Alter

by Jeremy Robinson

  From her perspective, I was lost in the rainforest for four years. But that’s not entirely true. For a time, I was lost, and then I was home. Even when I don’t know where I am, I know how to get where I want to be. It’s hard to explain. It’s instinct, I suppose, but that’s not the answer she wants to hear, and it’s not the one I want to admit: that some part of me that was Mapinguari is alive and well, guiding us through the Amazon rainforest not far from the Peruvian border.

  “It’s just ahead,” I tell her, lifting her from atop a boulder and placing her beside me. She looks at me with bewildered eyes, impressed by my strength. We’ve been reunited for a year now, but she’s still getting accustomed to my new physique, which I’ve maintained by hitting the gym.

  Our reunification was one of the most joyful and painful experiences of my life. I’ve never felt anything quite like it, though I experienced it again, when two days later, we returned to Brazil and I saw Juni. I was wrong about her forgetting me. She ran into my arms while I blubbered like a fool. She and Gwen had looked at photos of me, watched videos of me, and told stories about me every day I was gone.

  Juni will never know the truth about what happened in the jungle.

  Neither will the outside world.

  But I told Gwen—everything.

  It was about six months before we recovered from the revelation that I’d been with another woman, who’d been pregnant with my child before her demise. If not for the photo of me, looking like a wild, mindless monster, I’m not sure she would have forgiven me. But she believed my story—all of it—including Ashan and I saving each other’s lives on multiple occasions. Without Ashan, I’d be nothing more than a skeleton. When Gwen came to that conclusion on her own, she felt more endeared to Ashan than angry.

  In my absence, clutched in desperation, Gwen had started attending church, and praying. She prayed for my safety and return. That’s it. Every day for years. In her eyes, Ashan had been the answer to her prayer. When I told her about my own, offered just once, and showed her the piece of paper, she broke down in tears, freed from the pain and anger of my betrayal.

  It wasn’t long after that Gwen had asked to meet my extended family, the Dalandala. Struggling to survive jungle life after Juma’s assault, the withered tribe revealed themselves to the outside world, with me serving as both mediator and translator.

  Logging in the area has been suspended, and millions of acres protected. For the four tribes, it’s a happy ending, though the Dalandala have already begun interacting with the outside world. Some now wear clothing. Others have taken up smoking cigarettes. Ashan’s family will survive, but it won’t be long before their tribal names, customs, and history are forgotten.

  But I’ll never forget.

  And that’s why we’re here.

  To remember.

  To pay our respects.

  Juni is at home in Manaus under the watchful care of Gwen’s parents. Over the past year, I’ve loved and doted on her more than any parent should. She and Gwen are my life, my purpose, and I’ll never put the world, or my position in it ahead of them again. I volunteer as a doctor working with tribal people, though my motivation has changed. But my days of putting charity and work ahead of my family is over.

  A book deal telling my watered-down story is paying the bills. It’ll be another fourteen months before it’s published, but the publisher has high hopes. That’s part of the reason I’ve returned, to take photos and check in on the Dalandala, several of whom are escorting Gwen and me through the jungle. Some of the tribes would still react violently to Guagin, and we’ve encountered Guaruamo and Jebubo hunters, but their tune changed when they learned who I am—that Mapinguari has returned.

  They no longer believe in the monster, or the legend. The return of my self proved to them that I am and always have been just a man. But they all know my story, and unlike the outside world, they know the whole truth. Know what I’m capable of. Gwen asked about it when the first group of hunters we encountered fled upon hearing the name Mapinguari and looked at my face, which is now covered in a trimmed beard. At that moment, seeing the fear my name and face produced in a group of armed men, the story became reality for her.

  It’s been a long journey. Difficult work. But for the most part, it’s been pleasant enough and without significant danger. Gwen has watched me scale trees, hunt for food, and forage fruit she didn’t know existed. Seeing me in the jungle has been eye-opening for her. She’s spent a lot of the time hidden behind a camera, snapping photos and videos of me in the jungle, interacting with the Dalandala, who still view me, and treat me, as family.

