Pray for Darkness: Terror in the Green Inferno (9 page)

Twelve

The man with the pinched brown face and missing front teeth collected his cards from the wooden table and began to arrange them in his callused hands. Sunlight slanted in through the open doorway of the two-storey bungalow, illuminating the flies that spun dizzying circles in its amber beams. The men were playing
Golpeado
, a local version of rummy. Stumpy fingers shifted the cards back and forth and two bushy eyebrows knitted with the effort of trying to read the cards in the ruddy light. At last, the man’s black eyes sparkled as the meld began to reveal itself, and he knew that he was “going rummy.” He was fifty-three years old and his mop of hair was thick and black, with not a hint of silver. This was Felix, the oldest of the river boat guides.

Grinning at last, he laid the rummy meld down on the table for the others to see. With a collective groan, the other two men tossed their cards down in disgust. Like Ernesto, Felix was a born member of the Ese Eja tribe and had grown up on the banks of the Amazon. Though the other guides sometimes teased him about his advanced age, they also respected him, and his word was gospel among the young men who sought a better life through the tourist trade. Felix’s fellow players, Felipe and Oscar, were brothers. The man with the toffee-colored complexion, Felipe, was the elder at twenty-five and already had a wife and two children. At just over six feet tall and rippling with lean muscle, he seemed, at first, an imposing figure, though those close to him knew him as an affable person with a penchant for playing practical jokes. Three years his junior, Oscar shared neither his brother’s physique nor his good looks. He was a squat, apelike man with a lazy eye and a large mole on his right cheek, from which sprouted several wiry hairs. Neighborhood bullies had flattened his nose when he was just a boy, and in the onset of adulthood, it gave him the appearance of a brawler. Oscar seldom spoke, and everyone, including his own brother, suspected that he had been born a bit slow.

Felix laughed and collected his winnings: a pack of cigarettes and a little more than twelve Peruvian
nuevos soles
. Looking across the table, Felix opened the new pack of cigarettes, making a point to sniff the fresh tobacco just to rub it in. The younger men watched with sad, brown eyes; grumpy with indignation. Felipe muttered something obscene, and Felix laughed. He pulled a few cigarettes from the pack, holding them up as a kind of peace offering, and then pushed them across the table. Felipe and Oscar’s faces broke into sudden joyful smiles.
“Gracias, gracias!”

Felix nodded, getting up from the table. “I’m going for a walk,” he told them. “I will see if I can be equally lucky with a fishing pole. Would anyone like to come?” The two boys looked at him through a cloud of smoke and shook their heads in unison. Felix shrugged. He left the
soles
on the table; they were good boys, and he trusted that the money would still be there upon his return. Grabbing a beer from a cooler and stuffing it into his pocket, he walked outside into the sunset and headed down the rutted path to the water.

By the river was a small dock with two canoes and a
peki-peki
. Off to one side was a small storage shed. Felix lifted the latch and removed his favorite fishing pole, a simple affair he’d fashioned himself, which consisted of little more than a bamboo rod, a rusted reel, and some string. Next, he lifted out a plastic tackle box. After many years beneath the glare of the equatorial sun, the once-vibrant aquamarine had long since dulled to gray. He supposed, in a strange way, the tackle box reminded him of himself: old and worn, yet fully able to serve its function.

Felix opened the tackle box and hunched over to inspect its contents, eyes straining in the twilight. Inside were all the various tools of his favorite pastime: a variety of homemade weights, hooks, flies, and lures made of rubber, wood, and metal. Though the once-gleaming barbs of the hooks had since dulled with oxidation, a few of the lures retained the glamour of their former glory; bright splashes of red, green, and blue. Felix picked up a medium-sized lure—similar in size and shape to the bowl of a serving spoon. The lure, which was painted a loud, unnatural green, was adorned with a few small, brightly-colored feathers that helped to give the little fish the appearance of having a tail and also acted as a stabilizer in the water.

