade at least a paragraph full of signs, and then Mr. Green whispers to me, “A man and a woman entered the forest wall about thirty-seconds ago. They'll be easy to follow on thermal, but we have to split up. You and Juan will circle right and I'll flank left in case it's a 'come-on.'
A what?
“A come-on. A trick. A trap.”
I get it.
“Anyway, we'll make our way in silently. Once we converge on the couple and locate all of the children, then we'll go in and take them down. Bad guys first, then kids.”
I give him a thumbs-up.
“I'll radio Mr. Blue and the others once we've secured the area.”
Thumbs-up.
He nods, gives a few more signals to Juan, and then he just disappears into the darkness. He's so good, I can't even see him on night vision. His red thermal image scurries off to the left to pursue the two red shapes that are negotiating the dark forest.
8:58 pm . . .
We've been following from about 50 meters to their right, stopping whenever they stop. Moving when they move. There are definitely two of them. Juan flows through the forest as smooth and silent as if he were a mist. And me, I'm just trying not to fall or kick over anything loud.
I haven't heard any birds or other animals since we entered the treeline. Not a single frog or cricket or coyote . . . nothing. Just the wind gusting through, shoving leaves and branches here and there. There are these surreal bright spots in the sky from where the fire in the volcano's crater is reflecting its melting light.
As we creep I look around for a small dot beyond the two red splotches. Mr. Green should be slithering around out there in the distance, but I can't find him.
We stop behind a thick mat of waist-high shrubs and sticker bushes. Juan points ahead and to our left about a 100 or so meters and I see them. Dim yellowish dots. Small, barely registrable heat signatures in the blackness. I look at Juan and he nods.
The kids.
And they must have something left in them, I just hope it's life we'll find. He signals that we're going to take the long path around the right side to take the vampire sons-of-bitches by surprise.
I feel for my pistol. It's where it should be. I check for my knife, the cold rubber-coated handle is within easy reach. I'm wondering if I'll get to use these tools.
He gives me a shoulder squeeze and we continue on, keeping the two large red spots to our left flank.
It won't be long now.
9:47 pm . . .
I can distinctly count 14 children as I look through my thermal-imaging goggles. We've crept so close that I might be able to throw a small rock and g
et the attention of one of them. But I don't dare. Right now we're waiting to make sure we know what we're dealing with.
It looks like two adult bloodsuckers are in charge of this whole grotesque affair.
There's a small clearing in the center of the trees, similar to how the dead pool was located. On the larger trees that encircle the clearing there are children tied with their legs and arms spread wide. There's a small fire in the center of the clearing that is little more than ashes and some tiny embers. This is their death HQ .
This doesn't look like an ambush.
79
2nd impossible forest, Cabeza de Inca.
10:21 pm . . .
I'm shaking now with anticipation. My pistol is drawn. About five minutes ago we saw Mr. Green's red blip appear across the clearing behind the couple. It's close, now. I want to take this couple down before they feed again.
Juan takes his goggles off, letting his eyes adjust to the darkness for our impending assault. I do the same, staring at the darkest spot in the forest to get my human night vision—rods and cones swapping control in my eyes.
Juan places a small earbud in his left ear with a thin wire that leads to his Motorola . I did the same. He looked at me and nodded. I nod back, and now it's just about go time . He reaches down to his radio and I hear two click-click sounds.
We wait and a few seconds later I heard a click , a pause, and another click . Juan waves his free hand over his head a couple of times— cover me. Then his hand taps his shoulder a few times— stay close to me .
I give him a shoulder squeeze to let him know I'm ready. I try to slow my breathing down so that I can do this. I'm not a mercenary, but I walk among the dead, so I figure I'm still qualified.
We wait for the three clicks that will serve as the go signal.
Every second is like a minute.
Every minute could be an hour.
The two blood sucking Evils are milling around the fire quietly. Every now and again they approach two of the children, looking at their bare legs and arms, probably preparing for a meal. I wonder if they cycle through the children, feeding off of a different one each time. Is there a pattern to the way they drink off their victims, or is it random and unpredictable?
I hear some barely audible static in my earpiece . . .
. . . any second, now.
. . . click-click-click!
80
1 second later . . .
We're up and moving towards the unsuspecting vampires, pistol and machine guns raised and posed for action. I'm on Juan's right side, about a meter or two behind him. I have the resolve to put these monsters down if they do anything other than freeze.
As we race quickly past the trees, children tied for feeding and torture all around us, I try to keep my mind focused on the moment.
Bad guys first, kids second!
The man, probably no older than 30, doesn't see Mr. Green coming as he stabs at the fire's ashes with a long stick. The guy is tall and thin, wearing a pair of worn jeans and a ragged green sweater. His hair is jet black, his eyes as dark as a starless sky, and by the time he sees Mr. Green appear from the darkness, there is a red lazer dot dancing on the man's upper right chest.
Like they've done it a hundred times before, Juan takes the woman by surprise at the exact same time that Mr. Green is signalling for the man to get down on the ground. Juan isn't quite so polite as he grabs the woman's long black hair like a rope and yanks her backwards, off her feet, and slams her to the cold, hard ground.
“Por favor, no!” she yelps as her body crashes down.
“No entiendes! No entiendes!” the man begs as Mr. Green kicks his feet out from underneath him, sending the man to his stomach with a grunt.
“Calla se, todos!” Mr. Green loud-whisperes.
Shut up, everyone.
