Insects

A Novel

John Koloen

Watchfire Press

Copyright © 2015 John Koloen. All rights reserved.

Published by Watchfire Press.

This book is a work of fiction. Similarities to actual events, places, persons or other entities are coincidental.

Watchfire Press

P.O. Box 9056

Morristown, NJ 07963

www.watchfirepress.com

Cover design by Kit Foster

www.kitfosterdesign.com

Insects/John Koloen – 1st ed.

Print ISBN: 978-1-940708-82-9

e-ISBN: 978-1-940708-83-6

For Laura

Please visit watchfirepress.com/jk to receive updates on John Koloen’s upcoming books.

1

ON THE STREET below the apartment building on Avenue 7 de Setembro, several cars came to a screeching halt, followed by angry shouts in Portuguese and a brief honking of horns. Howard Duncan paid no attention, despite the open windows of his third-floor apartment overlooking the steamy, wet street below. Sweat dripping from his brow, he stared at the 15-inch laptop, his face inches from the LCD. Nearsighted, he’d removed his stylish horn rims to get a better look at the digital images but found only frustration. What he wanted was a big color print that he could examine under a magnifying glass, or a giant flat screen.

Frustration increased faster than the humidity. He felt his blood pressure rising, and left the small table in the kitchenette to pace through the two rooms that he shared with his assistant Cody Boyd. They were in Manaus to survey insects in the Rio Negro basin to fulfill the terms of Duncan’s grant, which he hoped would lead to a multi-year renewal or at least an extension. Like any graduate entomologist, Boyd hoped to discover a previously unidentified species that would launch his career.

“Did you see that?” Boyd shouted as he burst into the tiny apartment, nearly crashing into Duncan. He’d run up the three flights and had to catch his breath.

“See what?”

“I almost got hit by a jerk in a Fiat. I had the right-of-way, goddammit. I was lucky I didn’t drop the food,” Boyd said, holding out a plastic bag. “I got Brasileiroas and a couple pastels we can have now or later.”

Duncan acknowledged Boyd but continued pacing.

“They’re still warm,” Boyd said as he emptied the bag on the small table, pushing the laptop aside and pouring a cup of coffee from the French press on the small countertop. The coffee was tepid. He reheated it in the small microwave and asked Duncan if he wanted a cup.

Duncan approached Boyd from behind and, leaning against the back of Boyd’s chair, said gruffly, “I can’t tell a damn thing from your pictures. They’re a little blurry, and I don’t have a clue about their size. It would have been helpful if you’d put a ruler in the picture.”

Boyd sighed, having taken a bite from his buttered Brasileiroas roll. He had hoped to savor his breakfast in peace, but that was no longer possible.

Boyd had photographed the insects on a day trip some fifty miles from the office. He’d gone with a local guide on a boat to a narrow peninsula that jutted into the river like a jetty. He’d had no particular reason for stopping there other than it provided an easy landing and because it was piled with driftwood and seemed promising.

The insects were hidden under a pile of brush, and he was startled when he exposed them. They reminded him of cockroaches but were larger and shaped somewhat like a .50-caliber bullet. He ran off a series of photos using autofocus and autoexposure and then tried to pick one of the insects up with his bare hands. In an instant, he felt pain and dropped the bug. It had bitten him. Pulling his hand to his face, he saw a tiny, bloody cut, the skin torn. When he looked down, the insects were gone, scattering into the brush. He scoured the area for them, overturning limbs and driftwood and kicking the underbrush, but to no avail. They had disappeared.

Duncan was skeptical when Boyd reported back to the office.

“You know how long a .50-caliber bullet is?” he scoffed.

“I didn’t say they were the size of a .50-caliber bullet, just the shape, but they must’ve been eight, nine centimeters at least,” Boyd countered. “I’m tellin’ you, it was big, and it bit me. Just look,” Boyd held out his hand. He’d put a Band-Aid over the wound and peeled it back.

“Where?” Duncan asked. “I don’t see anything.”

Pulling the bandage off, Boyd waved the underside of the pad at his boss.

“See the spots of blood?”

Duncan glanced at the bandage skeptically.

“I see some blood. So you were bitten. Cockroaches can bite.”

“It wasn’t a cockroach. Why would I lie?” Boyd insisted. “Here, look.”

He squeezed his hand where the insect had sliced him. Up popped a droplet of blood.

“Now do you believe me?”

Duncan thought the conversation was going nowhere, shrugged his shoulders and waved his hand dismissively. Changing the subject, he asked if Boyd had collected specimens.

“The specimen was the one that bit me,” Boyd said defensively. “But I’ve got more pictures. What you looked at were just from the first memory card. I used two.”

“What’s on the card?”

“I haven’t looked at them yet.”

Duncan held his hand out.

“Give me the card, and I’ll download them into my laptop. I hope they’re better shots than the first card.”

Boyd grimaced. Duncan tended toward sarcasm and almost always made his criticisms known. Of course, that was part of his job with graduates. He rarely cut them slack.

Boyd fished out the camera from his bright yellow daypack and extracted the memory card.

“Now we’ll see just what kind of man-eating cockroach we’re dealing with,” Duncan said.

Duncan wasn’t certain about what he was seeing on his laptop as he returned to his desk. But he was certain it wasn’t a cockroach. Boyd stood behind him, staring at the screen. It was clear to him, standing four feet from the laptop screen, that it wasn’t a cockroach.

“Still think it’s a cockroach?” Boyd sneered with feigned indignation.

Duncan sighed deeply as if he had been holding his breath.

“Did you get dimensions?”

“I didn’t have a chance. Like I said, at least eight centimeters or more for the one that bit me, but there weren’t many of them. For a few seconds, they were there and then they were gone. Didn’t even have time to get the ruler out.”

“There’s nothing on the photos to give us scale,” Duncan said.

“You know, maybe I can get it from the Exif data on the file.”

“The what?”

“It’s a type of file format, but it includes information about focusing, distance, et cetera.”

“How does that help us?” Duncan said, looking toward Boyd.

“It should tell us the distance the lens was focusing.”

Duncan looked puzzled.

“If we know how far away the object is from the lens, we might be able to make at least an educated guess about its size. I know when I grabbed it, it was longer than my hand is wide.”

Duncan grabbed Boyd’s left hand and slapped a plastic ruler into it.

“Let’s just measure your palm,” Duncan said. “Seems like that would be the easiest and maybe the most accurate way to do it.”

“I guess that’s why you’re the boss, and I’m the worker bee.”

“Not really. I’ve got a grant, and you don’t.”

The palm of Boyd’s hand was almost exactly four inches wide.

“It was longer than your palm?”

“Yeah, but I can’t remember by how much. It bit me almost as soon as I picked it up. It was really aggressive. It didn’t try to escape until I dropped it.”

“But you’re sure it was bigger, so maybe we can assume it was at least four inches long.”

“Yeah, sure.”

“We can take that and get its width from the pictures, at least an estimate.”

Using a printout, they measured the length and width of the insect. Boyd mentally calculated the thickness at one inch. They exchanged surprised looks. Duncan whistled reflexively.

“What the hell is this thing?” he wondered.

2

FIFTY-FOUR-YEAR-OLD RAUL BARBOSA stood a chunky five-feet-four inches tall, sporting an unkempt salt-and-pepper beard that stretched nearly to his waist. It wasn’t that his beard was long so much as his torso was short. His head was covered with long, thinning, mostly gray hair. He often tied it back in a ponytail. His upper lip was hidden under the thick outcropping of an untrained mustache that, when his mouth was closed, covered his lower lip. Often, when he chewed, his few remaining teeth would grab onto an unruly mustache strand and painfully pull it away from his lip. When this happened, he would use grooming scissors to cut the mustache until it no longer covered his lower lip. He was a practical man.

Barbosa came to the Rio Negro from Bogota while in his late twenties. The beetle-browed bachelor had broken up with the girl he thought would become his wife, which precipitated a weekend bender that included an assault charge alleging that he tried to strangle her in a bar, necessitating a new start out of the reach of Columbian authorities. He had a vague plan to live off the land, but that was before he had actually tried it.

Making his living as a miner, he was both lucky and industrious. Unlike most miners he knew, he banked most of his earnings, and when he was not working retreated to the plot of land he purchased some sixty kilometers southeast of the Rio Negro town of Manaus. By the time he turned forty, he not only had learned to live in the forest but to thrive. His pride and joy was the forty-six-square-meter stilt house he’d built. The property, which stood fifty meters from a narrow creek, was accessible only by small boat. Even so, navigating from his place to the river was complicated and involved many twists and turns. It was easy to become lost and hard to find one’s way. But he craved the isolation and took pride in his property, having cleared the land himself. He had help erecting the house, which cost nearly fifteen-thousand reals, including labor.

And unlike many miners who ended up dead or crippled, Barbosa had escaped his profession with only minor scrapes. His lucky break came four years ago when he won forty-thousand reals tax-free playing the Mega-Sena Lottery. That allowed him to add a solar water heater, wind turbine, and photovoltaic arrays. Although he had few friends, he kept in touch via radiotelephone with Jose Silva, who owned a small export business in Manaus. Despite having money in the bank, Barbosa was frugal, and when he wasn’t tending his garden or selling his services as a fishing guide, he hunted black caiman, or jacare, as they are known, for meat and hides. While a black caiman purse could easily sell for six hundred American dollars, the raw hides that Barbosa sold to Silva covered his fuel cost and little more. However, he used the meat as bait to trap yellow-footed tortoises, which he sold to restaurants in Manaus for a handsome profit.

Barbosa had good luck hunting the past week, and after radioing Silva that he had several hides for him, one of them over four meters long, he began preparing to make the trip. His five-meter aluminum boat, with its fifteen-horsepower outboard, showed its age but held an affectionate place in its heart. He called it Maria and often shared his thoughts with her while on the river.

He spent an hour in the morning loading the boat. It took four trips between the cabin and the boat to finish. But he didn’t work hard. He carried each hide separately and then returned to the cabin one last time for his backpack. As he dropped the shutters on the windows, he noticed something unusual in his garden. Was it locusts? Something was moving through some of the rows. Grabbing his backpack and shutting the door behind him, he descended to the ground and moved quickly to the garden. He was proud of the vegetables that he nurtured from seeds and took it personally when insects or animals, especially squirrel monkeys, attacked them. He relied on canned goods from Manaus but always looked forward to seasonal vegetables. He loved tomatoes and occasionally ate them off the vine with a pinch of freshly ground pepper.

The garden was about twenty-five meters west of the house. As he approached, he heard a soft buzzing, which grew louder with every step. Holding up at the garden’s edge, he surveyed the far end, where he thought he saw movement. It occurred to him that it could be a jaguar or a snake and that his rifle and machete were in the boat. He thought about either retrieving the rifle or leaving for Manaus. But his curiosity got the best of him. He stepped into the garden cautiously, stopping halfway in to peer at the area where he’d seen the movement. The buzzing was pronounced and unlike anything he’d ever heard. At least it wasn’t a snake as he’d feared. Stepping forward, he leaned toward a thick row of corn and pushed the plants to get a better view of whatever was causing the movement. He regretted it almost instantaneously.

The ground was crawling with large, cockroach-like insects. He no longer heard the buzzing. It had faded into the background like elevator music, pushed aside by the utter terror he felt as the bugs launched themselves at him, clinging to him with hatchet-like forelegs that they used to stab him over and over, drawing blood almost immediately. Dozens embedded themselves in his beard.

Barbosa stumbled backward as he wheeled on one foot but managed to keep his balance long enough to fall into several tomato cages, ending up on his hands and knees. He grabbed at the insects clinging to his shirt, but they resisted, holding fast. The ones he pulled off tore pieces out of his shirt. He could feel them hacking away on the back of his neck, his legs, and now on the top of his head. He screamed, rose to his feet, closed his eyes and lumbered forward blindly. They were attacking his eyes. He told himself to jump into the river, that immersing himself in the muddy water was his only hope. But the insects were relentless. More and more of them continued to join the attack, so much so that as he picked himself off the ground a second time he ripped two of the bugs from near his eyes, screaming with pain as chunks of his flesh went with them. He was out of the garden and could see the boat. He mouthed the words, “I have to go there,” inadvertently providing the opportunity for at least one insect to scurry into his mouth and down his throat. He choked and vomited, expelling the bug. He clamped his mouth shut, but the bugs continued to attack his eyes. He screamed as they pounded away with their deadly forelegs. His vision faded quickly as the insects chopped into his cornea. Blinded, crawling in the deep grass, he no longer knew what direction he was moving. Where was the river?

“Dio aydarme!” he screamed, which only made things worse as several bugs entered his mouth. All he could do was dry heave as he felt them chopping away at his esophagus. If anyone had seen him from a distance, it would have looked as if he was struggling with a dark throbbing blanket.

The bugs owned Barbosa’s body now. They chopped away as methodically as robots, raising tiny geysers of blood on every square inch of skin. They tunneled into his rectum and chopped away. They chopped holes in his esophagus and chopped at every organ within reach. Just as the buzzing had disappeared, the pain diminished as life leaked out of him. His body had become a sieve. And then there was a rush of blood through his anus as the bugs chopped through his rectum and into his abdomen. But it wasn’t a problem for him any longer, as thousands of insects took their turn at stripping the flesh from his body.

3

JOSE SILVA TRIED to contact Raul Barbosa by radio many times throughout the day. By nightfall, he had become officially concerned. This was not like Raul, he told his wife before retiring for the night. Perhaps he’d lost power or had a problem with his radio. It could happen, but Raul was self-reliant to the extreme and could repair anything. He thought about alerting local police, but that would do no good since Barbosa’s cabin was remote and would be difficult if not impossible to reach in the dark.

Silva was on his radio at daybreak but heard only static. At breakfast, he told his wife that he was going to take his boat to Barbosa’s cabin. The weather was clear, and he thought he could get there in three hours. He loaded the aluminum V-bottom eighteen-footer with an extra can of gasoline, water, machete, a small backpack with his lunch, binoculars, and a poncho. He had no idea what to expect, but he was preoccupied with worry and nearly tried to pull away from the dock without untying the boat. Fortunately, he caught himself just before turning the throttle, and he was glad his wife didn’t see it because it was such a stupid thing to do.

With little wind on the river, he made good time traveling most of the way with the throttle close to wide open, leaving a large wake. Slowing to a crawl as he approached the tributary that led to Barbosa’s cabin, he turned off the river, idled the engine for a moment and studied the landscape ahead to refresh his memory. Barbosa came to him mostly. Silva had visited the cabin a half-dozen times in the previous four years, and his memory of the route had faded. There weren’t any obvious landmarks, other than a pile of stones that Barbosa himself had set up not long after buying the property. He’d gotten lost once by taking the wrong tributary, and the stones were there to prevent it from happening again.

Silva motored slowly toward his destination, the tributary narrowing and joined by other even smaller tributaries until there was just enough depth and width to make way before it widened. Towering stands of palm and rubber trees came and went as the boat slid through the murky, dark green water. He squinted to see the clearing that would mark Barbosa’s property, and when it suddenly appeared around a bend, he gunned the engine and nearly steered the boat into a partially submerged stump before cutting the throttle and letting the boat drift onto a muddy landing within sight of the raised cabin. He saw Barbosa’s loaded boat tied to a post that had been pounded into the ground. He scanned the area anxiously, hoping to see his friend. While the cabin’s living quarters were visible from the landing, a grassy slope rose from the landing obscuring the cabin’s lower structure. Silva tilted the motor and pulled the boat completely onto the landing and inspected Barbosa’s boat. Then he grabbed his pack and machete and carefully made his way up the slippery incline.

The top of the slope, which was only several feet higher than the boat landing, expanded into level ground framed in the distance by forest. Silva’s eyes were immediately drawn to a form sprawled on the ground, a hundred feet in front of him. Even from this distance, he knew it was a body.

“Raul,” he shouted, hurrying forward. He stopped within several feet of the body. The corpse lay face down, its clothing tattered, bloodied and torn throughout. The clothing lay flat as if there was little to support it.

He called Raul’s name several times as if expecting an answer, and then looked toward the cabin. Clearly, this was a dead person, he thought. But he was fearful of touching it. He grabbed a rusty spade that Barbosa had left leaning against one of the supports of his cabin. Placing it carefully under the body, Silva raised the handle and rolled the body onto its back. He recoiled in horror at what he saw. There was no face, just a skull with shreds of tissue clinging to it. The shirt had been torn open, and underneath the tattered cloth, Silva saw the bones of a torso.

“Oh meu deus!” he murmured, stepping back reflexively, tossing the shovel aside.

Silva couldn’t make sense of this. How could this happen? What could cause this? He’d spoken with Barbosa over the radio only several days earlier when Barbosa arranged to visit Silva in Manaus. There was no way the body could have been skeletonized in two days, even in the forest’s humidity and heat. For a moment, he wondered whether it was his friend. The shoes looked like Barbosa’s though the shirt and pants were so torn that Silva couldn’t be certain.

Suddenly, he backed away from the body as if something had frightened him. He scanned the area and moved toward the garden, noticing where Barbosa had fallen. Scattered around the soil were the bodies of what looked like cockroaches. Many dozens. He thought it unusual but paid little attention as he prowled about, looking for signs of a larger animal or perhaps humans who might have harmed his friend. He did this for about ten minutes and then moved to the cabin. The door was shut but not locked. He pushed it open cautiously and stepped inside slowly. The exterior shutters were closed, and the cabin was mostly dark. Sunlight filtered through spaces between boards in the shutters. Nothing looked amiss. The radio was where Barbosa kept it. Shelves were stocked with canned goods. Momentarily, he thought about using the radio to contact police in Manaus but decided that they might not take him seriously or might not be able to come out immediately or might have a difficult time finding the place. In any case, he did not want to spend a night alone with Barbosa’s body.

Returning to the body, he lifted the left arm by the remains of the tattered shirt sleeve. Barbosa’s Timex dangled from the bony wrist. There was no longer any doubt in his mind that his friend had died. And while he had no idea as to how Barbosa was killed, Silva was certain that it wasn’t from natural causes.

On his way back to his boat, Silva stopped to ponder Barbosa’s boat. Should he take the hides? After all, he had agreed to buy them. Leaving them untended seemed like a waste of resources. So he loaded them into his boat and pushed away. As he put distance between himself and the cabin, he felt the tension of finding the body melt away replaced by tiredness. Yawning several times, he wanted to nap but resisted the temptation. He could rest when he got home. His wife was not going to believe what happened to Barbosa. She was tolerant of her husband’s friend but didn’t care for him because when he and her husband were together they drank and told crude stories.

4

HOWARD DUNCAN WAS hesitant to call the state entomologist in Manaus. He knew him to be more interested in his personal ambitions than entomology. The man had told him as much. He saw himself eventually leading the Ministry of Agriculture and was addicted to attending conferences to schmooze and increase his visibility. In fact, they had met at a conference.

However, there was an alternative. Fernando Azevedo came to mind. In his late-sixties, Azevedo was credited with discovering dozens of insects, which he regarded as unimportant. As he explained when Duncan had first visited Brazil, “Our country has more insect species than any other. Yet the estimates of the number of species range from seventy thousand to millions. Seventy thousand to millions! How can we know anything about insect populations when we can only guess at the number? Discovering a dozen here, a dozen there isn’t even a drop in the bucket.”

Azevedo lived in a modest, one-story stucco house in a quiet, mostly residential neighborhood of the city. His neighbors were mostly people of his age who kept to themselves. None had an interest in entomology. He was sitting in his living room reading one of the local newspapers when the phone rang. Not expecting a call, he waited to see if the caller would leave his name.

“This is Howard Duncan. I’m calling ...”

Azevedo picked up the receiver.

“Olá Howard,” he said, cheerfully.

“Hi, Professor,” Duncan said. “How are you?”

“I’m fine. To what do I owe this pleasant surprise?”

“Well, we’ve run across something that I haven’t been able to identify, and I’m wondering if you can help me.”

Duncan described the insect his assistant had found.

“I think I can help you,” Azevedo said.

“Really, you know what this is?”

“If it’s what I think it is, then, yes, I’m familiar with it. In fact, I’ve written two papers about it, which have yet to find a publisher. Can you bring a specimen to my office at UFAM?”

Azevedo held an emeritus position at the Federal University of Amazonas and kept a small office on campus. It gave him easy access to laboratories, student assistants, and other faculty. He taught only one class each semester, introductory entomology. Some of his colleagues thought it was undignified for an authority on insects to teach such a low-level course, but he thought it important to provide the highest level of expertise to novices in the hope of encouraging them to enter the field. Even so, the class was open only to second-year students.

Duncan was familiar with the UFAM campus and had visited Azevedo’s office several times over the years though never with such excitement. Out of the blue, he had called the right guy in the right place on the first try. He wanted to ask the professor about his papers but decided to wait until he got to the office. He didn’t want to waste a moment. His assistant, Cody Boyd, was in the office when Duncan called Azevedo and was infected with his boss’ enthusiasm and invited himself to tag along.

5

PROFESSOR AZEVEDO’S OFFICE at UFAM was jammed with cases of insect specimens, books misaligned in an old mahogany bookcase, curios and items Azevedo had collected during his lengthy career. His part-time assistant fetched a chair for Boyd and the three crowded around the professor’s ancient mahogany desk. They declined coffee impatiently.

“Thank you, Daniel,” Azevedo said.

As the assistant closed the door, Duncan handed a memory card to Azevedo, who inserted it into a card reader on his desktop computer. Azevedo leaned toward the monitor and clicked on the card’s icon. Dozens of file names appeared. He clicked on several, smiled broadly at Duncan and dug out a pair of wire-rimmed eyeglasses from his shirt pocket. The antique frame was nearly as old as its owner. He was careful not to bend the earpieces when he put them on.

“This looks like reptilus blaberus,” he said, matter-of-factly. “Where did you find it?”

Duncan glanced at Boyd, who explained how and where he had taken the photos. He looked puzzled.

“Blaberus?”

“Yes,” Azevedo replied.

“Reptile roach?”

“Yes. I think it fits. I make the case in one of my unpublished papers. You can have a copy if you like.”

“Yeah, that would be great.”

“Do you have GPS coordinates?” Azevedo asked Boyd.

Boyd nodded. Azevedo pulled up Google Earth on his desktop computer and after inputting several commands turned the monitor toward his visitors. The screen filled with a map showing tributaries running like veins through dark green undifferentiated background. A handful of yellow place marks clustered in the center of the map.

“These are places I have found blaberus.”

“I found mine here,” Boyd pointed to a blank spot on the screen.

Azevedo’s yellow markers were located a substantial distance from where Boyd had found his specimen. Azevedo placed a bright green marker on Boyd’s spot.

“You know what this means?” he said, looking over his glasses at his two guests.

“Either they are migrating, or they’re expanding their territory?” Duncan said.

“Exatamente!”

“Couldn’t this be a new colony?” Boyd suggested, tentatively.

Duncan and Azevado exchanged glances. Azevedo stroked the gray stubble covering his chin.

“It could be, but you must understand, they have a very high mortality rate caused by a parasitic fungus that through some unknown mechanism enters the brains of fetuses during gestation.”

“Fetuses?” Boyd asked.

“They’re viviparous?” Duncan asked.

“They’re ovoviviparous.”

“Really. I thought that was largely confined to reptiles,” Duncan said.

“And fish and some invertebrates. As you know, these guys have reptilian, mammalian and, of course, Blattarian traits. In terms of reproduction, they’re more reptilian than anything else, at least as far as we know,” Azevedo said. “We? Mostly me and several assistants over the years.”

“Is blaberus native to Brazil?” Duncan asked.

“As far as I know, yes,” Azevedo said. “However, I can think of no reason that would limit their distribution, other than the fungus. It’s probably what keeps their population in check and why no one else has observed them.”

“Really, none?” Boyd said, smiling. “So, I’m like one of only a couple of people in the entire world to have seen them in the wild?”

“Again, as far as I know, yes. Just look at the map and see the distribution I’ve uncovered. These were done over many years. Although I can’t be certain each of my sightings was of the same colony, the colony size was similar, and I found them on dry land under rotting tree branches and debris. Although I didn’t actually observe this, my working assumption is that they forage for insects and animal carcasses.”

“They’re carnivorous?” Boyd said.

Azevedo suddenly rose from his chair and left the room.

“Was it something I said?” Boyd whispered.

“Fernando?” Duncan called softly. From the next room, they heard sounds of drawers opening and closing. A moment later and the portly Azevedo returned to his desk carrying a vintage wood specimen box with a glass top. Azevedo set it on the desk between them and remained standing. Duncan and Boyd stood as well, leaning across the desk to get a better view. Inside the box were two of the insects. One was dissected dorsally and the other ventrally. The specimens were about three and a half inches long, and the body was roughly three inches in circumference. On the ventral specimen, Azevedo had pinned the wings at the corners to form a triangle with their attachment behind the head.

“One thing we know is that females produce eggs that hatch within their bodies but aren’t nourished by the female’s body,” Azevedo said. “Unfortunately, whenever I located a colony—which because I was unable to tag them could have been the same colony at various locations— the colonies did not stay in one place for long, so I haven’t been able to study their behavior with any consistency.”

“But you were able to collect specimens and dissect them,” Boyd said. Looking at the specimen box, he added, “Outwardly, they’re similar in appearance to cockroaches, yet they don’t look like anything I’ve ever seen.”

“They aren’t like anything you’ve seen and be grateful they aren’t.”

“Why’s that?” Boyd asked.

“They would be a formidable predator if they reproduced in numbers, but the fungus causes about eighty percent mortality in juveniles. We discovered this when we put a juvenile’s central nervous system under a microscope.”

Looking closely at the specimen with the outstretched wings, Boyd asked, “Can they fly?”

“I don’t think so, but I have seen them jump,” Azevedo said. “They spread their wings and use their powerful hind legs to get airborne. It may be that they can glide and perhaps travel longer distances in a strong wind. But that’s just conjecture.”

“This was from a live specimen?” Duncan asked about the dissections.

“Yes. We actually had several live specimens, but they did not live long in captivity.”

“I assume you tried to publish this,” Duncan said.

“Of course, but, you know, these days you have to pay a lot to be published.”

“Did you try the online publications?”

Azevedo seemed annoyed at the question and ignored it.

“As I was saying, this is similar to the mechanism of Ophiocordyceps unliateralis that can infect the brains of carpenter ants in the Zona da Mata of Brazil. They’re not the same fungus species, but they’re related. In any case, I believe this prevents the species from reproducing effectively. That probably explains why we’ve never encountered a colony with more than fifty or so individuals.”

Azevedo handed Duncan a lighted magnifying glass and opened the specimen case. Duncan peered intently at the two dissected insects.

“I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” he gushed. Azevedo smiled.

After several minutes, Duncan handed the magnifying glass to Boyd, wrapped his arm around Azevedo’s shoulder and pulled him aside admiringly.

“Is there anything I can do to help you publish?”

Azevedo sighed, shaking his head.

“There was a time when publishing was important to me, but that’s no longer the case. I appreciate your support, but I’m more interested now in learning about these creatures and less interested in documenting my findings. Of course, I have documented them, and anyone who’s interested in what I’ve found just has to contact me or my assistant. It’s one of the privileges of emeritus status. I can do what I want when I want and don’t have to report to anyone other than the chair of my department, who dismisses me as a dinosaur, I’m sure.”

Duncan eyed him thoughtfully.

“I was thinking, since my dean and funders expect me to churn out papers, we could collaborate on joint publication. I would assemble the paper using your research, and we’d share the credit.”

“If you like,” Azevedo said somewhat dismissively, clearly not interested in the topic.

Boyd approached them with an excited look.

“Excuse me, Professor. I’m having difficulty identifying anatomical parts. If I’m not mistaken, it has some kind of spinal column ending in something like a brain stem. Can that be true?”

Azevedo brightened.

“That is my belief,” he said. “But that’s not the only unusual thing. Here, I’ll show you.”

“A brainstem on a cockroach just doesn’t make sense,” Boyd said.

Azevedo smiled, and with Duncan and Boyd watching, he carefully manipulated the head with a toothpick and held the magnifying glass for them.

“They’re not cockroaches. As you know, a cockroach’s brain, such as it is, is distributed throughout the ventral part of its body. The nervous system is nothing like what you’d expect from an insect. As you can see, this creature has a brain of some kind in the head.”

“Are those teeth?” Duncan asked. “Is that a jaw, not a mandible?”

“Yes, they’re teeth and yes, that looks like a jaw.”

“I can’t believe what I’m seeing,” Duncan said excitedly and started pacing the room.

“I had much the same reaction when I did the dissections,” Azevedo said to Boyd. “I could barely contain myself. Everything I know about insects goes out the window with these guys.”

“Are they insects or reptiles?” Boyd asked. “You said they breed like reptiles.”

Azevedo lowered himself into his chair, removed his glasses, and rubbed his eyes with his fists. Looking up at Boyd, he shook his head.

“I’m not sure how to classify them. They have many things in common with insects and with reptiles and perhaps with other genera. You may have noticed the lack of antennae. Did you look closely at their forelegs?”

“Not really. Why?”

Azevedo handed the magnifying glass to Boyd. “Have a closer look.”

Boyd leaned over the box and put the magnifying glass over the forelegs of the ventral specimen.

“These are definitely not cockroaches,” he said with the glass trained over the specimen’s forelegs. “What are those things at the end of the forelegs?”

“They’re cutting instruments,” Azevedo said matter-of-factly. “Actually, chopping instruments, like tiny axes.”

Duncan by now had settled down and stood behind Boyd, facing Azevedo.

“We simply have to publish,” Duncan said. “I don’t care if I have to steal the money from my funders.”

Azevedo smiled and, as Boyd and Duncan prepared to leave, handed them copies of his unpublished papers.

“I hope you can use these, and if you find any more blaberus, please let me know the coordinates.”

6

STATE OF AMAZONAS Civil Police Inspector Eduardo Dias was skeptical when Jose Silva related his narrative about finding his friend Raul Barbosa’s body. He’d been taking notes dutifully when he asked Silva about the condition of the body.

“Were there any obvious wounds?” the inspector asked, his fingers poised on his computer keyboard.

“No.”

“What was the condition of the body?”

“What do you mean, ‘condition’?”

“Was it fresh or had it been lying there for awhile. You know, how much did it stink?”

“Oh, it didn’t stink at all. It was mostly bones.”

Dias stopped typing. Turning in his swivel chair, he faced Silva, who was sitting beside the inspector’s desk.

“I thought you said you talked to him recently?”

“I did.”

Dias eyed Silva suspiciously. Silva didn’t flinch.

“How did the body turn into a skeleton in a single day?”

“I’m not sure, sir,” Silva replied, nervously. “I only know what I saw.”

“This is very puzzling,” Dias said, thoughtfully. “You have no idea then how Mr. Barbosa was killed?”

“No, no, no. As I told you, I was expecting him to visit, and the only reason I went to his place was because he didn’t respond to my radio calls. That is not like him.”

Dias realized he had no choice but to go to Barbosa’s camp in the forest and see for himself. Silva offered to take him in his boat. Initially this appealed to Dias until Silva described the boat and mentioned that it would take three to four hours. He shook his head. He didn’t mention that he couldn’t swim and had a fear of water and had trouble with motion sickness.

“That’s a very small boat for such a big river,” he observed. Silva shrugged.

“I’ll see about getting one of our boats. They’re bigger, have twin outboards, and it won’t take as long.”

After some coaxing, Silva agreed to accompany the inspector.

“Is there any way I could get paid for guiding you?” Silva asked, sheepishly. “I make my living as a guide.”

Dias frowned.

“This man was your friend, correct?

“Yes.”

“You want to profit from his death?”

Silva grimaced and stared at his hands, which were folded in his lap. He felt ashamed, but his wife was constantly after him not to share his time freely. She accused him of being an easy mark and not taking advantage of opportunities, such as when he helped friends do a job without pay, or for payment in liquor. Now he would lose a day guiding the police, something he hadn’t counted on. Without pay. And then his wife would have her say. Now he was glad he’d taken the hides. The money he would get for them would help compensate him for the lost day as well as his wife’s badgering. The small pang of guilt he’d felt when he took the hides evaporated. His wife would be proud of him for turning nothing into something. For once.

