Diffusion

by Stan C. Smith

  “The infections are worse, and we’re out of clean water.” Lindsey turned an already soiled cloth over and wiped futilely at the wounds on Miranda’s leg. She then swatted at the swarm of flies trying to feed on the stale flesh. Miranda stared vacantly.

  “It’ll rain again,” Quentin said. He was trying to build an insect barrier on the front of the fuselage using natty fabric removed from the seat cushions. He reasoned that if he could create a decent shelter for the others, perhaps he could leave them here and go search for help. If it came to that.

  Quentin glanced at the fire. “Hey, Carlos, it’s dying down again, pal. Put the rest of that pile on and gather some more.” The pile of fuel consisted of anything dry enough to burn, mostly sago leaves. Getting the fire started had taken forever—even with the lighter he’d found on the pilot’s body—and he didn’t want it going out. A search plane might see the smoke from above. Carlos sat near the fire, his back against a tree. Quentin approached him. “Carlos, you hear me?”

  “Yeah, I hear you.”

  The boy seemed oblivious to the insects on his face and arms. He was becoming more withdrawn. Quentin crouched down beside him. “Come on, pal. On your feet. You’ve got to keep moving.” He pulled the boy up, alarmed at how light he was.

  “Mr. Darnell, check this out!” Bobby and Ashley approached from the brush. Bobby carried something in his arms. It looked like a wallaby, but with a very narrow head. “Mbaiso brought it to us. It’s supposed to be food.”

  “That’s his opinion,” Ashley said. “It just wandered right up to us.”

  Bobby set it on the ground, where it simply sat on its haunches.

  “It looks like a dorcopsis,” Quentin said, noting the white stripe on its back. “It’s a kind of wallaby. It doesn’t seem very afraid.” Quentin nudged the wallaby with his foot, thinking it might be sick. Like a dog settling in for a nap, the animal plopped on its side at their feet. With its remarkably narrow head, it struck Quentin as a very stupid looking animal.

  “I was starting to think we’d have to eat Mbaiso,” Bobby said. “Now we don’t have to!”

  As the forest began to grow dark, Quentin told the others to move into the plane. There was no need for the fire, as the smoke wouldn’t be visible, so Quentin dragged a wrecked piece of metal and glass over the pile of dry fuel in case it rained during the night.

  The dorcopsis lay on the ground near the fire, chewing on something. It would be foolish to let it wander off. Bobby was right, butchering the wallaby would go over better than killing the tree kangaroo. At least they hadn’t named the wallaby yet. He extracted a length of electrical wire from the wreckage and fastened one end of it around the animal’s neck. The dorcopsis shook its head a few times but otherwise seemed oblivious. Quentin scooped it up and placed it next to a tree that was entangled with a thick woody vine at the base. He fastened the other end of the wire to the vine. The wallaby tugged at the wire and then sprawled on the ground.

  As Quentin turned away, he detected movement in the forest, beyond where the three bodies lay. He stared, and then nearly stumbled backwards with surprise as his brain processed the dim image. It was an upright figure moving slowly through the trees.

  “Hey,” he shouted. “Is someone there?”

  “Quentin?” Lindsey called from inside the fuselage. “We’re all in here.”

  The truth of this hit him, and suddenly he felt exposed. The figure stopped moving and the forest was too murky to make it out. Quentin walked toward it, reminding himself that no large land predators lived in New Guinea. Suddenly the spot exploded. Quentin pulled back, startled. He could barely make out the movement, but he was almost sure it was a human. Then the rustling of the fleeing figure melded with the sounds of the night and was gone.

  Six

  Their second night in the rainforest was as fitful for Quentin as the first. The others seemed to sleep fairly well, although Miranda mumbled most of the night. Quentin woke repeatedly, imagining or dreaming that someone was standing at the open end of the fuselage watching him. Finally it began raining, and he drifted into a more restful sleep as the torrent drowned out the other sounds that had kept him alert.

