Entropy first contact, p.10
Entropy (First Contact), page 10
“Well, I don’t know who they are, but they were right.”
He sets his hands on his hips, resting them on his belt, with a military-issue sidearm in a holster. He looks around, with his eyes darting from one side to another, and Lisa knows she’s got him. Lisa has interviewed drug lords. Life is cheap in the jungle. She’s negotiated with thugs she knew were murderers. They could smell fear. If it weren't for her steely gaze and ability to bluff and intimidate, there’s more than one man who would have raped and killed her in the muddy waters north of Puerto Belen, where one side of the river is controlled by the Peruvian Army and the other is in the lawless hands of the Colombian drug lords. Major McCallum might be austere, but he’s tame by comparison.
“We were waiting for news from a spotter aircraft, but yes, this is where the Gulfstream went down.”
“And you know this how?”
He pauses, but she knows she’s got him.
“We have the ability to detect metal.”
Lisa fills in the gaps. “From space. You have satellite surveillance that can pinpoint metallic objects to within a few feet.”
He lowers his eyes. “It’s something we’d rather didn’t become public knowledge.”
“It’s a spy satellite,” Lisa says, pointing at Captain Cincao. “And you’d rather he didn’t know about it.”
“We don’t spy on our friends.”
“Of course not.”
“Only the Chinese,” Captain Cincao says with fake enthusiasm, clearly trying to defuse the tension. “So, you’re waiting on us for formal notification?”
The major nods, pursing his lips tightly.
“And you can’t just drop us off with a chopper, huh?” Lisa asks.
“Nope,” the major replies. “Too dangerous. The trees in this region top out at 250 feet in height.”
“Yeah,” Lisa says. “That’s a long way down.”
Captain Cincao looks at the grid reference. “I will have our Search and Rescue team announce the discovery of wreckage at these coordinates. That will give us a plausible reason to go into the Vale.”
“And when are we going in?” Lisa asks.
The major replies, “At first light.”
Compassion
“Mykei. Mykei,” the native warrior says to Mick and Jillian, waving with his hand, directing them along a narrow track weaving its way through the jungle. Mick obliges. He’s slow and in pain, but he grits his teeth and rocks forward on his one makeshift crutch. The hollow metal tube bends under his weight. It wasn’t designed for this kind of use. It’s a chrome-plated handrail. With each step, he’s left wondering if it is going to buckle beneath him.
“I’m scared,” Jillian says as Mick hobbles beside her, working the crutch under his armpit. Mick lowers his head. There’s nothing he can say, so he remains silent. He has no idea how far they’ve traipsed through the Amazon, but his arm hurts. The crutch compresses arteries and nerves in his armpit as it takes his weight. His leg is throbbing. He needs to rest, but he doubts he’ll find compassion in the angry young man pushing them on ahead of him. Mick is still in shock. He was taken aback by how ruthless the native warrior was when he took down Jillian. A bruise has formed on her forehead. Blood trickles from the broken skin above her right eye.
“What are we going to do?” she asks, swatting a mosquito the size of her thumbnail. Fresh blood splatters on the back of her hand where it sat feasting.
“Nothing,” Mick says, speaking in a soft voice even though he’s confident the native doesn’t understand English.
“Nothing? But we have to do something.” Jillian rubs her forearm, crushing the ants swarming over her skin. Red welts rise from dozens of bites, but her mind is in disarray. Mick can see the disconnect from the glazed look in her eyes. Shock has taken hold. He knows. He understands. He feels the same way. Pain leaves reality in the background, yelling at them like a stranger in the distance.
“Right now, we need to remain calm.”
“My father’s out there,” Jillian says in a soft voice.
“Your father’s dead,” Mick replies, not meaning to be quite so blunt, but he’s in agony. It’s difficult to be considerate with his leg throbbing. “I’m sorry, I really am.”
“No, I saw him,” Jillian says, on the verge of tears. “He spoke to me.”
Mick is blunt. It’s all he can manage. “I saw his body lying in the mud… He didn’t make it.”
