The Ripple Effect

by Alex Standish

  "It's not a village burning down," he said in panic, jumping from the cot. "It's a fire, it's a fucking fire! And it's right on top of us."

  Batho rushed to the window, staring out through the cracks made by the boards. "Shit, you're right. Come on."

  They ran out of the cabin and Carson swallowed at the hiss and crackle as the fire began to spread around them, aided by the fickle winds. He had never seen anything like it; one moment everything was lush green and the next the fire was roaring its fury, consuming all color as it chased after them. The flames seemed to jump from tree to tree as Carson ran, leaping higher and higher, releasing floating flakes of fire and wreaths of smoke that made it hard to see.

  They reached the Hummer too late. The fire was swiping through the grass like a train of gunpowder and the tires were slowly melting as they were devoured by the flames.

  Batho grabbed him by the t-shirt. "This way!" he shouted.

  They changed direction, but the flames moved with them. Carson could see birds and other animals fleeing for their lives, and saw that Batho was following them. Carson wasn't sure about the wisdom of trailing wild animals, but he figured the instinct for survival was stronger than hunger.

  He heard a helicopter buzzing overhead, dropping water into the fire, but he didn't dare to look up. He was trying to breathe shallowly, minimizing the smoke inhalation, but he was beginning to tire. His foot caught in a root and he went down, barely having time to use his bound hands to break his fall.

  He couldn't get up. Thick smoke was all he could see now, everything around him was rapidly engulfed in flames. The heat was almost unbearable; he tried to take a couple of deep breaths--hoping to find some relief--but what little air he inhaled only seemed to scorch his lungs.

  The smoke was making his eyes water, leaving him blind, disoriented, unable to find his way out of this burning inferno. He tried to move, drowsiness forcing him to crawl at an agonizingly slow pace. He wasn't going to make it; he could feel the clothes melting to his skin from the intense heat, the fumes were lulling him into a deep sleep he couldn't seem to fight.

  "Oh, no, you don't!" a voice growled.

  Suddenly he was being carried in a fireman's hold and taken away from the sea of flames. Time seemed to slow down and Carson let himself float on his lethargy, trusting Batho to keep them both alive.

  He heard Batho cry out abruptly, and realized they were falling. Carson's feet kicked at the air helplessly, his sluggish mind understanding they had dropped off a cliff and were about to plunge into a river. A thousand needles pierced his body just as he hit the icy cold water of the murky river below. Pain shattered his chest and head, driving all the air forcefully out of his lungs as he opened his mouth to scream in dual agony.

  He tasted water in his mouth, its acidic flavor choking him, until he knew he was drowning. He kicked fiercely against the current, breaching the surface with panting gasps as he fought desperately to stay conscious. It was a tough battle for survival, especially with his hands cuffed; the river's pull was too tenacious, its current too vicious.

  He succumbed to fatigue without being certain if he had won.

  # # #

  Jack paced the room restlessly, grateful to Jarod and Jackie for cleaning the flat as best as possible, making it livable again. He was angry and anxious and scared. And that only made him feel angrier. He should be out there doing something, making himself useful, not here pacing like a tiger in a cage. But they had reached a dead end and he didn't know where else to look.

  It was past one in the afternoon and they had no clue where to find Carson. None of their informants seemed to be aware of the kidnapping, or where to find Kenan Batho. There were rumors he had a place in the jungle, but they hadn't found anyone who knew its location. There was a slim chance some of Kit's contacts might be able to help, but in the meantime Jack had to wait.

  Wait.

  He didn't want to wait. He wanted to hit something, someone. He wanted to tear the jungle apart tree by tree. He wanted... he wanted Carson.

  # # #

  When Carson came to, he was soaked, a terrifying cold taking hold of his very bone marrow. He lifted his head from the soft, moist soil, his vision blurry and unfocused. He ignored the sharp pain battering his body as he slowly, painfully rose to his feet, swaying precariously in the chilling breeze.

