Bad Scene

by Max Tomlinson

  Another shot cracked out. But further in the distance. Their voices were indistinct. She’d shaken them. She gave a massive exhalation of relief as she slowed down to a trot.

  She swung back onto the dirt road where she could make better time, kept jogging until she reached the two-lane highway along the river. Gasping for air, sweating, she sheathed the knife, turned uphill, back towards Baños. A good twenty-five kilometers. She needed to flag a ride before the Kerkers sent out a search party. But she was off their property.

  By the time she reached the waterfall where she had rebuffed the truck driver, she found a couple of vehicles parked. Sightseers. She stopped for a moment, removed the knife in its scabbard from her belt, tucked the scabbard in her right hiking boot. Awkward but no one was likely to give her a ride with a knife showing.

  She asked the sightseers in Spanish whether anyone was headed to Baños. No luck. She ran back to the road. Couldn’t run quite as fast with the damn knife in her boot. If it got to be a problem, she’d have to toss it.

  Not long after, she heard a large vehicle groaning up the mountain. She spun.

  A beer truck crawled around the corner.

  She stuck her thumb out. If he didn’t stop, she’d jump on the back of the thing anyway. He was going slowly enough.

  She cupped her hands around her mouth and shouted in Spanish that she was headed to Baños. That he didn’t have to stop, lose his momentum, she could jump on board.

  He gave a thumbs-up, shifted down, slowing the truck. She dashed over, climbed up on the running board, got into the truck as he shifted back up.

  She needed to get hold of the military before Die Kerk headed up to Tungurahua tomorrow.

  CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE

  It was early evening by the time Colleen finally reached the Church of the Virgin of the Holy Water in Baños. With the sun down, the north side of Tungurahua’s crest glowed pink above town. If it hadn’t been so threatening, it would have been beautiful.

  It was cold, and she did up her jacket. She was hungry. But that was the least of her worries.

  A big soldier standing guard in front of the church had his rifle slung over his shoulder like a toy, barrel pointed to the ground. She asked where she could find the officer in charge of the evacuation.

  He told her she would have to come back in the morning.

  “Too late,” she said. “Die Kerk is planning to come en masse to the volcano tomorrow. Hundreds of people. Many will die.”

  He called his superior on a radio. A crackled conversation ensued. When he was done, he told her she would need an escort to see Lieutenant Colonel Martinez. And that would take time.

  “How much time?” she asked.

  “I wish I could tell you. Everyone is tied up at the moment.”

  “Please just tell me where I can find Lieutenant Colonel Martinez.”

  He stood, blinking, eyeing her.

  “I’m not going to mention how I found out,” she said.

  He directed her to a hotel near the police station, about six blocks into town.

  She thanked him, dashed through the twilight streets. Few people were out, the odd soldier. Everything was dark, shut down.

  The hotel was a stately old colonial building across from a park. A generator chugged. It had power. She pleaded her case with a soldier at the door who got hold of Lieutenant Colonel Martinez’s adjutant. She waited in a narrow old tile lobby, cool and musty, visited the restroom, drank deeply from the faucet, rinsed her grubby face and hands, tucked in her shirt, pulled her hair into some semblance of normalcy with her fingers.

  She met the lieutenant colonel’s aide, a slender man with dark eyebrows. He told her to wait while he went and spoke with Lieutenant Colonel Martinez.

  In the hall, the hotel staff eyed her warily. She was a sweaty mess and disheveled to boot. Plus, she wasn’t local.

  The secretary returned.

  “This way.”

  She was shown into the hotel restaurant where the only patron was the lieutenant colonel finishing dinner at a table facing the entrance. The waiter was taking away an empty dessert plate. The officer, a man in his fifties with a fresh haircut, wore a smart uniform jacket and tie. He was lighting a cigar. A snifter of brandy and a cup of espresso sat on the white tablecloth before him. When he saw Colleen, he stood and asked her to sit down, despite her bedraggled appearance.

  She sat. Her stomach rumbled as she eyed the bread rolls in the basket.