7

HOWARD DUNCAN SPENT the evening poring over Professor Azevedo’s four unpublished papers, which were in English. He could see why they’d been rejected.

“They’re not well organized,” Duncan noted to Boyd in a whisper. “Lots of typos and the conclusions are overly dramatic, almost like he was writing fiction. But don’t ever repeat this, okay?”

“Do you think he made it up, the papers?” Boyd asked.

“I don’t think so. The science seems strong, and he knows a hell of a lot more about these bugs than we do.”

“Still…” Boyd wondered.

“He’s an emeritus professor, for chrissakes. I suppose it’s possible, but I don’t think anyone could fake a forty-year academic career.”

“Yeah, I don’t know. I’ve barely started my academic career. I’ve got no reason to doubt him and, besides, I like him,” Boyd said.

“I like him, too. He’s very friendly and not anything like some of the old guys on campus I have to deal with.”

Boyd understood that Duncan was confiding in him and expected discretion. Most of the time Duncan treated him civilly but without any warmth. Boyd was Duncan’s employee and little more. But he treasured these moments when he and Duncan spoke as equals, while on the job no less.

Duncan handed the papers to Boyd.

“Here, you read ‘em, and then we’ll talk.”

8

JOSE SILVA TIED up his boat at the floating dock in Manaus where he agreed to meet Inspector Eduardo Dias. It was just after sunrise and his shirt was already soaked with sweat. He poured coffee from a thermos into a plastic cup and between sips downed several cornstarch cookies his wife had baked. The cookies seemed to melt in his mouth, and he had a satisfied look on his face as he wiped his mouth on his sleeve. Her cooking more than made up for her stubbornness, he thought.

The cookies were gone in no time, and he wished he’d brought more. But as he looked around, he grew impatient. The inspector was now fifteen minutes late, and Silva started to wonder whether he was wasting his time. Fortunately, the floating docks were busy places, and there were plenty of distractions, such as boats unloading tubs of freshly caught fish and the comings and goings of the boats themselves. Momentarily engrossed in the scenery, Silva hadn’t noticed the Civil Police boat as it tied up at the dock thirty meters from his own.

Dias surveyed the dock briefly and then stepped expertly from the boat onto the dock and moved quickly toward Silva. Dias recognized Silva, even though his back was turned toward him, because he was wearing the same clothes he had worn the day before.

“Mister Silva,” Dias called in Portuguese as he approached. Silva turned to face the inspector, who offered his hand.

“I hope we haven’t kept you waiting,” he said.

“Not long,” Silva replied. “You know, I’ve never paid attention to what happens on these docks, but while I was waiting, I saw many interesting things.”

“It is an interesting place,” Dias said. Nodding toward the patrol boat, he added, “How about we get on our way?”

As they boarded, Dias smiled at Silva and said, “I hope this doesn’t turn into a long day.”

9

DUNCAN AND BOYD discussed reptilus blaberus until they could no longer stay awake, crashing at the office about three a.m. By the end of the discussion, they were moderately drunk and in agreement that they could help Azevedo get recognition, which would reflect favorably on them. Although they took notes when they started their conversation, it was not long before they stopped writing and rambled into the kind of conversation humanities undergraduates have in late night coffee shops—but focused on insects. Having agreed that Azevedo’s papers were revelatory, the topics they discussed consisted of equal parts of fact and speculation. Duncan saw in reptilus blaberus potential for new grants while Boyd secretly hoped that Duncan would give him equal billing on the papers they would write based on Azevedo’s findings. Most of the research had already been done. It was simply a question of publishing and exploiting, which were two skills that served Duncan well throughout his career.

They learned from the papers that there was only a handful of colonies, that the creatures were extremely powerful for their size, and that despite having wings, they could not fly. However, Azevedo noted that they could use their powerful hind legs to jump and then possibly spread their wings to catch wind currents. In addition, he had seen them floating on their backs by extending their wings. They looked like piles of leaves when floating.

Toward the end of the evening, or early morning, their conversation degenerated into pointless speculation, with Boyd leading the way.

“Just imagine if these things didn’t have a fungus to kill them off. You’d have an apex predator a little fatter and longer than your middle finger, It’s got wings, it’s got cutting surfaces. And teeth! I wonder what their population would be?”

“They’d take over whatever habitat they were in,” Duncan said laconically. “Other than the fungus, they don’t seem to have a natural enemy.”

“Except man. Wouldn’t man be its natural enemy? He is for everything else.”

“I suppose, but what would be its enemy in the forest or jungle? I’d hate to run into a few thousand of these things. How would you defend yourself?”

“Run like hell!”

Duncan nodded. Holding up his half-empty bottle of Antarctica, he mindlessly read the label and then, turning to Boyd, smiled.

“You know what we hafta do,” he said. “We need to find one of these colonies and follow it, find out how they eat and what they eat. Film them.”

“I like that,” Boyd said. “But how are we gonna find a colony?”

“You did.”

“Once.”

“But you could do it again, couldn’t you?” Duncan asked.

“I don’t know. Maybe I was lucky the first time.”

“Or, maybe there are a lot more colonies out there than Azevedo thinks,” Duncan said.

Boyd thought for a moment, looking at Duncan.

“You think, really?”

“I don’t know, but we needta talk to Azevedo some more. Maybe he knows. I mean, you saw all the markers on Google Earth. We needta ask if he’s seen colonies in the same places. You know, he used different colors on the tags. Why’d he use different colors? The colors must mean something. I’m wondering now why I didn’t ask that when were at his office,” Duncan said.

“You know, the markers were in places pretty far into the forest. It’s not like we could just walk there. We’d have to take a boat or a plane, maybe both. It would cost mucho dinero.”

“Yeah, but he could take us there. And why wouldn’t he? It would benefit all of us.”

“He might. And even if he wouldn’t, I don’t think he’d mind if we went to the places he marked and see for ourselves,” Boyd suggested.

Ideas were flowing now, and it would have been a good idea to write them down, but they were nearing the end of their beer and were beginning to yawn and rub their eyes. Boyd stretched out on a sofa while Duncan propped his feet on a coffee table, sinking more deeply into his leather club chair.

“You’ve been on expeditions in the jungle before, haven’t you?” Boyd asked, staring at the ceiling.

“Yes. Several.”

“We could get the others to go with us. You know, I’ll bet they’d pay. We could hire a guide and make a small expedition of it. I’ve never really been on an expedition.”

Duncan, too, was staring at the ceiling, imagining what the expedition would be like and the accolades that would follow. It wouldn’t take long to put it together if the others agreed to pay to support it, even if Azevedo declined to participate. As he closed his eyes, a slight smile crossed his face.

10

RAUL BARBOSA’S PROPERTY was about five or six feet above water level; thus, only the upper section of the cabin could be seen from the boat. Because of the shallowness of the tributary running in front of the property and the boat’s draft, the driver killed the motor and anchored about fifty feet from the water’s edge. They would have to wade ashore.

Inspector Eduardo Dias, who was wearing shorts, removed his shoes and socks and lowered himself over the side using the boat’s ladder and sank to his ankles in the muck. Watching this, Silva, who was wearing jeans, removed them and his sneakers, which he wore without socks, and followed the inspector into the water, holding his shoes and pants over his head as if expecting the water to be neck deep. Shuffling to the shore, they dipped their muddy feet into the shallow water and did what they could to rinse off before putting their clothes on.

The two scrambled up the slope and slowly approached Barbosa’s body.

“Is this where you found the body?” Dias asked.

“Yes, yes,” Silva said.

Dias stopped about ten feet short of the body and scanned the scene. He saw the path that Barbosa had taken from the garden. Pieces of clothing and disturbed soil marked every step the victim had taken. Prior to becoming an inspector, Dias had worked for a forensics unit, which is why he didn’t bring a forensics investigator with him. His boss would not have liked the extra expense. Although not an expert himself, he was skilled at collecting evidence and photographing crime scenes. He stepped carefully toward the body, took photos with his smartphone and began taking notes in a reporter’s notepad. Using his pen, he carefully lifted a portion of the victim’s torn shirt and saw bones but very little flesh. He instructed Silva to help him move the body, but Silva hesitated.

“Help me move the body. You grab the trousers, and I’ll grab the shirt. It looks as if the bones are still articulated, so it shouldn’t fall apart.”

“Are you certain?” Silva asked.

“Well, even if it does fall apart, he’s not going to care.”

Silva hesitated momentarily, grimacing. He wondered if his dead friend would mind.

“Here,” Dias said. “I understand it’s your friend. I’ll do it myself. No big deal.”

That’s all it took for Silva to take his place at the foot of the body and prepare to lift it and set it down several feet to the side.

“It’s the least I can do for poor Raul,” he said.

The soil beneath the body was darkened and still damp from the victim’s blood.

“He must’ve bled out here,” Dias said quietly, as if to himself. He spent several minutes photographing and taking notes. He took a small plastic vial out of his shirt pocket and dipped it into the moist soil to take a sample. Capping it, he used a marker to date it and placed it in his pocket.

That was when he noticed the dead cockroach where the body had lain. Suddenly, he saw many dead cockroaches. They seemed bigger than any roaches he’d seen before. Carefully placing several of the insect bodies into a plastic evidence bag, he sealed it and wrote on it with the marker. When this was done, he followed the evidence trail from the body to the garden. There were at least a hundred dead roaches scattered about. He found Barbosa’s hat and bits of clothing. Looking at Silva, who had followed closely behind him, Dias shook his head.

“Whatever happened here, I don’t think it was a crime. What do you think, Mister Silva?”

“I don’t know what to think. I’m trying not to look too hard. I’m afraid we might find parts of my friend.”

“Really?”

“In truth, I’m nervous. I’m not used to this kind of thing.”

“Well, what you’ve done is a good thing. Without you, we wouldn’t even know that your friend is dead. You are a good friend.”

“That may be, but I wish I weren’t here.”

“If you like, you can go back to the boat. I’ll check out the cabin.”

“Okay, thanks.”

As Silva made his way past the body and toward the tributary, Dias shouted, “Mr. Silva, please ask Corporal Sanchez to bring the body bag. Thanks.”

11

HOWARD DUNCAN KNEW it would be virtually impossible to get funding for an expedition from his university. He couldn’t ‘borrow’ from his grants without the risk of having them revoked. And the more he thought about it, the more expensive it became. There was the cost of a boat, fuel and guide and possibly other needs. Would they need All Terrain Vehicles? Would they need a plane to fly them in? The area that Azevedo highlighted on his computer was remote and could well harbor drug gangs, bandits, and illegal loggers. Would they need armed guards? He was not entirely certain whether Professor Azevedo would expect payment for his services. For every thought, there was a cost, and soon he stopped thinking about it. He wasn’t even certain whether he could afford to pay his and Cody Boyd’s expenses.

Duncan rose from his chair suddenly, startling Boyd, who had been sitting nearby typing on his laptop.

“What’s up?” Boyd asked.

Duncan sighed deeply, shaking his head.

“This expedition could get expensive, maybe too expensive.”

Boyd rubbed his chin and gave Duncan a puzzled look.

“I thought last night we decided to get Hamel, Cross, and the others to chip in, or am I making it up? I was kinda drunk.”

“Yeah, we talked about it, but that was before I started doing the math.”

“How much is it gonna cost?”

“I don’t know,” Duncan said, pacing into the adjacent room and back.

“Other than a boat and a guide, what do we need?”

“That’s just the start.”

He outlined what he’d been thinking the expedition would require and was mildly amused as Boyd’s jaw dropped slightly.

“You really think we need guards?”

“I don’t know. It’s one of those things that if you need them you want to have them. I suppose we could arm ourselves.”

Boyd squirmed uneasily in his chair.

“I don’t like guns.”

“Neither do I,” Duncan said absently.

“Maybe the professor could be our guide,” Boyd suggested. “He’s been there; he knows the area.”

“We could ask him, but before we do that, I should talk to Steph and the others. We need to find out how much they can afford to contribute.”

Boyd thought better of telling Duncan that he was tapped out, though he had several thousand dollars in a savings account. If necessary, he could use some of it to cover his expenses, but he was thinking that Duncan would pay his way from his grant funding. After all, he was Duncan’s assistant, and that had to count for something. Or so he had assumed.

“Cody, if you don’t mind, would you arrange a meeting this afternoon with everyone from our group?”

“Sure. We gonna meet here?”

“No!” Duncan nearly shouted. “Not here.”

“Okay, okay,” Boyd said sheepishly. “But why not?”

“The place stinks, haven’t you noticed?”

“I thought I smelled something yesterday, but I can’t smell anything now.”

“Maybe the stale beer smell has dulled your senses. No, it’s worse. I think something died in one of the walls, like a big rat or something. Anyway, it would be better to do it somewhere else, like a bar or a cafe that sells alcohol.”

“You want to loosen their tongues?”

“Just their wallets.”

12

STEPHANIE RANKIN EARNED her undergraduate degree in bioscience at Columbia and had just completed her master’s in entomology from Penn State. At twenty-four, she planned to start her doctoral program in the fall at Michigan State. Friends described her as ambitious and persistent with a gift for sarcasm. She stood five-feet-three and had the build of an athlete. She had a smile that lit up her face, which she thought was too narrow. Her daddy was a well-compensated corporate counsel and was happy to support her academic endeavors despite the dearth of opportunity for the kind of entomology that she wanted to do. Her father had set up a trust fund for her, which would kick in when she turned twenty-five. Her plan was to continue to live off her dad while growing her trust fund so that one day she could do the kind of entomology she wanted to do without having to beg for funding like Duncan. Her only problem with Duncan was that he insisted that she address him as Dr. Duncan rather than by his first name the way that Boyd did. She understood what the pecking order was about, but it still annoyed her as if she were a second-class citizen.

But she never let her opinions and feelings get in the way of her career. She recognized that few students got the opportunity to do field work in the Amazon basin. The Brazilian rainforest with its two and one-half million insect species was the holy grail of entomology. Just as lieutenants seek combat assignments, entomology students seek field work in the Amazon. Rankin agreed to pay her own expenses, but her dad would have paid whatever it took.

Johnson was a different case. He grew up too close to the wrong side of the tracks, literally. The house was a block from a regional rail route that carried freight between Detroit and Chicago, throughout the day and much of the night. He got out of the neighborhood when Ohio University offered an academic scholarship and had not returned to his parents’ home since, not even for holidays. He had a chip on his shoulder and blamed his parents for the shortcomings of his childhood.

Lacking Rankin’s effortless confidence, he feared failure and preferred remaining in the background where he felt comfortable. The consequence was that his friends knew little if anything about his family though he kept in touch with his older sister who had a similar upbringing. Unlike her brother, she blamed “the system” for her family’s poverty, was angry about it, and vowed never to let it hold her back.

However, Johnson was not an angry person and had an on-again, off-again crush on Rankin, who was oblivious to his feelings, which he never made known. As much as he was infatuated with her, he was afraid to say anything personal for fear of exposing himself to ridicule or, more to the point, rejection. Rankin liked him as a friend but never flirted with him. He was of average build, and she was drawn to muscular men. He was not very athletic, and she liked jocks. His intelligence appealed to her but academia was filled with smart, often flawed, men. He was a good lab partner, always finished assignments, and had slightly better grades than she had. Since coming to Manaus, they had gotten to know each other better as professionals, but because of Johnson’s fear of rejection, their personal encounters were generic and not memorable.

Alison Peeples wasn’t into entomology at all. She was a naturalist working for an environmental organization whose central issue was climate change. Her research focused on quantifying the effect of forest die back. While much of the current research suggested the die back wouldn’t occur until at least the end of the century, she believed that die back would kill off the forests no matter what, but that combined with intentional deforestation the forests would largely revert to vegetation found in hot semi-arid climates such as in West Africa by mid-century. While her view was in the minority, she managed to convince her organization’s administrators that to overlook her theory for the sake of more popular ones was imprudent.

Maggie Cross was a self-taught lepidopterist. She had an undergraduate degree in humanities and just happened to be born into a family that owned commercial real estate in New York. She was the only surviving child when her parents and older brother died when TWA Flight 800 exploded in midair near New York, in July 1996. Twenty-nine at the time, as a child she had adopted her father’s interest in butterflies and used a portion of her inheritance to fund a small nonprofit dedicated to the preservation of Monarchs.

George Hamel had a graduate degree in business finance and met Cross on an Alaskan cruise. Unambitious and not interested in a nine-to-five lifestyle, he lived frugally and spent his time following his many interests, which included girl watching, poker, carousing, and history. He was especially interested in the U.S. revolutionary period and believed the country made a mistake by adopting the Constitution instead of modifying the Articles of Confederation. He was an inveterate blogger and never shied from expressing an opinion. Cross took a liking to him, and since the cruise they were often together. She trusted him enough to ask for investment advice, which he provided eagerly. Nowadays, he went where she went, and he found Manaus to be an endlessly interesting place. He understood Portuguese and could speak it with some sophistication, though slowly, often sounding out individual syllables. But he could be understood, and that’s what mattered to him. Cross was terrible at languages and so relied on Hamel on this trip more than usual. They shared a short-term rental of an Italianate colonial house near the Teatro Amazonas. Cross paid the bills, of course.

These were the people Duncan was thinking of when he found himself planning an expedition to find blaberus and needing financing. While Rankin and Peeples could provide their own expenses, he couldn’t expect them to afford the cost of one or two boats, a guide, perhaps security guards and whatever camping and other gear they would need. But first, he needed to talk to Fernando Azevedo. There was a permitting process enforced by the Brazilian wildlife authorities. He couldn’t afford to be caught without one for fear of being expelled from the country, which would abruptly halt his current research for which he was properly permitted.

Duncan’s next move was to call Maggie Cross to see if she would host a meeting at her place.

13

“MANUELA, MANUELA,” JOSE Silva shouted as he stepped into the front door of his house and moved quickly to the kitchen where he expected to find her. She wasn’t there. In fact, she wasn’t in the house. The Fiat Strada was gone from the backyard where they parked it, behind the gray concrete block wall that surrounded the rear of the property. Disappointed, he grabbed a bottle of Skol from the refrigerator, popped the cap with a rusty bottle opener, and took a long, satisfying gulp. He thought his wife might have gone for groceries, but he was still excited from the day’s activities and wanted to tell her everything.

When Manuela returned, Jose was working on this third Skol. She disapproved of Jose’s drinking, and as soon as he heard her slam the door of the Fiat, he grabbed the two empties, chugged the remainder of the third, dropped the bottles into the kitchen trash can and disappeared into the living room just as his wife pushed through the back door.

“Manuela, Manuela,” he shouted again, moving into the kitchen. As she put the groceries away, he told her about his day and how uncomfortable he became the longer he was near Raul Barbosa’s body.

‘He was just bones,” he said, “like I told you before. They took a lot of pictures and put Raul into a body bag. Man, those cops drive fast boats.”

Manuela eyed him suspiciously. She could smell alcohol. He saw this in her eyes; it wasn’t the first time, and he instinctively backed away.

“You’ve been drinking. Already? It’s not even five o’clock. You know how I don’t like that. And yet you continue to do it.”

“I’m sorry, but I was so excited,” he said, moving toward her and putting his arm around her shoulder.

“Did the cops say how he died?”

“Well,” Jose smiled knowingly. “Inspector Dias told me that Raul didn’t die of natural causes. He said he needed to call some experts into the case.”

Manuela nodded and said, “He didn’t pay you, did he?”

“He gave me his card,” Silva said, pulling it from his shirt pocket and holding it out. “He told me if I ever got into trouble with the police to call him. He said he would help me out for helping him out. You know, I scratched his back, and now he’ll scratch mine.”

“Hmmph. When would you be in trouble with the police?” she said, skeptically.

“Well, it can’t hurt. And who knows, we could get a ticket or something with the car or get into an accident. It can’t hurt to have a friend in the police department.”

“He’s not your friend,” Manuela said scornfully. “You think everybody who talks to you is your friend, and they aren’t.”

Silva looked away, tucked the card into his wallet for safekeeping and gave her a peck on the forehead.

“Sweetness, you are here to keep me down to earth.”

14

HOWARD DUNCAN CALLED the group together at Maggie Cross’ stylish rental. Attending were Cody Boyd, Stephanie Rankin, Carlos Johnson, Alison Peeples, George Hamel and Cross. Cross served smoked salmon on crackers and red table wine. Boyd and Johnson flew to the hors d’oeuvres like vultures, accounting for half of the salmon by the time the meeting got under way. Rankin and Peeples shared observations about Boyd’s and Johnson’s behavior. Rankin told Peeples that Hamel was Cross’ puppy. Peeples looked at her quizzically.

“That’s not entirely fair,” she said. “You know he wouldn’t be here if Cross weren’t paying his way.”

“Yeah. Still, he needs to grow a pair,” Rankin said, dismissively.

They giggled and then sipped from their second glass of wine.

“On second thought, maybe she’d drop him if he did,” Rankin said absently.

“Did what?” Peeples asked, watching as Duncan and Boyd entered the living room from a hallway that led to the kitchen.

“Grow a pair.”

“Looks like things are getting underway,” Peeples said, setting her drink on the armrest of her red leather club chair. The chair wasn’t to her liking. She felt small in it, like a child.

Standing in the center of the large room, with the others sitting on leather chairs and sofas, Duncan cleared his throat loudly several times and clapped his hands together twice. The others stopped talking almost immediately.

“Thanks for coming,” he said. “I’d like to thank Maggie for hosting this.” Directing his attention toward her, he added, “The hors d’oeuvres are fantastic.”

“And the wine, too,” Rankin said cheerfully, having finished her second glass.

Maggie Cross smiled demurely from her position on a sofa. George Hamel had taken a seat next to her and started a round of applause.

Duncan found it awkward to stand in the center of the group and suggested they move their chairs and sofas into a semicircle, as he took a seat in a club chair facing them. Clearing his throat again, he continued.

“I’ve learned of an opportunity we may have to go on an expedition in search of a recently described insect called by its discoverer reptilus blaberus.”

Letting this sink in, he eyed the group. Carlos Johnson raised his hand.

“Is that a reptilian cockroach?” he asked tentatively.

“Exactly,” Duncan said. “Literally, that’s what it is, and you’ll have a chance to meet the discoverer, and we may collaborate on a paper or two, depending what we learn from the expedition.”

Duncan summarized what he knew and then took questions. Several hands shot up.

“When would we do this?” Alison Peeples asked.

“As soon as we can put it together,” Duncan responded. Seeing her puzzled expression, he added, “I hope within the next week or so.”

Peeples smiled, as did everyone in the room. Glances were exchanged and several whispered conversations were launched.

“Do you know where we’ll be going?”

“Not precisely, Alison,” he said. “Professor Azevedo will make the decision. He’s the expert. I see this as a great opportunity to see an old school scientist go about his work.”

“He’s kind of a fossil,” Boyd interjected.

“That’s harsh,” Peeples said, “and I haven’t even seen him.”

“Well, he’s old, okay. Must be in his seventies.”

Peeples smiled falsely, ending the conversation.

“Not to mention the opportunity to observe an insect that has yet to be officially cataloged,” Duncan continued.

“Why do people always say ‘not to mention’ and then mention it,” Boyd whispered to Carlos Johnson. “That’s one of my pet peeves.”

“You have a lot of those,” Johnson whispered back.

“Doctor Duncan,” Maggie Cross said, waving her hand above her head. “Could you tell us how long this expedition will be and what we will need?”

Duncan smiled.

“I’m glad you brought that up, Maggie,” he said. “I’m working on a budget as we speak. I’m afraid it’s going to be rather expensive, at least compared to the cost of anything we’ve done so far. We’re going to need boats, a guide, camping gear, provisions, security…”

“Security?” Peeples asked.

“Yes. Possibly, it depends on our destination.”

A murmur fluttered into the room. It seemed to Duncan that everyone was whispering to someone but not to him. He hadn’t expected this reaction.

“Look, it’s better to have security and not need it than it is not to have security and need it. It’s a precaution.”

“What makes you think we may need it?” Cross asked. “Are we going into drug country?”

“You know, there’s no boundary for drug operations. It’s wherever they are. We’ll be in the wilderness. I like to be prepared. I was a Boy Scout. Besides, we’ve gone into places just like this.”

“But we didn’t bring security,” Peeples said.

“We have a bigger group, and, you know, no one is required to go. I, for one, can’t resist the temptation of finding this bug in its habitat. Y’all have to decide for yourselves. I thought this would appeal to you.”

Silence chased the murmuring out of the room. Duncan gave Boyd a puzzled look as if to ask, what’s going on here? Boyd shrugged.

Finally, Cross said, “Count me in. This sounds exciting.”

“I’m going,” Hamel said, raising his hand.

The others assented in short order, and Duncan smiled broadly. As the group began excited conversations, he broke in.

“Okay, okay,” he said, “There’s still the matter of cost and how to pay for the expedition.”

Several hands shot up with questions, but Duncan was unable to provide specific amounts. He told them that he had done some preliminary budgeting but that he couldn’t tell them how much the cost would be for each of them. Hamel was the most concerned, as he didn’t actually have a salary or a job. Cross nudged him as if to suggest she would cover his cost. Duncan noticed this and wondered whether she would cover other costs as well.

“Can you share your preliminary budget?” Peeples asked. “I mean, are we talking about ten thousand dollars or fifty thousand? If we had an idea of how much we need, maybe we could come up with some sort of funding mechanism.”

“I don’t have a number. I could say ten thousand, but it would be pulling a number out of the air.”

“You know,” Boyd said. “Maybe an expedition like this could generate some interest from people who do reality TV.”

Everyone looked at him as if he’d just announced that they were under arrest. Duncan nipped the suggestion in the bud.

“I don’t think we need to go there just yet,” he said, surprised and disappointed at Boyd. As far as he was concerned, this was out of left field and unnecessary. In the back of his mind, he felt that Cross would pick up the slack if it meant the difference between going and not going on an expedition. Most amateurs he’d known loved expeditions, and many of them were wealthy like Cross. They were like children on a field trip. And Cross was a serious amateur, even had an assistant in Hamel. He realized it was a mistake to have so few details worked out. Of course they wanted answers. So did he. Duncan spoke to Boyd after the meeting broke up.

“I was surprised by your suggestion. Kind of came out of nowhere. Why didn’t you tell me about it?”

“I thought we were brainstorming,” Boyd said.

“Brainstorming?”

“Yeah, for ideas to pay for the expedition. I gather we weren’t supposed to be brainstorming?”

“No. We’re not there, yet, if ever. There are a lot of other options. That’s something you really need to learn about. Fundraising. You don’t want to grasp at straws if you don’t have to.”

“Yeah, I hate the idea of begging.”

“Begging? You think competing for grants is begging?” Duncan said harshly.

“No, not that,” Boyd said quickly. “Having to depend on strangers for your funds and never knowing whether they’re renewed. I’ve watched you. You’re really frustrated by it. I think I’d rather be…”

Duncan cut him off.

“Nobody likes the way we fund our research. But that’s how it is. If you want to do research, you have to know how to find funding. It would serve you well to take a few business courses, learn how budgets are made and that kind of stuff. I did.”

Duncan exhaled heavily.

“Sometimes, I wonder about you,” he said, smiling. “I’m going to spend a little time with Ms. Cross. Feel her out. You’re welcomed to stay or join us. Just no talk about reality shows.”

More like feel her up, Boyd thought angrily. Forcing a smile, he stifled what he wanted to say. Anger briefly welled up like hot tears, and then it was over. He took a few slow, deep breaths followed by a sip of wine. It was better to move on as quickly as possible. He needed Duncan more than Duncan needed him. He had to stay on his good side, no matter what. Besides, the expedition appealed to him.

15

INSPECTOR DIAS HAD hoped the judicial police pathologist would have a simple answer as to the cause of death of Raul Barbosa. The work he’d done on the case had already resulted in a brief meeting with his boss who felt he was wasting time on a “hermit who nobody cares about.”

“Need I remind you there is no shortage of homicide cases in Manaus?” the lieutenant said. “Manaus has the eleventh highest murder rate in the world, and we’re solving only 10 percent of them.”

From what remained of the body, the pathologist was unable to fix a time or date of death and whatever cause may have vanished with the soft tissue. He sent several strands of hair to the state crime lab for analysis just in case drugs or other substances were involved, but with budget cuts in place, work at the lab was backed up and only priority cases, multiple homicides and crimes involving the rich and famous could be certain of attention.

The pathologist’s report noted fine striations covering most of the skeleton. They looked like cuts from a narrow blade. Each one measured about a sixteenth-inch in length and was not as wide as a human hair. They completely encircled the bone, in fact, all the bones. Wherever flesh and muscle had been attached to a bone, the striations appeared. The striations were the only clue he could find by examining the skeleton, and they told him nothing. He also reported that he could not identify the insect specimens that Dias had sent along with Barbosa’s body and suggested contacting an entomologist at UFAM or the city zoo. The pathologist concluded that the death was unnatural, cause unknown.

This left Dias wondering. If it was a homicide, why go to the trouble of removing all the flesh and organs? And why leave the bones in the first place? If one could get rid of the flesh, it would be just as easy to get rid of the skeleton. It didn’t make sense, except perhaps in the context of a psychopath, but what would be the odds of that?

If it wasn’t homicide, then what was it? He was certain Barbosa wasn’t killed by a caiman or jaguar. Bones would be crushed, and flesh would be attached to the skeleton. But there was no apparent trauma visible on any of the bones. He’d heard of people who supposedly used ants and flesh-eating beetles to strip the flesh from the bodies of dead animals. He wondered if beetles made the striations.

16

PROFESSOR AZEVEDO INSTANTLY recognized the subject of the digital photos Inspector Dias had emailed. The inspector first spoke with an entomologist at the Manaus Zoo. After viewing jpegs sent by Dias, the entomologist admitted that he had never seen this species and suggested contacting UFAM. When Dias asked whom he should contact, the entomologist suggested Azevedo, who had been one of his professors as a graduate student.

“If he can’t help you, I’m not sure anyone can.”

Although he was a homicide investigator, Dias was also curious about how Barbosa died, homicide or not. It wasn’t suicide, and somehow the dead insects he had collected had something to do with it. They were the only physical evidence that suggested Barbosa hadn’t died of natural causes. His boss would probably accept a conclusion that the man had a heart attack, and his flesh vanished like a winter coat. In his world, clearing one out of ten homicides was average. Reclassifying it as a coronary meant one less homicide not to solve.

Azevedo immediately phoned Dias.

“Where did you find it?” Azevedo asked, after explaining that he could identify the specimen.

“At a camp down river several hours by boat.”

Azevedo pulled up Google Earth while the inspector described the scene. He was preoccupied with comparing the location with his previous sightings and missed most of what the inspector said.

“What are the coordinates?”

Dias replied, and Azevedo placed a marker near a small tributary several miles from the Rio Negro. It was many miles away from the other markers.

“Did I mention the body was reduced to a skeleton?”

Azevedo was stunned and did not know what to say. His experience with blaberus had led him to believe they formed small colonies. His instinct was to doubt Dias’ information.

“A skeleton of a man, you said?”

“Yes, probably an eighty or ninety kilos according to his friend.”

“And you want me to do what?”

Dias sighed with exasperation. He wondered if Azevedo was hard of hearing.

“You know of these insects, correct?”

“Oh, yes,” Azevedo said. “I don’t want to sound boastful, but I have seen them in the wild and have dissected them. And you suspect they had something to do with this man’s death, correct?”

“Yes. The pathologist has no explanation, and we found many of these dead insects with the body, perhaps hundreds. What I’d like to know is whether they are scavengers and came upon the body or whether they had something to do with killing the man. Do you have any ideas?”

“Well, without seeing the scene, I can’t say. They are scavengers, but I suppose they could also be predators though it would seem it would take a huge number of them to consume a man’s body, much less attack and kill him. It has never occurred to me that this would be possible, for multiple reasons.”

“Would it help if I took you to the camp?”

“Yes, it would,” Azevedo replied somewhat excitedly.

Azevedo agreed to meet at Dias’ office early the next morning.