“No, no, no,” Jillian says. “That can’t be.”
“Just… focus on what comes next,” Mick says, struggling with the pain surging through his leg. “We need to stay focused.”
As the native is behind them, he has control. At times, when they round a tree or cross a stream cutting through the forest, Mick sneaks a glimpse of the young man, wanting to assess him, to better understand him.
At a guess, the native is in his late teens or early twenties, but it is impossible to be sure as his complexion is smooth and his body lean. With dark black hair cut in a rough fringe and small, beady eyes, he looks menacing. Black mud has caked on his skin. It’s cracked, giving the appearance of scales that shift as his muscles flex.
The mask the native donned has been made out of a caiman skull, a close cousin of the North American alligator. Its armored skin is black and stippled. Ridges run from its eyes to its snout. Teeth protrude from its jaw, threatening menace. Mick wonders if the slaughter of this creature was part of some coming-of-age ceremony, giving the mask almost mystical significance to the warrior. Now, it hangs from the native’s loincloth, bouncing against his right hip.
The young warrior is holding a bow and an arrow in his left hand. His fingers wind their way between the bow and around an arrow pressed lightly against the taut gut string. The bow itself is made from a single branch, probably from one of the trees the monkeys swing from. It’s been stripped of bark and worn smooth. Mick doubts it would reach more than fifty yards, but given the density of the forest, that’s all that’s needed. All the native needs to do is raise it up and draw. If they ran, Jillian might make it into the thick foliage, but Mick wouldn’t. Even then, she’s unlikely to outrun a native tracker for more than thirty or forty yards before he either crash-tackles her again or fires an arrow into her back.
When he first took down Jillian, he was using a spear. He seems to have stashed that somewhere along the trail. He must have caches located throughout the jungle where he can replenish his arrows and spears rather than carrying everything with him all the time. Mick’s not sure, but he thinks he leaves them in the hollow of some of the bigger trees. As dense and inaccessible as the jungle seems to Mick, he realizes this is the warrior’s backyard.
As for the caiman mask, the fact that the native has removed it probably isn’t a good sign. While he was wearing it, he felt the need to hide behind a mask. He needed the caiman to feel strong. Now, he has no such compulsion. He’s in command.
“But there’s only him,” Jillian says. “For now, there’s only one native, but back at his village.”
“There’s nothing we can do.”
“We could run. Split up. He could only follow one of us.”
Mick is tired. “I can’t run. He’d kill me with a few blows and then put an arrow in your back before you made it more than a hundred yards.”
“But… But if there are more of them.”
“There will be more of them,” Mick says. From the tremble in her voice, he knows she’s terrified. He needs her to get to a point of acceptance. Panicking is not going to help.
Jillian stammers. “W—What are you going to do?”
We became you pretty damn quick, but Mick understands. She’s a child. Her parents are dead. She’s in the middle of the Amazon rainforest, and she’s been attacked by an angry native. What are you going to do, Mick? As much as he doesn’t want to admit it, he’s powerless and out of options. He’s still got the flare gun tucked into the small of his back. It’s visible to the native, but the young man probably doesn’t realize what it is. With any luck, a plane will fly over, and Mick can fire the flare to let them know where they are. He grimaces as his broken leg clips a tree root.
“We need to plead for mercy,” Mick says, struggling to talk through the pain. “Compassion. This guy. He’s taking us to his village. There will be older people there. They might help.”
“Might?”
“I’m sorry, Jillian,” Mick says, rocking on his crutch and avoiding a tangle of vines winding their way across the path. “I really am sorry… This is all my fault… You and your family. You should be in Lima. And me? I should be lazing by a hotel pool downtown, waiting for my next flight.”
“I—I don’t want to die.”
“I know,” is all Mick can say in reply. He’s got no answers and offers no lies for comfort.