Turning the lure in the light, he examined it for defects. This was his favorite and most reliable lure, and it conjured up his crowning achievement as a fisherman: the memory of the time he once landed a massive
pirarucu
. Better known to the foreigners as
arapaima
, the fish was more than six feet long from nose to tail and had weighed well over two hundred pounds. Felix had been a younger man back then, and still packed with the hard muscles of youth, yet it had taken well over an hour before he was able to land his mighty prize. In the end, it was worth it though; he had triumphantly returned to the village with his trophy, and those who were present still spoke about it from time to time. The story usually began with
Did you ever hear the story about the giant pirarucu that Felix caught? It was the largest one I ever saw, bigger than any man in the village. Big enough to swallow a child…

Felix’s fishing glory had taken place long before the waterways became polluted, before the river was wrought with sport fishermen who were too unskilled to use handmade lures and rods on the more elusive fish. In those days, the giant fish were still seen with some level of frequency, and it was always a wonder to cast one’s line or net into the river and await what luck or fate might bring you. That was part of any fisherman’s attraction to the sport—that sense of mystery, that climactic moment just before some unknown thing from
down there
was wrestled to the surface for human eyes to behold. Of course, for the local people, nourishment was always a priority. Nowadays, one was lucky to catch something that was even big enough to eat, maybe a bass or a catfish, let alone one of the giants. Were there still monster fish out there? Felix thought so, though their population was steadily depleting. Much like the jaguar and the puma, the river giants had pushed farther into the jungle to seek safety from the humans who hunted them. Felix doubted he’d catch such a fish this evening, but one could always hope.

Well, something was better than nothing. One species that he was still able to catch with some regularity on this stretch of river was the
pacu
, a strange fish with flat, humanlike teeth, which were used for eating nuts that dropped into the water. Though not as tender as the
pirarucu
, the
pacu
was still very tasty when pan-fried. Maybe tonight the spirits would bless him with good fishing. He fluffed up the feathers a bit and then added a little clump of brown stuff to the hook. The brown stuff was a mixture of saliva, ground Brazil nuts and seeds, combined with a little bit of fish oil—his secret weapon against the
pacu
.

After stringing up the lure, Felix carried the rod to the end of the dock. He flicked his wrist and the line shot out. With a small plop, the bobber breached the surface ten or so yards away and then popped back up to be carried another twenty yards downstream in the swirling current. Satisfied with his cast, Felix pulled the bottle of beer from his pocket, twisted off the cap, and drank. The sun crouched low on the horizon, and the river was a dark mirror. In the reflection, he had to squint to see the bobber, which created its own little wake on the surface. He had almost finished his beer when he caught a glimpse of a dugout canoe drifting toward him from the upstream bend of the river. He squinted into the gloom, trying to see if he could recognize the boat by its design, but his eyes were not what they used to be, and anyway, he was content with waiting. Lighting a cigarette, he leaned back on his arms, letting his feet dip into the brown water.

A few moments later, the canoe careened toward the shore, butted a log protruding from the shallow water, and continued its slow drift. Now curious, Felix grunted as he rose, puffing on his cigarette. Though it was still more than fifty yards from him, it was now clear that the craft was empty. It bumped off a few branches and became ensnared by some overhanging bushes, and Felix was forced to get in his own canoe to investigate.

As he paddled upstream to the trapped canoe, the thought crossed his mind that he should tell one of the other river boat drivers where he was going. But the canoe was so close to where he was sitting, it seemed an unnecessary inconvenience to walk back to the guides’ lodge to report such a mundane find.

He pulled his canoe alongside the empty one. As he suspected, it was abandoned. On the floor lay a rusty machete, some clothes, and a small tackle box with the lid open, full of fishing lures. Felix looked for water inside the canoe—a sure sign that the passenger or passengers had fallen overboard—but there was none. Then he noticed something strange about the tackle box. Leaning over, he used his paddle to slide it closer to him. When it was within reach, he lifted the bulky box up onto his knees.

A few flies were buzzing around one of the little compartments and he waved them away. Inside he found a variety of lures of all shapes, sizes, and colors, but one in particular stood out among the rest. It was a hideous-looking thing: red and brown, with a long, dark streamer spilling off one end. Squinting, he picked up the lure and examined it in the fading light, turning it around and around in his callused hands. The lure seemed to be constructed of some type of organic material. It was soft; it was pliant; it was sticky and wet.

“Qué es esto?”
he wondered out loud, baffled by the peculiar craftsmanship.
What is this?

With a sudden cry of disgust, he dropped the lure into the river, and watched it disappear into the murky depths.

For it was not a lure at all, but a knot of coarse black hair.

Human hair.

It was still attached to a chunk of the brown scalp from which it had been taken.

Thirteen

Far from the research center, it squatted in the muddy shallows, its long neck stretching out over the water as though scouring the river in search of prey. The gold-dredging machine sat perched atop its floating platform, a small crane extending outward at a forty-five degree angle, giving it the appearance of a head that rested at the end of an elongated cervix. After the neck there came the irregularity of the many gears, crankshafts, pulleys, and three drums of fuel, all of which gave the vague impression of a segmented, humped body. At the opposite end of the platform was the angular ramp that housed the dredger’s conveyor belt. The ramp sloped downward, almost to the surface of the water, thus completing the image of some prehistoric monstrosity by offering the suggestion of a long, flat tail.