17

MINUTES AFTER HE hung up on Dias, Azevedo’s phone rang again. It was Howard Duncan. He spoke rapidly and somewhat breathlessly about wanting to put together an expedition to find a colony of reptilus blaberii and document its behavior by following it for several days.

“I tried that,” Azevedo said. “Several times. Couldn’t do it.”

“Why not?”

“Not enough people. You’ll never find them once you’ve lost track. And you will lose track or someone in your group will lose track.”

“How many people did you have?”

“Four. Myself and three students.”

“That must’ve been difficult.”

“That’s why we lost track of them the first day. Someone moved away to take a piss and when he returned they were gone, almost as if they understood that they were being watched and were waiting for an opportunity to flee.”

“You don’t believe that, do you?”

“No, but it’s either that or the student who said he had to pee did something else as well. Maybe a minute was really five. It doesn’t matter. We all fail at some point.”

While Azevedo spoke, Duncan counted the number of people he would have in his group.

“I’ve got seven.”

“Seven what?”

“Seven people. If you go, that will make eight. We’d have twice what you had, and my folks are dedicated to the task. Won’t be anyone sleeping on the job.”

Azevedo wondered for a moment whether he should tell him about his conversation with Inspector Dias. Before Duncan said another word, Azevedo described what Dias had told him and asked if he wanted to visit the site in the morning. Duncan could hardly contain himself.

“Of course,” he blurted. “You think blaberus is linked to this man?”

“I don’t know. The pathologist has no cause of death, but I’m curious as to whether he found anything unusual.”

“Unusual?”

“Yes, whether they left any marks on the bones. The inspector said nothing about this, and I hadn’t thought about asking. But, if you look at the appendages, it’s possible that they could have left marks on the bones. The appendages are very hard and sharp, like tiny cutters. You’ve seen the specimens.”

“Do I need to bring anything?”

“Just something to eat, water, something to hold specimens. Camera.”

“Would it be okay if I brought my assistant?”

“I don’t see why not. I would think the boat is large enough. But I’ll ask.”

Duncan was struck with an idea as soon as the call ended. Instead of bringing Boyd, he should invite Maggie Cross. Giving her this opportunity might encourage her to cover the budgetary shortfall the expedition was almost certain to incur. But what would he tell Boyd, his assistant, and right-hand man? The truth, he decided. Which he did. Duncan thought he accepted it with equanimity. Boyd kept to himself the remainder of the day, in his room with the door shut. It was smaller than the room he grew up in. He drank himself to sleep and didn’t wake up until noon the next day, well after Duncan had left to pick up Cross and drive her to the police station in a rental car where they met Azevedo and Dias.

18

THE BOAT RIDE down the Rio Negro took several hours, followed by a half hour slowly navigating the ever narrowing tributaries until they reached the landing in front of Barbosa’s cabin. The passengers waded to the landing, several barefooted, and then scrambled up the rise to the flatness of Barbosa’s land, which he had carved from the surrounding forest by cutting and burning hundreds of trees. A common practice, especially among the poor and the very wealthy.

Following Dias, the group, which included a forensics technician and a uniformed officer who took orders from Dias, approached the site where Barbosa’s body was found. With Cross watching, Azevedo and Duncan immediately lowered themselves to get a closer look. There were dozens of dead blaberii. Duncan motioned for Cross to join them. She went immediately to her knees, rubbing against Duncan’s shoulder and asked him what kind of insect they were looking at.

“Reptilus blaberus,” Professor Azevedo said distractedly.

“I’ve never heard of it,” Cross said.

“Neither have most people,” Howard Duncan said.

“Is it okay if I pick one up?”

“Of course,” Duncan said, looking at Azevedo. “We’ve got more specimens here than we know what to do with, which is very odd, since this species is supposed to live in very small colonies, and judging from what we see here, this is not the work of a small colony.”

Azevedo rose and brushed himself off. The sun glared down, and he wiped his brow. He wore khaki slacks, a white short-sleeved shirt, and a well-worn Panama hat. He was one of the passengers to remove his shoes before entering the water. They were the best fitting hiking shoes he’d ever owned, and he wanted them to last the remainder of his life.

“I have no idea how to account for this,” Azevedo said as they followed the inspector into Barbosa’s garden. “I am puzzled and maybe a little embarrassed.”

It was clear from the deep boot marks in the soft earth of the garden that Barbosa had stumbled multiple times, crushing plants and knocking over wood frames. They found scores of insect carcasses where he had fallen, beginning about the center of the length of the garden. Beyond it, toward the forest, there were no more carcasses. Dias suggested a scenario where Barbosa first encountered the insects.

“At this point it seems obvious,” he said, “these insects are responsible for his death.”

Azevedo shook his head. He looked dejected and didn’t speak. It was as if something he had understood to be an incontrovertible fact suddenly turned out to be a lie. Duncan and Cross walked through the area together, speaking quietly as if not to disturb the others. It was at this point that Dias started to move toward the site where the body was found, some ninety feet, with Azevedo following while Duncan and Cross continued around the garden and toward the forest. Dias called to them.

“We’re just looking around,” Duncan replied. “We won’t be long.”

“What are we looking for?” Cross asked as they moved slowly toward the tree line.

“I’m not sure. Another body.”

“Really!”

“I don’t mean human. Animal. If they can reduce a man to a skeleton, they sure as hell can do the same with any other animal.”

“I hadn’t thought about that,” she said. “All of a sudden I feel a little frightened.”

“I don’t blame you. It looks like the species has overcome its principal barrier to becoming a colony of predators.”

“You think they could attack us?”

“I don’t know. If it turns out that the fungus is no longer having that effect, then anything is possible.”

“Is it safe for us to be here?” she asked, clasping his arm nervously as he moved forward several steps.

“I think we’re okay,” Duncan said. “There’s not a lot of cover out here like there is in the garden. Besides, we know what to watch out for. The guy who died didn’t have a clue.”

“Would we see like vultures or something if they killed something else?”

“Not if they only left a skeleton. I just can’t imagine that a human would be their first victim.”

Cross put her hand in Duncan’s and let him lead her despite her fear. What they found was a killing field between the garden and the forest’s edge. They found skeletons of squirrels, rats and several larger mammals, which they could not identify. Duncan photographed each carcass with his smartphone. He was certain they would find more carcasses if they continued to look, but Dias shouted that they were preparing to leave.

“We should go back,” Cross suggested, “don’t you think?”

“Okay. But you do understand this is a major discovery?”

“I do,” she said quietly, squeezing Duncan’s hand.

19

ON THE RETURN trip to Manaus, Inspector Dias struggled to decide what to report to his boss. What if, as Duncan told him, that most likely the insects killed the victim and didn’t merely scavenge the body?

“How can I tell my boss that a bunch of cockroaches knocked the man down and ate him?” he said with exasperation to Azevedo and Duncan. The boat’s twin outboards made hearing difficult. Dias shouted his question.

“They aren’t cockroaches, and that’s exactly what we think happened,” Azevedo shouted back. “You can tell him what you want, it doesn’t matter to me.”

“Nor me,” Duncan agreed, loudly. “Our hypothesis is that insects somehow killed the victim and then devoured him.”

“Hypothesis?” Dias asked slowly.

“Yes. It’s not a fact. We need verification,” Duncan said.

“How do you get that?”

“We wait for another sighting,” Azevedo said.

“Another sighting? You mean another body?”

“Yes, that would be the case.”

Dias considered the alternatives. He decided that he would tell his boss that insects killed the victim and that more bodies were likely to show up in the future. It would be his decision whether to close the case and continue the investigation.

Cross sat facing Duncan in the stern of the boat as it sped toward Manaus. Duncan was glad that the noise made conversation difficult while Cross wanted to talk but didn’t want to shout. They exchanged smiles several times when their eyes met. It made him feel uncomfortable. But he was preoccupied. He wondered whether Cross was still excited about the expedition after hearing that the insects had killed a man. He was counting on her, or rather, her money. No doubt she was attractive and notwithstanding that she may have been flirting with him, he was more motivated than ever to go into the forest to document the insects’ behavior before someone else got to them and reaped the rewards. Academia was a competitive place where stories abounded of former colleagues turning into mortal enemies over who got credit for a discovery. Though rare, murder was not unheard of.

This was how he got whenever he felt that he was on the verge of a discovery or thought he had information that no one else had. Immediately, he would get paranoid about it, start to think that time was against him, that the secret was about to get out, and though he knew it first, someone else would get credit and he’d be watching from the sidelines like so many assistant professors who never got tenure. A discovery like this could propel him into a full professorship. Perhaps there would be a bidding war for his services, and he’d become chairman of a department. His grantors would certainly want to reward him with more grants. His ticket would be punched. But only if he were first to publish. That’s how the score was kept.

While Duncan worried, Maggie Cross wondered whether he was as attracted to her as she was to him. She admired him. He wasn’t brilliant, nor was he handsome. And he certainly wasn’t rich. But she admired his determination and resilience. He was the type of person who once starting something didn’t quit until the job was finished. And he was tall, which was important to her since she stood five-ten.

Obsessive, like an artist. Closer to fifty than forty, she had become settled in her ways, but she wanted to use her interest in insects as a way to meet people, particularly men. But not just any man. Someone like Howard Duncan. She didn’t expect to have a crush on Duncan. It developed naturally, slow at first and then, voila, crush. That’s what she told herself; it was a crush. Silly schoolgirl fling. But she had begun fantasizing about having a relationship with him, and it was becoming difficult for her to hide it. She suspected Hamel had figured it out. He was good at that, in tune with people’s feelings. You would expect him to be empathetic, but he wasn’t. He was well read and informed but lacked ambition, which was why subservience came naturally, and he didn’t mind being bossed around by her. He’d grown accustomed to it. He was good at ingratiating himself with well-off women, had done it for years. Now in his mid-forties, he was like a low maintenance cousin.

20

CODY BOYD UNDERSTOOD how dependent he was on Howard Duncan’s good graces, so that when Duncan returned to the apartment following the trip with Maggie Cross, a trip that was rightfully his, he swallowed his pride and responded enthusiastically when Duncan described what they’d found in the forest.

“There were hundreds of dead insects, which Fernando couldn’t explain. He was completely mystified. You know how talkative he can be; well, he didn’t say much on the trip other than that it appeared that something had changed and that maybe the insects are no longer infected with the fungus. He’s going to examine specimens he brought back to figure out what’s going on.”

“Were they in good shape?”

“Yeah, a bunch of them were crushed, but there were handfuls that looked in good shape, assuming their insides haven’t turned to mush. It was really humid and warm, but they were in the shade.”

“So, the expedition is still on?”

“Oh, yeah, definitely,” Duncan said animatedly. “In fact, we’re going to spend all of our time setting it up, getting supplies, a guide, boats, whatever. I think Maggie will pitch in to make up any shortfall.”

“Did she say that?”

“Not in so many words, but I’m going to talk to her this afternoon and try to pin her down. Hell, she’s rich. It’s not like she can’t afford it. And she’s serious about entomology, and I can’t see how anyone who’s serious about entomology, amateur or professional, wouldn’t jump at the chance to hunt down this insect, especially now when it seems to be displaying a completely different behavior.”

This was more like it, Boyd thought. Missing out on a side trip where only dead insects were found no longer seemed important.

“I’m going to see Maggie. We need to get things going. While I’m doing that, you talk to Fernando and come up with a map of where he says we have the best chance of finding blaberus. We can’t afford to waste time or get off on the wrong track.”

Boyd liked the urgency in Duncan’s voice. It meant that he was determined and wouldn’t let anything get in the way. Besides, he could use his camera to document the expedition and create a video. It wouldn’t be a reality show, but it would be the next best thing. A documentary about finding a new species. Ideas were beginning to come to him. He envisioned millions of hits on YouTube for the teaser version. Judging from the reaction he’d received when he brought it up at the meeting, he wouldn’t mention making a video for distribution, just that he was documenting the expedition. Duncan was accustomed to Boyd’s shooting pictures and video. It was part of his job as an assistant.

21

DUNCAN AND CROSS sat at an old oak bar table tucked away in a corner of the huge kitchen. She served coffee and thinly sliced pound cake. Duncan could not resist the cake. Asked what she thought of the trip to the forest, Cross admitted that she was both excited and fearful.

“I think I was more excited than anything else,” she said. “Not knowing what we would find and then what we did find and how we went out into the field and found all those dead insects, and seeing where that poor man died was something I’ve never done before, or even imagined doing. It was like an adventure.”

“It was, wasn’t it?” Duncan agreed, finishing off his second piece of cake. “Of course, there’s more to come if we can put together an expedition quickly. Frankly, I’m not sure everyone in the group can afford it.”

Cross smiled and sipped her coffee.

“What does it cost to do an ‘expedition’?” she said, using air quotes.

“Pretty much what I discussed at our meeting. Of course, that was before this incident. Things are a little different now,” he said, pausing momentarily. “I’m thinking our best opportunity to study blaberus in its habitat is to start at that cabin we went to yesterday. I’m thinking our best chance of finding a colony is by following carcasses. And we know they’re there,” he said, drawing closer to Cross. “You saw them, right?”

“Yes, I saw them. And I agree. It makes sense to start there.”

Duncan sat back in his chair, taking a deep breath.

“But we need to get started before the trail gets cold. Professor Azevedo has been studying these bugs for years, and he’s never seen more than a handful at a time. He knows more about them than anyone else in the world, and I think he’ll help us find them.”

“What if we find them?”

“That’s what we want to do. I don’t understand the question.”

“Won’t it be dangerous?”

“Dangerous? I suppose it could be, but dangerous in what way?”

“Well, didn’t they kill a man?”

“We can’t assume that. It could be that he had a heart attack, and they just came along and like any scavenger consumed the body.”

“I thought I heard you tell the police inspector that they killed the man.”

Duncan hadn’t realized she had been listening.

“Well, that’s what I suggested because, you know, he’s a homicide inspector, and it was just so his boss wouldn’t come down on him for investigating what could have been a death by natural causes. He seemed to be intimidated by his boss. Plus, it was the only way we could get him to take us to the site.”

“Oh,” she said, brightly. “So you don’t really think they’re killers.”

Duncan cleared his throat.

“I can’t say for sure, but according to everything Azevedo knows, that’s not how they behave. But that’s beside the point if we’re going to do a field study. You’ve done that before.”

“Yeah, that’s one of the things I like about entomology. You get to go places that hardly anybody gets to go and see things that only a few people get to see. I’ve got plenty of friends who like to talk about the exotic cities they’ve visited, but I’ve traveled all over the world and, frankly, it gets boring. I mean, how many castles and cathedrals does one have to see?”

Duncan smiled and nodded in agreement, though his travel was almost entirely work related and often required some sort of result to justify the expense. Though he didn’t have an ambition of becoming wealthy, he was focused on achieving a level of scientific fame that eluded most career scientists, most of whom labored anonymously for years so that their names could be included among the contributors to papers published in obscure journals. Reptilus blaberus was his ticket to fame, if not fortune.

“So,” she said, putting her hand on his, “how much will this cost?”

Duncan felt his heart skip a beat. He slid his hand over hers and asked if she’d like to go out for dinner. She squeezed his hand.

22

FERNANDO AZEVEDO HAD a brief but productive conversation with Cody Boyd and was enthusiastic about participating in Duncan’s expedition. Boyd asked where the expedition should start. The professor didn’t respond but was almost certain that they should return to the site where Barbosa’s body had been found. His reluctance to respond immediately was academic. The professor had just begun dissecting several relatively fresh juvenile specimens he’d collected at the site when Boyd came into his office and returned to his work as soon as the young man left.

The work of teasing apart tiny organs and muscles was done under a large magnifying glass. Unlike earlier dissections when he knew little about the insects, this time he knew exactly what he was looking for—namely whether the parasitic fungus that killed the majority of newborns within a week of birth had lost its lethality, or indeed whether it was even present. The specimens had yet to reach adulthood. They were at most in early adolescence if such could be said of blaberus.

Even though the specimens had started to decay, he was hoping to find a clue that would help him understand how an apparently huge colony had formed. Since all of his assumptions about the insects were based on the fact that few grew into adulthood, he found himself back at square one and realized that everything he had written about them might no longer be valid. It seemed to him now that it was just as well that no journal had accepted his work for publication. Had any done so, he would now be writing a new paper repudiating his previous conclusions. Of course, this would have damaged his reputation, but at least it came honestly from a new discovery rather than from sloppy work. He knew his age would’ve been held against him, and he might have had to give up his office and emeritus status. So far, it was all to the good.

Under a microscope, he studied slides he’d made of portions of the specimen’s brain stem. He found no remnant of infection by the fungus even in the smallest specimen. However, he detected crystals distributed through portions of the brain stem that he’d never seen in previous specimens. He attached a camera adapter to the microscope and, using a digital camera, took several photos of the crystals and printed them using a color inkjet.

The crystals looked like a dense collection of needles or hairs radiating along one edge.

Now what? he thought. This was something he had never seen. He had no experience identifying the properties of crystals and couldn’t even guess as to what it was. Whatever it was, it came from the same forest that was home to blaberus. He knew he needed help, so he packaged the slides along with copies of the photos and left his office, bound for the chemistry department where he hoped to talk to someone who could help him identify the crystal.

23

DUNCAN DIDN’T RETURN to his apartment until the morning. Boyd sat at a small table in the efficiency kitchen sipping coffee and reading the previous day’s New York Times. Right away, Boyd noticed that Duncan was smiling and in a good mood. The first thing that popped into his mind was that his boss had fucked Maggie Cross. He couldn’t wait to tell Stephanie and Carlos. He’d been telling them all along that Duncan and Cross were going to fuck. Carlos said no way. Stephanie was less certain but sided with Carlos.

“I just can’t believe she’d do it,” Rankin had said during one of their nights out. They favored tourist bars, which they regarded as safer than the local bars and clubs. None of them had adapted to the culture. They were there to study insects, not people.

“What did Azevedo tell you? Duncan asked while pouring himself a cup of coffee.

“He said he’d go on the expedition.”

“That’s great! We’ll need him if we run into any wildlife police. We don’t have a permit to collect these insects, and he does.”

“He probably knows the area much better than we do,” Boyd said as he sent a text to Rankin.

“Where does he think we should start?”

“Where you and Maggie went the other day.”

“Really! Did he say why?”

“Didn’t say and I didn’t ask, not having been there,” Boyd said with only a hint of bitterness.

”NO WAY!!!!” Rankin texted.

Sipping his coffee, Duncan couldn’t help but smile. Not only had he spent the night with Maggie, but he was virtually certain that she would underwrite part of the cost of the expedition, especially expenses related to security. He had realized she had an adventurous mind—even though she was physically timid—the moment she squeezed his hand when they were at Barbosa’s field. This raised his confidence to a high level and, along with it, his mood.

“Way!!!” Boyd texted.

Duncan asked him whom he was texting. Boyd put his phone in his pocket.

“Steph,” he said. “She wanted to know if we were going to meet again.”

“I think so, don’t you?” Duncan said, gently slapping Boyd’s knee as he rose with his coffee and stepped into the cramped living room. “We need to get this thing put together ASAP. I’ll call the professor and find out if he can recommend a guide or security guards. You should put a list of equipment we need to bring and provisions for the group for up to a week.”

“A week? That’s a long time.”

“It is, but we don’t know how far we have to go to find the colony. Could take a day or two to find them, and then there’s the time we’ll spend collecting specimens and data. And don’t forget this is still the wet season, so make sure we’ve got gear for that.”

“It hasn’t rained for weeks.”

“Just the same, we want folks to be comfortable.”

“Especially Maggie.”

“She’ll be paying for it, so, yeah, especially Maggie.”

24

MOST OF THE chemistry faculty Azevedo knew had either retired or died, so when he arrived at the lobby of the chemistry department, he naturally gravitated toward the first office he could find. “La oficina del Decano” was posted on a sign on the door, but the professor didn’t notice it. He was excited to be chasing another mystery. And at his age. Seventy-six wasn’t too old to have an adventure, he believed. He felt he could keep up with the youngsters. He was accustomed to the heat and humidity and felt that, though they’d been in the country for two months, they would struggle. If not, he would do what he could to keep up with them. He was not afraid of death, particularly if it came quickly, whether by heart attack or falling off a cliff. He would do what he had to do even if it cost him his life. As he understood, this was an abstraction even to a man of his age who had contemplated death on an almost daily basis for the past decade. What was not an abstraction was that the dead don’t know they are dead.

A young woman sat behind the counter in the lobby. She noticed Azevedo immediately as he entered the office though she did not recognize him as a faculty member. Azevedo had a habit of not wearing his identification badge. As he approached her, she asked how she could help him.

“Do you have an appointment with the dean?” she asked.

Azevedo stopped in his tracks and glanced around the room.

“This is the dean’s office?”

“Yes,” she said, nodding toward the sign on the plate glass door.

“Well,” he said, haltingly. “I, um, perhaps, I don’t think I need to speak with the dean. My name is Professor Fernando Azevedo, and I’m an entomologist and come here in hopes that someone in this department can help me identify a crystal I’ve found in one of my specimens.”

While Azevedo spoke, the young woman looked up his name in the university directory. She was thinking he was older than her grandfather and noticed that he was emeritus and had an office on campus.

“I’m going to call Maria Montes. She’s an assistant professor in our analytical chemistry department. She should be able to help. She’s nice.”

Azevedo nodded appreciatively, smiled and took a seat. The walls were lined with photographs of the dean shaking hands with important political and business leaders, which did not impress him. In his experience, deans had more in common with politicians than scientists. He had little respect for them as academics. But he understood that it took all kinds to run a university and held nothing against them personally. In fact, it was the dean of his department who arranged for his office and a part-time assistant, which he could not have done on his own.

While his mind wandered from photo to photo, a youngish-looking woman entered the room, filling it with a subtle jasmine fragrance that reminded him of his mother. The woman approached the front desk, and the receptionist pointed to Azevedo. Approaching him slowly, she extended her right hand in greeting.

“Hello, Professor Azevedo. I’m Maria Montes. I understand you have a question for us.”

Azevedo rose, shaking her hand and bowing slightly.

“Thank you for coming,” he said, “it’s not so much of a question as it is help in identifying a crystalline structure that I found in a specimen.”

He handed her a folder containing printouts of the photos he’d taken as well as the specimen slides, which were in a small plastic case.

“Hmph,” she grunted. “Let’s go up to my lab. I’m not familiar with this, but we should be able to identify it using your photos.”

The lab was on the third floor, and as she led the way, Azevedo explained where he’d found the specimen and vaguely described his interest in it. Not being an entomologist, she listened politely as the old man talked. She then explained that they would try to match the crystalline structure to the reference photos in a database. She insisted it wouldn’t take long, which pleased Azevedo.

As she predicted, Montes identified the crystal in less than five minutes.

“It’s a quinoid,” she said excitedly. “Specifically it’s Tabebuia avellanedae, also known as Pau D’Arco.”

“Really?” Azevedo responded, peering closely at the computer monitor.

“Are you familiar with it?”

“No, not really. I’m just surprised you found it so quickly. You’re certain of this, right?”

“You can see for yourself,” she said, after printing out the screen and setting Azevedo’s printout alongside. “They’re identical.”

Montes clicked on the Tabebuia avellanedae, which was highlighted, and a window opened with a description. It said that it came from the inner bark of the Purple Lapacho tree.

“Interesting,” Azevedo whispered as he read the text over Montes’ shoulder. “So it’s a medicinal herb.”

“Yes, but look at all the conditions it is associated with, everything from diabetes to parasites.”

“Have you ever heard of it?” Azevedo asked.

“No. You said you found your specimen in an insect?”

“Yes, but I’m going to have to review my notes before I can draw any conclusions,” he said, dismissing the topic.

“Of course,” Montes said, handing the printout she made to Azevedo. “I hope I’ve been helpful.”

“Oh, yes, indeed,” Azevedo said, enthusiastically shaking her hand. “I thought this might take awhile, but you did it so fast. You young people know how to use today’s technology much better than me. Thank you very much.”

Montes smiled and led Azevedo to the elevator. They shook hands again and as the doors closed his cell phone rang. It was Howard Duncan.

25

“PROFESSOR AZEVEDO? PROFESSOR Azevedo, are you there?”

Azevedo put the phone to his ear.

“Olá, olá,” he said.

“I can barely hear you, Professor. Are you in a tunnel?”

“No, I’m leaving the chemistry building. Just a minute.”

Azevedo exited the building and looked for a place to sit, holding the phone at his side. Nearby was a small plaza with several tables with umbrellas to block the sun. He moved toward them. Duncan fretted on his end and started to pace. He wondered whether the call had been dropped. He heard neither static nor any sound from the phone.

“Hello, Dr. Duncan, are you there?”

“Yes, yes, I thought I’d lost you.”

“No, I wanted to sit down. Actually, I’m glad you called; I have something important to tell you.”

“And I’ve got something to tell you,” Duncan interrupted. “A member of my group has offered to help underwrite our expedition, as long as she goes along, of course. Now, what were you going to tell me?”

“I think I know why we saw so many blaberus in the forest.”

“Really?” Duncan set his cup on the table. “Why?”

“Tree bark. I found a crystal,” Azevedo said matter-of-factly.

“Tree bark?”

“Yes, the inner bark of a Lapacho tree,” Azevado said, paraphrasing from the printout that Montes gave him. “It’s a big tree with medicinal qualities that seem to derive from quinoids that are bioactive. Interesting, no?”

Duncan could barely contain himself. Boyd noticed his boss’ excitement and gestured toward him as if to ask “What’s up?” Duncan waved him off and started pacing. Already his mind whirred. No longer would this expedition be about discovering an insect. They would document an incredible transformation in real time where a living creature suddenly adapts to and overcomes a limitation that may have affected its species for untold generations. There was much to learn and many papers to write.

Meanwhile, Boyd texted to Stephanie Rankin “He’s @ it again! manic faze,” then listened intently to Duncan’s conversation, which he understood was with Professor Azevedo.

“This is incredible,” Duncan said.

“Yes, I suppose it is,” Azevedo said. “It pretty much puts me back to the beginning of my research. I don’t think I can make any assumptions about these insects if my new hypothesis proves correct. But what was it you said you had, a member of your group offered to underwrite the expedition?”

“Yes, yes, Maggie, ah, Maggie, God, I’m blanking on her last name. Anyway, she’s wealthy and can cover any cost we can’t. Cross that’s her name, Maggie Cross. Of course, she can’t pay for the entire thing, so I think we need to make plans immediately, get estimates for a guide, boats, I think we’ll need at least two, maybe three, some security, she’s insistent on that, and since you live here, perhaps you know some businesses that can accommodate us. I’ll take care of locating equipment, camping gear and the like.”

“Security?”

“Yeah, she’s afraid of, you know, druggies and bandits, you know the stuff you see on TV movies. I figured since she’s paying for it, there’s no reason to talk her out of it.”

Azevedo understood Duncan’s breathless excitement. He shared it. And even though it was mid-April, the last month of the wet season, he agreed any delay could be costly. Before ending the call, they agreed to meet the next afternoon at Maggie Cross’ place, which Duncan said he would arrange, believing she would not refuse though it hadn’t occurred to him that she might have other plans.

On the walk across campus back to his office, Azevedo started to wonder about the size of the new blaberus colony. It was one thing to encounter a colony of fewer than a hundred individuals. What about a colony ten times that size? A hundred times? A thousand times? These were questions he’d never considered. Suddenly, they were important.

26

“YOU CAN’T FOOL me,” George Hamel said slyly as Maggie Cross finished ordering lunch at a cafe near her home.

“Whatever do you mean?” she said.

“You’re falling for that professor. I’ve seen this before. You’re setting yourself up again. I don’t know why it is you chase men who care more about their work than they do about anything or anybody else.’

“You’re imagining things.”

“It’s okay to fuck him.”

“That’s my business, don’t you think?”

“Yeah, mostly.”

“You are incorrigible. Remind me, why do I put up with you?”

“You put up with me because I put up with you.”

Cross squinted at Hamel with mock anger and smiled. This was a dialogue they’d had multiple times. They each knew how far they could go and were comfortable staying within bounds. The repartee was good-natured and highly stylized and largely satisfying for both.

Cross’ phone rang shortly after they were served. It was Duncan. As soon as he realized who was calling, Hamel started gesturing and silently mouthing words to which Cross responded by waving him off and turning her head away. The call lasted several minutes, and when it was over, Hamel stared at her like a parent eyeing a mischievous child.

“So, what’s up?”

“Oh, it’s about the expedition. He wants to get underway immediately.”

“But he needs your money, right?” Hamel gloated. “Am I right?”

“Yes, but it’s not him. He’s not asking for money for himself.”

“Okay, so, what’s he need it for?”

She sighed, her eyes going to the ceiling.

“He said the money would go for security, which I would pay for no matter what, and for boats and possibly a guide. Those who come along will cover the rest, he said.”

“And you believe him?”

“Why shouldn’t I?” she snapped. “It’s not like he’s trying to steal from me.”

“But he could be using you,” he said quietly.

She shook her head in a negative way.

“It wasn’t a social call,” she said.

“So he asked you to hire a security company?”

“No, of course not,” she said, emphatically. “What do I know about security companies? He just wanted to confirm that I would underwrite the cost if necessary. I’ll have to check with my accountant, but it may be tax deductible.”

“There you go,” Hamel said brightly. “You’ve found the silver lining.”

Cross frowned and shook her head.

“You didn’t say when the expedition was going to start. Next week?”

“I got the impression that if he can get things together quickly enough we’d leave tomorrow. He’s in a hurry. We didn’t discuss details.”

“Really! Well then, we’d better get going. We have some shopping to do.”

“We?” she said sarcastically.

“Well, if I don’t go, who are you going to insult?”

27

AFTER SEVERAL CALLS, Professor Azevedo met with a boat owner named Gonzalo Juarez. The middle-aged Juarez grew up in Mexico but emigrated to Brazil to make his fortune. Able to read and write Spanish, he struggled with Portuguese and was embarrassed any time he asked native speakers to talk slowly so he could understand them. As a result, he made his living as a guide for Spanish speakers. However, business was slow, and he had a thirty-foot work boat that would transport a dozen people. The wooden boat sat high in the bow and low in the stern and was powered by a small inboard diesel. The boat had once been open, but Juarez had erected a roof along its entire length with a tiny wheelhouse near the bow. The area behind the wheelhouse was open. Azevedo asked the owner to install bench seats to accommodate a group of eight.

28

THE EIGHT EXPEDITION members, two guards, a guide and his assistant arrived aboard a thirty-foot modified wooden crabber of distant vintage, hauling three smaller aluminum flat-bottomed runabouts behind them. It was slow going. Gonzalo Juarez, the captain, and his mate struggled to keep the boats from bashing themselves into pieces while trying to arrive at the tributary that led to Raul Barbosa’s cabin before dark. They’d gotten a late start. It took much longer than they expected to load the boat, which was barely large enough to accommodate its passengers and their gear, some of which was secured to the heavy wood roof. Several took Dramamine before the boat left the dock. Everyone could tell it was going to be a rough ride.

Arriving at the tributary, Juarez and his mate tied up the thirty-footer, and the group loaded everything into the small boats, started the outboards and slowly made their way from the Rio Negro into the interior. Darkness was descending as they finally reached Barbosa’s landing where they pulled and pushed the heavily laden boats onto the narrow shore and scrambled up the hill that opened onto Barbosa’s camp.

Less than a week had passed since Duncan, Azevedo and Cross had first visited the place. The group made its way toward the cabin, using headlamps and flashlights to light the way in the dimness of early night. Duncan had decided to move everything from the boats to a staging area under the deck of the raised cabin. By the time they finished, darkness had fallen, and insects filled the still air with a penetrating noise that sounded to some as if their ears were ringing. Duncan led the way up the stairs to the cabin deck. Leaning into the door, he pushed it open. He had hoped that it wouldn’t be locked. Although they had tents, everyone was tired after the long day and everyone, including the hired help, filed into the close, humid cabin, its darkness giving way to bouncing LED headlamps as each person entered. Some were nearly disoriented from the discordant movement of the lights against the walls.