  “I am told you have new information regarding Die Kerk,” he said, sipping coffee. She would have loved a cup of coffee. And a meal. Or two. But she pushed ahead, told him about the imminent suicides.

  He set his cigar in an ashtray. “You attended one of Die Kerk’s sermons?” he said, incredulity creeping into his voice.

  “Yes. I heard all this firsthand—from Brother Adem himself. Two days ago. At Verligting.”

  “Are you a member of the church?” he asked cautiously.

  “Not at all. My daughter is.”

  “And you came all the way from the United States to find her?”

  “To rescue her before it’s too late. She’s going to die, along with many others if something isn’t done.” She described how the volcano was an opportunity for the church to sacrifice members—vroulike offers—to an angry god.

  He relit his cigar, took a puff. “It’s not that I don’t sympathize with your situation. But my men are busy clearing out Baños.”

  “We’re talking about a minimum of twenty-two deaths tomorrow,” she reminded him. “There will most likely be more. And, if Die Kerk aren’t stopped, many more down the road.”

  “Possibly,” Martinez said, tapping ash. “We’re also talking about a bizarre sect living in the jungle. Foreigners who have fired shots at our people—citizens who need my immediate help. I have my orders. And less than half a battalion to carry them out. It’s a matter of priorities. I can’t divert precious resources to save some crazed suicide cult bent on their own destruction.” He frowned, took a puff on his cigar. “And who knows—these Kerkers may not even go through with it. Meanwhile, the volcano is a real threat to the city. It continues to get worse up there.”

  “How is it going to look when people jump to their deaths on your watch? Most of them norteamericanas?”

  He blinked in sympathy. “I’m afraid that is a risk we will have to take.”

  “When the worst happens, the international media will put you—and your superiors—under the magnifying glass. There will be inquiries by the American government.”

  “Are you threatening me?”

  “With a few men, you can stop this from happening.”

  He sighed. He was a decent man, just one under pressure.

  “Isn’t there any way you can send a small contingent up there with me?” she asked. “A few men? Think of what you’ll be preventing.”

  Lieutenant Colonel Martinez set his cigar down.

  “Let me see what I can do,” he said. “No promises.”

  A wave of relief washed over her.

  “Thank you,” she said. “Thank you.”

  CHAPTER FORTY

  Several hundred yards from the summit, Tungurahua glowed, lighting up the night sky for a moment before disappearing into a cloud of ashy fog. Colleen and half a dozen Ecuadorian soldiers negotiated the rocky path above the tree line, this side of the mountain, safe from the worst of the eruption. At fifteen thousand feet they puffed thin air, having hiked for much of the afternoon. Muscles were sore. The reek of sulfur was persistent. Near the top the wind grew bitter, whipping up the mountain. The ground was muddy as they plodded, much of the snow cover having melted due to the heat of the volcano.

  “I didn’t expect it to be cold,” she said to Marcos, one of the soldiers, puffing along behind her. He had grown up in the area, a Mestizo boy with smooth Indian features. “The air is sucked into the crater, like a fireplace,” he said.

  They saw no lava yet. Marcos said most of it ran on the western s
ide. They were on the east.

  “What about in there?” Colleen asked, nodding at the crater.

  “A different story,” Marcos said. “Hot. Hotter than a sauna.”

  Colleen stopped, caught her breath. Up above, toward the rim of the Throat of Fire, they saw no one. Where was Die Kerk?

  “I don’t get it,” Colleen said, lapsing into English for a moment. She repeated it in Spanish. “Die Kerk said today.”

  “Maybe the volcanarios are waiting for a complete eruption,” Marcos said, bracing his leg on the mountainside, leaning into it.

  “A wasted trip,” the lieutenant said, catching up. He was a slender man in a flat top military cap with the country’s coat of arms on the front. His face shone from the climb from Baños. Behind him the rest of the men grunted their way up the winding path. Moods were mixed, between those cautious of a potential clash with armed sect members, to those concerned about heading into the mouth of a volcano due to erupt. As they drew closer, with no Kerkers in sight, they seemed more worried about the latter.