  Wiping an arm across his face, he realized it was finally raining. Correction--it was pouring. At least the downpour should take care of the fire. He saw Batho lying face down on the bank a few feet away. Carson took a few steps towards him, but ended up falling on his ass, his legs refusing to take his weight.

  "Fuck," he muttered.

  He was wet, hungry, thirsty, exhausted, miserable, and wished he could be anywhere but in this damned jungle. Knowing that sitting around pouting wouldn't help matters, he stubbornly pushed himself to his feet, and plodded over to Batho.

  Batho was dead. It took long seconds for Carson to know for sure; fingers numb from the cold and from being tied up for too long, made it difficult to search for a pulse. He found himself feeling sorry for the man. Their first meeting aside, Batho had saved his life.

  Straightening up, he studied his surroundings. He had no idea where he was, or how far away from civilization, but he couldn't stay here. Forcing himself to take one step at a time, he began to climb up the bank until his feet touched firm land.

  He had no way of knowing if he was heading in the right direction or what he might find ahead. All he knew was that he had to get back to Jawara City. And to Jack. He decided to stick close to the river, guessing that sooner or later he would find civilization.

  Slowly, he became deprived of all sense of time and place. The rain formed a heavy curtain all around him, making it difficult to see; and although it was hard to tell due to the angry skies, he would venture a guess that it was already afternoon.

  The vegetation was dense, the ground uneven, and he had quickly learned to keep his eyes down. Even so, he was covered in cuts and bruises, his body protesting its brutal treatment, and making headway was nearly impossible.

  Carson hunched over against the powerful winds that had sprung up and blinked the streaming water out of his eyes. He pushed himself to the limits, knowing he had to keep going, shuddering as a gust of wind hit his nearly unprotected body. The t-shirt and jeans he was wearing were beyond wet now, their clinging dampness far from improving the situation.

  He stumbled and went down onto his knees. Chin resting on his chest, he closed his eyes, panting from exhaustion. He was too tired to keep going, couldn't take another step.

  The sound of a twig snapping had him raising his head, his eyes opening and looking frantically around. That's when he saw the first warrior walking cautiously towards him.

  Desperate, all hope lost now, Carson surrendered to his fate. His head dropped down again, and he waited to feel the spear or bullet that would end his life. He knew he should try to fight, try to communicate, but he was at the end of his rope. All he wanted was to curl up somewhere and die.

  His heart lurched in his chest as he thought about Jack. "I'm so sorry," he mumbled feebly.

  He hated the thought of not saying goodbye, that Jack might be the one to find his body, or worse yet, that it might never be found. He didn't want to think of Jack spending his life clinging to the slim hope that Carson might still be alive, always searching, always wondering.

  Long seconds trickled by and nothing happened. A little rebellious spark flared inside him, and Carson opened his eyes. There were five warriors surrounding him now, none of them looking particularly threatening or dangerous. They also didn't seem to be wary of him, merely curious.

  Remembering one of the first words Jack had taught him, Carson tried to raise his bound hands to his chest, but his arms felt like lead and refused to cooperate. "Rafiki," he said with difficulty, his voice hoarse from the smoke. "Friend."

  One of the warriors looked down at his hands, and before Carson could do more th
an gasp, the native had retrieved a knife from its waist sheath and cut through the plastic strap as if it was butter. Carson sobbed as his arms fell uselessly to his sides, groaning at the painful sensation of pins and needles as his circulation was restored.

  "Oh, man," he croaked. "It hurts."

  The same tribesman grabbed Carson by the elbow and attempted to get him up. A second man took the other side, and although they got him to stand up, Carson couldn't make his legs work. They sat him back down carefully, the first warrior speaking quietly with one of the others. That man nodded and disappeared into the vegetation.

  Too exhausted to even sit up, Carson let himself flop back on the soggy ground. He blinked up at the sky, noticing it had stopped raining. He didn't know how long he stayed there, on the verge of unconsciousness, when the return of the fifth tribesman roused him.

  The man had a litter with him and Carson knew they meant to take him somewhere. He didn't offer any resistance as he was placed gently on the stretcher. The steady cadence of the two men's stride, as they carried him though the jungle, once again lulled him to sleep.