A haphazard collection of scrap wood and metal, the dredger haunted the river’s edge, scaring away most of the animals that relied upon the river as a source of food and drink—a manmade monster where nothing manmade belonged at all. The smell of grease and diesel, combined with the otherworldly stillness of the object, were enough to keep the nocturnal animals on alert, and so they gave a wide berth to the beast that guarded the river, moored as it was to the nearby shore. Somewhere close by, a fish breached the surface and disappeared again with a small plop, and still the mechanical monster sat brooding while the forest creatures watched it from afar.

Only the insects seemed undaunted by the river god.

On the floor of the platform was a simple wooden bowl that contained some type of foodstuff, what appeared to be bits of meat and vegetables in a thin, reddish liquid, perhaps a kind of stew. The bottom of the bowl was alive with the movement of maggots, their white bodies twisting and squirming in the pallid light, and a few stray flies hovered protectively above the rim, spinning round and round, as though unable to stop their dizzying inertia.

There was plenty of room for more flies to join their brethren, but the others had recently discovered a far greater feast several yards away, just beyond the riverbank. There, at the end of a drag-trail and just inside the timberline, lay the prospector’s body.

Gazing up at the coldness of space, two wide, unblinking eyes conveyed the eternal horror of the gold prospector’s demise, an unmitigated mix of terror combined with the dim hint of awareness, perhaps even resignation, as though whatever he had glimpsed in those final moments was far more chilling than death itself.

As the stars spread across the sky, the putrefaction of the body invited more and more flies. Soon the strange death-dance ended, and the flies began to alight on the dead man’s face until it too became a shapeless void, a swirling universe of things that glittered and shone.

Rotting away beneath a nondescript T-shirt and a pair of threadbare, grease-spattered shorts, the prospector’s hands were gnarled and callused, the fingernails still packed with the grease of a hard day’s work. Two of the fingers jerked suddenly, as though pulled by an invisible string. The flies hummed louder in their agitation, tracing mad circles in the air, spinning round and round above the body.

Even as the fingers began to twitch with defective life, it was only enough to momentarily disperse the flies before they returned once more to feed on the prospector’s corpse.

Fourteen

Auggie twisted awake from an uncomfortable sleep. His bladder was full, and he’d put it off for as long as he could. Grabbing his headlamp, he climbed out from under the bug net, shining his light first on Cooper and then Ben, hoping that perhaps one of them needed to use the bathroom too, so he would at least have someone to accompany him there. But the two of them were fast asleep, sprawled out on their beds and breathing evenly in their dreaming.

No big deal
, Auggie told himself. Nevertheless, he slipped on his hiking shoes, not even considering the option of bare feet in the dark.

Out through the curtain, he focused the headlamp beam on the wooden floor. He turned out of the room, conscious of the groaning of the floorboards beneath his weight, a sound that was magnified by the night’s tranquility. A little ways down the hallway, he passed several rooms, silent at this hour. Presently he arrived at the long stretch of open walkway where he could see the darkness of the jungle on both sides and the moonlit sky overhead. He paused for a few seconds to consider the vastness of space, but a rustling beneath the walkway got him moving again.

Some impulse made him feel the need to touch something, to anchor himself to something solid, and he placed his hand on top of the wooden railing, sliding his palm across it as he walked. The smoothness of the wood beneath his fingers helped to calm him. Slowly he relaxed.

He was almost at the turn when something bit his finger. Pulling his hand back in revulsion, he angled his headlamp and saw a thin splinter jutting up from the handrail. Examining his finger, he saw a dark bead of blood forming in the place where the sliver of wood had jabbed him.

“Ouch,” he squeaked, and cursed under his breath. There was a splash of heat on the back of his neck and he jerked his head around, slightly embarrassed, suddenly sure that someone had been standing there to witness his wimpy reaction. But no one was there; it was the middle of the night, after all. For once, he was happy to be alone. Sucking on the wounded index finger, he continued on.

Could’ve been worse… Could’ve been a spider…

Auggie was still thinking about this as he arrived at the yawning entrance of the bathroom corridor. He caught a glimpse of movement and stopped, peering into the darkness. Billowing out from the doorways, the long curtains fluttered madly, creating a shifting gauntlet in the center of the corridor.