“Let’s see if we can find a light or generator or something,” Duncan announced, and several members started feeling along the walls for switches. Cody Boyd finally found a switch near the sink and flicked it. Several low voltage lights flickered to life, apparently powered by Barbosa’s backup batteries. The headlamps were switched off and the cabin filled with a reassuring though dim ambient light. Someone asked whether it was okay to stay in the cabin, to which Duncan responded that it was—that the former owner had no use for it.

No one disagreed as they fanned out in predictable groups. The two security men, who spoke little English and wore T-shirts, blue jeans and sneakers, bedded down in one corner while the guide and his assistant spread their bedrolls nearby. Javier Costa, the guide, spoke English haltingly while his young assistant, Antonio Suarez, was fluent by comparison. The middle-agers Duncan, Cross, and Hamel stayed together while Boyd shared a corner with Rankin, Johnson and Peeples. Rankin passed around a fifth gin that they all sipped, Rankin and Boyd more than the others. The lights began to flicker after an hour, by which time the guides and security men were asleep. It wasn’t long before the room was filled with snoring, occasional coughing and farting and the constant hum of insects outside and to some extent inside.

29

MAGGIE CROSS WAS not happy with the security arrangements. She expressed her concerns to Duncan while they ate a breakfast of cold cereal and coffee. She was troubled by their appearance, that they didn’t wear uniforms and about their guns—one carried a single-barrel shotgun while the other carried a rifle, both old and showing rust.

“It looks to me like they’ve never cleaned or even fired those guns,” she whispered as they sat on a bench on the deck overlooking the garden.

“That’s how it’s done down here,” Duncan said dismissively.

“Well, they don’t look very professional, and I’ve always believed that if you don’t look the part you can’t play the part.”

Truth was that Duncan didn’t think security guards were necessary, that Azevedo and the guides would be able to handle any situation. He dismissed the likelihood of encountering bandits or drug gangs, and even if they did, it was unlikely two private security guards would offer much protection. More than likely, they were fishermen whom the company they worked for hired off the dock. He left local hiring to Azevedo, who probably delegated it to his assistant. That’s what Duncan would have done had it been his job.

“Look,” he said quietly, “I’ve been on many expeditions, and I’ve never seen the need for guards. This is a big country, and the forest is immense, despite what you’ve heard about logging and the like. I wouldn’t worry about it. Besides, look at the beautiful sunny day that’s ahead of us.”

“And the humidity,” she was quick to add, wiping sweat from her chin.

“No way of escaping that in the tropics.”

“I suppose,” she said, “but I wish I could have packed more clothing.”

“I’m afraid we’ll be roughing it a bit, and we all have to do our bit carrying equipment and other stuff.”

“I know, I know; I just wish it was more like one of those African safaris where you have people to do these things.”

“I don’t think even you could afford that. Besides, the more people the more problems. I think we’ve got the right number.”

“Except for the guards, right?”

Duncan sighed.

“No, they’re fine. I just hope they’ll carry some of the stuff.”

30

DUNCAN HAD OVERESTIMATED the amount of equipment they could carry. Boyd carried photography equipment, including a DSLR with two lenses, a tripod, and a small video camera with built-in light, batteries, filters, and other items. In addition, he carried his sleeping bag, clothing and personal gear. Others carried tents in addition to their own gear. The rest of Duncan’s group carried equipment such as specimen boxes. The guards carried food, and the guides carried cooking gear and fuel. What they couldn’t take, they left in the cabin. Having found a key that fit a padlock that they’d found near the door, Boyd was the last to leave and locked the door, giving the key to Duncan, who had already started the march into the forest.

Duncan had instructed his group to fan out at the start and look for carcasses across a wide swatch of the forest floor. It was not long before the guides realized they weren’t there to guide. At his boss’ suggestion, assistant Antonio Suarez approached Professor Azevedo to ask what he wanted them to do. Azevedo shrugged.

“Just stay with us, so we can reach you if we need you. This is just the first day. There’ll probably be more for you to do tomorrow.”

Upon hearing from his assistant what Azevedo said, Costa smiled broadly.

“I’m going to hang back,” he told Suarez, who planned to get ahead of the group to see what he could see. At twenty-four, he was making decent money as a guide and was banking as much as he could to pay for his own boat. A guide with a boat could make a lot of money, most of it legal. Americans paid well and tipped generously to catch peacock bass. Peacocks, big and powerful, tested anglers to their limits and Suarez knew spots that he’d discovered on his own and planned to offer them to his customers when he got a boat. He’d already thought about how to advertise and was working on where to place ads. He’d determined that to reach North American sports fishermen he had to advertise in fishing publications. The big ones were too expensive, but there were many smaller publications, and he was compiling a list of them to get prices. Guiding was the ideal occupation for a young Brazilian who loved to explore. That was why he left the guide and the group behind. He had a folding rod and reel in his backpack and hoped to find water containing peacock bass.

Duncan watched as Suarez walked past him and looked at Azevedo, who was behind him. Azevedo shrugged.

“He’s young. We don’t need him now, anyway.”

“I suppose. What do you think the chances are we’ll find anything?”

“Good, if blaberus moved in this direction. Not so good otherwise.”

“But they’d have to get across water in other directions.”

“Who says they can’t? Maybe they swim like dolphins.”

“There’s just not much we know about them, is there?” Duncan said.

“Especially now that they’ve overcome the fungus,” Azevedo said, leaning on his walking stick. “I was thinking last night about how I’ve spent decades studying these creatures and how little I have actually learned about them. Until this week, I thought I knew a lot. I don’t think that anymore.”

Duncan frowned slightly and scanned the area his group was examining. He didn’t expect immediate results, and for the first hour or so there were none. Then a shout came from his right, about fifty yards ahead. It was Stephanie Rankin. Everyone quickly moved toward her. They’d all been waiting for this moment for nearly a week and now, so soon into the expedition, they would see results. As everyone gathered around, she pointed toward the ground several feet in front of her hiking shoes. The carcass of an armadillo.

Duncan took out latex gloves from his pack, kneeled next to the carcass and picked it up gingerly. Pulling out a dissection kit, he deftly separated the upper shell from the skeleton, setting both on a small, square sheet of plastic that Cody Boyd arranged on the ground. After everyone had a good look, and Boyd had recorded everything, he tried to get a GPS signal to mark the location but couldn’t penetrate the thick canopy. Duncan told him to try again when they reached a clearing and instructed Rankin to mark the carcass with a small orange flag mounted on a metal rod, similar to those used to mark evidence at crime scenes. He redirected the search so that half of the group fanned out to the left and the remainder to the right of the carcass. Duncan and Azevedo trailed behind as the group slowly advanced through the thick forest. The forest floor was relatively easy to walk through and immersed in shade. The forest canopy was so dense that little sunlight reached the ground.

Finding the first carcass energized everyone. The three youngest, Boyd, Rankin and Johnson, turned the search for carcasses into a game, betting on who would find the largest animal, who would find the most, and similar wagers. The bets were for beers that they’d collect when they returned to Manaus. They continued their slow, methodical march until midday when they gathered in a clearing to eat a lunch of tuna canned in oil and crackers. Hamel complained about the oil, but Duncan said that was all they had, and he was free to eat crackers without tuna if he wished. Cross gave Hamel a harsh look and daintily ate her lunch, washing it down with bottled water.

Following lunch, the group fanned out again. More than two hours had passed since Rankin had found the armadillo and questions were whispered about whether they should change course. They were getting nowhere fast.

31

ANTONIO SUAREZ LEFT the expedition behind as he explored the forest in search of fishing holes. He’d come across a meandering trail that was easy to follow and, he assumed, would be just as easy to follow on the return trip. About fifteen minutes after he’d started his hike, he found that his heavy pack was slowing him down and left it alongside the trail, propped up against a rubber tree where it would be easy to find on his way back. Traveling light with only his fishing rod, several lures, water bottle, machete, lighter and several snack bars, he covered more ground quickly.

Ten minutes later, less than a mile from where he’d left his pack, he came upon the carcass of a giant anteater about fifty feet off the trail. It was hard to miss. It looked to be about six feet long. It was a monster, but as he probed it with a stick, the hide was hollow. Inside, the skeleton was stripped. He’d never seen an anteater’s skeleton. It reminded him of a dinosaur’s skeleton he’d seen in a magazine. The skull was long and out of proportion with the torso. The neck seemed too skinny to support the huge skull. Perhaps that’s why the anteater always had its nose to the ground, he thought, to keep the neck from breaking.

Then it occurred to him that someone might pay for the skeleton of a giant anteater, and he pulled out his folding knife to cut the hide away. It was a difficult task since the hide was tough, and his blade wasn’t sharp, but he was able to do it without damaging the skeleton which, when he finally lifted it out of the hide, was fully articulated. The scavengers that ate the beast had done a good job, he thought. It was almost as if the skeleton had been dropped into a vat of boiling water and pulled out stripped of flesh. Problem was, he had no way of carrying it. He didn’t want to risk having it fall apart on the trail by carrying it in his arms. He knew that whatever value it had would depend entirely on its completeness.

Recovering the skeleton was now more important than finding a fishing hole. He carried several nylon ditty sacks in his backpack, including one that may have been large enough to hold the skeleton if he had been able to fold it. The long tail would fold easily, but he couldn’t get the torso to cooperate without severing the spine. However, even if he could fit the skeleton into the sack, he wondered how he could carry it while carrying a fully loaded backpack. This would be something he’d have to come back for.

Because he didn’t know the worth of the skeleton, he began to imagine that it held great value, and that it would be worth one thousand reals or more. As a guide, he knew that giant anteaters were becoming rare and that it was illegal to kill one intentionally, which made it easy to believe there was great value in what he had found. The thing to do, he thought, was to put it somewhere out of sight where he could retrieve it. From the looks of the trail, few if any people used it. He had seen nothing since leaving the cabin that would even suggest the presence of humans. So why did he suddenly feel that someone might find it and take it?

Not wasting another moment, he gently lifted the skeleton and slowly moved away from the hide to a nearby palm that stood out from the surrounding trees. He laid it at the base of the tree and covered it with fallen fronds. Stepping back, he told himself the skeleton wouldn’t have to remain hidden for long and decided to retrace his steps when he nearly stumbled over another carcass. Suarez kneeled close to it. Was it another anteater? No, not even close. It was a tapir. Using a stick, he pressed against the hide, and it gave way as if it were hollow.

“Jesus,” he mumbled. He couldn’t tell how large it had been, but it was definitely an adult. But that thought was replaced by the recognition that this was just like the anteater. Again, he used his pocket knife to slice up the hide, and there was the skeleton, all neat and articulated. He’d seen tapirs before, including one that weighed more than five hundred pounds, but he understood they were being hunted out of existence, like anteaters. The entrepreneur in him took over, and he hid the skeleton under the palm leaves next to the anteater. This was a good trip, he thought. He’d be able to sell both skeletons for a big profit, maybe enough to pay for the boat he wanted. Maybe it was a business in itself. He had to look into this, see what the market was. But now there was nothing left to do but head back and rejoin the group. He’d keep this to himself. He feared his boss would claim his share if he knew about it.

32

CARLOS JOHNSON WAS the first to notice the backpack. It was mid-afternoon, and the group had discovered several carcasses of small mammals since finding the armadillo, including an opossum, a couple of tuco-tucos and several squirrels. Duncan was satisfied with the thoroughness of the search but not the speed. They had barely covered a mile all morning. They needed to cover more ground or the blaberus colony would be long gone, which it could have been anyway, since they didn’t start until more than a week after the discovery of Raul Barbosa’s body.

After a brief respite, Johnson and Allison Peeples walked ahead of the group and found the trail that Suarez had followed. They’d gone only several hundred yards when Johnson pointed to the pack, resting alongside the trail. They were unaware that the assistant guide had gone off on his own and didn’t connect the pack to him. Curious about its contents, they inspected it closely and wondered who the owner was. It looked as if it hadn’t been there for long, so they scanned the area as Johnson mused why someone would leave a fully loaded pack in the open. They returned to the group and told Duncan what they had found. Duncan didn’t make the connection either and followed them to the trail, with the guide Javier Costa bringing up the rear. As soon as they got to the pack, the guide said, in English, “That Antonio’s.”

“Who’s Antonio?” Peeples asked.

“The assistant guide,” Duncan said.

Costa, Suarez’ boss, smiled with understanding. “Yes,” he said. “He didn’t have anything to do so he went on ahead.”

“Why would he leave his pack here, in the middle of nowhere?” Johnson asked.

Looking at the pack, Duncan said, “Maybe it was slowing him down. I’m sure he’s up ahead somewhere. Let’s go back and keep looking for carcasses.”

Duncan’s new instruction to the group was to be less thorough if it meant they could cover more ground. As a result, it took everyone about an hour to reach the trail and from there they spread out evenly along either side and got to within a hundred yards of Suarez’ skeleton stash when he showed up, trotting down the trail with a fishing pole in one hand and a machete in the other. He was walking when he first saw them and picked up the pace to intercept them before they reached the skeletons.

He didn’t want anyone horning in on his opportunity and was afraid the professor would claim his find without compensation. Of course, he didn’t know what they were looking for. He’d only been told that his boss wanted him to translate and represent them for several days with Americans. And since he was preoccupied with starting his own business, he didn’t care. He was doing it strictly for the money. One day in the near future, he was going to work with wealthy sports fishermen from America and make a ton of money. That was his plan.

His boss’s plan was to expand his business. And he sometimes took on jobs like this for less money because the job would last a week, and payment would be a certainty since he’d gotten half up front. It helped to pay for the loan on his boat and put food on the table for his family.

Duncan asked Suarez whether he’d seen anything unusual during his hike. The assistant guide was puzzled.

“Anything unusual?” he said, as if not understanding the question.

“Yes, dead animals. You understand what we’re trying to do, right?”

“Not really,” he said. “My boss said we’d be guiding you in the forest, but he didn’t say why.”

“We’re looking for a particular insect that we think scavenges the bodies of dead animals.”

“Like flies and ants?”

“More like cockroaches,” Duncan said. He held his thumb and forefinger apart to indicate the length of blaberus. “They’re about this diameter,” he added, using his forefinger to form a small circle.

Suarez immediately grasped what this meant. The carcasses he found were what Duncan and his group were looking for.

“Those must be big baratas,” he said. “I’ve never seen any that big, just the regular kind.”

Duncan asked how far Suarez had gone and what he could tell him about the terrain. Suarez said it was more of the same but that he hadn’t gone very far.

In Portuguese, Costa whispered, “You were gone all morning, and you didn’t go very far?”

Suarez shrugged and tried to retrieve his backpack, but Costa stepped in front of him. He gave him a critical eye and asked why he’d left his backpack if he didn’t go very far. Duncan, who spoke Spanish fairly well but not Portuguese, wasn’t certain what was being said because the two spoke barely above a whisper, and their words flowed quickly, but he could tell the boss wasn’t happy with what his employee was saying. When the conversation was over, Costa spoke to Azevedo. He told him in Portuguese that his assistant had found several carcasses and hid the skeletons. When Azevedo told this to Duncan, Duncan took Suarez aside and asked him to show him the carcasses.

“You haven’t done anything wrong,” he said. “You didn’t know what we’re looking for. But I need to see these carcasses. Did you notice any cockroaches on the ground or anything?”

“No, I didn’t notice anything like that. But I wasn’t looking for them either. I was mostly working on the carcass to get the skeletons out. I put them under a tree and covered them with palm leaves.”

Suarez led Duncan, Azevedo and Costa to where he’d found the carcasses while the group continued to forage through the underbrush. Scattered on the ground were handfuls of dead blaberii. Costa picked one up and, after examining it closely, announced “barata grande.” Azevedo shook his head and, speaking Portuguese, explained that the insects were not big cockroaches but a new species. When Azevedo mentioned that the insects had devoured the animals’ flesh, Costa threw the insect on the ground with disgust.

“You’re kidding?” Suarez asked.

“Not at all,” Azevedo said. “We think they are scavengers, but we’re not certain. We don’t know much about them. We used to think there were only a few of them, but as you can see, if they’re capable of scavenging mammals of this size, the colony must be large.”

Duncan returned to the group, which was now within two hundred feet of the carcasses, and was met by Maggie Cross, who waved at him wildly.

“You have to see this,” she said, breathlessly. “We’ve found several carcasses, all of them on this side of the path.”

Nearby, Cody Boyd had stripped the hide from a juvenile peccary and was examining the skeleton with a small magnifying glass. Duncan approached him as Cross and Hamel gathered around them.

“Look at this,” Boyd said, handing the magnifier to Duncan. “It looks like tiny tooth marks or something like it on the bones.”

Duncan squinted through the glass and handed it to Cross, who squeamishly peered through the glass while Boyd held the skeleton. Hamel gave it a casual look and returned the magnifier to Boyd.

“I’m not sure how those marks got there,” Duncan said. “I’m not sure their mandibles could have done that. You know, they’re not teeth marks.”

“I was thinking it could be from their forelegs with those wedges or whatever you call them on the tips. They’re a cutting instrument,” Boyd said. “Professor Azevedo said they’re like little axes. Maybe that’s what caused the marks.”

Duncan nodded in agreement. He asked Cross how many other carcasses the group found.

“Six, at least,” Boyd said. “All of them skeletons inside hides that were largely untouched.”

“Yeah,” Duncan said, absently. “Maybe they consume the flesh from the inside out, you know, they crawl in through the mouth, anus, ears, nose, any orifice.”

“And they must work quickly because I could find no evidence of beetles, much less maggots. And I looked,” Boyd said. “Steph did, too.”

“If they work that fast, then there must be a lot of them, don’t you think?” Rankin said.

“Makes sense,” Boyd said.

“I wouldn’t be jumping to conclusions yet, but we have to include it as part of our hypothesis. I think the big question remains, though.”

“Whether they killed the animals, too?” Boyd said.

“Exactly. These skeletons we’ve found basically show no trauma, so it’s not as if they were killed by predators. If they were, their hides would be all torn up and their bones would be scattered, not intact,” Duncan said.

“Wouldn’t that make the insects predators?” Rankin asked.

“It would,” Duncan said quickly, noticing that Cross was growing anxious about the conversation. “But we’re not there yet.”

Seeing that everyone had gathered around him, Duncan instructed them to join Azevedo and the guides, forgoing the search. He was convinced they were moving in the right direction.

33

SUAREZ WATCHED NERVOUSLY as Duncan and Azevedo cleared the palm leaves concealing his skeletons and handled them. He was afraid the perfect specimens would fall apart, and he’d be left with nothing but a pile of bones. While Boyd filmed, Duncan and Azevedo separated the skeletons and examined the tapir with the magnifier. Suarez nervously turned away as they dangled it by its tail. To make things worse, after they concluded their examination, others in the group lined up to get their look. Suarez thought of interceding but was uncertain about his role and was afraid of angering his employer. So he remained in the background while the others pawed the skeleton.

By the time everyone finished looking, Suarez had calmed himself. They had treated the skeletons with scientific respect and left them none the worse for wear. However, he could not resist examining the tapir himself and was amazed to see the bones covered with thousands of tiny indentations. Now that he knew what he was looking for, he could make out the indentations without the magnifier and was gripped by the fear that this would make the skeletons worthless. Returning the magnifier to Azevedo, he frowned.

“Ahh,” Azevedo said, “you thought you’d be able to sell the specimens to a collector. Am I right?”

“Yes, I thought they were perfect,” Suarez confided.

“Well, I don’t know what to say since I’m not a collector, are you?”

“No. I just found them and thought they might have value. Now I’m not so sure.”

“Whether they do or not, we’re sure to find more of them. I wouldn’t worry about it now. You can’t take them with you, not with that pack you’re carrying. You can pick them up when we come back.”

“I suppose,” Suarez said, dejectedly. “It’s just that I thought I’d found a pot of gold, and now, it’s nothing.”

“You’ll get over it,” Azevedo said good-naturedly. “Anyway, there’s nothing you can do about it. Look at it this way, if the bones didn’t have those markings, you wouldn’t have the bones.”

Suarez smiled and covered the skeletons with palm leaves. His boss, however, wasn’t smiling, having overheard his conversation with Azevedo, which was conducted in Portuguese.

“Are you working for yourself or me?” Javier Costa demanded after Azevedo had moved away. “Because, if you’re working for yourself, you can forget about getting paid by me.”

Suarez straightened after replacing the last palm branch, smiling.

“I’m working for you,” he said sharply. “Besides, you need me. Who’s going to translate for you if not me?”

This brought a grin to Costa’s face.

“The old man, the professor. He speaks Portuguese and English. He’ll translate.”

This humbled Suarez, who apologized and told his boss he was done collecting skeletons.

“They’re probably worthless,” Suarez said dismissively. He made more money working for Costa than he would probably get for the skeletons. He needed to refocus on scouting for fishing holes, he thought.

While this conversation was going on, Duncan announced that they would converge on the side of the path where Suarez had found the tapir and peccary and try to cover several miles in time to make camp at a clearing that, according to his map, lay on this side of a tributary of undetermined size. It was depicted as a stream, but it could turn into a raging river during the rainy season, so he could not be certain.

“It looks like we’ll be getting our feet wet tomorrow morning.”

34

THE CAMP BUZZED with mosquitoes and gossip when Maggie Cross crawled into Howard Duncan’s tent as dark descended. Duncan finished attaching the tent’s rainfly and followed her inside, zipping the screen entry behind him. The tent was a tight fit for two people and their gear. They brought their packs inside because Duncan said it might rain.

“Hell, if it rains we might have to evacuate to higher ground,” he mused.

Under the light of a headlamp that he attached to a cord at the top of the tent, Duncan spread his sleeping bag over their air mattresses and Cross laid hers on top.

Slipping out of their outerwear, they stretched out on the sleeping bags.

“This isn’t bad,” Cross said. “It’s almost comfortable.”

“Not too loud,” Duncan whispered.

Cross gave him a peck on the cheek.

“It’s not like nobody knows,” she said giddily.

Single and looking at his forty-fifth birthday, Duncan was like many men of his generation, who struggled to separate intimacy from sex. Cross, four years his senior, had, on the other hand, no such issues. Once she determined what she liked about a man, she became determined to see where the relationship went. Usually, through little if any fault of her own, relationships ended abruptly after only a few months. Some were too intense; others were simply mistakes.

This one, she thought, had promise, but she was not yet at the point of trusting him. She liked his looks, the way he wore his hair in a short ponytail, the light brown color of his eyes, his overall fitness, and the fact he was taller than she. She had always been tall for her age, towering over her classmates until reaching high school where many caught up. At five-feet-ten, she preferred a man who was at least six feet, which Duncan was. Looking down at a man, especially in a relationship, never appealed to her. It made her self-conscious, and she hated it.

Additionally, mentally ticking off what she liked about Duncan, were his intelligence, his drive, his lack of vanity and his evenhandedness. Her friend George Hamel could tell she was infatuated with Duncan from the start. He was barely five-foot-six, and when he first met her, he thought of a possible fling but realized quickly that he wasn’t her type. Though clever and quick on the uptake, he lacked any attributes that she required in a relationship. Plus, he was dependent on her goodwill for his livelihood, such as it was. Her manservant. Hamel felt they had a good relationship, one without pressure from either side though he also felt she would miss him should he leave, or so he told himself and her, occasionally. Looking around his tent, lit by a flashlight, he wondered whether coming on the trip was a good idea. He hated being a fifth wheel and yet that’s exactly what he was. But he didn’t dwell on it since he had to make room for his tent mate, Professor Azevedo.

Cody Boyd and Carlos Johnson pitched their tent next to the tent shared by Stephanie Rankin and Allison Peeples. Both were within thirty feet of Duncan’s tent, and it wasn’t long before the two women could be heard stifling giggles.

“What do you suppose they’re laughing about?” Boyd wondered.

“What do you think?”

“Howard and his girlfriend?”

“Lucky guess. I just hope if they get it on, they don’t make a lot of noise.”

“If?”

Johnson smiled and nodded.

“It makes me horny thinking about it,” Johnson said.

“You bring earplugs?”

“Yeah.”

“Put ‘em on and read your Kindle.”

“I don’t think I’m tired enough. Just because it’s dark, you know, I’ve never been in a rainforest at night. Have you?” Johnson asked.

“Yeah, a coupla times. Why?”

“Well, I wonder what it’s like, you know, the sounds, the night sky.”

“Like my dad used to say, ‘nothing good happens after dark.’”

“I’m sure he was referring to a different context.”

“Mosquitoes.”

“Mosquitoes? What about mosquitoes?”

“There’s millions of ‘em.”

“So, we got Deet. And we got headlamps. You’re just being a pussy.”

“Am not. Besides, there’s predators out there. Jaguars.”

“I’m not talking about hiking out into the wilderness. Just a little look see, you know, just follow the trail back the way we came. Don’t you have any sense of adventure?”

Boyd stopped himself from protesting Johnson’s characterization of him. He’d had adventures, climbing in Colorado, traveling in Europe. But he understood Johnson’s point. What if this was his first and only week-long trip into the rainforest? Wouldn’t he regret not having experienced it fully rather than curling up at night in a tent? He thought that way at times, not so much about the here and now, but what he would think of it later. He didn’t like the idea of regret. Sometimes you get only one chance to do something and if you don’t take it, well, that’s where regrets come from.

“I’ll think about it,” he said, finally. “There they go again with the giggling.”

35

JOHNSON AND BOYD emerged from their tent near midnight, the darkness enveloping them. The glow from their headlamps, set to the lowest illumination, cast a dim semicircle on the ground as they moved uncertainly toward the path that they’d come in on. Roots crossed it, and the surface in places was made uneven by floodwater.

Switching their headlamps to a greater illumination, they made their way down the path and away from the river, quickly becoming aware of how different the forest sounded at night. Rising above the constant buzzing of insects were howls of monkeys, screeches and the low bellowing of peccaries. Although they couldn’t hear them, they sensed the huge vampire bats flying about. They heard the crunching of dried leaves and twigs made by foraging animals. Given the site’s proximity to a river, anacondas might be tasting the air with their tongues for prey. The farther they walked, the more sensitive to the noise they became, unlike in the daytime when the noise was so constant that their brains filtered it out. As if by instinct, they simultaneously put their headlamps onto full brightness. They’d traveled less than two hundred feet from camp, and already they felt a creeping fear of what they couldn’t see.

“I’m not sure this is such a good idea,” Johnson whispered.

“What? I couldn’t hear you. Why are you whispering?” Boyd sounded angry, but he was just anxious.

“Think we should head back?”

“What are you afraid of?”

“Well, lots of stuff. I hate it when I can’t see anything. There’s so much noise, I can’t tell where anything is coming from. Hell, far as I can tell, there’s a jaguar three feet away.”

“Don’t be silly,” Boyd said, “We’d see its eyes. Besides they’re rare. I’d be more worried about peccaries. You know, they travel in groups, and they’re like badgers. You don’t want to get in their way.”

“I thought they were like javelinas.”

“Javelinas are peccaries,” Boyd said. “And they’re supposed to be dangerous.”

“I don’t know. I was in Texas once, and there was a group of javelinas crossing a road, and I got out to take pictures and they just ignored me. They saw me for sure, but they didn’t attack or anything,” Johnson said.

“Well, I’ve never been to Texas. Maybe the peccaries in Brazil are different. Anyways, they got tusks, and I don’t mess with anything that’s got tusks.”

They walked a little further and stopped, using their headlamps to scan the area around them. They could hear movement in the underbrush nearby and Johnson, who had kept one hand in his pants pocket wrapped around his folding knife, pulled it out and flipped open the thick blade.

“What did you just do?” Boyd asked quickly.

“I just opened my knife.”

“You’re kidding,” Boyd said, turning his headlamp to get a view of Johnson’s knife.

“Nice knife,” he said. “What are you gonna do with it?”

“I don’t know. It just makes me feel safer. Do you mind?”

“No, not at all,” Boyd said. “But, you know, man, it’s just way different from the day time.”

“And scarier. Now that you know, why don’t we head back?”

“Let’s go a little further.”

Johnson’s discomfort level was nearing its limit. But he told himself that his fear was irrational and that Boyd would lose respect for him if he chickened out, especially since they were going to go only another hundred feet to a towering Brazil nut tree.

“Just look at this thing,” Boyd said, his head turned toward the sky, the light of his headlamp disappearing in the darkness.

“Jesus,” Johnson gushed. “I can’t see the top, can you?”

“It’s like it’s swallowed by the darkness.”

Suddenly, there came a whooshing sound and a loud thud as something heavy crashed to the ground between them.

“What the hell was that?” Johnson said loudly, jumping backward.

Boyd surveyed the ground where the sound had originated. Lying embedded in the soil was a coconut looking thing about a half-foot in diameter. He picked it up while Johnson watched, moving closer now that the mystery had been removed.

“It’s heavy,” Boyd said, handing it to Johnson. “Lucky it didn’t hit you on the head.”

“This is a Brazil nut tree, right?” Johnson said tentatively.

“Not sure. That doesn’t look like any Brazil nut I’ve seen.”

“Yeah, but a pecan doesn’t look like a pecan shell either.”

“We should take it back with us,” Boyd said.

“Works for me,” Johnson said, who wheeled on one foot and started a brisk walk back to the camp.

“Slow down,” Boyd said as he caught up with him. And with the next step came a peal of thunder that seemed to shake the ground, and rain started to fall in a torrent. By the time they’d retraced their steps, they were soaked and struggled to undress in the cramped tent while rain bounced off the rainfly like BBs. Though the air temperature was in the low eighties Fahrenheit, they shivered as they wrapped themselves in their sleeping bags.

36

RANKIN SHARED HER gin with Peeples after settling in for the night. They heard Johnson and Boyd as they left their tent.

“Where do you suppose they’re going?” Peeples asked.

“I don’t know, maybe they’re going to pee.”

“Guys don’t do that.”

“They don’t pee?”

“No, they don’t go to the bathroom together. Haven’t you noticed?”

“Of course, I’ve noticed,” Rankin protested.

Rankin sipped and passed the flask to Peeples. They laid on their sleeping bags and listened to the forest for a moment. Rankin grew pensive.

“I think one of the guards was trying to watch me go to the bathroom this afternoon.”

“What? Really? Did you tell Duncan?”

“No,” Rankin said sheepishly.

“Why not? You should have. Are you sure about it?”

“I’m pretty sure he was trying to watch me. I made eye contact with him, and he turned away.”

Peeples handed the flask to Rankin.

“Have another. I wonder if they watch me? I mean, it never occurred to me someone might be watching me.”

“The only reason I noticed,” Rankin said, taking a sip and handing the flask back, “was because I heard a crack like a branch breaking or something behind me.”

“And then what?”

“Well, I shouted ‘who’s there?’ and then ‘quien esta ahí?’ and then I remembered they don’t speak Spanish, but the guard pretended to be tying his shoe and left. But I’m pretty sure he was watching me. So you better watch out.”

Peeples rubbed her chin and wondered whether they should warn Cross. She didn’t want to jump to conclusions.

“Maybe we should wait and see if it happens again.”

“You don’t believe me? I mean, why does it have to happen twice? This isn’t an experiment.”

“Sorry, you’re right. Let’s tell her in the morning. I doubt it will happen again tonight.”

Rankin agreed and started feeling the gin take over her body. She laughed to herself.

“What’s so funny?” Peeples asked.

“Oh, nothing. Okay, I wonder what Cody and Carlos are doing about now?”

“Which way did they go?”

“I think down the trail. Trail? What a joke. It’s nothing but some stomped down grass and dirt,” Rankin complained.

“I don’t know. It got us to this place, a pretty good place to camp. Not under a big tree. Level, soft ground. You do enough camping, and you learn to appreciate simple comforts.”

“I suppose. Were you a Girl Scout? ‘cause I never was. The only camping I did before coming here was with my parents on summer vacations. I love nature, but I’d just as soon stay in hotels.”

“I was a serious Girl Scout. I loved hiking and camping. I still do, and maybe someday I’ll do it again, but now everything is about finishing my doctorate,” Peeples said.

“That’s what it’s all about, isn’t it? Does it ever end?”