“No comprendes esto,” the woman tries to explain, as Juan puts a knee across her throat, applying just enough pressure to gain her cooperation. Juan looks like a man possessed as he spins his MP-5 around so that it hangs off his back and pulls his pistol out in the same motion, putting the barrel into her hair until it thumps the back of her head.
“Mis hijos,” the man pleads.
My kids.
Yeah, I bet they're your kids.
And then Mr. Green pulls out a horrible looking knife from his vest and in a flash it's pressed against the man's neck. He kneels down and whispers, “Te voy a cortar en un mille pedazos, si no te calles.”
I'm going to cut you into a thousand pieces, if you don't shut-up.
You don't have to be a psychologist to know that Mr. Green is just a breath away from making good on his promise.
We've got them. That's good. What I don't understand is why none of the children are reacting. Nobody's crying or screaming or even paying us any attention.
“Something is not right,” I say slowly as I look around.
I jog over to one of the children. There are dried blood stains running down the insides of this little girl's thin legs and bony arms. I turn back to Mr. Green, “Keep your knife pressed to that asshole's neck.”
This frail, motionless child, has a slow but steady pulse. Her brown eyes are so dilated that they might be white marbles. She looks like a coma patient.
I feel her head, it's blazing hot. I run to another tree, another child. Same vacant, lifeless eyes, as if they're all on autopilot. Same scorching-hot body temperature. Same unnaturally low but consistent heart rate. I turn, “I think they've drugged these kids or something.”
Three minutes later the couple has been searched, separated, hog-tied and cuffed with plastic zip-ties, and silenced with black hoods. Mr. Green is adjusting their hoods so that they can breathe. We haven't given Mr. Blue the all-clear sign yet because something is missing.
“There's only two, here,” I say. “ . . . where are the other Evils. Should be a couple more?”
“Maybe they've gone to collect more children,” Mr. Green says. “there's three empty trees. There's probably three more bodies that are going to turn up at some point.”
“There's an easy way to find out,” Juan says, pulling out his knife. It's got a black blade with an edge so sharp it looks like it would cut oxygen molecules in half.
Mr. Green looks at me, “This is your show, Jack. You're call. But we're on a bit of a time crunch, here. I don't know exactly how much longer we can—”
This low rumble shakes everything, us included, sending the grass and trees swaying erratically.
“The volcano is angry,” Juan says as we all look around nervously.
“Start cutting off their fingers!” I say as we steady ourselves, “ . . . we don't have the luxury of a long interrogation.”
67 seconds later . . .
The man is on his back, his feet elevated while Juan pours water from his canteen onto the hood that covers his face. The man tries to rock back and forth, coughing as he fights for breath.
“He's slowly aspirating water,” Mr. Green says calmly as he presses down on the man's sternum. “This is like drowning, only a thousand times worse and a hundred times more painful. It's bloody terrifying.”
“Waterboarding,” Juan says as he watches for Mr. Green to nod and then he pours again.
Mr. Green explains all of this, his eyes relaxed and almost thoughtful. It's like we're discussing a good book he just read, or a museum exhibit. “I see if he's trying to hold his breath and cheat us. If he does, I wait until he gasps for another breath and I signal the water.”
I ask, How long do we do this for? I mean, at what point do answers start flowing out? I know how awful drowning is, so . . .
“Most people, and that's even trained soldiers, last for about a minute,” Mr. Green smiles. “We had a Pakistani warlord make it a minute-thirty-six.” He and Juan share a nostalgic laugh.
I look at my watch, “We've been going over four minutes, already.”
“Si,” Juan says with a satisfied look on his face.
The noises that t
his blood-sucking bastard makes, I'm sure they're nothing compared to the fright and suffering those innocent children felt every second after their abductions. I wish we had hours to do all of this, but the ground is shaking and groaning impatiently and I think we're down to minutes now, not hours. The Inca's head is about to explode.
Mr. Green looks over at me, “You trust me, Jack?”
I nod, Yes.
Juan sits the man up, pulling his wet hood off as the man convulses and fights for air. He sets the man against a pile of rocks and walks over to the woman, yanking her to her feet by her arms. Her shoulders pop and crackle as she is jerked upward.
Mr. Green looks at the man, then takes a slow breath. He turns to Juan, “Mata la.”
Without any hesitation Juan drags the girl, kicking and screaming, behind a thicket of trees. Moments later, a single gunshot shakes us all as it echoes through the forest.
Juan walks back, holstering his pistol . . . alone.
The man's eyes close as he begins to scream and cry. I wish I had some pliers to pull this asshole's teeth out. I'd like to shove bamboo shoots between his fingernails and the soft, painful part of his fingers. I'd like to hook-up a car battery to his testicles and . . . never mind.
Mr. Green lifts the razor-sharp point of his knife and places it just a fraction of a millimeter from the man's panic-stricken face, slowly nearing his eyes.
“Ahora, nosotros vamos a hablar . . . ”
Now, we're going to talk.
81
Interrogation time . . .
The guy is talking so fast that I can't understand more than about half of it. But this evil piece of trash is saying something about being forced to do all of this.
The kids made him do it . . .
. . . his kids for other kids . . .
. . . the blood keeps them alive before they trade something.
“Ask him where the others are?” I say.
Mr. Green clears his throat, “Dondé son los otros?”
The man says they're nearby.
That they're watching.
I pull my pistol out, again, “Where, exactly ?”
“Dondé, exactamente?” Mr. Green asks as the man starts yelling, tears openly flowing down his cheeks.
See Jack Hunt (See Jack Die) Page 31