  # # #

  Jack raced down the flat's stairs to the bar, the rest of the team right on his heels. He barely stopped himself from colliding with Kit, who was standing by the bar talking quietly with a native.

  "Vivian said you got something?" he asked breathlessly.

  "Jack, this is Matunde from the Zainabu tribe," Kit said, gesturing to the native standing beside her. "Matunde, this is Jack MacKenzie and his team." She met Jack's impatient gaze. "Matunde can take you to Batho's cabin."

  Jack focused on the man. "You know where Batho is?"

  Matunde shrugged. "I do not know he is there now," he said, stumbling a little on his English. "But I see him many times I go hunt for tribe."

  "Good enough. Can you find your way if we go by jeep?"

  Matunde gave him a toothless grin. "Yes. Matunde never lost."

  "Let's move out," Jack ordered to the others.

  They rushed to the jeeps, and following Matunde's instructions they were soon leaving town. Jack's heart was pounding as he drove. This was their first lead since Carson had been taken and he couldn't help but feel hopeful. At least now he was doing something, not feeling so powerless.

  Matunde was as good as his word, expertly directing them through the jungle. It never ceased to amaze Jack how these simple folks could walk through the jungle and find their way to just about anywhere in the country. It wasn't like there were road signs you could follow to show you the way.

  The change in scenery was so brusque that Jack had to blink. The jeep burst through dense vegetation and they suddenly found themselves in an endless field of gray. It hurt to see such devastation; the charred hectares of tree stumps, the ash-covered ground, the deadly quiet that spoke of no life for miles around.

  "Fire bad," Matunde said gravely.

  "No shit," Roger retorted grimly from the back seat.

  "Where to now, Matunde?" Jack asked.

  The native cleared his throat. "I not know. I follow trees. Now, no trees."

  "I guess Matunde lost, then," Roger quipped. "How can you know your way around just by looking at the trees?"

  "Trees here for many generations," Matunde replied. "One different from other. Matunde reads history of tree in tree trunks, in treetops, in tree shapes."

  "What's that?" Brendan asked abruptly, touching Jack's shoulder and pointing to their left.

  Jack looked in that direction and turned the wheel, heading in that direction, and gesturing to Jackie who was driving the second jeep to do the same.

  "Looks like a truck," Roger said as they drew closer. "Or what used to be a truck. The fire didn't leave much, did it?"

  "Just the truck's charred skeleton," Brendan agreed as they drove past it.

  "Batho," Matunde said, looking at what was left of the vehicle.

  "That was Batho's truck?" Jack asked, shuddering with dread. "Are you sure?"

  "Yes. See it many times."

  Jack couldn't find the strength to say anything more. He kept driving, trying not to dwell on the thought that Batho had been in this area at the time of the fire. That he hadn't made it to his truck. And that Carson had supposedly been with him at the time.

  "Jack?" Brendan called out to him, the concern evident in his voice.

  Jack swallowed around the lump in his throat. "Yeah," he said lifelessly. "I'm okay."

  He spotted the cabin and parked the jeep in front of it. Most of the shack had burned down, the front and one of the side walls having collapsed. Jack walked inside of what was left of the structure, gazing around numbly as his boots stepped loudly on the scorched rubble. He sat down on the floor, ignoring its dampness as he wrapped his arms around his knees.

  He felt the others join him, sitting around him in a protective circle.

  "Carson can still be alive, Jack," Roger said softly.

  "How?" Jack whispered. "The truck's still here. If they left on foot, the odds of them escaping the fire are slim to none. And that's if Batho didn't leave Carson behind." He grabbed a fistful of ashes, letting it slip slowly through his fingers. "This could be Carson's burial ground."

  But he still closed his eyes and silently pleaded with whatever deities might be watching over them to make a mockery of his words.

  # # #

  Chapter Thirteen

  When Carson woke up, he was inside a hut, lying on a comfortable bed made of dried leaves. He was also naked, except for a very skimpy loincloth, and being bathed with a sponge cloth by two women. He didn't know what was mixed in with the water, but he could already feel its effects. His cuts and bruises had stopped throbbing, and while still reddish in color, his skin no longer felt like it was on fire.