  When he awoke, the rain had stopped and the forest glowed with the filtered light of early morning. Every muscle in his body was sore, and he doubted his ability to even sit up. But he willed himself to a vertical position, stifling a groan. The others were quiet, including Miranda. He stared at her for a moment, making sure she was breathing, and then did the same with Addison. With every passing hour, the chances the two would survive grew slimmer.

  Once out of the plane, Quentin struggled to rise to his full height. He raised his shirt. His abdomen was one massive black and gray bruise. He looked around, checking the forest for any signs that someone else had been there. He pulled away the wreckage he’d placed over the pile of fuel. Some of it was reasonably dry, so he fished the lighter from his pocket. Before long the fire was burning again, but he would need to find more fuel to create enough smoke to be seen from above.

  Quentin didn’t have to relieve himself, which meant he was dehydrated. He was also hungry to the point of feeling weak. The dorcopsis was still there, very wet but waiting patiently. They would have to kill and eat it.

  But first he needed to bury the three bodies, as they were becoming a health risk to all of them. The light of morning had vanquished his anxiety over the mysterious figure from last night, but as he approached the bodies his courage and composure abruptly melted. In place of the bodies were three mounds of reddish-brown soil, nearly washed into the ground by the rain.

  Bobby awoke to the smell of cooking meat. His mouth watered before he even opened his eyes, but he was disappointed that he had missed out on the killing and dressing of the wallaby. He sat up and rubbed his bruises. Mrs. Darnell was at the front of the plane, huddled over Addison. Her shoulders shook.

  “Mrs. Darnell?” She didn’t answer, but her shoulders stopped. “You okay?” Still no answer. This made Bobby uncomfortable, so he left the plane.

  Carlos was up and sitting by the fire. Next to him was a pile of sticks and brown palm leaves. A piece of metal from the plane had been dragged over the fire and some chunks of meat hung on the edge of it, cooking in the heat.

  Bobby eased his sore butt onto the ground next to Carlos. “Damn, everything hurts. How you feeling?”

  There was no answer. Bobby looked at his friend’s face, and the air around him seemed to turn cold. Carlos’s face had changed. His skin was pale. His eyes seemed to be lighter, almost gray, with red around them. The eyes glanced at Bobby, and then stared into the fire.

  Bobby fought the urge to say something about Carlos’s appearance. “Where’s Mr. Darnell?”

  Carlos shrugged slightly.

  Bobby nodded at the cooking meat. “That the wallaby?”

  Carlos nodded.

  “You try it yet?”

  Carlos shook his head.

  Again, Bobby felt uncomfortable. He gazed awkwardly at the trees.

  Mr. Darnell approached them, carrying the raincoat and two plastic bottles filled with clear rainwater. And he was soaking wet.

  “Morning, Bobby.” Mr. Darnell put the bottles on the ground and then checked the wallaby meat by poking it with his pocketknife.

  “Morning. You should talk to Mrs. Darnell. She seems kind of upset.”

  “Yeah. Maybe we need to give her a little time.” He nodded toward Carlos, who was still staring into the fire. “Things aren’t going so well, are they?”

  Bobby wasn’t sure if he was supposed to answer this. “I guess not.”

  “I tell you what. That tree kangaroo of yours is amazing. I just held out the jacket and he knew what to do. Never seen anything like it. We’ll have to write it up for National Geographic or something, eh?” Mbaiso had followed him back and Mr. Darnell looked up at him. “What do you think of that, fella? You want to be famous?”

  Bobby
knew Mr. Darnell was trying to make him feel better, and it was working. So he decided to go with him to collect more water. With Mbaiso’s help, they filled the zip-lock bags. As they worked, they praised the tree kangaroo endlessly.

  “Mbaiso, you are a noble marsupial,” Mr. Darnell said, after a drenching downpour.

  “You’re the king of all marsupials,” Bobby said. “You’re so smart the pythons won’t eat you because they can’t swallow your brain.”

  This went on. The stupid diversion almost made Bobby forget his hunger.

  Later, they gathered around the fire to share the wallaby meat. Mr. Darnell tasted the meat first. He said it might make them sick if it wasn’t cooked enough. It was charred black, so there was little chance of that. Although dry, the meat was tasty, and for some time the only sounds heard were ripping and chewing and the crackling fire. This made Bobby feel like they now belonged here. They were eating a jungle animal, just like the Papuans did. Even Carlos ate some of the meat as Mr. Darnell handed him bite-sized pieces.