…The silken sad uncertain rustling of each purple curtain thrilled him, filled him with fantastic terrors never felt before…

He stepped back from the entrance, shivering at this half-remembered line from Poe. The thought entered his mind to turn back (he could always try to hold it until morning), but a sudden contraction of his bladder suggested he had better let nature take its course, and fast.

Screw it!

Ducking under the nearest curtain, he shuffled over to the toilet, struggling to get his pants unbuttoned before he pissed himself. Pushing his boxer shorts out of the way, he made it just in time. Taking in a deep breath, he tilted his head back and sighed in relief.

His business now complete, Auggie backtracked to the room, feeling strangely satisfied with himself at this small act of bravery. He was treading carefully, trying hard not to make too much noise, when he was once again overtaken by the sensation that he was being watched. Someone or something was on the walkway with him, stalking him from behind.

It’s nothing
, he assured himself.
Just your imagination
. Still, he could not shake that sensation of eyes watching him, waiting. The thought of it made him shiver, and he began to walk a little faster.

Turn around, then. Prove to yourself that there’s nothing there.

Auggie thought his inner voice was probably right, but he certainly wasn’t going to turn around and test the theory. Besides, what if there was something out there? What if it wanted him to turn around?

No, I’m not going to turn around. And you know why? Because there’s nothing there. I don’t have to prove—

But in the end he could not resist.

And even as he wheeled around, he wished he had just kept walking.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there wondering, fearing…

Beyond the flapping curtains and the bathroom stalls, a large shadow had appeared in the middle of the walkway, just beyond the reach of his light. He watched it for several seconds and it did not move.

Just my imagination…

Auggie was half-ready to believe this when the shadow took a clumsy step toward him. There was a brief pause, a moment in which the curtains continued to flutter like the wings of some terrible creature, and then the walkway trembled beneath his feet as the shadow lurched closer. Auggie tried to cry out for help, but his throat was locked up tight, and all he could manage was an inarticulate gasp.

An immense roar shattered the night and Auggie was jolted into motion. Mind racing, he broke into an all-out run, no longer concerned about the groaning floorboards, or what someone might think of his hasty retreat. Turning a corner, he raced down the corridor, certain beyond a doubt that
something
(perhaps more than one
something
) was hot on his heels.

Running faster, he burst through the curtain and into his room.

“Holy shit!” Cooper hissed. He clutched his chest. “You scared the hell out of me. Where’d you go?”

“There’s something out there!” Auggie managed between breaths.

Ben grabbed Auggie by the arm and pulled him to the railing. “Shine your light out there.”

Auggie turned his head to and fro, but even the high-output LEDs of the headlamp could do little to cut the darkness. As the light flashed back and forth across the foliage, the deep growl reverberated through the trees, much closer than before. Auggie fumbled at the headlamp, his fingers finally finding the power-off button. He pressed it, and the jungle disappeared in a wall of black.

“What the fuck is it?” Ben whispered, his voice full of fear and wonder. He turned the video camera on his friends, who were vague shapes in the moonlight.

Cooper spoke with confidence. “It sounds like Bigfoot.”

“How the fuck would you know what Bigfoot sounds like?”

A pause. “I saw a documentary about him on the Discovery Channel.”

Ben snickered a little. “Well, that explains it then.”

“What? You don’t believe me? I’m telling you, it’s a motherfucking Bigfeet—”

Cooper’s unintentional mispronunciation made them forget their fear. Leaning against the railing, Ben put his head against his forearm and laughed so hard that he nearly doubled over. Even as some nearby trees shook with movement, and the throaty howl grew nearer, he could not stop laughing.

Auggie breathed a sigh of relief. “I think I know what it is…” he said at last.

“Yeah,” Ben said, his eyes shining mischievously. “A Bigfeet.”

“Fuck you,” Cooper said, playfully. “You know what I meant.”

“No, I think that’s a howler monkey.”

Ben turned the camera on Auggie. “Are you sure, Professor?”

Cooper gazed into the darkness beneath the trees. “Are you kidding me? That’s a monkey? It sounds like King-fucking-Kong out there.”

“No, I’m not sure. But I think that’s a howler monkey. Probably more than one, judging by the sound.”

“Well,” said Ben. “That solves that. I’m going back to bed.” With that, he powered down the camera.

One by one, they retreated to their separate beds. There was the rustle of movement and the squeaking of bedsprings as they settled in again. There was a period of tranquility, broken only by the gusts of the howler monkey.

“Bigfeet,” Auggie repeated with a nervous chuckle, grateful that his friends could not see him trembling beneath the thin fabric of the mosquito net.