“Not that I can see. You just have to be sure you really want it because if you don’t you’re going to be miserable for a long time.”

“Oh, fuck,” Rankin exclaimed loud enough that Peeples held her index finger to her lips.

“What?”

“I just thought of something funny,” Rankin said, slurring slightly.

“What?”

“What if they’re going out to masturbate?” Rankin said, grinning.

“What? What are you talking about?” Peeples said, exasperated.

“Oh, c’mon. Guys can’t go for long without relieving their tension. It’s normal. Natural.”

“Why would you think that’s what they’re doing? I don’t get it.”

“I’ve got two older brothers. I know.”

Rankin raised her head, glanced at the low ceiling and then slumped. She sighed deeply.

“On one of our summer vacations, we had a campsite—we had one of those folding tent trailers—and I followed my brother who was thirteen at the time—I was eleven and a half—when he went down this trail—we were in Minnesota—and I followed him, and wouldn’t you know he was standing alongside a tree with his thing out and pumping away.”

Rankin grinned broadly, showing no teeth. Peeples gave her a puzzled look.

“You really are a different person when you’re drunk.”

“Tipsy,” Rankin volunteered. “But they’re probably just out for a walk in the woods.”

Rankin loosely covered herself with the top of the sleeping bag and fell asleep quickly. Peeples looked at her as if she were a stranger.

“I had no idea,” she whispered under her breath. “Wow.”

37

THEY REACHED THE tributary around noon. It was twenty feet wide, with silty mud banks and a weedy overhang that was slippery to descend. Suarez was the first to go. His left foot sank to his ankle into the silt as soon as he stepped down from the overhang. The mud was heavy, thick, and sucked at his foot. Grasping handfuls of weeds to steady himself, he pulled his foot up.

“This isn’t a good place to cross,” he said aloud, shaking his head.

Duncan looked at Suarez’ boss, Javier Costa. Costa approached Suarez, and they discussed what to do next while looking at their map. It showed a crossing, but this wasn’t it.

“Maybe we’re not reading the map properly,” Costa said in Portuguese.

“I don’t know, maybe.”

From where they were standing, they could not see a likely crossing. Costa wondered whether there really was a crossing. He did not want to disappoint his client, who might withhold all or part of the second payment if they were unable to find what they were looking for. Some sort of insect, he thought. There had to be a place they could cross. The water wasn’t deep. They needed to find a place with less mud.

“I’ll tell you what, you follow the river in that direction for a couple hundred meters, and I’ll do the same in the other direction,” Costa said. “And then we’ll meet back here?”

Suarez raised his eyebrows.

“What happens if we come back here, and we haven’t found a crossing? What do we do then?”

Costa tipped his head back and stared at the nimbus clouds as they passed the sunny blue sky. Then forward to face Suarez.

“Why do you always have to be so negative? All you young guys, you’re either smart asses or cynics. I don’t know which is worse.”

Suarez rolled his eyes.

“What would you do?” Costa asked.

“I’m not the boss.”

“C’mon, ever since I started working as a guide, I wanted my own business, and you must be thinking about that, too. Admit it. It’s nothing to hide. You’re not my slave.”

Suarez didn’t know what to say immediately.

“Okay, if I were boss,” he said, looking at Costa, “I’d do what you said to start and then flip a coin and head one way or the other. And I’d say a prayer.”

“All you young people aren’t atheists?” Costa said, jokingly.

“Stop it,” Suarez said. “I get it. I could say things about old people like you, but I won’t.”

Costa told Duncan what they were going to do. He said it would take no more than ten minutes. Duncan’s troops spent the time combing the area for carcasses, finding several small mammals. Costa and Suarez went their separate ways, each hoping to find an easier crossing. They could do it where they were despite the mud, but it would take time. They’d have to string ropes so that there would be something to hang onto, and then they’d have to wash the mud off. They were looking for a sandy or rocky bottom.

Costa had walked for only ten minutes before he started doubting this strategy. What if they found no crossing? All they would have done was to waste time. He should have just accepted the fact that the crossing would be muddy, that it would take time and been done with it. Why did he let his assistant decide what they would do? It was the boss’ job to make the difficult decisions, and here he just passed the buck as if Duncan would care who was responsible. He would go another hundred meters and then turn back and do what he should have done in the first place.

38

SUAREZ WAS ENERGIZED and surprised by how he had stood up to his boss after he started his usual insults about the younger generation. He felt as if he had defended not only his own honor but the honor of every young person. They were not all lazy and looking for the easy way out. He, for one, was willing to work hard to save enough money to start his own business. It meant not having the things some of his friends had, especially a car, but a car wouldn’t serve where a boat was needed. He’d never seen a fishing party drive to a hot fishing spot. They either flew if they were wealthy, or they hired a boat and a guide.

His mind now focusing on his future business projects, he made good time hiking along the stream, which had been carved out of the soft soil of the surrounding embankment. Occasionally, thick brush obscured the view, but he was fairly certain that any crossing would be plainly visible because it would have been used by animals and persons familiar with this part of the forest.

When he started, he allowed himself fifteen minutes before he’d turn back. At the pace he was traveling, he figured he’d cover five hundred meters. However, like his boss, he began to doubt the efficacy of the strategy, and as time ran out, he thought about simply turning back, hoping that Costa would find a decent crossing. But before he could finalize his decision, he saw a small clearing alongside the embankment that opened on the stream bed where it became very shallow, the water barely deep enough to cover the midsole of his shoes. Sliding down the embankment, he gingerly slid into the water expecting his shoe to sink into the mud. It sank only a few centimeters as he placed most of his weight onto it and then took a step with his other foot. His foot sank several centimeters and then stopped.

The stream was no more than seven or eight meters wide, and the opposite bank was sloped only a half meter high and the brush had been trampled. Smiling broadly, he crossed the stream and moved a short distance into the forest, following a narrow path of trampled grass and weeds that continued for as far as he could see which, because of the increasing density of trees, was not very far.

Curious, he followed the trail until he came across something he’d never seen before yesterday. And now he was seeing it again. An animal carcass near the trail hollowed out. He poked it with a stick. It was a Labrador, its black hide still silky. He wondered what a Labrador would be doing in the forest without its owner. Suarez stooped to get a closer look. The dog’s collar was fastened around its empty neck. A thought jetted across his mind as he reached for the collar. Should he tell the others about the carcass? But he scoffed at his own idea. Who would pay money for a dog hide and skeleton? A metal tag hung from the collar. It was imprinted with a phone number and the name CARLOS.

“What kind of name for a dog is Carlos?” he whispered.

Not wanting to waste time, he crossed the river and walked quickly back to the camp.

39

DUNCAN ASSEMBLED HIS group within moments of Suarez’ return. Javier Costa had already reported finding no easy crossing. While leading the way, Suarez told Duncan about the dog.

“A Labrador?”

“Yes, I’m certain of it. It was just like the others, just a skeleton inside.”

“What’s a Labrador doing out here?”

“I’m sure I don’t know,” Suarez said. “I thought it odd, too. I’ve always thought of Labradors as pets. But there it is.”

Overhearing the conversation, Costa asked Suarez in Portuguese whether the dog had tags or a collar. Suarez nodded.

“The tag said ‘Carlos’ and a phone number. Of course, no service out here, so I didn’t call the number.”

Duncan asked Suarez what he had said to Costa.

“That’s a ridiculous name for a dog if you ask me,” Suarez said. “One of my cousins is a Carlos.”

“Do you have the number?” Duncan asked. “I have a satellite phone. I could try to call. It could be important. Maybe the owner saw the insects we’re looking for. It could save a lot of time.”

“Sorry, no,” Suarez said, sheepishly, as if he’d forgotten something important. “But the crossing isn’t far. We should be there in no time.”

Duncan picked up the pace, adjusting his backpack so it rested higher on his hips, leaving the group behind, which was burdened with their own overloaded packs and scientific equipment. Suarez followed Duncan closely while Costa and the others fell behind with each step. Suarez smiled. The old man can’t keep up, he beamed.

Duncan, walking with long, purposeful strides, marched past Suarez’ crossing. The young man put his hand on the taller man’s shoulder and said, “It’s this way.”

Standing above the stream, Duncan could see only a mud bottom and Suarez’ shoe prints. He gave the assistant guide a skeptical look. Suarez responded as if Duncan had spoken.

“No, this is it. The mud isn’t deep. There’s flat rock under it. You just have to take it slowly and slide your feet instead of lifting them. You lift your foot, and you’ll fall. Very slippery under the mud.”

“It looks slippery.” Duncan nodded.

“It’s not bad, just don’t pick up your feet. You see how low the water is. You won’t get wet unless you fall.”

Duncan looked around for a stick in case he needed something to lean on. He saw that the group had come into view and that Costa was leading them. Suarez understood what Duncan was looking for and, using his machete, cut a branch from a nearby tree, expertly stripped it of leaves and handed it to Duncan.

“I wouldn’t put all your weight on it, but it’ll help keep your balance if you slip.”

Duncan took the branch, saw that it bent easily but used it anyway as he descended the slippery grass slope, stepping gingerly into the riverbed. He realized immediately that his shoes sank only slightly into the mud and skated to the other side, grabbing handfuls of the long grass to pull himself up the opposite slope. With no thought of waiting for the others, Duncan stepped away from the stream and into the forest.

“Where is it?” he asked emphatically. “The dog?”

“It’s just down that trail, on the right,” Suarez said, catching up to Duncan.

Duncan jogged to the carcass in less than a minute.

“You didn’t move it, did you?”

“No, no; I just looked at it and read the tag. You can see it there on the collar. Are you going to call the number?”

Surrounded by the forest and its thick canopy, Duncan shook his head.

“The signal won’t get through the trees. Anyway, let’s get the others across first.”

40

AFTER SPEAKING TO Suarez, Duncan lost interest in choreographing the crossing, leaving Cody Boyd in charge while he returned with the young guide to the dog. He took photos with his smartphone and inspected the collar closely.

“If you don’t mind my asking, why do you think someone would leave a pet Labrador in the forest, Professor?” Suarez asked, at length.

“I’m wondering that myself,” Duncan mused, scanning the jungle as if for an answer.

Within fifteen minutes, the others joined Duncan and Suarez, each examining the dog and noting the collar. Several asked whether they should call the number, and Duncan patiently explained that the satellite phone wouldn’t work under the forest canopy. As they filtered up from the river to meet Duncan, they wandered through the heavily shaded forest, their eyes scanning the ground for dead animals like beachcombers looking for shells. They did this without instruction from Duncan, who watched as Professor Azevedo inspected the Labrador, using a pocket magnifier to study the animal’s left front paw.

“The bones bear the characteristic marks left by blaberus. It doesn’t make sense,” Azevedo said to no one in particular.

“What doesn’t make sense, or was it rhetorical?” Duncan asked.

As if awakened from a light nap, Azevedo looked up at Duncan.

“That this dog, which was clearly someone’s pet, would somehow have died of natural causes.”

“What do you mean?”

“I have steadfastly held to my conjecture that blaberus is primarily a scavenger. I don’t think I believe that anymore.”

“Well, you suspected, right? I mean, none of us really knows.”

“That may be, but I think now blaberus is a predator. I can no longer deny it; I’m afraid I’ve been wrong about this from the beginning. Sometimes, I think it’s better that I haven’t published. If I can get something like that wrong after years of study, how can I trust any of my conclusions?”

Although he believed he had never been wrong about important things, Duncan had fantasized about it for years. The prospect of failure kept him sharp. He was not a complacent man. He was the kind of person who wrote the script for his life, and to do what he enjoyed, he had to bring in funding, and lots of it. He was good at it. He knew how to fill out forms, and for more than a few years wrote his own grant proposals. Eventually, he was successful enough to budget a part-time grant writer into his funding stream.

“You’re too hard on yourself, Dr. Azevedo,” Duncan said sympathetically. “You couldn’t have known. You’re just second guessing yourself.”

Azevedo approached Duncan.

“Now it seems I know so little.”

“And just think, you’re the world’s expert on blaberus. You named it for chrissakes.”

Azevedo gave him a critical look. He wasn’t devout, but he was a Catholic.

“Okay, so, what do we actually know about blaberus, now that it may have become a predator? What can we say about it with certainty?” Azevedo wondered.

Duncan looked to where people were standing over the carcass.

“We know that recently something has changed in their behavior. We wouldn’t have known that if you hadn’t studied them.”

“And that gets us where?” Azevedo asked.

“You’re playing devil’s advocate against your own position. That’s not fair,” Duncan said. “If you can’t defend your position, then maybe you’re right to get into a funk. But I don’t think so.”

Azevedo shrugged and started to walk away.

“Don’t you see?” Duncan said. “We’ve discovered something new. This isn’t a failure. It’s a freaking success. Now we’ve got something to publish. We’re documenting all of this. Hell, Cody might have enough video for a documentary. Isn’t that what you want? Have you ever seen so many finds in one day? You’ll know more about blaberus…”

“But it’s not the blaberus I thought I knew,” Azevedo said winsomely. “It’s different. It’s like a completely different species. The numbers of them, there must be tens of thousands, hundreds of thousands to strip the flesh from the inside out. The blaberus I studied, I felt sorry for them. I guess I haven’t adjusted quickly enough to the new paradigm. But I see your point.”

The two joined the group, circling the Labrador. They bubbled with questions and laughter, poking fun at Johnson for sharing the first name of the dead dog.

“You dog, you,” Boyd joked, evoking a grimace from Johnson.

“It might be funny if it weren’t so obvious,” Johnson retorted, stepping away.

Raising her hand, Alison Peeples asked, having overheard much of what Azevedo and Duncan had said, “Are they officially predators now?”

Azevedo glanced at Duncan, encouraging him to respond.

“Our new working hypothesis is that they are predators. And we infer that their colony is large, perhaps ten thousand or more.”

“It’s clear to me they’ve overcome the fungus problem,” Azevedo said.

“Or, it could be that they’re a new species,” Stephanie Rankin interjected.

“My question is, do they pose a threat to us? I mean, we are in the middle of nowhere. What would we do if, say, they attacked us?” George Hamel asked.

Azevedo and Duncan exchanged glances.

“To tell you the truth, I don’t know,” Duncan said. Scanning the group, he asked loudly, “Where’s our security guys?”

Everyone looked around. There were ten of them. The two security guards were nowhere to be seen. Duncan approached guide Javier Costa, signaling Suarez to join them. They moved out of earshot of the others.

“You’re the guide; you’re in charge,” Duncan said in a loud whisper.

Costa looked at his assistant. Suarez gestured for his boss to reply.

“Éverdade, I hired the men, but they are probably nearby. Why would they leave? I pay them only twenty-five percent up front for them to buy what they need for the job. You know.”

“Well, then, shouldn’t you go find them? What good are they if they’re not with us?” Duncan said brusquely.

Costa smiled nervously and, after conferring with Suarez, they walked down the trail together. Duncan returned to the group and moved it away from the carcass and continued to respond to questions. Duncan was not one to stand in the way of a gift horse and saw his reputation soaring with the first published paper on the redefined blaberus.

As the guides left, Rankin volunteered that she thought the guards had been watching her in the woods. This set everyone buzzing, except for Peeples, who smiled knowingly at Rankin.

“Are you kidding?” Boyd bellowed. “They stalked you?”

“I don’t know if they were stalking me. I was, you know, trying to go to the bathroom,” Rankin said softly.

“Why do we even have those guys?” Boyd asked. “They haven’t done anything that I can see.”

“Calm down,” Duncan urged. “We’ll figure this out when they come back. Meanwhile, let’s spread out and search the area for other carcasses.”

Duncan invited Rankin to join him and Azevedo on a fallen tree trunk and discussed the situation with the guards.

“Why didn’t you tell me about it sooner?”

Rankin shook her head.

“I don’t know, I was going to, but other things came up, and I forgot. Sounds lame, I know.”

“Not at all,” Duncan said, trying to be reassuring. “You’re the victim here. But I’m not sure what we can do about it just now.”

Rankin nodded.

“Yeah, let’s just drop it. Once is an anomaly,” she said. “Besides, I can’t prove anything. They didn’t do anything to me.”

Duncan thanked her and suggested she join the search. Azevedo sipped from his water bottle. He stroked the front of his neck.

“Have you ever worked with these guys before, the guards?”

“No. They were arranged by the guide. I must say I am disappointed in them, now that they’ve apparently fled. I didn’t pay much attention to them before,” Azevedo said.

Duncan smiled.

“Do you think we need them? I didn’t before we started.”

“You never know what you’ll run into in the forest.”

“You think we should be worried about drug gangs?”

“Worried, no.”

A moment passed.

“Okay, I’m not worried. Truth is, I only recommended security to keep one of my tourists happy. The one who helped fund the expedition.”

“You’re fortunate to have a benefactor.”

“I am; I’m glad she’s interested in entomology rather than, say, archeology. And if it weren’t for her, we’d still be in Manaus trying to raise funds. We couldn’t have gotten here so quickly without her, that’s for sure.”

The men looked away from each other and stared at the ground. Azevedo started thinking about blaberus’ new identity as a predator. Though he had considered the possibility in passing because they had the weapons, years ago he had concluded the species could never grow numerous enough to become a threat.

He wondered about how they communicated, given what must be a colony of thousands. He wondered whether anything he thought he knew about the species remained relevant. He couldn’t get the thought out of his mind. He knew Duncan was right. He wondered whether he had invested too much of himself into the blaberus he had discovered to the extent that he could not adjust to new facts. Why, he wondered, was it so hard to start over with this thing? He needed to be more of a scientist, he thought, and less of an old man. Follow the data wherever it led. Even at seventy-six, he should be able to do that, he told himself.

And then someone screamed.

41

STARTLED, DUNCAN AND Azevedo rose quickly from their perches, scanning the forest for the source of the scream. They watched as several others moved quickly toward Rankin, who pointed to the ground. Duncan broke into a trot, leaving Azevedo behind as he saw the others gasping and holding their hands over their mouths.

Boyd approached his boss.

“It’s a body, Howard. A human body.”

Duncan grimaced and, moving alongside Rankin, shook his head in disgust. Stretched out in the brush and grass was a skeleton wearing badly torn pants and shirt but no shoes. A large silver analog watch dangled from a wrist, and near the feet were a leather wallet and smartphone. Boyd had already started documenting the scene while the others stood motionless in a semicircle absorbing details that would stay with them the rest of their lives.

Duncan stooped and carefully lifted the wallet and phone. He found a Brazilian driver’s license, credit cards, and several photographs. He handed the phone to Boyd, who turned it on to see the phone’s camera app pop onto the screen. He felt a small rush. The camera was set on video mode. He saw that still photos had been taken. He touched the screen several times, slid his finger across it and watched a slide show of the photos. There were several of a boat ride. The dog was in several of them.

Staring at the phone, he said loudly, “The dog is with the guy.”

Then came photos of the victim and two others carrying backpacks as they entered the forest. They had come from the same direction Duncan’s group had. Boyd wondered what they were doing in the forest. And then came pictures of blaberus. One or two specimens at first, which they crushed, probably thinking they were cockroaches. And then more. Which is when the camera was switched to video mode.

Boyd, Duncan, and several others watched as the camera operator moved through the brush unsteadily capturing images of an ever-increasing swarm of insects. One of the men had ventured ahead, and the video showed him performing a wild dance in the field, his arms flailing at the air and high stepping frantically through the thigh high vegetation. For a moment, it looked like a comic YouTube video. And then it stopped being funny. The giggles stopped when the man stumbled. As he leaped to his feet, his hands covered his eyes. The distance from the camera made it difficult to make out details, but it was clear that he was struggling against something. While the others giggled, Azevedo instantly understood what was happening to the man but said nothing.

That was the end of the video. The man had turned the phone off. Presumably, he had put it in his pocket. Duncan became pensive and stepped away to be by himself. He had to think, to come up with something that he could say that would reassure the group that they were safe. That he was safe. Boyd approached him, camera in hand.

“What do you think we should do, Howard?”

The others had moved away from the body and separated into three small groups. Duncan took it in and nodded.

“One thing is we need to document this. Another, we need to contact the authorities.”

Boyd waited, expecting Duncan to say more. He didn’t.

“Are we gonna go back or what?”

“You think we should quit the expedition?”

Boyd shrugged.

“I don’t know. Wish I did. These things aren’t just bugs anymore. They’re killers.”

42

SUAREZ AND HIS boss Javier Costa stood in the middle of a vast hollow looking for the guards. They had followed the trail for two hours, which had grown over with brush and roots. Chopping their way through high grass and brush was brutal. Their shirts were soaked with sweat, the air heavy and humid. They both knew they should have taken their shirts off as soon as they were beyond sight of Duncan—in deference to Cross, he insisted that they wear shirts at all times—but they didn’t. Nor did they have a plan as they looked for the guards. Of course, they also understood that the guards may have gone in a different direction. They reached a point where they stopped, looked at each other and laughed.

“How will we ever find anything?” Suarez asked rhetorically.

“We should go back,” Costa said.

“They could be hiding three meters away, and we wouldn’t know it.”

As they were about to start the return trip, Costa said, “Hey, why don’t you climb a tree and see if you see anything.”

“See if I see anything?”

“Yes. You know, see what’s around us.”

“Yeah, okay.”

Suarez went to a Cashapona that stood at least fifteen meters. Sizing it up, he dropped his daypack and took out a pair of small binoculars. Finally, he removed his sticky shirt and looped the binocular strap over his shoulder while his boss watched from a short distance. Suarez was a good climber and shimmied up one of the tree’s external roots to a point where several of the roots converged and perched. Leading with his machete, Costa had slowly moved into the deep grass in front of the tree. Suarez surveyed the forest quickly and then a second time with the binoculars. No sign of the guards. The grass swayed slightly near Costa though there was no breeze. The air was still and steamy. Sweat streamed off the bill of Costa’s tattered cap as he methodically swept his machete in front of him.

“What are you doing?” Suarez shouted.

“I don’t know. I just think I should be doing something. You see anything?”

Suarez saw that the grass around Costa had started to move. Costa saw it, too. He took it in quickly. He had a closer view, and it wasn’t that the grass was swaying but that something was jumping, like crickets. They were dark as shadows but remained just out of sight so that from a distance they posed no threat. Suarez also couldn’t hear what Costa heard or saw. What he heard was an indistinct noise that rose and fell like a distant surf. Stopping in his tracks, he saw that the wave motion had surrounded him and that the sound grew more distinct as the wave seemed to expand outward even as it drew closer to him. In his search for the missing guards, he’d forgotten that the expedition was looking for insects that looked like cockroaches but weren’t. He felt his heart race and looked behind him at Suarez in the tree, who was recording the scene with his smartphone.

“Hey, old man …” Suarez shouted, but stopped in mid-sentence. Looking through the LCD, he thought he could see things jumping or flying out of the grass. Small, dark things.

“Help me,” Costa pleaded as the grass around him suddenly bubbled with activity. A shiver ran down his spine as he turned around and started to move quickly the way he had come. As if by command, a cloud of insects flew out of the wavy grass landing on his head, his arms and shoulders, and from below hundreds more leaped or climbed his bare legs. Panic came quickly. The insects were using their forelegs to chop into his flesh, causing tiny spurts of blood, digging deeper with each blow, raising more blood. Almost from the start, several attached themselves to his face and attacked his eyes, mouth and nose, their bodies blocking his nostrils so that he had to breathe through his mouth, which was their goal, as no sooner did he gasp for air than several flew into his mouth like bats entering a cave. Stumbling, unable to see, he ran into a tree ten meters from Suarez’ perch and fell to the ground. Like a dark, quivering wave, thousands of the bugs swarmed over him, attacking every centimeter of his body, crawling under his clothes, chopping through the fabric until his shorts were reduced to bloody rags.

Somehow Costa pushed himself to his feet. Blood dripped like sweat from his bare upper torso. A terrified Antonio Suarez watched helplessly as his boss screamed.

“Antonio, Antonio, help me! They are killing me!” the tortured guide squealed, barely loud enough to be heard.

“Run, run!” Suarez urged, watching through the phone’s LCD screen. He could think of nothing else to say. It was like watching a movie. Because of the limitations of the lens, Costa seemed farther away, less distinct than with the naked eye. Suarez could not take his eyes off the screen. He didn’t notice that the camera was running.

Costa vomited as bugs entered his mouth and made their way into his esophagus, some stopping to butcher his cheeks and tongue. He tried to pull out the bugs that plugged his nostrils but succeeded only in tearing them in half. The bugs were hitting him in a hundred places, and all he could do was to deal with them one at a time. They’d squeezed through his anus in a phalanx and busied themselves with chopping up his colon. They turned his eyes into a dripping, gelatinous mass, oozing blood and aqueous humor. He understood now that he was covered in a thick blanket of tiny killing machines.

He felt them crawling inside him, digging at his organs, chomping on his flesh, eating him alive until he fell to the ground writhing, a steady stream of warm blood flowing from his anus. Blinded, blood foaming from his mouth, he lay in a heap, unable to scream, the pain suddenly diminishing as life oozed out of him.

And then he was done; while the bugs’ work had only started.

43

SUAREZ SPENT THE fitful night shivering in the tree. The forest cooled, and a steady breeze came up that made him regret taking his shirt off. Before darkness fell, he saw that the ground was still saturated with insects, and he prayed that they would not find him. It didn’t help that the forest was eerily quiet, and his boss was being devoured by an army of bugs. And it didn’t help that they chopped and chewed incessantly, one group being replaced by another as they fed, hour after hour.

He feared everything about them. The whirring of their wings, the chatter of a thousand tiny chopping limbs scared him to death. He shook with fear. Fear of them. Fear of falling out of the tree. Fear of being eaten alive. He prayed against the fear and prayed that they would not find him.

Suarez snapped out of his furtive sleep before sunrise and waited until there was enough light to get a good view of the ground. As far as he could tell, the bugs were gone. He was grateful that he couldn’t see Costa’s body from his perch in the Cashapona.

After lowering himself, Suarez put on his shirt, collected his gear and moved quickly in the direction from which he’d come. For him, the expedition was over. His boss, his friend, was dead. If Costa’s wife asked him, he would tell that he’d had a heart attack before the bugs devoured him. He wouldn’t go into details. She would find out from the undertaker. He’d tell her that he was dead, and then the bugs devoured him. That would set her mind at rest.

But that wasn’t what he focused on. He wanted so bad to get back to Mr. Howard that he broke into a jog and kept it up for a half mile before the adrenaline drained, and he stopped to catch his breath. Sunlight flickered throughout the forest, and the humidity and heat were rising. Sweat soaked into his shirt just as it had yesterday, but he had no intention of removing it. He wanted today to be completely separate from yesterday. When he saw Duncan, he’d tell him what happened and that they had to turn back. He told himself it was a matter for the police now that Costa was dead. Of course, he didn’t know about the skeleton Duncan’s group had found.

44

DUNCAN WAITED UNTIL mid-afternoon and, when the guides hadn’t returned, he led his group down the primitive trail that Costa and Suarez had followed. Several members of the group complained to Boyd about the pace, which he initially ignored until he saw how far they had stretched out behind him. He felt sorry for Azevedo, who was bringing up the rear, his face a bright red and glistening with sweat. Boyd waited for the professor and asked how he was feeling.

“Not so good,” Azevedo said, wiping his face. “I thought I was better prepared for this, but I’m afraid the heat and humidity are having an effect.”

Returning to Duncan, who seemed to be putting more distance between himself and the others, Boyd suggested they look for a place to make camp. Duncan looked at his watch.

“There’s plenty of daylight,” he said.

“Yeah, but the professor isn’t doing so well.”

Duncan stopped and looked behind him. He was surprised at how far away the others were.

“I think the humidity and heat are getting to them,” Boyd said. “We just passed a little clearing that looked like a good place to spend the night. See, right where Rankin and Peeples are, to the left.”

Duncan was reluctant to retreat though what he could see in front of him was unsuitable as a campsite. Then he noticed Azevedo bending over in the middle of the trail, vomiting.

“OK, OK,” he said quickly. “We’ll go back and make camp. I was just trying to go a little farther, but you’re right. We don’t want to kill the professor.”

After finding the corpse, Duncan had put Boyd in charge of the satellite phone with the understanding that he would try to make a call at every opportunity. Though Boyd tried multiple times, he was unable to complete a call. At first, he blamed the forest canopy. However, even in clearings, he was unable to get a signal. He started to curse the phone. The phone’s self-test software showed that it was functioning properly. Still, he couldn’t make a call. It didn’t take long for him to reach the limit of his understanding of how satellite phones work. Although now he felt he should have learned more about the phone, his boss hadn’t required it. He made a mental note that when he became a famous field researcher and academic, he’d require his assistant to have a full understanding of satellite phones. When Duncan asked about the phone, Boyd shook his head and told him he couldn’t make it work. Duncan held his hand out, and Boyd handed the phone to him. Moments later, Duncan tried to make calls but was unable to connect. He fiddled with it momentarily, as if he expected to do what his assistant couldn’t.

That night, their tents arranged in a semicircle facing a large campfire, they watched through openings in the canopy as flashes of lightning lit up the sky. The storm was closer than it had been yesterday and the day before. Rankin and Johnson thought they could hear thunder. Nobody else did.

And then it rained for several hours, not heavily but steady. Johnson and Boyd got soaked installing their tent’s fly. At Duncan’s urging, the others had done so before the rain hit. For the others, it was hard not to hear Boyd and Johnson cursing as they struggled in the rainy darkness, even though each wore a headlamp. Back in the tent, they had to strip their clothes off and try to dry themselves the best they could using chamois-like towels. It was good to be dry, especially with the temperature in the eighties and humidity at one hundred percent.

45

DUNCAN BROKE CAMP early after a hurried breakfast of instant oatmeal and instant coffee. The forest floor was wet and muddy in places, the humidity undiminished. They shook out the tents and packed them while they were damp, but Duncan was acutely aware that time was running out, that the expedition was supposed to take only a week and that they were near the halfway point. With the discovery of the body, Maggie Cross and George Hamel thought they should turn back and made their opinions known to Duncan in private.

“Are we really going to continue?” Cross asked skeptically.

“Of course,” Duncan responded quickly. “Why not?”

“What about the body we found?” Hamel interjected.

“What good would it do if we turn back now? We’ve got only another day, and we’ll have to turn back anyway.”

“What about the body?” Hamel insisted.

“This is not the first body. You know that. There was the poor fellow at the cabin.”

“We didn’t see that body,” Cross said. “It wasn’t real. Now it’s real.”

“You’re worried about your safety?” Duncan asked.

“Of course,” Cross said.

“Definitely,” Hamel agreed. “Here we are, our guards have deserted us …”

“And where are our guides?” Cross added.

Duncan hadn’t expected this resistance, and his frustration was growing quickly. He resented the criticism. He thought he’d been doing the right thing. It wasn’t his fault that the satellite phone wasn’t working and that some guy and his dog stumbled into the wrong place at the wrong time. It made him wonder about the efficacy of inviting nonscientists to participate in an expedition, though he knew that the expedition wouldn’t have happened without Cross’ money. He wondered if any of the others had similar concerns, and whether he should bring it out into the open for a vote. He thought Boyd would support him, and he couldn’t imagine the students doing otherwise for fear of the consequences to their academic careers. It was a gamble to bring it up, but he felt it was the only way to end the discussion without upsetting Cross. What Hamel thought didn’t matter to Duncan, since he considered him to be Cross’ companion and nothing more.

Without telling Cross and Hamel, he gestured and called for the others to approach him. Everyone had finished packing, and some came forward with their cups filled with the last of the coffee. Sizing them up, Duncan thought they all looked tired, their clothes heavily wrinkled, their shirts sweaty, their hair unkempt but partially hidden under floppy hats.

The vote went as Duncan expected—four in favor of continuing, two opposed. Duncan abstained. Wasting no time, the group took the trail used by the guides, and presumably the guards.

Suarez reached them at mid-morning, covered in sweat and catching his breath.

“Mr. Howard,” he repeated several times as he drew near, “Javier is dead!”