  But today, for the last leg of our journey, they’ve left us alone.

  What comes next is private.

  When I step into a small clearing atop a rise, overlooking a massive valley, I stagger to a stop.

  Gwen catches my arm. “You okay?”

  I stare at the ground where Ashan and I slept on our last night together.

  When I start crying, Gwen understands. “We’re there?”

  I point into the distance. “See the steps?” It’s been just a year, but the temple is overgrown with vegetation. With the time of Mapinguari at an end, his six attendants, who also maintained the temple, returned to their own tribes.

  “I see it,” she says, but she’s not falling for my redirection. She puts her hand on my chin and turns my face to hers. “Tell me.”

  “This is where Ashan told me she was pregnant.”

  Gwen gives a slow nod and rubs my back. “Thank you for bringing me here. It’s helping me understand. What happened. How you changed. Everything that happened. It wasn’t what you wanted, but it was what you needed. Ashan didn’t just keep you alive, she sustained your soul, even when your psyche was lost.”

  I smile and wipe away my tears. “We’re almost there.”

  We descend together, walking in silence as my emotions roil. When we reach the curved wall following the path down into the temple valley, I stagger to a stop and catch myself on the smooth rock. I’ve become soft again, driven by emotion, my ability to wall off and control feelings diminished by safety and comfort. “I can’t do it…”

  “You need to,” Gwen says. “It’s important.”

  “What if they’re not here?” I ask, looking for any excuse to turn back.

  “Grandmother said they were here, right?”

  She waits for me to reply, but I’ve got nothing to offer aside from hiccups of sorrow.

  “She wouldn’t lie to you,” Gwen says. “Not about that.”

  She and Grandmother hit it off, despite not sharing a language. Unified by their affection for me, they became close, and for that reason, both of us now bear the red half-circles of the Dalandala on our foreheads.

  Gwen takes my hand, and despite never having been here before, she leads me along the path. Hours later, she slows when we reach the first skulls, their aged appearance now sporting the first signs of moss growth, as they stare back at us.

  “All of them are family members?” she asks, looking closely at a skull.

  “Of Mapinguari,” I say, remembering the somber tone in which Grandmother spoke when she told me about the tradition.

  “How many were there, before you?”

  I shrug. “Hundreds. Maybe more. The older skulls would have dissolved by now.”

  We continue past the columns of skulls, slowing again when the end is in sight. My legs quiver as we near the whitest skulls. I do my best to avoid looking at the last of them. I hold on to the wall, arms shaking, and I take several deep breaths.

  “What happened to him?” Gwen asked. The question and her tone are almost light. She’s redirecting me again, calming me down. It nearly works until I look at the skull in question and note that it is the third to the end, the skull and part of its face crushed in.

  With a somber sigh, I face the hollow eyes. “This…was Tikuna.”

  I don’t have to say anything else. She knows the name. Knows who he was. And how he
died.

  “I’m sorry,” I tell the dead man, and then I push past my fears to the next skull in line.

  When I see it, I can’t stop my sob. My whole body shakes as I pick up the only skull on the wall that isn’t human. “This was my girl.”

  Gwen is crying now, too, nearly as hard as me. She places her hand on the feline skull. “Oro…”

  I kiss the skull between the eye sockets and put her back in her place of honor. Then I step to the side, eyes closed. When I open them, I stare into the empty eyes of Ashan. So much of her is missing, but I recognize the bone structure.

  My legs fail me when I try to lift her up. On my knees, lost in sorrow, I hear the words, “I have her.”

  When I look up again, Gwen is kneeling beside me, Ashan’s tear-soaked skull in her hands. “This is her? Ashan?”

  My blubbering is all the confirmation she needs. There are so many things I want to say, so many ways I’ve pictured this moment, but I can’t bring myself to speak.