  "Hello?" he said hoarsely.

  The two women looked up at him and smiled. One of them left the hut, probably to warn the elders that he was awake, while the other gave him something to drink. It wasn't water, he realized as he drank greedily from the clay bowl. It was something sweet and fresh that soothed his sore throat and settled his stomach.

  "Thank you," he said, lying back down.

  An elder walked in, and Carson made to stand, but the man gestured for him to lie down. Carson obeyed, mostly because he didn't know if he was ready to try to stand yet. When the elder began to speak in dialect, Carson grimaced.

  "I'm sorry. I don't understand you. English?" he asked hopefully.

  The tribesman laughed ruefully, shaking his head, obviously familiar with the word. That was a problem. Since Carson didn't speak their language and they didn't speak his, how in the hell was he going to go back to Jawara City?

  A thought came to him. "Do you know MacKenzie? Jack MacKenzie?"

  The elder's face lit up. "Ndiyo! Jack, Vivian," he exclaimed.

  "Oh, thank God," Carson breathed. "Now, how do I explain that I need you to get in touch with them?"

  But the elder didn't give him a chance to explain anything. After speaking briefly with the woman in an excited voice, he left the hut with her, leaving Carson alone.

  "That went well," Carson muttered, disappointed. "Now what the hell will I do?"

  He needed to think of a way to get back to civilization. He doubted very much these people had a jeep or truck that could take him to town, and he could hardly walk. But there had to be some other way. Jack had to be frantic with worry and Carson wanted nothing more than to see him again.

  One of the women walked in again, this time with a plate filled with fruit and as if on cue, Carson's stomach rumbled loudly. She laughed and handed him the plate. She also put a bowl within his reach, and looking at it, Carson saw that it was more of that sweet drink he had been given earlier.

  He sat up slowly, relieved when he didn't feel dizzy. Looking down at the fruit, Carson bit his lip. Should he accept their generous offer? He remembered Jarod saying that tribes rarely invited outsiders to share a meal because of their meager provisions. He didn't want to make things wors
e by taking someone else's share.

  The woman tapped him on the shoulder, brows furrowed. She obviously didn't understand why he wasn't eating. Maybe his refusal would be seen as an offense? Making up his mind, he decided to accept the food. He wouldn't stay here forever; he could always return with supplies, or if he stayed long enough, by helping out in any way he could.

  "Thank you," he said finally, bowing slightly.

  Appeased, she mirrored his bow, patted his hand gently and disappeared outside. Carson watched her go, then turned all his energy into devouring the fruit, thinking he had never tasted anything as delicious in his life. He ate every last piece, finished the rest of the drink and exhaled deeply. He was feeling almost human again.

  The sound of drums suddenly filled the air, and he startled. Curious, he slowly got up to his feet, swaying a little as he reached for the entrance of the hut. Six men were standing in the village's square holding a large pressure drum each and making a surprisingly enjoyable, if loud, sound as they played in tandem.

  The drums were hourglass-shaped and double-headed. The drum heads at either side of the wooden body seemed to be made of some kind of hide, and leather cords or thongs connected both sides. The natives were holding the drums under the armpit, and squeezing, which apparently caused a variation in pitch.

  It took a moment for Carson to understand that they weren't playing a tune, that the drumming seemed to be repeating in a loop over and over again. And then, from afar, he could hear the echo of that same drumming.

  "Talking drums," he laughed, delighted.

  Jack had told him about it. About how the villages used drums and special codes to communicate amongst themselves. How the sound of these drums would carry far in the jungle, reaching village after village. These men were sending a message and it was already being picked up by others and sent forward.

  A hand touched his shoulder and he turned his head to see the elder smiling at him. "MacKenzie," the man said, gesturing to the drums.

  Carson nodded. "I get it. Thank you."

  He didn't know how long it would take until the message reached Jack, or even what it was saying. But he had no doubt that sooner or later Jack would show up.