Sunlight glistens through the canopy. Shadows dance across the jungle. Ahead, natives are working in a clearing. Trees have been cut down to allow the sun to reach the forest floor. The women are topless, wearing leather loincloths. Their skin is smooth. They see the young man with two Europeans marching ahead of him and cry out in alarm. Several of the women flee. It’s as though they’ve seen ghosts trudging up the muddy path. From the appearance of their pale skin and the shock from crashing and being taken captive, Mick suspects the two of them look more like corpses than people. Smoke rises from a fire in front of a grass hut on the far side of the clearing. Children play in the shadows. They point and whisper at the arrival of strangers.
Several native men stride down the path toward them, also wearing scant loincloths. They have headdresses that signify their status within the tribe. Colorful feathers stick out of a band made from beads running around each of their heads. There’s considerable discussion and consternation between them. They yell at the young native behind Mick and Jillian. One of them has a spear raised, held in a clenched fist over his shoulder, pointing at Mick. The sharpened stone head is menacing. Twine holds jagged flint on a smooth wooden shaft that’s easily five feet in length. Given the man’s muscular physique, Mick has no doubt that it would penetrate his chest and easily break bones if thrown at him. His heart races, pounding inside his ribcage.
“What are we going to do?” Jillian asks, being somewhat understandably stuck on that point.
“Don’t look at them,” Mick says. The last thing he needs is for Jillian to panic and run. He’s guessing, but from what he can see of the way the women cower in the shadows, this is a patriarchal society. Were she to react or yell or show any defiance, they would both be killed. “Bow slightly. Be quiet. Stay low. Show respect.”
“Okay,” Jillian replies, swallowing the lump in her throat and looking down at the mud caked on her shoes.
Mick lowers his head as well, but his eyes dart around, wanting to take in the details of life in the village, looking for clues that might save their lives. Several more men join the elders. They’re carrying spears and axes, but they’re relaxed, holding them by their sides.
The young native walks around in front of the two of them as they stand there on the worn track. He points at them, talking rapidly and gesticulating, waving his hand around, still holding the bow and arrow in one hand.
“Kneel,” Mick says softly to Jillian, sensing the shifting tide of the argument. The young man is being shouted down by his elders. He’s offended them, but it is impossible to know what’s being said.
A gentle rain begins to fall.
Jillian drops to her knees in the grass and raises her hands, holding them slightly behind her ears. Hopefully, the villagers see this as a universal sign of surrender. Mick hops on one leg, using the crutch as a brace as he lowers himself beside her, resting one knee in the grass before the other. Pain shoots through his body. He can’t help but grimace, but he, too, keeps his head low.
The men trample the grass and mud around them, stepping so close to him that he can smell the sweat on their bodies. Several of them kick his injured leg. Whether they’re clumsy or cruel is impossible to tell, but the pain is unbearable. Mick falls to the grass. He grabs at his lower leg, desperate for respite. He rolls on his side. Spears are pointed at him, but he’s beyond caring. The pain is too much. He swears.
“Fucking hell! Dear Mother of God! Jesus, Mary and Joseph have mercy!”
The sharpened flint of a spear points at his throat. He’s in agony and not thinking straight. Pain is the only language. It has to be universal. They must know. They cannot be so disconnected as to not understand pain.
The nearest man prods him with his spear, jabbing at his arm and chest. Lying on his back, Mick grabs the spear, holding the shaft just beyond the sharpened stone end, but he doesn’t try to pull it from the native’s grasp. He simply repositions it, holding it over the center of his chest, even with his sternum.
“Do it! Just fucking do it! If you’re going to stab me, put me out of my goddamn misery!”
The natives laugh. Glee lines their smiles and their yellow-stained teeth.
To his surprise, it’s Jillian who reacts. She throws herself on his chest, pushing the spear away, yelling, “No. Don’t. Leave him alone! Can’t you see he’s injured?”
The men are taken aback. They retreat a few steps, still pointing their spears at the two of them from all angles. They’re shocked by the young teenage girl pleading for this injured man’s life.
Jillian addresses all of them, turning as she speaks. “How can you be so cruel? Have you no shame?”