  Gwen holds the skull like it is the most precious thing in the world, and then with more grace, mercy, and love than I’ve managed in my entire life, she kisses the top of Ashan’s head and says, “Thank you.”

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  For some reason, when I’m going through a tough time, I tend to put my characters through the ringer. It happened with Infinite, as I wrote the book while in the midst of an emotional breakdown and the news that I had a brain tumor (spoiler: turns out I didn’t). The result was an emotionally charged story that went on to become my bestselling novel ever. A year later, and it’s still doing amazing.

  About a year after writing Infinite, I started having strange symptoms, which I learned were neuropathic. Burning skin, shooting pains, constricting muscles, numb arms and legs, micro-spasms through my body, tingling all over, and my old friend: panic. I couldn’t be touched. Couldn’t take showers. Physical contact of any kind felt like a hot flame. Turns out the emotional breakdown from the summer before was the same problem: a tick-borne disease called Bartonella, for which I am STILL being treated and making slow progress in defeating. Instead of just attacking my peripheral nerves, it spread to my whole nervous system. Fun!

  While this was all going on, and I was bedridden, I wrote Alter. My discomfort fueled Greg’s painful journey, each page acting as catharsis. The result is a novel that, I think, is as emotionally charged as Infinite, and hopefully just as good of a story. If you think so, please post a review for Alter on Amazon and/or Goodreads. Infinite’s success is thanks to the many readers who posted reviews—more than 300 on Amazon and nearly 6000 on Audible! The power to make or break a book resides with the fans, and I hope you’ll support Alter in the same way.

  So where is my health now? Confused. I still have the neuropathy, and struggle many days just to do normal things. But I’m writing every day now, and starting to get out of the house. I take about 20 pills twice a day, including two different antibiotics. I’ve been on four since October. While I’m pretty discouraged about feeling crappy still, it generally takes 1–2 years to kick this thing, so I’m in for the long haul and trying to learn what I can from the ordeal, including how to write better characters, and how to show mercy to people who are suffering.

  Thank you very much for coming along for my own personal journey. It’s been an interesting one, and has only been possible because I have awesome readers (that’s you!).

  —Jeremy Robinson

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks to Kane Gilmour for the awesome edits, as always, and to the best proofreaders an author could hope for, Heather Beth, Roger Brodeur, Julie Carter, Liz Cooper, Dustin Dreyling, Donna Fisher, Dee Haddrill, Jeff Sexton, and Kelly Tyler. Thanks to my family for not just supporting my creative endeavors, but my journey back toward health. Love you guys.

  Older e-reader? Click here.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Jeremy Robinson is the international bestselling author of sixty novels and novellas, including Apocalypse Machine, Island 731, and SecondWorld, as well as the Jack Sigler thriller series and Project Nemesis, the highest selling, original (non-licensed) kaiju novel of all time. He’s known for mixing elements of science, history and mythology, which has earned him the #1 spot in Science Fiction and Action-Adventure, and secured him as the top creature feature author. Many of his novels have been adapted into comic books, optioned for film and TV, and translated into thirteen languages. He lives in New Hampshire with his wife and three children. Visit him at www.bewareofmonsters.com.

  ALSO by JEREMY ROBINSON

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  Antarktos Rising

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  Xom-B

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  MirrorWorld

  Apocalypse Machine

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  The Distance

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  Alter

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  Project Maigo

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  (aka: I Am Cowboy)

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  Callsign: King

  Callsign: Queen

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  Callsign: King 2 – Underworld

  Callsign: Bishop

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  Callsign: King 3 – Blackout

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  Copyright ©2018 by Jeremy Robinson.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means without written permission of the author.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events or locales or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

  No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information address Jeremy Robinson at

  jrobinsonauthor@gmail.com.

  Cover design copyright ©2018 by Jeremy Robinson

  Visit Jeremy Robinson on the World Wide Web at:

  www.bewareofmonsters.com

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  Jeremy Robinson, Alter