Duncan stopped in his tracks. A look of disbelief crossed his face like a shadow. At first, no one said anything. They exchanged looks, tried to ascertain how everyone else was feeling about this. And then they started to buzz. They surrounded Suarez as he caught up with Duncan.

“It’s true, Mr. Howard; Javier is dead. I saw it with my own eyes.”

Reaching into his pocket, he held out his phone.

“Here, you can see for yourself. Look at the video.”

Duncan glanced at his group, each of their faces expressing some form of concern. He wished he had time to think. But he didn’t. He reached for Suarez’ phone. The screen was filled with an image of a man taken from a distance and overhead. Duncan started to move away from the group, but they stayed with him, as did Suarez. He sighed and started the video. The progress bar was about a quarter of the way from the starting point. He could see that the man was jumping and flailing his arms as if trying to bat away mosquitoes. Everyone squeezed around Duncan for a better view of the tiny screen. Suarez reached in to increase the sound. Now they could hear muffled screams and shouts.

“Is he calling for help? I can’t tell,” Maggie Cross asked.

“He’s calling in Portuguese,” Boyd said. “He’s saying ‘me ajude’.”

“Help me,” Allison Peeples said helpfully.

“I can’t tell what’s happening,” George Hamel said, frustrated by the fact he didn’t understand a word of Portuguese and that others were blocking his view.

“Sir,” Suarez said coldly, “my friend is dying.”

“Dying of what?” Hamel asked as he pushed himself into position for a better view.

“The bugs are killing him,” Boyd said matter-of-factly.

“I don’t see any bugs,” Hamel said.

Neither could anyone else. The man was too far away to make out details, but it was clear that he was frantic, much like the man in the video taken by the Labrador’s owner. All but Suarez and Fernando Azevedo were transfixed. Suarez moved away, upset with Hamel’s questions, which he considered disrespectful. Azevedo joined him, and they spoke quietly in Portuguese. Suarez explained what had happened, how he had spent a terrible night in a tree while the ground swarmed with bugs and how he did nothing to help his boss despite his pleas.

“Of course, if you’d tried to help him, you would be dead, too, don’t you think?” Azevedo said.

“I know, but I feel bad. I feel like I should have done something.”

“Sometimes there’s nothing can be done. If you hadn’t climbed the tree as your boss told you to do, you would have walked right into the colony with him, or they would have found you standing on the ground, and they would have been all over you just like they were all over Javier.”

“I know. I know. I was lucky that I climbed the tree. I mean, they were all over him just like that,” Suarez said, snapping his fingers.

“Maybe you were luckier than you think,” Azevedo said quietly. “There’s no reason to think they can’t climb trees, and you said they were jumping all over him, right?”

“Yes, that’s true. They were jumping around all over the place, maybe three meters high. I don’t know. Maybe two meters. But it looked almost like they could fly, the way they jumped. I could see them down below me. And they made this terrible noise, like screeching, not loud but with so many of them it was like something out of hell. I prayed all night, I tell you, and I’m not as religious as most of my family.”

“Sometimes that’s all we can do,” Azevedo said comfortingly to the distraught guide.

46

SCANNING THE FACES of his group, Duncan realized that if he took another vote about turning back, he might lose. Even Boyd looked concerned. Out of the corner of his eye, he noticed Azevedo and Suarez, leaning against a tree, talking. He watched as Azevedo patted Suarez on the shoulder several times and finally hugged him. Duncan even started to question whether they should retrace their steps back to the river. The thought of splitting up flashed across his mind, but he dismissed it quickly. They had only one guide.

As Suarez and Azevedo quietly rejoined the group, Hamel asked, “What are we going to do now? Shouldn’t we turn back?”

“No!” Suarez said emphatically. “We must go back for Javier.”

Out of respect for the obviously upset guide, the others hesitated before responding.

“What good would that do?” Hamel asked, looking at Duncan. “I mean if the bugs killed him, what’s to stop them from killing us?”

All eyes were on Duncan. Fear, which had been nonexistent until they found the Labrador and his owner, had grown to the extent that even Duncan could sense it in Cross and several others. It wasn’t just Hamel though he was the most outspoken. The students were more or less beholden to Duncan and feared him more than blaberus though that was changing.

“Why don’t you put it to a vote?” Cross suggested timidly.

Duncan wanted time to think. How much of a threat did the bugs represent? Obviously, if someone inadvertently walked into the colony, consequences were dire. But how likely was that? There was no way of knowing. The forest floor hid many things, including countless ways to die. He wanted to have a discussion but was concerned that he’d lose control of the conversation and the group. But he had to do something, show leadership, or he’d lose them anyway.

“Obviously,” he said, “whatever we do, we have to stick together. So splitting up is out. We only have one guide.”

“I’m going back for my friend,” Suarez insisted.

“What are you going to do when you get there?” Stephanie Rankin asked, more gruffly than she’d intended.

“Bring his body back. Or bury him. I don’t know. I just can’t leave him lying there.”

“What about the bugs?” Hamel asked.

“They were gone this morning. If they weren’t, I wouldn’t be here.”

“How far would we have to go to get there?” Boyd asked.

“It took me less than ninety minutes to get here.” Suarez didn’t mention that he jogged most of the way, stopping only for water breaks.

“Okay,” Azevedo said, “suppose we go back, and we find Javier’s body. Would it be all right with you if we bury him, mark his grave and then come back? You could come back later to retrieve it. Besides, we’ll have to notify the authorities. With two bodies, I’m sure they’ll send someone here to investigate.”

Suarez thought for a moment and nodded.

“Yes, yes, that would be good. Javier would be able to rest, and so would I.”

Although the expedition wasn’t conducted under democratic rules, Duncan felt that he couldn’t force anyone to follow Suarez to the body. But it was a question of whether to proceed or retreat, he decided.

“Here’s what we’re going to do,” Duncan said. “If you don’t go with us, you can stay here and wait for us to return. And tomorrow, we’ll start hiking back to the river. Anyone have a problem with this?”

It didn’t surprise anyone that Hamel and Cross decided to stay behind. But when Alison Peeples also asked to wait, Rankin, Boyd, and Johnson nearly gasped in unison.

“What!” Peeples said. “I just don’t feel like going, okay? I’m not feeling well. I think I’m coming down with something.”

The three exchanged muffled comments while Duncan gathered Hamel, Cross, and Peeples together to give them instructions. He cautioned them not to attempt to return to the river on their own.

“We’ll probably camp here another night and head back tomorrow, together. Any questions? Alison will probably want to get rest. And stay hydrated. This humidity is brutal.”

Even before the remainder of the group started the trek to bury Costa, their shirts were saturated with sweat. Humidity spiked, and huge gray clouds were piling up in the east. Although rain had fallen every day since the start, it was sporadic, and most of it came at night. As the two groups diverged, the three left behind busied themselves with setting up camp while the others tried to keep up with a fast-moving guide.

Cross, who was accustomed to getting her way and anxious after seeing parts of Suarez’ video, complained to Duncan just before he left.

“I don’t want to be insensitive here, but who’s paying whom here?” she said snarkily. “Can’t we just go back now and let the authorities deal with the body or bodies?”

“We’ve got no leverage,” Duncan said. “He’s going with or without us, and he’ll just quit if we give him an ultimatum, and we’d still have to pay him for the days he’s worked.”

“Couldn’t we just retrace our steps?”

“We could, maybe. Or we could get lost. Anyway, this is what we’re going to do and really, Maggie, please don’t try to hike out on your own. We’ll be back as fast as we can, okay?”

Unconvinced, Cross nodded and watched as Duncan rejoined his group and disappeared into the forest.

47

IT WASN’T LONG before the gray clouds grew dark, and the first drops dripped from the canopy above the campsite. Fortunately, the two tents were up with rainflies attached. Peeples laid on her air mattress while Cross and Hamel sat on a log they’d moved near their tent. It wasn’t long before Peeples joined them, unable to relax in her stuffy tent, the price of draping them with rainflies.

“Do you think it’s a good idea what they’re doing?” Hamel asked, rhetorically.

“Personally,” he continued, “I think our fearless leader doesn’t have our best interest at heart.”

“What do you mean?” Cross asked.

“I know you have a thing for him, sweetie, but you obviously were afraid to go. And what about you?” he said, speaking to Peeples. “Are you really ill or is something else going on?”

Peeples gave him a critical look.

“I’m not feeling well,” she said matter-of-factly. “This heat and humidity is getting to me. I’ve never felt like this before.”

“Stop it, George,” Cross said sternly. “Could be you and I have overactive imaginations. Maybe we’re just cowards. I know I am.”

“Well,” Hamel said, “when you put it that way, I suppose you’re right. I mean, I don’t mind being a bystander, but I’m not inclined to lead the charge.”

“You all think they’re in danger?” Peeples asked.

“I have no idea,” Hamel said. “I don’t want to think that, but you have to wonder whether we’re in danger just sitting here. What if the bugs show up? What then? It’s not like we can defend ourselves.”

“The guide said the insects left the area,” Peeples said.

“Yes, but he wasn’t talking about this place, in particular, and he didn’t say where they went. For all we know, they could be waiting for them.”

“Like an ambush?” Peeples said sarcastically.

“Maybe,” Hamel said, defensively. “Could be. You don’t know. Maybe they’re organized like ants or something. We don’t know much about them, do we?”

“For all we know, maybe they’re headed our way,” Peeples said and regretted saying it.

Cross stood and faced her companions.

“I don’t think this is very helpful. The reason I didn’t go is that I’m a physical coward. Always have been. I admit it. I like to take small risks, like trying out a new restaurant, but going into the jungle after a dead body, that doesn’t appeal to me.”

Hamel nodded in agreement. Peeples said nothing for a moment as she stared at Cross’s khaki shorts. She wondered whether it was fear that caused her to feel ill. She hadn’t felt this until it became clear that the previously harmless insects had turned into killers. It reminded her of her fear of snakes, which she tried to overcome but couldn’t. Twice she’d tried to desensitize herself to the reptiles and both times she failed miserably. She could watch them when separated by glass enclosures but shivered uncontrollably when handlers tried to present them to her. It didn’t matter whether they were garter snakes or poisonous. Seeing them in the wild caused her to run like a frightened child. The thought of thousands of the insects swarming over her body had a similar effect, except she couldn’t run from her thoughts or fears. It was the thought that made her feel ill, she decided, because sitting on the log she was not afraid and didn’t feel ill.

“I’m a coward, too,” Peeples blurted. “I don’t know, after seeing that video and the thought of those insects eating that poor man alive…”

“We all have a problem with being eaten alive,” Hamel said, trying to be supportive.

Peeples grimaced, and Cross sighed.

“Well, at least we can agree that we’re all cowards, right?” Hamel said.

“No question about that,” Peeples said, feeling better and unashamed.

48

DUNCAN ASKED SUAREZ to slow down, that the others were having difficulty keeping his pace despite having left most of their gear at the campsite. Suarez was impatient and inclined to disobey, but when he saw Professor Avezedo bring up the rear, he waited for everyone to catch up and then took the lead but made sure that he remained within sight of the group. For this reason, it took several hours to reach the area where the bugs had attacked Costa. Avezedo urged caution as they approached the field where the body lay.

“We don’t know anything about these insects,” Azevedo said, shaking his head. “Other than they are predators and they are organized in such a way that apparently thousands of them can be brought to bear quickly.”

“You make them sound like an army,” Boyd said.

“That’s a good analogy,” Azevedo agreed. “I think they are. I think they are more like ants than cockroaches in that regard.”

They paused at a clearing where the trail abruptly ended in the field of deep grass where Costa’s body lay. Suarez pointed at the tree he’d climbed. From the ground, they could not see the body nor an indication of where it was. Suarez regained his perch on the tree, and after a moment pointed toward a patch of disturbed grass that could only be seen from above.

“He’s there,” Suarez said. “Maybe twenty meters, thirty meters. Not far. Do you see?”

As hard as everyone tried to see where Suarez pointed, they couldn’t see, not from ground level. It all looked like an unbroken sea of tall grass undulating in a slight breeze. Lowering himself, Suarez took out his machete and started to cut a path through the grass, expecting the others to follow. Ten meters in, he paused and looked back. Nobody followed.

“What’s the matter?” he asked.

“What are we waiting for?” Boyd asked.

“You first,” Carlos Johnson responded, gesturing toward Suarez.

“Why don’t you finish cutting the path,” Duncan said. “We’ll just get in your way.”

“Chicken,” Boyd said as he started toward Suarez.

Duncan grabbed him by the shoulder.

“Let’s just wait until he finds the body,” he said.

Everyone seemed satisfied by this, and Duncan waved to Suarez to continue, which he did, stopping several times to look back at the tree to get his bearings. From the tree, he’d thought he had a clear view of where to go, but at ground level he was less certain. Nothing seemed to stand out. Where he could see a patch of disturbed grass from twenty feet, from the ground, it looked different.

Then the stench hit him, carried by the light breeze. He hadn’t expected this. But it came in waves, and he knew Costa was near. Several more swings of the machete and suddenly he stood over Costa’s body, sprawled face down, his clothes reduced to tatters and only skinny strands of flesh dangling from his nearly skeletonized corpse. He instinctively crossed himself and looked away. It was difficult to see his friend like this and, in a way, he didn’t want anyone else to see him like this either, concerned about his dignity. But he had no choice but to wave the others to join him.

Boyd led the way and nearly fell on top of the body, his foot catching on a root. Duncan grabbed him as he stumbled and pulled him back. Suarez didn’t like the way everyone crowded in to gawk at the body, which looked much like the body they found with the Labrador. Within moments, Boyd started documenting the scene, which upset Suarez, who put his hand in front of Boyd’s camera.

“No, no, no,” Suarez said. “You shouldn’t do this.”

Boyd looked at Duncan, who nodded. Boyd pocketed the camera, somewhat annoyed. Duncan asked Suarez what he wanted to do with the body. The young guide looked back toward the end of the path where the ground was relatively clear.

“We should move him back there. It will be easier to dig.”

At first, nobody did anything other than steal looks at the body. Then Duncan pulled out a poncho from his daypack and started stomping on the grass near the body. He laid the poncho alongside the body.

“We need something to grab it with,” he said. “Anybody got gloves with them?”

Glances were exchanged.

“How about a T-shirt?” Stephanie Rankin said, digging into her daypack. “We can tear it up and use that.”

Using his pocket knife, Boyd cut the shirt into wide strips, handing several to Duncan and Suarez and keeping two for himself. Together, the three of them surrounded the body and gingerly took hold of Costa’s arms and lower legs and, lifting it only slightly, slid it onto the poncho. The ground was covered with dead insects and damp where his blood had saturated the soil. Everyone skittishly moved out of the way or scurried ahead as the three of them carefully carried the body out of the field and back to the path where they set it down gently and set about digging a shallow grave.

Boyd and Duncan started the grave with their folding shovels while the others watched. Suarez moved away, struggling with his emotions, watching from the corner of his eye. Then it occurred to him that they would need to mark the grave, and he collected stones and piled them near where the grave was being dug.

While this was going on, Johnson, Rankin, and Azevedo sat on a large log that had fallen near the path.

“I can’t really believe what’s happening,” Rankin whispered.

“What can’t you believe?”

“This,” she said, pointing toward the deepening grave. “I mean, this was supposed to be an expedition, and now it’s turned into this, a cemetery and a crime scene or something. I mean, two bodies in two days. This is not what I expected.”

“Nobody expected this, miss,” Azevedo said.

“Yeah,” Johnson said. “There’s nothing we can do about it. Besides, we’ll be headed back tomorrow.”

“And what do we get out of this? We didn’t find the blaberus. This is not going to help me finish my M.S.”

“Did you collect any specimens?”

“Specimens?”

“Yeah, there were plenty on the ground back there. I thought you were going to collect specimens.”

Rankin grew quiet.

“You’re afraid, aren’t you,” Johnson said.

“I am not,” she protested.

“Yes you are,” he said quickly.

“I am not,” she said, rising from the log. She started toward the field but stopped abruptly.

Looking at Johnson, she smiled.

“Would you come with me?”

“What will you give me if I do?”

Listening to them bicker amused Azevedo, who stood up.

“I’ll go with you,” he said.

Rankin stuck her tongue out at Johnson and followed Azevedo into the field, pouting and glancing back at her fellow student.

49

AFTER A BRIEF ceremony led by Suarez, Costa’s remains were covered with earth followed by the stones Suarez had gathered. He carefully arranged them into a mound at the head of the grave. Using his knife, he roughly carved Costa’s name and date of death into a chunk of wood that he’d picked up from the forest floor and sandwiched it into the stones so that it stood erect, extending four feet above the ground. He tied his red bandana near the top to make it easier to find, as he planned on retrieving the body for a Catholic burial.

Duncan watched from behind as the group gathered around the grave, heads bowed as Suarez spoke in a mixture of Portuguese and English, which made it difficult to understand what he was saying, though it was clear from his tears that he was hurting. Azevedo put his arm around the young man following the ceremony and whispered words of encouragement and solace.

Suarez was reluctant to leave the grave, and so they milled about until the first drops of rain filtered through the canopy. Then they hurriedly gathered their gear and followed in single file behind Duncan as he lead the way down the trail. As suddenly as the rain appeared, thunder and lightning followed, and within minutes those who had them slipped into ponchos. Although he’d used his poncho to move Costa’s body, Duncan pulled it out of his daypack and shook it out several times, holding it up to inspect it and then turning it inside out. He was concerned about wrapping himself in a garment that oozed with the remnants of Costa’s flesh. Seeing that Rankin lacked a poncho, Boyd offered his, which she hesitantly took.

“Won’t you get soaked?” she said as he handed it to her.

“That’s okay,” Boyd said, removing his T-shirt. “The rain’s warm. Anyway, we’ll probably all be soaked if this keeps up.”

As he helped her adjust the poncho, he unsnapped her daypack and dropped his camera inside.

“I’m just going to put my camera in your pack, okay? Don’t want it to get wet.”

It wasn’t long before water began to form pools and the path, covered mostly in trampled grass, became slippery. Where the grass was absent, the ground became muddy and the footing uncertain. Conditions slowed their progress to the extent that Duncan extended the time between breaks though that had to do with finding places to rest that were at least partially protected from the rain. There was no point in stopping if all they were going to do was to get wet, he felt. Suarez had lost some of his zest and was no longer taking the lead. Mostly, he walked alongside the professor. When they spoke, it was in Portuguese. Johnson and Boyd jockeyed as they both tried to pair up with Stephanie Rankin. Duncan was in the lead. Conversations were intermittent, muted and brief.

The rain was still falling when they reached the campsite, which consisted of two small tents, raindrops bouncing and then pouring off the flies, and a pile of backpacks and other gear that they’d left behind that morning. Duncan was disappointed that Peeples hadn’t done more to protect the gear from the rain but kept it to himself when he poked his head into her tent. Peeples, who was stretched out on top of her sleeping bag, greeted him enthusiastically.

“Boy, am I glad to see you. I thought you’d never get back. I thought you’d be back in a couple hours.”

“Well, the rain slowed us down, and it took a lot longer to get there than we figured.”

“It’s been raining all day,” she said. “We had just enough time to get our tents up before it started really coming down. We had to move once ‘cause water was running in. Any idea how long it’s gonna last?”

Duncan shook his head and then hurried to Cross and Hamel’s tent. They were playing gin rummy.

“Hey,” he said as he poked his head inside.

“Hey!” Cross said. “How’d it go?”

“It went. How are things?”

“Wet,” said Hamel. “Any wetter and we’d need swim suits.”

“Did you—did you find the body?” Cross asked.

“We did. We buried it, and Antonio marked it. Should be easy to find when he comes back.”

“He’s coming back here?” Hamel asked.

“That’s what he said. He wants a proper burial for his boss.”

“Did you see any of those bugs?” Cross asked.

“No,” Duncan replied. “We didn’t really have time to look for them, although Stephanie and Professor Azevedo collected specimens.”

“Dead, I hope,” Hamel interrupted.

“It’ll be interesting to see how they differ from the specimens Azevedo has in his collection.”

“You think they’re different?” Cross asked.

“They have to be. There has to be a physiological explanation. But I need to get going and get my tent up. See you later.”

50

EVERYONE WHO WENT with Duncan was soaked, and the three left behind were dry. Grumbling was inevitable. While Hamel and Cross shared a tent, Rankin, though soaked from the hike, slipped into Peeples’ dry tent. Johnson and Boyd, Azevedo and Duncan, and Suarez set up their tents in the rain, which meant the inside of the tents were wet, as they couldn’t get the rainflies installed fast enough to keep the tents from getting soaked. Even when they had the flies installed, they had to gingerly lift the tents to move them to avoid areas in which water pooled, a pointless exercise in view of the fact that everything was soaked through, including sleeping bags. Although they had them, no one had bothered to install rain covers over their backpacks prior to the hike. Fortunately, there were enough nutrition bars and other food that they didn’t add hunger to their misery.

Once Rankin settled in, stripping to her underwear and sitting on top of her relatively dry sleeping bag, which rested on an air mattress—Peeples had placed Rankin’s gear in the tent before the rain started—Peeples grilled her about the hike. Rankin told her what the body looked like and how upset Suarez was.

“In the back of my mind the whole time,” Rankin said, “I kept thinking the bugs were watching and waiting.”

“Really!”

“Yeah. I don’t know what anyone else was thinking, nobody was talking much, it was kinda depressing, you know. I just had this feeling. I was worried about moving too far away from everybody, you know.”

“You thought they were stalking you?” Peeples asked.

“I guess. Something like that. I mean, I suppose, they could’ve just been there, and I could’ve walked into the middle of them, but, you know, I don’t know. I was just scared. I mean, how do you defend yourself against them?”

“Yeah, that’s what I wondered after I saw that video the guide made. You couldn’t see the bugs, but you could see the guy jumping and falling and going crazy in the grass.”

“Is that why you didn’t go?” Rankin asked.

“Yeah. I was afraid of what might happen. I mean, I’m not an adventurer like Cody. Shit, I’m not even like you. At least you had the guts to make the hike. I feel kinda rotten for chickening out. Is that what everybody thinks, that I chickened out?” Peeples asked cautiously.

“Don’t worry about it. We didn’t talk about you, much. And it didn’t occur to me until too late that there was nothing I could do if they attacked me. I’m sure if I’d thought about it before we left, I would’ve stayed behind too.”

Boyd and Johnson squeezed as much water out of their sleeping bags as they could, stripped to their underwear and sat on top of the wet bags listening to the rain bounce off the rainfly.

“I can’t believe this,” Johnson said, quietly.

“The rain?”

“No, the whole situation. This is like a made-for-TV movie.”

“You mean the bugs?”

“Yeah, and the bodies. Especially the bodies. I mean, yeah, we knew some guy died back at that cabin, but Duncan never said there’d be more.”

“Well, he didn’t know any more than the rest of us. I’m sure if he did, you and me wouldn’t even be here,” Boyd said.

“He woulda come, though, huh?” Johnson asked.

“In a minute. You know, I woulda come too. This is kinda exciting.”

“Yeah, tell that to the guy we buried.”

Boyd shrugged and slapped at mosquitoes flying around his face.

“Do you think Duncan knows what he’s doing?” Johnson said, at length.

“He’s got a rep as an entomologist,” Boyd said.

“I mean now, like on this expedition. Do you think he knows what he’s doing?”

Boyd gave Johnson a quizzical look.

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, is he the type of guy who’s going to get us killed or is he the type of guy who’s gonna keep us safe?”

“What’re you worried about?”

“Something that Steph said.”

“C’mon, spit it out.”

“She said that Duncan is more interested in the bugs than he is in us.”

“Well, consider the source.”

“What does that mean?”

“Stephanie is a complainer. She complains about everything. She was in one of the lab classes I ran, and she didn’t like the way I ran it, so she complained to Duncan.”

“What did he do?”

“He told her to either do her lab work or drop the class. One thing I like about him, he doesn’t suffer fools.”

“But, do you think he could get us into trouble?”

“He’s not stupid. You may have noticed that he didn’t spend a minute looking for the bugs when we buried the guide. He’s got his priorities, but I don’t think one of them is to jeopardize our safety.”

“Well, the good news is we’ll be on our way back to civilization tomorrow,” Johnson said.

AZEVEDO AND DUNCAN laughed about how stupid they had been not to protect their gear from rain.

“That’s a rookie mistake,” Duncan said. “We saw lightning in the distance since we started. We had rain yesterday. A rookie mistake.”

Like Johnson and Boyd, they sat on wet sleeping bags stretched out on air mattresses. Azevedo was puzzled that Duncan wasn’t sharing a tent with Maggie Cross as he had previously though he was too polite to ask about it. The expedition had been more of a physical challenge than he’d expected. His knees hurt from spending the day on his feet, and he wanted something warm to eat but was afraid the heat from his tiny stove might melt the tent floor. He settled for one slightly soggy nutrition bar.

Growing philosophical, Duncan asked Azevedo what he thought of the expedition. Azevedo gave him a puzzled look.

“Well, I’m not sure what to make of it,” Duncan said as if the question were rhetorical. “Nothing has gone right since we left the cabin. We’ve got two dead people that we know of, two guards who are nowhere to be found, and we’ve learned nothing about blaberus. From a scientific point of view, we’d have been better off not to have gotten off the boat.”

Azevedo rubbed his chin and nodded.

“I think we’ve learned much,” he said quietly. “When we started, we thought we knew something about reptilus blaberus, but now we know it’s not the same creature we thought we knew. It has gone from barely being able to sustain its tiny population into a voracious predator that can kill a man in minutes.”

“Yes, yes,” Duncan agreed impatiently, “but what have we learned?”

“They are apparently well organized,” Azevedo said, “or else they wouldn’t be able to converge the way did on poor senhor Costa. You saw the video. Their attack was well-executed. You noticed that they waited until he was in the deep grass and that they attacked from all sides simultaneously. That’s something we would never have known had Antonio not filmed it. Whatever we do, as soon as possible we should get your assistant to make a copy of the video, so we have it to study.”

“You’re right, of course. It’s just that I had my sights on capturing live specimens, and now it seems I’ll be going back empty handed.”

“That would have been a breakthrough, no question, but what was our choice? After the burial, would you have gone after the insects instead of returning to camp?”

“I thought about it, but then I thought, ‘not with this group.’”

“I’m surprised. If you were alone, you would have pursued them, despite seeing what they did to Costa?”

Duncan considered his reply for a moment.

“I don’t know what I would have done. When I was younger, I would have chased them down and probably died trying. I understand how dangerous these insects are, but I wonder how they’re organized. Are they like bees? Like ants?”

“Or like wolves?”

“Yes, or a combination. Certainly they must have outliers or scouts that look for food sources and somehow signal the main colony when they find something. What I would like to do is find the scouts, collect some of them and then see if they can breed in captivity. No telling what we’d learn if we could do that.”

Azevedo smiled at the simplicity of Duncan’s proposal. To be in my forties again, he thought. If only this transformation of blaberus had happened thirty years ago, then he could get as energized about it as Duncan. But the years had dulled his ambition as well as weakened his body. He, too, had started the expedition with the goal of collecting living specimens but now, sitting on a damp sleeping bag while raindrops pummeled the tent, all he really wanted was a dry place to curl up and fall asleep.

GEORGE HAMEL POURED two ounces of gin into Maggie Cross’s plastic cup, poured some for himself and raised his cup for a toast.

“Here’s to two people who made the right decision and thus get to spend the night dry and high.”

“You shouldn’t be so smug.”

“Why, because I failed to see a role for me?” Hamel said. “I didn’t see myself as a gravedigger, and I didn’t see myself as a pallbearer. I certainly wasn’t going to give a sermon. Why, exactly didn’t you go?”

Cross sniffed, grimacing slightly.

“I didn’t think he would care whether I went or not. So I chose not.”

“You weren’t afraid of the bugs?”

“Of course, I was. You know that. Besides, you were scared too; I’m sure,” she said, archly.

“You’ve bedded him, and now he won’t put out. Is that your problem?”

“I think he’s focusing on his work. That is why he’s here, need I remind you?”

“But you are soft on him,” Hamel teased, finishing his drink, the second of the night, third of the day.

“Really! Sometimes I wonder why I put up with you!”

“You put up with me because you like it when I say something that you’re too prissy to say yourself. But that’s the liquor talking. I have no opinion myself.”

Cross looked into her cup and sipped. The expedition was coming to an end, and she had nothing to show for it. One thing she learned about herself was that she didn’t have what it takes to hike through a rainforest with a forty-pound pack, much less what it takes to hike miles to bury a stranger and then hike back in torrential rain. She was rapidly losing her interest in entomology. She’d thought insects, in general, were harmless, aside from some of them spreading disease, but in light of recent events she had come to the conclusion that the risk-reward ratio had changed.

“George, the next time I suggest going on an expedition with a bunch of college students, slap me.”

ANTONIO SUAREZ LAY alone in the tent he had shared with his dead boss. Much of Costa’s gear was in the tent—Suarez had put it there along with his own. Everything was soaked, but it didn’t bother him after last night in the tree surrounded by countless carnivorous insects crawling on the ground. He’d gladly sleep in a bed of mud rather than go through it again. Until he was alone with his thoughts, he hadn’t felt the full force of his emotions as they rolled over him like a tide. He had watched his friend and mentor die in a horrible way and done nothing to help him though he understood that if he had tried, he too would be dead.

There was no escape from the terrible insects. But he couldn’t shake the screams from his memory, nor the terrible buzzing of the insects. Mentally, he apologized to Costa hundreds of times, praying silently that he had gone to heaven and was looking down with a smile on his face, free of life’s burdens. Faith was sometimes strong in him but so was his memory. The experience happens in a moment, but the memory is forever. How could he ever get rid of the images and the sounds of Costa being eaten alive? Every time he closed his eyes, the images returned, like waking nightmares. He wished he’d brought whiskey with him. He could use it now to wash away Costa’s screams.

He wanted to talk to someone in Portuguese, and only Azevedo spoke it well. Suarez’s English was fine, but it was what he’d picked up over the years, and his vocabulary wasn’t well enough developed to express his feelings. In Suarez’ mind, Fernando Azevedo was from a different class, educated, not someone he would ever meet on the street. Unlike Costa and himself, Suarez never heard the old man swear or use street language the way he did. He was refined where Suarez was rough. They lived in different worlds.

Laying on his back in the humid darkness of the small tent, his internal monolog ran loose, whispering as if he were talking to Costa, wondering if he was losing his mind. But he had to talk to someone, even if it was only his imagination. At first, he could think only of the good things about Costa, how he never failed to pay his help, how he was neither mean-spirited nor stingy. How he liked to share a beer with his men, how he encouraged Suarez to think about starting his own business though not in competition.

After a while, however, the negatives started to leak into his consciousness. How Costa kidded him about his clumsiness around a soccer ball, about his obsession to buy his own boat, even though he’d have to borrow half the money, how in his mid-twenties he had yet to marry, little things. Then, too, Costa always gave Suarez the most difficult jobs, especially if they involved manual labor. But he pushed the negative out of his mind to focus on what he’d learned from Costa about life, living in the forest and making a living guiding rich Americans. Costa predicted that Suarez would be a success if for no other reason than that he seemed to move comfortably among Americans and spoke their language. To Costa, his young protégé was fluent in English, though Suarez knew better. Yes, he could express himself in terms of his duties as a guide, but he knew little about syntax and could write English only phonetically. He could sometimes see in the puzzled faces of the Americans he spoke with that they could not understand him.

BOYD AND JOHNSON sat soaked in their tiny tent. There was enough headroom to sit upright near the center. Each had squeezed the water out of a pair of underwear and dried them using their tiny propane stove. They sat on air mattresses. The only dry clothes were their underwear. They’d hung socks, shorts and shirts using hooks and rope. But it would take forever to dry in the dense humidity.

“Maybe we could use the stove like we did with our underwear,” Johnson said.

Cody Boyd, running his tongue along his left cheek, shook his head.

“Think there’s enough ventilation?”

“Ventilation? For what?” Johnson asked.

“For us, of course,”

“Oh,” Johnson snorted, “we’d stand outside, you know, and wait for the clothes to dry.”

Boyd gave him a skeptical look.