  “I heard Brother Adem with my own ears,” Colleen said to the lieutenant. “Tonight’s the night.”

  “You heard an insane man make a wild statement at a sermon in order to motivate his flock.”

  “Today is the twenty-second of November,” she said. “It’s a significant date. There are twenty-two females for the first offering. Adem Lea is Angel 22. Numerology plays an important role in what they do. They’ll be here.”

  The lieutenant shook his head. “We have work to do.” He turned to the men. “Five minutes!” he shouted. “Then we head back to Baños.”

  The men stood at ease, one even breaking out cigarettes at this altitude.

  Colleen lifted the binoculars from her neck. Turned, fixed them beyond the twin towers of the Church of the Virgin of the Holy Water two miles away. Past town. In the direction of Verligting. She scanned the black horizon. Back and forth for the next several minutes.

  Nothing.

  How could she have been so wrong?

  “We need to head back,” the lieutenant said.

  Colleen scoured the darkness down the mountain. Nothing. East now. Toward the river that ran to Mera, where the waterfall was, the dark terrain bouncing through the lenses.

  Dots of light swam through her binoculars as she searched. She stopped, shifted back.

  Sparkles. She tightened the focus.

  “I think we have company, Lieutenant,” Colleen said, handing the lieutenant her field glasses. She pointed down the mountain.

  With a frown he took the binos. Put them up to his face.

  “Those are torches,” she said.

  “You’re right,” he said, adjusting the focus. “You are right.”

  “They’re getting closer,” the lieutenant said, looking through his own field glasses now. “Quite a number judging by the number of torches.”

  “About half of Verligting, I would say,” Colleen said. It would have taken all day to hike here. They were still a couple of miles away.

  “And only six of us.” The lieutenant turned to one of the men, his hand out. “Give me the radio. We’re going to need reinforcements.”

  It took well over an hour for the Kerkers to arrive, taking the same path the soldiers had to the summit, on the undisturbed side of the mountain. Torches led the way. The time felt like an eternity, Colleen wondering if Pamela was in the procession—she most likely was—and what was going through her mind right now. Hoping she could read her mother’s thoughts, her distant plea.

  Through the binoculars, Colleen spotted Brother Adem at the front of the line, several hundred yards away, sitting on the shoulders of a big man with a beard in black leather, who carried him like a child. Adem wore a rain poncho and a white surgical face mask. Several men in black berets walked on either side, some with face masks, all armed with rifles. Here and there along the line of people, rifle barrels poked out as well. Some members wore hooded ponchos in the cold.

  “Quite a few guns,” Colleen said to the lieutenant, who was watching as well through his field glasses. “There were about thirty guards at the camp. Not all of the camp is here but much of it is.”

  The lieutenant nodded silently as he scanned the approaching line. The soldiers were obscured in shadows. The Kerkers would not be expecting anyone waiting for them. But the numbers were not good for a potential conflict.

  The group drew closer and they could hear them chanting in Afrikaans, low and guttural. Colleen shuddered at their tone, primitive and forbidding. Death held a power that overcame anything else.

  “Dios mío,” one of the soldiers said. Another mumbled in agreement.

  And then, to her dismay, Colleen saw Pamela, walking behind Brother Adem with the twenty-two women, all in white robes. In the light of the torches, Colleen saw Pam’s red hair tied up with a garland. Her face was as pale as her gown, as if anticipating the death that awaited her. Colleen’s temple pulsed with worry. Her only child. How could she have let this happen? Her eyelid flickered. She needed to keep her wits about her. Control, stay in control.

  Other members trailed behind, dressed in this and that, more ponchos, more face masks against the sting of sulfur.

  Colleen lowered her field glasses, turned to the lieutenant. “Can’t we do anything?”

  He lowered his binoculars, frowned. “We need reinforcements.”

  “But that might take hours.”

  “If it even happens.” He motioned to the men. “Fall back!” They shifted to one side, with only a small rise to protect them. They waited while the group approached. Behind them, the wind shifted for a moment and they heard the volcano pop and hiss.