  Bobby said, “Should we save some food for Miranda and Addison?”

  The Darnells looked at each other in a way that made Bobby wish he hadn’t asked. But Mr. Darnell nodded and said, “Yes, we should do that.”

  “Why haven’t we heard any search planes?” Ashley asked.

  Mr. Darnell sighed. “I don’t know. As of last night, they had to know at home that we weren’t on the flight to Kansas City. Even if there was confusion at the Sentani airport and they lost track of our plane, they have to know now because your folks are making phone calls.”

  “Raising hell is what they’re doing,” Ashley said.

  The talking died again, and Bobby thought about this. No matter how mixed up things were at the airport, their parents would do something about it. He thought of his mom and dad. They would have to talk to each other because of this.

  He also thought of Carlos’s parents. They didn’t know yet that Roberto was dead, or that Carlos might be dying. Their family had been close. Carlos’s mom stayed home and didn’t work; being a mother was what she did. Bobby pictured her sitting on Roberto’s bed, looking at his stuff and crying. Bobby didn’t know Russ’s family, but he felt bad for them, too. And for the families of the pilot and the Indonesian couple.

  Maybe Bobby was the luckiest of all of them. He wasn’t badly hurt and he hadn’t lost a family member. Ashley was lucky, too. Bobby looked across the fire at her, the image of her face fluttering in the heat waves. Other than a cut on her shoulder, she was okay.

  Ashley bit some meat from what may have been a leg bone, and then noticed Bobby staring. Her eyes narrowed. She held up the bone. “I feel like we’re eating someone’s pet.”

  When most of the meat was gone, Mr. Darnell cleared his throat. He told them that the bodies were missing, turned into dirt. Everyone got quiet. Bobby felt a chill pass through him.

  Mr. Darnell said, “I think we should have a ceremony for Roberto and Russ.” He looked at Carlos. “So we can say goodbye.”

  Carlos just stared vacantly into the fire.

  Bobby stood before the three mounds. Three people, clothes and shoes and all—now just piles of dirt streaked with little branching valleys carved out by rainwater.

  Mr. Darnell spoke. “Roberto Herrera, Russell Wade, and the pilot of our plane, whose name we don’t even know, died before their time.” As he talked he swatted at the flies swarming around them. “Roberto, you were one of the smartest students I’ve known, and you were always willing to share your gifts with others. You were a good brother to Carlos. We could all learn a great deal from your relationship.”

  Carlos was slouched over, his face pale. Tears filled his eyes finally, which was somehow comforting to Bobby.

  Mr. Darnell went on. “Russell, you were a good friend to everyone. You always went out of your way to make the rest of us laugh, and we appreciated this more than you probably knew. It’s a tragedy that both of you boys were taken from us and from the rest of the world. When we return home we’ll make sure your families know the wonderful things you did in the final days of your lives. Goodbye Roberto. Goodbye Russ.”

  Mr. Darnell asked if anyone else wanted to speak. Bobby’s mind was muddy. He could think of nothing to say.

  Mrs. Darnell sighed and wiped her eyes. “Goodbye Roberto,” she said. “Goodbye Russ.” She rested her hand on Carlos’s shoulder briefly and then trudged back to the plane.

  Bobby and Ashley repeated Mrs. Darnell’s simple goodbyes and then returned to the fire, leaving Carlos and Mr. Darnell staring silently at the piles of dirt.

  Carlos was suffering in so many ways, and Quentin wasn’t sure what to say to him. They stood quietly for a moment, hearing only the buzzing of flies. Finally Quentin said, “I’m sorry for what’s happened, Carlos. Do you want to say goodbye to Roberto?”

  “I don’t feel good,” Carlos said.

  “I know you don’t. Let’s see if we can clean up your hand again, okay?” He steadied the boy with his arm as they walked back to the plane. Carlos’s skin was cold. Quentin sat him on the edge of the fuselage and went to find some clean fabric. He sorted through the strips of soiled rags. Most of them had been used at least twice.