“You’re not serious, are you? I mean, it’s still raining …”

“Off and on,” Johnson interjected.

“”Off and on, yes, but even when it’s not raining, the humidity is like it’s raining. You know?”

“At least we’re not sleeping on the ground. We’re high and dry!” Johnson said, pulling up a corner of his air mattress.

51

EVERYONE WAS CHEERFUL when they woke to partly cloudy skies and sunlight. The worst was over, they agreed, around cups of instant coffee and nutrition bars. Despite the pervasive wetness, most got a decent amount of sleep and were energized by the prospect of reaching the cabin by late afternoon. From there, they’d call Gonzalo Juarez and be back in civilization the next day. They decamped quickly, their packs bulging as they spent little time organizing the gear. Why bother when they wouldn’t be using it again, at least not on his trip? By eight, they were on their way on the last mile to the shallow river, after which they’d be on dry land the rest of the way.

Antonio Suarez woke refreshed and took the lead toward the river. He dedicated the remainder of the expedition to his dead boss and friend, Javier Costa. The primitive path was soft from being saturated with rain. Large puddles dotted the forest floor. And the air was alive with mosquitoes, which they combated by spraying themselves with Deet. The air was heavy and warm, so it mattered little that most of their clothing was damp or still wet. But their focus was less on the weather than on making the trek back to the cabin as quickly as possible. There were brief discussions about leaving equipment behind to speed up the hike.

“We don’t need the tents anymore, do we?” Peeples asked those around her.

“And the sleeping bags,” Johnson said. “They’re wet and too heavy, and they aren’t going to dry out rolled up like they are. What good are they?”

“Come down to it,” Boyd said, “all we really need are the clothes on our back, our shoes and whatever food’s left.”

“And what happens if we run into a problem?” Rankin asked.

“What problem?” Boyd asked.

“Like what if it starts to rain hard again? Wouldn’t it be good to have a tent? Besides, you know we’ve camped two nights, not just last night. Do you really think we can make it back to the cabin in one day?”

“Sure, why not?” Johnson said. “We’re not gonna spend any time foraging for carcasses. That’s what took so long.”

About the time they decided what was necessary and what wasn’t, they found themselves sloshing in water several inches deep. The leaf-covered forest didn’t look inundated, but the trail was clearly flooded. Duncan asked Suarez to lead the group to a high spot just off the trail where they bunched together to keep their shoes out of the water. What concerned Duncan was that the forest was already filling with water, and they weren’t in sight of the stream.

“What do you think, Antonio?” Duncan said. “Think it’ll get much deeper?”

“I don’t know. Mr. Howard, I don’t think so much. But the river might be filled so crossing it might not be easy. At least not like the other day when there were just a few centimeters of water.”

Duncan considered the options for a moment.

“Tell you what, I’ll go ahead with Antonio and see what’s up. No point in everybody getting soaked more than we have to.”

Boyd nodded in agreement.

“Maybe we should move back a bit to where the trail isn’t flooded. We’d have more room and we could take a break.”

Duncan handed his pack to Boyd, who struggled to maintain his balance while also carrying his pack. Suarez hung his pack from a low-hanging tree branch, and the two made their way toward the river while the others retraced their steps and made themselves as comfortable as possible by sitting on their packs. Almost immediately, they began snacking on their remaining nutrition bars and trail mix. The mood remained elevated, and they talked as if the cabin were just around the next bend.

52

SUAREZ AND DUNCAN had barely gone a hundred yards before the water was up to their ankles. The trail was slippery, and they had to move cautiously, sliding their feet instead of taking steps. Progress was slow, and it didn’t help that the water got deeper the farther they walked. By the time they could see the river, the water was up to their knees, muddy, swirling and pushing against them. Both banks were underwater and the stream’s channel, where the current was strongest, was at least fifty feet across. They stood there for several moments looking for ways to cross, but the entire forest floor was underwater and swirling.

“Shit, shit, shit, shit!” Duncan said loudly.

“I think you are right, Mr. Howard,” Suarez said.

Since there was no longer a trail that could be seen under the water, Suarez took the lead and shuffled in the direction they had come. As a guide, he was accustomed to making note of anything noticeable and out of the ordinary to prevent him from getting lost, but since they were following a trail, he paid little attention to landmarks. As a result, their progress was slow, as Suarez used his feet to feel the inundated trail. The consistency of the muck and grass were a contrast to the leaves and sharp broken branches that lay alongside the trail. Once they were in ankle-deep water, they were able to see where the trail eventually came out of the water, move quickly toward it and then double-time through the mud to where the others were relaxing.

Everyone rose expectantly as Duncan and Suarez approached. Stray rays of sunshine peeked obligingly through the canopy, creating puddles of bright light wherever they reached. From where they’d sat, things were looking up.

“The river’s flooded,” Duncan said matter-of-factly. He was on the verge of telling them that there was no way out but didn’t.

“What do you mean, it’s flooded?” Hamel asked reflexively.

“Both banks are underwater. We couldn’t get closer than a hundred feet, and the water was knee deep. It’s flowing fast, and it’s spreading out. This place is gonna be underwater in another hour or so.”

“That fast?” Boyd asked.

“Yeah, we can’t stay here.”

“But, but how are we gonna get to the cabin?” Rankin asked nervously.

“We’re not,” Boyd said, pointedly. “Didn’t you hear him?”

“Can’t we do something?” Rankin asked. “Can’t we use ropes or something to get across?”

“We don’t have enough rope,” Duncan said, “and even if we did, it’s too treacherous. The water is deep, and it’s moving fast. Some of us might make it and some of us might not. Too much risk.”

“Can’t we use a log or something and float across?” Hamel asked. “I’ve seen it done in Westerns.”

“Don’t be silly,” Margaret Cross said. “This isn’t a movie, and you’re not a stuntman.”

All but Duncan and Azevedo exchanged glances as it dawned on them that they were trapped. Some were worried.

“What’s plan B?” Rankin whispered to Johnson, who shrugged.

After a moment of whispered comments, some of them snarky, Cody Boyd approached Duncan, who was engaged in an intense conversation with Suarez. Boyd stood at a respectful distance while they spoke but heard almost every word. Boyd stepped forward as soon as the conversation ended.

“What are we going to do, boss? The natives are getting restless.”

“You restless, Cody?” Duncan asked.

“Sorta. I mean, I ... I didn’t expect this. Did you?”

Duncan was trying to think. He wasn’t paying attention to Boyd. He was focused on the problem that, as the leader, it was his job to solve.

Suarez had told him that the entire forest would be flooded by nightfall. He’d been through this before with his boss, but never alone. He wondered for a moment whether he was up to the task and frantically worked with the professor using Duncan’s topographical maps to plan an escape route.

With Suarez watching and making suggestions, Azevedo penciled in a route that would bring them to higher ground, but parts of it were no higher than the surrounding forest floor. Optimally, they wanted to take only high ground but that proved impossible. Some areas were lower than others. They drew alternate routes, but each of them had its limitations. When they’d exhausted the possibilities, they returned the map to Duncan, who studied it for a moment.

“I’m afraid there is no easy way,” Azevedo told Duncan. “We can get to the high ground, but Antonio thinks we have to do it quickly. He says the entire forest may fill up with water.”

“Is that right, Antonio?”

“Yes, Mr. Howard.” Sweeping his arm around him, he added, “Everything will be under water. It’s all coming from the north and east.”

“How much water?”

“Who knows?” Azevedo said. “A few inches, a few feet, it could be dangerous. We won’t be able to see the ground or the trail if there is one. It will be easy to step into a hole.”

“What if it stops raining?” Duncan asked.

Suarez looked at Azevedo and shrugged.

“The water’s coming from miles away. Even if we don’t see any rain, the water is going to get higher,” Suarez said bleakly.

Duncan stared at the leafy litter under his feet. The ground was wet and soft but nothing like what he saw near the river. How long would it be before where he stood would be under water?

“How far do we have to go to get to high ground?” Duncan asked, looking at the map.

“Seven, eight kilometers,” Suarez said.

“How long will it take?”

Suarez looked at Azevedo as if he had the answer.

“I think you young people should go ahead.”

“Pardon me?” Duncan said.

“I’m going to slow everyone down. My knees are killing me.”

“We’re not leaving you behind,” Duncan said forcefully with Suarez nodding in agreement.

Azevedo disagreed, shaking his head.

“Look,” he said, “the water is rising, and it will be flooding across the forest like a giant lake. You want to be on high ground when this happens. You know, there will be snakes, maybe caiman, who knows what else.”

Suarez looked at Azevedo nervously.

“It’s okay,” Azevedo said to Suarez. “I will slow you down. I’m not saying I’m just going to sit here and wait for the water. I’m going to follow you.”

“How will you do that?” Suarez asked.

“You’ll leave trail markers for me, and I’ll follow them. You’ll see, I’ll get there after you have a fire going. You will be moving quickly, and I’ll be on a leisurely walk. You’ll see.”

Suarez was skeptical. Duncan wanted to believe Azevedo because it would make things so much easier for him but, looking around him, he saw no immediate threat that would justify leaving the old man behind. Optimistically, if the water spread from the river they’d crossed, then they might even be able to stay ahead of it simply by walking. But as he looked at the markings on the map, he noticed there were multiple tiny streams that would have to be crossed. What if they were already filled with overflowing water? He realized he knew nothing of what lay ahead, only what lay behind. For all he knew, they were already sandwiched between two overflowing streams and the goal of reaching high ground was impossible. What then?

Duncan called the group together and outlined his plan, passing around the map so that everyone could see where they were going. Everyone had a concerned look, and some started to ask questions. He didn’t want to get into a debate, aware that the water was rising behind them and, for all he knew, the same could be happening in front of them.

“We don’t have time to go over everything in detail. I think we need to get on the trail and make time. We’re talking about a four to five-mile hike. It shouldn’t be a hardship. Take a few minutes to tighten up your packs, put on some Deet and focus on getting to high ground.”

Hamel, Boyd, and the others stifled their questions as they concentrated on reorganizing their belongings and repacking. No one had to say anything about covering their packs to protect them against rain. The sunlight that had started the day no longer filtered through the canopy. It was dark enough on the forest floor that only Hamel wore sunglasses.

“Unless you want to get soaked again, keep your ponchos handy,” Duncan said.

When everyone was ready, he asked Suarez to take the lead but not to be out of sight of the group. From the start, Azevedo brought up the rear, and everyone was aware of it, especially Suarez, who kept a slow pace, but not slow enough to help the limping professor, who fell farther behind with each step. They had barely gotten out of sight of their campground when Suarez approached Duncan.

“The old man needs help,” Suarez said.

Duncan exhaled deeply.

“I can see that,” he said.

At first, using ropes and towels, they wove a sling to carry Azevedo. Boyd and Johnson did the heavy lifting. They divided most of their gear, as well as Azevedo’s, among the others. This approach did not last long. Some of those carrying Boyd and Johnson’s gear complained about it. They stopped again.

“We need to dump non-essential stuff, and by non-essential I do not mean Cody’s and Carlos’ stuff,” Duncan ordered. “We’ll break for five minutes.”

Suarez sat with Azevedo. He was concerned about the professor’s health. Azevedo shrugged.

“I feel like I’m holding everyone back. I’m disappointed in myself.”

“Don’t be,” Suarez said quickly, then scoured his brain for something encouraging to say.

“I’m an old man, Antonio. I’ve lived a good life and now, who knows, it is coming to an end.”

Suarez, optimistic by nature, hated defeatist talk, but he held Azevedo in high esteem. Azevedo was an important professor while Suarez was an assistant guide, hardly the person to give the old man behavioral advice.

“I just wish you would stop thinking like that,” he told the professor in Portuguese.

Suarez approached Duncan, who was rearranging his gear, to tell him about Azevedo’s defeatism, hoping that he, as a professor, would be able to speak to Azevedo on equal footing. At the same time, Hamel asked loudly, “How do we know what to leave behind?”

Duncan moved toward Hamel.

“First thing, we don’t need so many tents. We can fit three people per tent, so that means tossing two tents.”

Hamel frowned. He didn’t like the idea of a crowded tent. He was about to say something, but Maggie Cross put her finger to her lips, and he backed off.

“Same goes for cooking gear. Let’s have one stove per tent, but keep all the fuel bottles. Keep all the food, all the water, all the water purification stuff, the pills and the filter straws. Keep the necessities and cut down everything else.”

“Toilet paper is a necessity, isn’t it?” Rankin asked.

“Only while you got it,” Johnson said.

“If there’s room,” Duncan said. “We’ve got four-five miles to go, and we need to make time. Use common sense.”

The five-minute break grew to fifteen minutes before Boyd and Johnson lifted Azevedo with the makeshift sling. Duncan spoke to him briefly, finally insisting that they would not leave anyone behind. The discarded items formed a mound, with tents, clothing, scientific gear cascading down the side. Even though there was no reception, everyone kept their cell phones.

Duncan had hoped to make time with everyone carrying less gear and lighter packs, but they stopped again after covering less than a half mile. Boyd and Johnson labored under the sling, which cut into their shoulders with every step. While they made adjustments and rolled up T-shirts to pad the ropes across their shoulders, Azevedo took the opportunity to thank them for helping him and insisted that it would be better for the group if he stayed behind.

“No way,” Boyd said emphatically. “We’ll figure this out.”

“But I’m just slowing you down.”

“Professor, I have great respect for you, but there is no way that we are going to leave you behind. So you may as well forget about it.”

Another five hundred yards and the jury-rigged sling unraveled.

“This isn’t working,” Boyd blurted in frustration while helping Azevedo to a nearby log.

He and Johnson reworked the sling while the others dropped their packs and talked quietly. Duncan directed Suarez to scout the trail as far as he could go in five minutes and then return to report what he saw. After reassuring himself that Azevedo was okay, Suarez jogged away from the group, disappearing behind a small rise. Ten minutes later, and the reconfigured sling was ready, but the guide had not returned.

“Where’s Antonio?” Duncan mumbled to himself while looking at his watch. “Where is Antonio?”

53

SUAREZ MOVED QUICKLY over the squishy trail, which was hardly more than a narrow strip where the grass had been worn down by animals and people who traveled into the interior. While it was the same trail on which Costa had met his death, Suarez followed it a little less than a kilometer before turning back. He had with him Duncan’s map on which he and Azevedo had sketched a route to higher ground. To reach it they would go in a different direction, away from Costa’s grave.

Suarez paused to compare the topographical map with the forest in front of him. The most apparent landmarks were stream beds, most of which he expected to be seasonal. It appeared to him that the first stream they would cross was half a kilometer and west of the trail. Pressed for time, he marked the direction they would take with several broken branches and was about to start his return trip when he thought how much better it would be if he could report on the condition of the stream. What if it was overflowing like the river bed they’d crossed? This would be a good thing to know, a real time saver. Five minutes was not enough time to scout a trail, he thought, especially a trail that would take them in a different direction. Another five minutes, and he would know much more.

Not bothering to clear a path with his machete, he moved swiftly through the deep grass when he came to a sudden halt. He sensed that something had moved in the grass near where he stood. He put his hand on his machete and watched the grass sway in a straight line as the beast or whatever it was moved quickly into the forest. His heart pounded, and he remained motionless until he felt safe when he realized it wasn’t the bugs. Nonetheless, he ran back toward Duncan and the group, all the time wondering whether he’d been sharing space with a jaguar. He didn’t know what to think since he’d always been told that jaguars were reclusive, and sightings were rare. Despite all the time he’d spent in the forest, he’d never seen one. What else could it be? Before he had things figured out, he met the group on the trail with Duncan in the lead.

“I said five minutes,” Duncan said, sternly. “We don’t have time to waste.”

“I’m sorry, Mr. Howard. It took longer because we have to leave this trail and cut a new one if I understand the map. We have to go west a few hundred meters more.”

“Is it swampy, wet?”

“Wet, but tall grass. Ground is solid. You’ll see.”

Duncan and the rest followed Suarez until they reached the place where they would cut a new trail. Suarez and Duncan studied the map. Leaning heavily on his cane, Azevedo joined them. It was difficult to determine exactly where they were on the map except by comparing elevations, which were largely uniform. Cody Boyd had been periodically tracking their progress since leaving the cabin using his GPS, but even with fairly precise coordinates, he was unable to fix their location on the map. The base map on the GPS wasn’t identical to Duncan’s map. Besides, the battery was running low, and he had been using it sparingly the past two days. He hoped that if they became lost, they could use the track it recorded to find their way. Of course, that couldn’t happen if the battery died. He was also conserving the camera battery. He wasn’t the only one. As soon as they realized they were unable to cross the river, they started conserving their personal resources and taking inventory after culling their equipment. They hadn’t come far, so no one felt in need of rest. But they were restless, alert and impatient.

“Gentlemen,” Hamel said, as he approached Duncan. “Can we get a move on? I think I can speak for everyone that we all very much want to get to high ground before dark.”

Duncan smiled weakly. He saw fear in some of their faces.

Duncan agreed to let Suarez lead the way. As they made their way through the leaf-strewn forest floor, the guide led them through tall, sparse grass with occasional brief detours around fallen trees. As they walked, they separated into three groups: Duncan, Azevedo, Boyd and Johnson in the front, Hamel and Cross in the middle, and Peeples and Rankin bringing up the rear. No matter how often he looked at the map, Duncan wasn’t comfortable with the route and stopped every fifteen minutes to confer with Suarez. The stops lasted only a moment, not long enough for Johnson and Boyd to set Azevedo on the ground. With each stop, the uncertainty grew, even though Boyd marked their progress with the GPS when he could get a signal.

The tension that was present when they started had given way to complaints about the humidity and mosquitoes. A bouquet of Deet engulfed them like a cloud, and sweat permeated their clothing, dripping down their legs and arms. The sky steadily darkened as they walked deeper into the forest, and Duncan on one of the breaks insisted that everyone make sure their packs were wrapped in rain covers. When droplets of rain started to fall through the canopy of giant kapok and Brazil nut trees, the travelers grew quiet. Nothing good would come from a downpour. Once again tension was building. Hamel’s nervousness broke the silence as he spoke loudly to Cross, who was walking several paces in front of him.

“What are we gonna do if it rains like yesterday? It looks like we’re in a low place.”

“We’ll get wet,” Cross said, “wetter I mean.”

“You think we’ll get flooded? I do.”

“I have no idea,” Cross said. “It’s not flooding now. Let’s not borrow trouble, shall we?”

“Yes, yes, I understand that. But what if we’re flooded? There are rivers all over the place, and they could be flooding just like the one back there.”

It was impossible not to hear Hamel as he continued to worry aloud.

“What if there is?” Duncan said too harshly.

Hamel gave him a look of surprise.

“Do you have an alternate plan?” Duncan asked.

Hamel thought for a moment and shook his head.

“No, I’m trying to get used to this, you know, this fleeing to high ground. No big deal for you, I suppose, the great white hunter.”

Duncan was taken aback. He struggled to keep his composure. He’d overreacted once already. He knew it. He didn’t want to do it again.

“What do you mean by that?” he asked.

“Just look at you. You’re wearing khaki, a safari vest and a Tilley hat. You wear it well, don’t misunderstand me, it’s just that you look like the great white hunter’s assistant. It’s the hat.”

Duncan didn’t know what to say or how to react. Was he being made fun of, in which case he was justified in feeling angry, or was he being overly sensitive? Maybe Hamel was just making a lame joke. Duncan snorted a perfunctory laugh, and the group was underway again.

54

SUAREZ WAS ABOUT three hundred meters ahead of the group and out of sight in a bowl-shaped depression in the forest floor. They were beginning to slow down, he thought. The heat and the stifling humidity could wear a person down quickly, especially those not accustomed to it. The old man wasn’t doing well, he thought, then self-corrected aloud—professor. The young men carrying him were wearing down. He had heard the professor tell Duncan that he should be left behind for the good of the group. Several times. Duncan, too, repeated himself, “We’re all going to get through this. All of us.”

Suarez liked the professor. He didn’t act like an academic, and he spoke Portuguese. As he passed through the depression in a straight line, which was as much as five feet below the rim and hundreds of meters in diameter, he saw that the ground was mushy from the rain and that puddles dotted the area like craters. It might be better to simply walk on the rim. Clambering up the grassy side of the depression, he saw something he didn’t expect—an actual trail cutting across the trail he was blazing.

As he approached the intersecting path, he could tell that it was well-traveled, as only short grass grew out of it. Looking down the trail, he could see that it disappeared into the forest on both ends. There were barely perceptible prints made by shoes and bare feet. He was tempted to follow the trail but saw that the group was approaching him on the rim of the depression. Duncan and the others noticed the trail immediately, and suddenly everyone seemed to be talking at once. Duncan had his map in hand, and Boyd checked to see if the trail was on the GPS’ map. He couldn’t get a satellite signal through the canopy and relied on the device’s mapping software. Nobody was surprised to see that the trail was on neither map. The trail cut across Suarez’ path at an oblique angle. Using his forefinger, Duncan traced the trail on the map. Conceivably, it could lead to the high ground they were looking for. Everyone wondered which trail to take. It was clear they were losing faith in the original plan of blazing a trail.

“Obviously, this trail leads somewhere,” Hamel spoke up. “That’s more than can be said for what we’re doing.”

“Yeah, but where does it lead?” Johnson asked. “We don’t know any more about this trail than we know about anything else. For all we know it could lead to a river.”

“You could say the same thing for the route we’re taking,” Hamel said. By their looks, he saw that some of the others supported his position, perhaps a majority.

“Why don’t we vote on it?” Hamel said loudly.

The talking stopped and then restarted as they gathered around Hamel, who continued to boost his cause, though quietly. Duncan momentarily considered resisting a vote but quickly realized that whatever direction they traveled was largely a shot in the dark and didn’t feel confident defending one approach over the other. Suarez, looking over Duncan’s shoulder, tried to make sense of the map. Finally, Duncan asked Suarez what he thought.

“It’s easier to take the trail,” he said. “But we don’t know where it goes and, more importantly, we don’t know who uses it.”

“What do you mean by that?” Duncan asked.

“That it could be a cartel trail, or it could be a lumber camp.”

“Or it could be a trail that takes us to high ground,” Hamel interjected.

“Yes, it could be,” Suarez said. “I don’t know. I’ll go wherever you tell me to go.”

With that, Duncan declared no need for a vote, opting to take the trail. He asked Boyd to do his best to keep track of their progress using the GPS.

“You know, boss, I can’t get much of a signal through the trees.”

“But you can record our progress, right? You don’t have to actually connect with a satellite to do that, isn’t that how it works?”

“Sorta,” Boyd said. “What you do is get a signal and mark it as a waypoint and then later in a different place you get another signal and mark that. At least it shows where you’ve been. But it won’t tell you a thing in real time.”

“That’s good enough,” Duncan said. “We don’t need to know where we are every second. Every half hour or so should be good enough. We’re following a trail, so if we run into a dead end, we can always follow it back, but with your waymarks, we might be able to figure out how far we are from high ground.”

“Waypoints,” Boyd corrected.

“Sorry, waypoints,” Duncan said.

Once again, Suarez took the lead and the group followed him down the trail, making better time than they had before.

“Do you think the fucking bugs are looking for high ground, too?” Hamel said to Cross as they walked.

“How should I know?” she replied, annoyed. “Maybe they’ll drown if it floods.”

“You think we’re gonna get flooded?”

“Yeah, I do. So does Dr. Duncan.”

“He told you that?” Hamel said, surprised.

“Not in so many words, but I can read between the lines, even if you can’t.”

“I can so read between the lines,” Hamel protested.

“Then why are you so surprised? We’re headed for high ground, so we don’t get flooded. Why do you think we’re going deeper into the forest?”

“I was hoping maybe there was a village or something like that. You know, somewhere the guide knows, like that cabin where we spent the first night.”

“Fat chance.”

The conversation died off as the group moved efficiently through the forest. Rain dripped through the canopy as they went but not so much that they felt uncomfortable. Their clothing was already soaked with sweat from the humidity. The trail was wide enough to accommodate Azevedo’s sling, which meant that Johnson and Boyd needed fewer breaks. They had traveled nearly four kilometers, according to Boyd’s GPS when they learned the purpose of the trail. Well-worn, wide, free of exposed roots, it opened onto a huge area of cleared forest.

Rain poured through the clearing, creating an ever-widening shallow lake strewn with the leavings of lumber thieves. Four-foot high stumps rose like round tombstones. Huge piles of unmarketable lumber dotted the landscape the way that suburbanites rake leaves. Rain poured into the open area as the group retreated from the outer edge of the opening and into the relatively dry untouched forest. Boyd tried to make a call on the satellite phone, but it wasn’t working. He turned on his GPS and a dot popped up on the screen’s map.

“Here’s where we are,” he said as he showed the GPS to Johnson.

Suarez helped Azevedo out of the sling so he could loosen his stiffening joints. He grimaced slightly as he worked his knees.

“This is no place for an old, fat man,” Azevedo said.

No one disagreed.

“This is no place for a skinny middle-aged man, either,” Hamel said loudly.

Several laughed quietly. Duncan shook his head.

“What’s up with that guy?” he asked Azevedo, exasperatedly. The professor stood near Duncan, leaning on his cane. “Does he not understand that none of us want to be here under these conditions?”

“He’s afraid, that’s all,” Azevedo said.

“We all are,” Duncan said.

Duncan understood that, as the leader, he needed to keep up appearances and not let on that he was as uncertain as everyone else about what to do. He wondered whether he’d been too frank with Azevedo. Maybe he shouldn’t have included himself in his generalization about being afraid. The words came out quickly. He couldn’t stop them. He didn’t have time to think about them. If he was going to admit fear to anyone in the group, Azevedo was the one, he thought. He was old and didn’t really care about the same things that Duncan did. Being old, he has less to lose if things turned out badly, Duncan thought. Duncan, on the other hand, was near the pinnacle of his career.

“If we’re looking for higher ground,” Hamel said, pointing toward the clearing, “why don’t we just climb on one of those wood piles?”

“Snakes,” Suarez said quickly. “They are crawling with snakes. They’re looking for higher ground just like us.”

“So, we’re in competition with snakes?” Stephanie Rankin asked.

Duncan rolled his eyes. He was about to say something along the lines that they weren’t in competition with snakes when Boyd beat him to it.

“Yes, of course,” Boyd said forcefully. “We’re in competition with everything in the forest. Any mammals will be looking for high ground, and as the water rises, we’ll have to deal with whatever’s in the water.”

This put a cloud over the group. No one was thinking far ahead, and now it was made obvious that they weren’t simply trying to find high ground.

“What kind of mammals?” Rankin asked tentatively though everyone was thinking it.

“Anteaters, lots of monkeys, jaguars,” Suarez rattled off the names.

“Although, jaguar sightings are rare,” Duncan interjected.

“Of greater concern because they are hard to detect are poisonous spiders, frogs, and snakes. You put your hand in the wrong place, and …” Azevedo said, without finishing his sentence.

“Why are we finding out about all of this now?” Hamel asked sternly.

“And then there are reptiles like the black caiman and especially anacondas,” Suarez added.

Hamel was upset and did nothing to hide it. Duncan saw the look on Hamel’s face and felt an urge to punch him. He didn’t like Hamel’s implication that he hadn’t prepared them for what they’d find in the forest. But Boyd, who was equally upset by Hamel, spoke up.

“You’re going into the Brazilian rainforest, and you didn’t know there were snakes living there. Really?”

Hamel ignored Boyd.

“Maybe I should ask, what is out there that we don’t have to worry about?” Hamel snarled sarcastically. Maggie Cross tried to calm him, but he moved away from her and toward Duncan.

Duncan was taller and sturdier than Hamel and braced himself for a tirade. He could see the nervousness in some of the others and didn’t want it to spread.

“Listen, there is no point in arguing or complaining. I hate to use this phrase, but it is what it is. There’s no easy way for us. We can’t go back. The satellite phone isn’t working, and we don’t really know where we are.”

“Yes we do, yes we do,” Boyd said loudly, holding up his GPS.

“But do we know which way to go?” Duncan asked.

“Yes, we do,” Boyd said waving the GPS.

Duncan thought for an instant that Boyd was trying to embarrass him.

“But does it show us how to get there?”

Boyd lowered his arm quickly.

“No, boss, it doesn’t.”

Duncan exhaled and inhaled deeply. He felt his muscles relax. Hamel and even Boyd added to his stress.

The clearing was about one kilometer in diameter though it wasn’t circular in any way. The ground was irregularly piled with branches and leaves so that one’s foot would never touch the ground. But no one entered the clearing. Nobody wanted to deal with what was hidden beneath the debris. Although the path they’d followed seemed to end at the cleared area, Duncan sent Suarez to hike around the perimeter of the clearing to look for a trail. While he was gone, Duncan tried to keep the others from drifting into negativity by focusing on what they would do when they reached high ground.

“We won’t have to worry about running out of water,” Duncan observed lightheartedly.

“How about food?” Hamel asked. Cross elbowed him in the side. “What’s that for? I was just asking a question.”

“The forest is filled with food,” Duncan responded. “We’re not gonna starve.”

The conversation went on in this vein for several minutes before Duncan ran out of things to say. Johnson started to tighten his pack and before long others were doing the same, burning off nervous energy if nothing else. Meanwhile, Boyd continued to work on the satellite phone, trying to figure out how to make it work. Standing near the clearing, the sky overcast and dark, he fiddled with the device for several minutes before folding the antenna and returning it to his pack.

There was little conversation as everyone seemed to turn inward, hoping that Suarez would find a way out. That may be why nobody noticed as Azevedo hobbled toward where Boyd stood while working on the phone. When he moved back to where he’d left his pack, Azevedo continued to move into the clearing, his straw hat dripping with rain, his cane searching for solid ground. Within minutes, despite his limp, he stood amidst a carpet of branches and leaf litter, pausing before continuing toward one of the huge piles of debris.

55

SUAREZ MADE A wide berth around the cleared land to avoid thick underbrush, piles of debris and discarded equipment. He wondered why anyone would abandon saws and axes. He stopped to examine several pieces, and they looked in decent condition. He thought momentarily about collecting the equipment and coming back in the future to retrieve it for resale. But he knew Duncan was in a hurry and simply made note of where the equipment had been tossed and moved on, all the while wondering why anyone would do that. By the time he had covered half the distance around the clearing, he noticed several chainsaws that workers had left behind. Why would they do that? Shortly, the puzzlement gave way to elation as he found the continuation of the trail. Originally, it must have cut through the clearing but had been covered over by the debris. It headed in a westerly direction where they calculated the high ground would be.

Because of the debris that littered the clearing, some piled ten to fifteen feet high, he did not have a clear view of the other side. He could not see Duncan nor could Duncan see him. He thought about running across the clearing but backed away and retraced his steps along the path he’d blazed, moving as fast as he could. Rain was pouring into the clearing, and it was only a matter of moments before small pools of water that he’d passed on the way in had turned into larger pools on his way out.

56

BOYD WAS THE first to notice Azevedo trudging into the clearing, limping and using his cane to maintain balance. It was obvious that the professor was having trouble staying upright as the debris turned the ground into an unstable mass of leaves and branches that completely covered the clearing like a huge, lumpy carpet. Boyd instinctively ran toward Azevedo, taking large steps, practically leaping across the debris.

As he neared Azevedo, he felt his foot break through the debris, and he could feel something strike the top of his hiking boot. Although his foot had disappeared quickly, he had difficulty pulling it out of the debris, and when he did, he was shocked to see a red snake clinging to his shoe top. When he shook his foot vigorously, the snake let go and quickly slithered into the debris. It was visible for such a short time that he couldn’t identify the species though he guessed it was a coral snake. Fortunately, its fangs did not penetrate the thick leather of his boot. Unlike several of his companions, who gasped when they saw the snake, he was focused on reaching Azevedo.

“Dr. Azevedo,” Boyd said, catching his breath. “What are you doing?”

Azevedo felt Boyd’s hand on his shoulder and turned to face the young man. He had a disappointed look on his face.

“I’m trying to make it easier on everyone else,” he said quietly. “I have no business being here. I’m just holding everyone back.”