  The procession stopped when they saw Colleen and the soldiers over the rise. No one moved.

  The lieutenant strode out partway, shouted to Brother Adem in Spanish. “You are not permitted up the mountain. Turn around and go back the way you came.” He switched to passable English and repeated his command.

  No one moved.

  “Pamela!” Colleen yelled. “Just leave! Go! Please!”

  Pamela, clearly surprised, looked her way. Then she turned away, a troubled look on her face.

  A murmur of discussion between Brother Adem and his immediate men followed. The nerves along Colleen’s spine tingled.

  They pressed forward.

  “They’re not leaving,” the lieutenant said.

  She hadn’t really expected them to. “Can’t anything be done, Lieutenant?”

  The lieutenant took a deep breath.

  “Ready arms, men,” he said tightly.

  The soldiers spread out, unslinging their rifles.

  “There are hundreds of them,” one soldier said.

  “Not all of them are armed,” Colleen said. “Just the guards.”

  “Go back!” the lieutenant shouted again at Brother Adem. “Or you will be placed under arrest.”

  Brother Adem barked an order to his people. His “mount” fell back, presumably for Adem’s protection. He was swallowed up in the crowd.

  A number of Kerkers in black berets emerged from the group, rifles raised. They opened fire. The pop of gunshots broke the air amid the rush of wind. Colleen dropped to the muddy ground, as did the soldiers, getting into prone position, rifles ready.

  “Return fire!” the lieutenant shouted.

  Shots cracked the air, carrying on the wind. Although they were horizontal, the squad was partially exposed on the rise. Colleen prayed Pam was not in range.

  Die Kerk returned a barrage of gunfire.

  One of the soldiers shouted in pain, grabbed his side, slumped into a heap.

  “Fall back!” the lieutenant shouted to his men, waving his pistol.

  Unarmed, there was nothing Colleen could do apart from help another soldier drag the fallen man back to safety. Once out of the way, his head slumped lifelessly. The soldier who had helped her crossed himself. Colleen said a silent prayer, the soldier’s death drenching her with guilt. She notice
d that the dead man carried a sidearm in a holster. She unholstered his pistol, a Walther PP, stuck it in the waistband of her Levi’s. The other soldier eyed her.

  Brother Adem’s men kept firing, pinning them down as the procession filed past up the mountain. The best the soldiers could do was to hold off in a fallback position. Covered by the gunmen, the Kerkers proceeded up to the crater. Finally, the gunmen retreated up the rear of the line as well, falling in with the group. They shouted in Afrikaans and it was clear they were not in the least concerned with the consequences of their actions. People embracing death had advantages others did not.

  Colleen’s thoughts were riveted on Pamela as she watched the Kerkers wind up to the crest into the red glare through ashy fog.

  “Now what?” she asked the lieutenant after he radioed in his status. One man dead, another possibly wounded.

  “Still waiting for reinforcements. And a medic. The good news is that they are on their way. I requested four squads, but we’ll take whatever we get.”

  “Hours?”

  “Possibly.” He chewed his lip. “But I did request air support.”

  Colleen felt a jolt of encouragement. “I didn’t know you had any.”

  “We have two helicopters available for emergency evacuations. Who knows? Perhaps we’ll get one.”

  In the meantime, Brother Adem and his flock were determined to continue their death ritual.

  Colleen couldn’t wait.

  “I want to thank you and your men for your support, Lieutenant. Can one of them please lend me a poncho?” She wanted to blend in with the Kerkers.

  “No,” the lieutenant said, shaking his head. “Out of the question. You are not going up there alone.”

  “I’m afraid so. My daughter’s up there.”

  “I simply can’t allow it.”

  “I’m not holding you responsible for my safety,” she said. “But I have to do whatever I can before something happens to her.”

  “Wait for reinforcements,” he said.

  “I don’t have that kind of time.”

  He gave a sigh that became a nod. “Very well. I’ll radio in again. Stress that the situation is dire.”