Beyond the men, the women gather, standing back in the grassy field. They talk in hushed whispers, but the men notice, turning their heads slightly, not understanding Jillian’s cry, but listening to the women’s words.
“He’s hurt,” Jillian says, shifting her focus from one man to the next. All Mick can do is lie there, gritting his teeth, desperately trying to make it through the next few seconds.
“Help him,” Jillian says, but Mick can see she’s appealing to the women. “Please.”
There’s no way anyone understands what she’s saying, but they don’t need to. They can see. They can feel. From their perspective, the two of them are members of some far-flung exotic tribe. Whether they are treated as animals for the slaughter or humans like the rest of the tribe will determine whether they live or die, and Mick wonders about their contact with outsiders, people from Peru or Brazil. As best he understands it, this is an uncontacted tribe. He and Jillian might be the first Europeans they’ve ever seen.
Rain mats down Jillian’s hair. She clings to Mick, reaching across his chest and holding onto his far shoulder as she looks up at the villagers. It’s at that moment that Mick realizes he’s her only link with civilization. If he dies, she’s utterly lost and alone. He’s an adult. He is supposed to have all the answers and provide reassurance and stability, but at the moment, he’s struggling to think, let alone speak. Pain comes in waves, overwhelming him.
Lying on his back in the long grass, Mick looks at the villagers murmuring among themselves. Jillian’s outburst has taken them aback. Her tears move them. It’s strange to see compassion welling up in the eyes of the women and even some of the men. It seems they can imagine his pain, and that causes them distress. Even though they’re from vastly different cultures, separated by tens of thousands of years and innumerable steps in language, there’s an awareness of their shared vulnerability as fellow humans. The villagers probably assume Mick and Jillian are related. They have no way of knowing the two of them aren’t from the same family, but what relation do they need beyond their humanity?
Several of the women push past the men. They kneel beside the two of them. There’s kindness in their dark eyes. Rain runs over them. Droplets roll over their naked breasts. Their bodies are lean. Mick sees only their compassion. The women talk to the men who are still standing around, but the leaders have lowered their guard.
Several of them put down their weapons and join in, carrying Mick to the large meeting hut in the center of the village. One of the women tenderly raises his injured leg. Jillian walks alongside them, holding onto his hand, and that strikes Mick as profound—touch is healing. It’s all she can do, and in the middle of the Amazon rainforest, it’s as soothing as a shot of morphine.
Mick is carried into a large hall in the middle of the village. Although the surrounding huts have walls, the communal meeting hall is open, allowing the wind to blow through the sides, bringing in the rain and allowing moist air to swirl above the raised stone floor. To his untrained eye, the roof appears thatched. In the center of the hall, a fire smolders rather than burns. Embers glow in the shadows. Gently, Mick is placed on a bed of fern fronds. They’ve been interlaced, being crisscrossed in several layers. To his surprise, it’s as comfortable as a mattress.
The natives speak to him as though in English, babbling and pointing. Wood is placed on the fire. Rather than throwing logs on the ashes, they’re leaned together in the shape of a triangle, allowing the breeze to reach the embers and catch the wood alight. Mick is sweating. Even with the rain, he’s hot, and yet the fire is comforting—it’s the smell, the crackle of wood burning, the flicker of light around him.
Mick rests his head on the long, interwoven flax leaves and looks up at the ceiling. Rough-hewn timber beams form a frame not dissimilar to the A-frame of a house.
Jillian kneels beside him. “What are they going to do with us?”
Mick closes his eyes. He can’t respond. He’s too tired, in too much pain, and is fighting just to stay cognizant. The only future he’s worried about is the next thirty seconds. His leg throbs. Lying still helps, but he needs time. Deep down, though, he knows nothing can be done for him. Not here. Not in the middle of the jungle. He needs a doctor at a minimum, and ideally an ICU bed, along with a shit-ton of drugs, as the pain he feels in his abdomen suggests he has internal injuries as well as a broken leg. He slows his breathing, wanting to shift his focus from the ache. His leg feels as though it’s on fire. There’s bruising on his stomach. His arms are scratched and raw.