  “There’s none left.” Lindsey’s voice was flat. “Everything’s filthy.” She was crouched over Addison and didn’t bother turning around.

  He rested a hand on her shoulder. “Hang on, Linds. Help will be here soon.”

  She shook her head almost imperceptibly.

  Quentin removed Carlos’s wrap and stared at his crushed hand. The flesh was a hundred shades of crimson and violet, and the smell was dreadful. Red puffiness extended up the arm to the elbow. Quentin went through the motions, dabbing it lightly. Flies descended, so he quickly wrapped it back up.

  Carlos suddenly wretched. He rolled from the edge of the fuselage and vomited. The dorcopsis meat, barely chewed and undigested, piled onto the ground.

  “Oh Christ, Carlos.” Quentin rolled him to his side to keep his face clear of the vomit. Carlos’s eyes rolled back as his stomach heaved again.

  Bobby and Ashley came over from the fire and watched in horror. When Carlos finished vomiting he was unconscious. They moved his limp body inside the plane.

  Within minutes, Ashley complained of stomach cramps, and then Bobby joined in. Quentin felt his own stomach clench. They endured several hours of discomfort but nothing more serious.

  By midday their cramps had subsided, but Carlos was still unconscious and could now be counted among those who might never wake up. As for Addison, other than drops they’d placed in his mouth, he had taken in no water since the crash—some fifty-five hours ago.

  They had kept the fire burning all morning, using up the dried wood and sago fronds in the surrounding area. Each collecting trip took them further away, well out of sight of the fuselage. Soon it would take longer to collect fuel than for the fuel to burn.

  They were running out of time.

  With sudden crystalline clarity, Quentin knew he had to find a village. There were Papuans near here, he was sure of that. The carved figurine, the tree kangaroo’s domesticated behaviors, and the fleeing figure he’d seen last night; there had to be a village. And a village would likely have some way to contact the rest of the world.

  “This is stupid, Quentin, and you know it!” Lindsey’s eyes were wide with fear. “Our chances are best if we stay with the plane. Survival 101!”

  “You and the others are staying here with the plane. If a search party finds you before I find the village, they’ll get the kids to a hospital. If I find the village first, though, it may save them. Hell, it may save all of us.”

  “Goddammit, think about this! You’re leaving the crash site.”

  “The rule doesn’t apply here! The site is invisible. We can’t even keep a fire going.” He pointed to the unconscious kids. “How much time do you think they have?”

  “How does it help them for
you to get lost in the forest again? You already tried this! How far did you get, maybe a tenth of a mile? You’ll wander aimlessly until you either stumble on a village or starve to death. Is that your plan?”

  She was probably right. But Quentin was going. “I don’t want to leave you,” he said. “But I don’t see how they can find us here.” He placed a walkie-talkie into her hand and folded her fingers around it. “There’s not much power left, so keep it turned off.” He clipped the other one to his waist. “Every half hour we’ll turn them on and make contact, okay? I may find a village before I’m even out of range.”

  That was unlikely. The walkie-talkies supposedly had a range of five miles, but they never lived up to this claim, particularly in a forest. They had charged them the night before their flight, but had used some of the charge while searching for the three boys in Wamena.

  Quentin looked at the sun through the trees. “I have to go before it gets any later.”

  “Maybe one of us should go with you,” Ashley suggested. She and Bobby had been tending the fire, trying to ignore the argument.

  “Thanks Ash, but the most important thing you can do now is keep the fire burning for as long as you can.”

  Bobby handed him a canvas bag. “Here’s some stuff you might need.”

  Inside were the two bottles filled with rainwater and Carlos’s souvenir machete in its garish sheath. Quentin removed one of the bottles and handed it back. “Thanks. You guys keep that fire burning. If it rains, cover the wood so you can get it started again.”

  Lindsey had retreated to the fuselage, and Quentin considered going in to face her. He might never see her again, but further fighting would accomplish nothing.

  “Lindsey, I’ll see you soon, okay?”

  After some seconds of awkward foot-shuffling silence, he turned to go.