“Nonsense,” Boyd cajoled. “You’re not holding anyone back. What’s holding us back is not knowing how to get where we want to go. You know, we didn’t stop here so we could rest.”

“Things will get worse,” Azevedo said as he let Boyd help him return to the group. “I am sorry that you came after me.”

“Well, you didn’t think we’d just let you walk away, did you?”

Azevedo shook his head.

“We’re not like that,” Boyd said emphatically. “Like Howard said, we’re all going to get out of this together.”

Just as they emerged from the debris, soaking from the rain, Suarez returned, smiling.

“Mr. Howard, Mr. Howard,” he said, happily. “There’s a trail on the other side.”

Duncan looked elated, patted Suarez’s shoulder and shook hands as if the young guide had just discovered gold. He had planned to talk to Azevedo about separating himself from the group but was suddenly in too good a mood to care. He was aware that standing water was rising around them and that it would not be long before the lower lying areas became inundated. Between themselves, Boyd and Johnson decided that one of them would always stay with Azevedo.

“I think he’s kinda suicidal,” Boyd whispered as Johnson prepared Azevedo’s sling.

With Suarez leading the way, they made good time reaching the opposite edge of the clearing. By the time they stood at the trail leading into the forest, everyone had made note of the many tools that seemed to be discarded haphazardly around them. At the same time, everyone could also tell that the water was rising as the rain increased, with more of it penetrating the forest canopy.

A shallow sheet of water started to flow across the debris in the clearing. Suarez knew this would only get worse as rivers far away overflowed, sending water in their direction. Even so, he was probably not as concerned as the others, as he could always climb a tree and wait it out. How many of the others could climb he could not tell, but the old man would never be able to get off the ground. He thought Boyd, Johnson, and Duncan could save themselves if it came to that, but he doubted whether they would do that.

It wasn’t just that water was flowing behind them, it was also starting to flow across the trail. Just a thin sheet, but Suarez knew it would get much deeper, and it wouldn’t be long. If all of them were to survive, they needed to find high ground. He briefly discussed this with Duncan, who seemed uncertain what to do next. He’d seen Azevedo walk into the clearing and wondered if he’d have gone after him if Boyd hadn’t.

The trail was actually a poorly built road, with gravel poured into ruts made by truck tires.

“That’s how they haul the lumber out,” Suarez said. “I don’t see heavy equipment tracks, so it’s probably small-timers working on their own.”

“Actually,” Azevedo said, “it’s probably just as well they left. These illegal operations, you know, they aren’t done by Brazil’s finest citizens. People are killed all the time, those who try to protect the forests. It can be very dangerous to happen onto these operations. You know, they carry guns for a reason.”

Once again, everyone nervously crowded around Duncan. Questions came up about the threat posed by illegal operations in the forest. What would they do if they stumbled into a drug processing camp? What if the people clearing the forest were waiting to ambush them? His concerns were no different than theirs. He was worried too, but somehow he had to avoid showing it. He felt resentful and wanted to lash out but knew instinctively he had to remain calm, at least as calm as he could.

Then Hamel asked why they couldn’t use the debris on the forest floor to build a structure that would keep them out of the water. Groans followed. No one took his suggestion seriously, which only encouraged him to insist on a reason not to do it.

“The water would wash it away,” Boyd said.

“Besides, did you see the snake that attacked Cody?” Johnson said. “You think you could pile up a bunch of branches and stuff and not have snakes? They’re trying to get out of the water, too.”

“We have to keep going,” Duncan said. “We have a trail to follow. It has to lead somewhere.”

“That’s right,” Boyd agreed. “They don’t build trails, much less roads like this, for no reason.”

“What if it leads to a drug camp?” Hamel said quickly. “What then?”

“What if it leads to high ground?” Johnson snapped.

“Look, we can argue all day, and we won’t get anywhere,” Maggie Cross said. “We’re accomplishing nothing here. We need to find high ground; I think everyone can agree on that. It makes more sense to me to follow an actual trail than go off on our own. Cody’s right. It has to lead somewhere.”

Hamel grumbled, but it was clear that the others were willing to suspend their concerns about where the trail would lead them. Duncan sent Suarez ahead, telling him to stay within sight of the group and, as the young guide took the lead, Azevedo returned to his sling, and they slowly made their way down the thoroughly wet but well-defined trail.

57

GONZALO JUAREZ LOOKED out his front window on the morning he had planned to pick up Professor Azevedo and the Americans and saw sheets of rain pouring into the flooded street. The weather did not look promising, and if it didn’t let up, he was certain he would not leave the harbor. Given that he would have to pull three aluminum boats behind his heavy thirty-footer, given that floodwaters were rising quickly, given that the rain showed no sign of letting up, he called his mate and told him to stay home.

Conditions were too dangerous. The Rio Negro was filling with debris from the upstream flooding, and he thought it wasn’t worth the risk to pick up his customers. He figured they’d be safe in the cabin where he’d left them. He knew they had a satellite phone and figured they would use it if they needed help. He didn’t know how a satellite phone worked, but he understood it could be used where cell phones couldn’t. Azevedo had his number. He’d wait for Azevedo to call or the weather to break, whichever came first.

58

SUAREZ DID NOT get far before he discovered why the workers had left their tools behind. They weren’t running from a flood. They were running from something they couldn’t escape. He ran back to Duncan and pulled him away from the group.

“There are bodies,” he said breathlessly, pointing toward where he’d been.

“Bodies?”

“Just like the others, bones.”

Duncan looked as if someone had just told him the president had been assassinated.

“What?”

“The bugs, the bugs,” Suarez said, trying not to speak too loudly.

Duncan motioned for the group to take a break, which puzzled everyone since they hadn’t even gotten out of sight of the clearing. He followed Suarez several hundred feet. The guide didn’t have to point out the bodies. There were three, all near the trail. All reduced to skeletons.

Suarez watched Duncan as he whispered, “Fuck, fuck, fuck, Jesus fucking Christ, what the fuck is going on.”

When Duncan had finished, Suarez said quietly, “Please, Mr. Howard, don’t curse the savior’s name like that.”

It wasn’t clear whether Duncan heard Suarez, but he stopped swearing in any case. His mind was racing with questions. What should they do? Suddenly, heading west on the trail was fraught with danger. He had given no thought to the insects since yesterday, when it became apparent that the expedition was over. The optimism he felt when they broke camp this morning took a hit when they realized they couldn’t return to the cabin, but it brightened when they determined they could make higher ground. What residual optimism remained vanished at the sight of the skeletons.

Even so, it was difficult for him to concentrate. Everything he’d planned had gone to hell. The satellite phone didn’t work. He wasn’t prepared for the rain, and they were running low on food and already they were using purification tablets as they filled their water bottles with flood water. Along with the optimism, his self-confidence suffered. Suddenly, he found himself struggling to overcome self-doubt. It seemed to him that nothing he planned had worked out, and now they were in the worst of places with death seemingly confronting them no matter what they did. Anyone could have done better, and now he had to face the others, and he had nothing to say. And then there was the pressure. He had to come up with a plan, but he didn’t feel that he could play a leading role, given his success thus far. It didn’t help that darkness was approaching. Decisions had to be made quickly or they could be stuck where they were.

The group moved quickly and cheerfully when he waved to join him. Then they saw the bodies. There were gasps and exclamations, and they all seemed to instantly recognize how the situation had changed. It was no longer about avoiding a flood.

59

HAMEL DID NOT hesitate. His voice had a whiny quality, even when he wasn’t whining, but now the existential threat stretched his vocal cords to the extent that his voice had gone up an octave. Maggie Cross at first thought it was one of the women who spoke.

“My God, my God, fearless leader,” Hamel said loudly. “I did not sign up for this, and I don’t think anyone else did.”

Hamel stood near Duncan, his narrow face contorted, red. Cross watched him with a mixture of anger and embarrassment.

“What do you want him to do?” Boyd demanded. “He didn’t cause any of this.”

“No, he didn’t,” Hamel said. “But so far, all he’s done is make it worse.”

“That’s bullshit,” Johnson said angrily.

“You could do better?” Boyd said. “Tell us what you would do. Go ahead.”

Hamel stopped talking, unprepared for the challenge.

“C’mon, man,” Boyd chided. “Tell us, save us, why don’t you?”

Johnson and Boyd crowded Hamel but didn’t touch him. Cross looked at Duncan, who seemed unwilling to step in.

“This is not helpful,” she said, finally.

“No, it isn’t,” Azevedo said, glaring at Hamel. “It’s pointless to argue. We have a serious problem, and that’s what we should be talking about.”

“The professor is right,” Rankin agreed. “I’m scared to death right now.”

“Me too,” Peeples said. “Anyone not scared?”

Nobody responded. Cross approached Duncan and nudged him.

“Say something,” she whispered.

Duncan had been focused on the situation, but nothing seemed to resolve itself. What could he say? What could he suggest? Everyone knew why they couldn’t return to the cabin and, after what they’d seen, everyone knew that continuing down the trail could mean certain death. And those who had seen the snake attack Boyd’s boot felt that trying to build something out of the debris wasn’t safe either. If only the satellite phone worked.

Duncan took Boyd aside, out of earshot of the others except Suarez, who was leaning against a tall tree stump. Duncan trusted Suarez. He was not the type of person to argue or panic.

“Is there any way to get the phone working?” Duncan whispered.

“I’ve been trying every chance I get,” Boyd said quietly but insistently as if Duncan was asking him to do the impossible.

“There’s nothing you haven’t tried? I’m not blaming you; I’m trying to find a way out of this.”

Boyd sighed, held up his forefinger and went to where he had dropped his backpack. He rifled through a side pocket and returned with the phone in hand, which was inside a clear plastic bag. Others watched him and saw the phone.

“Is it working?” Rankin asked, hopefully. Others stopped talking or whatever it was they were doing and looked at Boyd and Rankin.

“No, it’s not working.”

“Then what are you doing?” Hamel asked.

“I’m gonna show it to my boss. That’s all. Sheesh. I’m just doin’ my job,” he said, peevishly.

Approaching Duncan, he pulled Duncan toward Suarez, who had found a spot where rain wasn’t dripping through the thick canopy, removed the phone from the bag and handed it to Duncan.

“See for yourself,” Boyd said, still peevish.

“Hey,” Duncan said quickly. “I’m not accusing you of anything. Anyway, I don’t know beans about satellite phones. I’ve only used them, never had to learn what makes them tick, or not.”

He unfolded the stubby antenna, turned it on and held the phone to his ear.

“I’m hearing static.”

“Yeah, I know. That’s what it’s supposed to do. Now, try dialing a number. See what happens.”

“Who should I dial?”

“It doesn’t matter. It doesn’t work.”

“But what if it does?”

“I don’t know, dial yourself. Wait, no, you can’t do that. No cell reception.”

“I know who you can dial,” Suarez said. “Call the guy who brought us here. Maybe he can help.”

“You don’t understand,” Boyd said to Suarez. “The phone doesn’t work. I tried it myself several times today. I try it all the time. It just never works. Sometimes it sounds like a call is going through and then it stops.”

Suarez could hear the frustration in Boyd’s voice and returned to his own thoughts. Like Duncan, he knew little about satellite phones. Duncan shook his head and pointed the phone at Boyd as if to hand it to him. Boyd held up his hands.

“It’s yours now. Just dial a number. You’ve got nothing to lose, or gain for that matter.”

The conversation had gotten loud enough that others started paying attention. Hamel, Cross, and Rankin approached Duncan to find out what was going on.

“Is the phone working?” Rankin asked.

“It’s not working, Steph,” Boyd said. “It’s a piece of crap.”

“You don’t have to shout,” Rankin responded.

“I’m not shouting!”

“Yes, you are,” Cross said. “They can hear you over there,” she added, nodding toward Azevedo and the others.

“Sorry,” Boyd said. “It’s just that I’ve been trying to get the phone to work since we started, and I’ve gotten nowhere.”

“But it works now, right?” Hamel said, hopefully.

“Where’d you get that idea?” Boyd asked.

“Just watching you and Duncan. It looks like he’s going to make a call, that’s why.”

As was their practice whenever it looked like something had either happened or was going to happen, everyone gathered, this time around Duncan. He felt that Boyd had put him on the spot and was resentful but avoided showing it. At the same time, he was flustered and wasn’t certain of whom to call. His phone was in his pack safely out of the rain, and it had been so long that he had called the landline at his office in Pennsylvania that he couldn’t remember it.

“Professor Azevedo, help us out here. Can you call your office? I just want to make sure one last time that it doesn’t work.”

Azevedo limped forward and took the phone from Duncan.

“This works like a regular phone?” he asked.

“Yes,” Boyd said. “It’s already on, and the antenna is up. All you have to do is press the keypad like you would with a regular phone.”

Azevedo studied the phone as if it were a previously unseen specimen of insect and then started pressing the buttons, holding it against his ear after he finished.

“Nothing’s happening,” he said to Boyd, still holding the phone to his ear.

“Did you dial the country code?”

“I’m not sure. What is it?”

“Plus 55.”

“Plus 55?”

“Yeah, a plus sign then five five. You need to include the country code and the area code, or it won’t work, not that it will.”

Azevedo tried again, careful to enter the numbers correctly. Pressing the phone against his ear, he could distinguish a change in the static and what sounded like clicking sounds followed by buzzing. Disappointed, he handed it to Boyd who looked at the tiny LCD screen. For an instant, he thought he was seeing things. Previously, the signal strength display registered near zero, and now three of five bars appeared. Moving quickly toward the clearing they were trying to leave behind, he held the phone over his head and saw a fourth bar appear.

“Holy shit!” he shouted. “We’ve got a signal.”

Not wanting to risk losing the signal, he called to Azevedo to join him. While the professor lumbered toward him, he entered the country code and handed the phone to Azevedo as soon as he reached him.

“I already punched in the country code. Just put the area code and phone number in. I think this is gonna work. I can’t believe it,” he said loudly enough for everyone to hear.

Excitement spread through the group, and within a moment everyone had gravitated toward Azevedo and Boyd. Seeing that rain was splattering on the professor and the phone, Boyd pulled him away from the edge of the clearing.

“Olá, olá,” Azevedo said into the receiver. “Daniel, are you there? Dan.”

The call went to voicemail.

“We are surrounded by floodwaters. We need help.”

Holding the phone away from his face, he asked Boyd, “What should I say?”

“Just keep talking,” Boyd said, “I’ll get GPS coordinates. Just keep talking, so the voicemail doesn’t quit.”

Boyd ran to his pack, pulled out the GPS receiver and saw it had a signal as soon as he turned it on. Within several seconds, the coordinates appeared on the tiny screen.

Racing back to Azevedo, he held the GPS so that Azevedo could see the coordinates. He waved him away.

“I can’t read them, they’re too small. Just read them to me.”

Azevedo repeated the coordinates into the phone.

“Dan, call Gonzalo Juarez, he’s the captain of the boat that brought us here. His number is on a note on my desk. Tell him we can’t get to the cabin and …”

And then the voicemail clicked off.

Filled with optimism, Boyd suggested Azevedo call Juarez himself.

“Maybe there’s enough water where he can get a boat to us. It’s worth a shot.”

Azevedo handed the phone to Boyd and looked up Juarez’ number on his cell phone. Boyd handed the phone back. Azevedo entered the numbers and waited, but this time there was only static. He tried again. And again. Then Boyd tried several times. But the signal strength had disappeared as suddenly as it had appeared. The sky was heavy with storm clouds just as it had been most of the day. The phone wasn’t working, and when he looked at his GPS, he saw that it too had lost its signal.

“Goddamn it!” Boyd shouted at the phone. “Goddamn it!”

Duncan watched while all this went on and put his hand on Boyd’s shoulder.

“You can’t blame the phone,” he said, “but at least Dr. Azevedo got through to his voicemail, and you had the coordinates, so as soon as his assistant listens to it he’ll, he’ll …”

“He’ll do what?” Hamel asked.

“I hope he’ll call the captain,” Azevedo said.

“Or the police,” Peeples said. “Wouldn’t they come looking for us? I mean, they wouldn’t just leave us out here like this if they know we need help. Right?”

Azevedo smiled knowingly.

“I think the environmental protection agency would be a good place to start. They have rangers who patrol public lands.”

“They could rescue us, couldn’t they?” Peeples asked.

“They could,” Duncan said, “but they’re not going to help us anytime soon. So, let’s stop thinking that someone is going to bail us out, and all we have to do is wait. We still need to decide what we’re going to do. Now let’s get out of this rain and get on with it.”

They moved en masse to a relatively dry area on the trail but out of sight of the bodies. Everyone dripped with sweat and rain, their boots covered with mud. They looked as if they’d just finished a fifty-mile forced march though it was still early in the day, and no one was physically tired—with the exception of Azevedo, who continued to struggle.

Duncan made the case for finding high ground.

“Once we get there, we can stay there and wait for someone to find us,” he concluded.

“But you want us to go in the same direction the bugs are going,” Hamel retorted. “I, for one, would rather get my feet wet.”

“You won’t be saying it when it’s up to your waist,” Boyd said. “This whole forest is going to look like a lake, won’t it, Antonio?”

“Yes, there will probably be lots of water.”

Boyd was hoping for a more forceful reply.

“And you don’t know what’s gonna be in the water,” Boyd continued. “There will be snakes, maybe rays, maybe even caiman.”

“What about piranhas?” Alison Peeples said.

“Yeah, piranhas, too,” Boyd said.

Hamel sighed. Maggie Cross patted him on the shoulder and whispered, “I’m not sure there’s a better way.”

Hamel tried to argue with her, but she shushed him.

“I suppose there’s no chance of going back and crossing the river?” Stephanie Rankin asked.

“Not a chance,” Johnson said.

“But you don’t know that for sure, do you?” Rankin said.

“It’s for sure,” Duncan said. “The only reason we’re not flooded now is because the ground is a little higher here than back there. Cody’s right. This whole forest is gonna turn into a lake, probably sooner rather than later.”

“You know, we could try to climb trees,” Hamel suggested. “That’s what our guide did, right?”

“Yeah, but he’s an excellent tree climber. And he only spent the night in a tree. It could be a week or more for the water to go down, and that’s if it stops raining soon,” Boyd said.

No one wanted to climb a tree, and Hamel dismissed his own suggestion with a wave of his hand.

“Maybe the bugs can’t swim,” Rankin suggested.

“That’s possible,” Duncan said. “We don’t know, of course. But insects drown just like any other terrestrial animal.”

“Unless they’re adapted,” Azevedo said. “Insects that are very light and distribute their weight, like mosquitoes, can walk on water. But the heavier and larger they are…” he held out his left hand, his thumb pointing down.

“This is getting us nowhere,” Boyd blurted. “We can’t just stand here talking. Somebody needs to take the lead here.”

Carlos Johnson nudged and gestured slightly toward Duncan, who shot an angry look at Boyd who, recognizing it, smiled weakly and stared at the ground.

“Cody’s right,” Duncan said. “We don’t have alternatives. I think we should pick up any machetes we find around here and keep moving to where the high ground is. Professor Azevedo’s assistant will realize we need help. He has the coordinates. He’ll send someone.”

“But we won’t be at these coordinates,” Hamel said. “Am I right?”

“Yes, that’s true, but we should be within a few miles of our destination. We won’t be far away.”

“We can leave a message of some kind, can’t we?” Rankin said optimistically. “Like we could carve it into something.”

“Great idea,” Duncan agreed. “Why don’t you and Cody take care of that? Do it quickly. We need to get moving.”

60

DAN ROCHA WORKED part-time for Professor Azevedo. He spent most of his time drinking coffee and working on class assignments when he was in the professor’s tiny office. As an underfunded biology undergraduate, he was happy to be paid to help the professor but felt occasional pangs of guilt when he thought he was being paid to do essentially nothing. He had instructions to take messages and review the professor’s voicemail. Of which there were few. Most of the time, the tiny LED on the professor’s phone was off. This time it blinked.

At first, he didn’t realize the voicemail was from Professor Azevedo. The voice was stressed, frantic, and the professor was always soft-spoken and deliberate. It didn’t help that the connection was filled with static. Listening to it several times, he transcribed the message into his laptop. All that he had known about Azevedo’s trip was that he was going into the forest with a group of American scientists and that he’d be back in several days.

He studied what he’d typed into his computer, and it was clear that Azevedo was in some kind of difficulty. He didn’t understand the reference to the cabin, but he opened Google Earth and entered the coordinates and saw that they were in the middle of nowhere. There were no nearby roads, no villages or towns, nothing within twenty kilometers or more. He did notice what looked like a small building in a clearing near the coordinates. The satellite image was more than a year old.

Rocha wondered when the call was made and replayed the voicemail. According to the time stamp, the call was made yesterday. This heightened his anxiety as he was supposed to check the phone every day but didn’t come into the office yesterday. He’d taken the day off. It was common among undergraduate assistants when the boss was away. Nothing ever happened anyway, or so he’d thought.

Now, he was confronted by the result of his own laziness, and he immediately began imagining that the professor somehow knew what he’d done, and when he returned he’d dismiss him. But the message sounded urgent. Rocha heard the stress in Azevedo’s voice, and it made an impression because he’d never known the old man to get stressed about anything. Even as Rocha was constantly agonizing about his grades and assistant professors whom he didn’t get along with, the grandfatherly professor always counseled him to maintain calm.

“Stress releases hormones that cause inflammation, which can lead to all manner of physical and psychological problems. Learn to relax, my boy. Learn this while you’re young, and it will help you more than any class you ever take,” Azevedo had counseled the young student.

Rocha had heard this before. By nature, he was a bit on the anxious side, fearful of failure but intelligent and quick on the uptake. His parents constantly told him not to take things so seriously, but it was his nature and might well be responsible for the few scholarships he’d earned and the likelihood that he’d be accepted into graduate school next year, though he knew he would remain anxious until he’d actually received the acceptance letter.

He searched the web for Gonzalo Juarez and decided after fifteen minutes that the man did not exist, at least not in cyberspace. He’d grown up in the computer age, and as a consequence had little experience using telephone directories, catalogs or virtually any paper reference other than books, many of which he could access online. His parents had a landline when he was growing up, but his first phone was cellular, and today he carried an iPhone wherever he went. Fortunately, Azevedo had several phone directories, which Rocha began to use when he finally gave up on finding the captain online.

He first looked through the listings and found several persons named Gonzalo Juarez. He called them all, getting through to only one, who told him he worked in an office. He left a voicemail on two of the calls, and the remainder did not take messages. Then he turned to the commercial pages and started going down the listings for guides. Most of the ads named companies, not individuals. No Gonzalo Juarez.

Rocha was not by nature very organized, relying on his phone to keep schedules and notes. He didn’t like to waste time and kept notes in a personal shorthand on his phone that even he sometimes struggled to decipher and had virtually no experience in locating businesses or individuals who had no web identity.

He then started shuffling through the piles of papers on the professor’s desk. Azevedo’s handwriting was almost indecipherable. The old man scribbled like a child learning cursive, which made his writing difficult to read. Rather than trying to read every paper, Rocha scanned for phone numbers, but those that he found were mostly all campus numbers.

Exasperated, he returned to the digital answering machine and wrote down the phone number that Azevedo had called from. He punched the number into his iPhone and waited. The phone’s speaker erupted in various tones, which were unfamiliar to him, but which he concluded were either busy signals or indicating that the call did not go through. He redialed twice with the same result.

Frustrated, sitting in Azevedo’s ancient wood chair, he scanned the walls. There were a chalkboard and several cork boards, photographs of the professor with colleagues and dignitaries and several prints of landscapes. There were no phone numbers or names on the chalkboard. The cork boards were filled with notes held by pins, some of which looked as if they’d been there for decades. Some of the notes contained phone numbers, including several with names. Most of the names were of academics at the university, which he recognized. Retreating to the desk, he slumped into the chair. He tried calling Azevedo again, and again he couldn’t connect. He listened to the recording several more times as if somehow he’d missed something important.

Leaning back in the chair, an old swivel type on wheels with a padded seat once popular in government offices, he folded his hands behind his head and stared at the slowly turning ceiling fan. After a moment, he leaned forward and started rifling through the desk drawers. Each side consisted of a large file drawer on the bottom and two smaller drawers above it. The file drawers were filled with hanging folders. He didn’t bother with them. The other drawers were filled with accessories such as staplers, tape dispenser, rulers and an assortment of items that the professor had accumulated over the years, apparently with no purpose in mind. Finally, he opened the center drawer. In it were a pile of receipts held together by a large paperclip. He cleared a space on the desk, pulled the clip off and spread the receipts in front of him, shuffling them, spreading them across the desk. Examining each one and creating a pile with the discards, he found a note with the hastily scribbled initials G.J. and a phone number. It was not among the numbers he’d already called.

G.J. did not pick up, so Rocha left a message to return the call to his cell phone.

“If I don’t hear from you, I’ll call back,” he said. “It’s very important.”

Before leaving the office, he tried to call Azevedo, but the call didn’t go through. He assumed the professor had used a satellite phone, being in the forest, but he knew nothing about how they worked and assumed the lack of a signal was not uncommon. Meanwhile, he had a class to attend.

61

GONZALO JUAREZ WAS taking stock of his fleet, the small, battered aluminum V-hull boats and the ancient thirty-footer he used to tow them. He was already a day late to pick up the old professor and his American friends. The Rio Negro was well above flood stage, and all low-lying areas were underwater. Most of the land within twenty kilometers of the river would be flooded. He’d been caught in the forest during floods and knew there was little to be done except find high ground or climb a tree unless you had a boat.

Trouble was, no one in his right mind would take a boat on a hike in the forest. It was always something one wanted after the fact—after the floodwaters had inundated the forest. It was one of the reasons he refrained from guiding sportsmen during the rainy season, except by boat. The minute they wanted to hike overland was where his work as a guide ended. Flooding during the rainy season was a given, and he understood why other guides would lead their customers through the forest no matter how risky it was if that’s what they paid for. It was all about the dinheiro and, to some extent, pride. The younger guides were always trying to prove themselves, and as a person in his early fifties who thought of himself as a businessman more than as a guide, Juarez had adopted a more discreet style. Young guides had little to lose while he had a business with two employees to think about, including himself.

After Azevedo contacted him about ferrying the Americans to a cabin in the forest, he reminded him that there were heavy rains in the east that were headed their way, but it did not sway the professor. In fact, he took a taxi to Juarez’s dock to check out the boat to make sure it would handle eleven people and their equipment. Upon first seeing the boat, he shook his head and chided Juarez for wasting his time.

“Where are the people going to sit?”

“When I carry a lot of people, they sometimes sit on the deck,” Juarez said.

“These aren’t workmen. They’re American scientists. And is there enough room for equipment?”

Juarez felt Azevedo was disparaging his boat and by extension himself, but instead of responding angrily, he decided that it didn’t matter to him whether Azevedo hired him. So he quickly brought up the topic of cost and high-balled the estimate to give the professor a reason to go elsewhere, but Azevedo agreed to it without haggling. Juarez thought, I should have known. Americans have money. He should have asked for more. Still, he was pleased that he would be paid more than if he were transporting a work crew.

The first thing he heard when he answered his cell phone was a loud “olá,” which caused him to hold the phone away from his ear. Even so, he could hear but not understand everything that was said by the excited voice.

“Slow down, slow down,” Juarez finally said in Portuguese into the phone, “and don’t talk so loud. You don’t have to shout.”

Rocha apologized profusely, and after introducing himself and confirming that Juarez was the captain the professor hired, he relaxed and spoke normally.

Juarez asked if the young man spoke Spanish.

“What? No. I’m learning English …”

“Then slow down,” Juarez said. “I don’t speak Portuguese good.”

“You want to speak English?”

“No, no, I know only a few words.”

Rocha was surprised that someone living in Manaus wouldn’t be fluent in Portuguese, but he chose his words carefully as he explained that he’d received a call from Azevedo, who was in trouble in the forest, and asked whether Juarez had received a call from the professor. Juarez suspected that the young man was going to criticize him for not returning to the cabin yesterday though, in fact, Rocha knew nothing of the agreement between Juarez and Azevedo.

“They need help,” Rocha said insistently. “Can you help?”

Juarez was hesitant in his response. The river was filled with debris, and he was worried about damaging his boats.

“The river is still rising,” he said, looking out from his dock. “I see all kinds of things floating in the water. It would be dangerous to go now.”

“But they need help. They’re stuck in the forest and, as you say, the water is rising. The whole place is flooding, and Professor Azevedo is an old man. I’m worried about him.”

“Maybe tomorrow will be better,” Juarez said, as he tried to end the conversation.

Becoming frustrated, Rocha’s voice grew louder, insistent.

“Mr. Juarez, you’re a guide, you know the forest, you have a boat. I have nothing, but I’ll go with you. I have coordinates.”

“I’ll tell you what, give me the coordinates, and I’ll call you back. I have to go home to use my computer.”

Rocha was optimistic again, and Juarez was happy to end the conversation. He promised to be quick about it and hung up. As a businessman, he knew how to put people off and felt that he’d handled the call well. He liked things to be on his terms.

62

ROCHA FELT RELIEVED. Reaching the boat captain satisfied Azevedo’s expectations and gave him a feeling of achievement. He’d connected the dots, turned a name into a phone number, and into what he thought was a promise to get back to him. At nearly twenty-two, he was on the verge of graduating, and for the first time, he felt he’d done something important, something that could affect people’s lives. He left Azevedo’s office with a spring in his step and a reason to hunt down some friends for drinks. Even though he was poor, he felt so good that he told one of them that the first round would be on him.

JUAREZ DID NOT immediately go home. Instead, he walked to a dock nearer the river and watched the muddy, fast-moving water as it boiled past Manaus on its journey south to form the Amazon river. The Rio Negro, almost nine miles wide near its mouth at Manaus, is the world’s second largest in terms of water flow. Captain Juarez would have needed binoculars to see the opposite bank, but he was more interested in whether it would be safe to take his boat out. The call from the professor’s assistant made him feel uncomfortable. He fully intended to return to the cabin, but the floodwaters had risen so quickly that they took him by surprise. He had no backup plan but learning now that the Americans were in some kind of trouble only made him anxious. It was as if Rocha, by making a simple phone call, had transferred his anxiety to someone else.

When Juarez returned home, he went straight to his old desktop computer and pulled up several local weather reports. He could see for himself that the rain had let up in Manaus, but weather maps showed rain throughout the surrounding forest. Using Google Earth, he input the coordinates that Rocha had given him and went into the kitchen to make coffee.

When he returned, cup in hand, he pinned the coordinates and then moved the map around to the area where the cabin stood and pinned that. Then he attached the two points. They were about ten kilometers apart. As he zoomed in, he saw a few clouds, huge swaths of dense forest with clearings and occasionally a building, and several streams, one in particular that headed northeast and appeared to get within several kilometers of the coordinates. He’d guided fishermen in the general vicinity but had never traveled the length of the stream. He called a friend in the guide business who was familiar with the area, who said that during the dry season the streams weren’t navigable and were dotted with stumps that were underwater in the rainy season and could tear the bottom out of a boat.

“If you’re gonna take someone fishing there, it’s best to go at the beginning or the end of the rainy season but not right now with all this rain and floods.”

Juarez thanked him and looked at a calendar that he hung on a wall next to his desk. He’d circled the date when he was supposed to pick up the Americans. That was yesterday. It was too late to leave today, so he was already two days behind schedule. But he wasn’t worried because it seemed the Americans would be late returning to the cabin, too. He looked at the weather report for tomorrow and saw that there was little chance of heavy rain though floodwaters would remain elevated for weeks after the storms had passed.

63

HAVING LEFT THE clearing behind, and armed with rusty machetes, Duncan and the others followed the young guide Antonio Suarez as he made his way down the primitive road, past piles of discarded equipment, stopping when they came across an abandoned flatbed truck stuck in mud. Not far from the truck, they found another skeleton. It no longer seemed strange to find such things in the forest. Everyone looked and then turned their backs on the bodies despite the awareness that they too could end up dead. However, the rising water was a more immediate threat. Everyone was soaked, their shoes, despite waterproofing, squishing with each step. Water was starting to sheet across the road, which was raised slightly above the surrounding terrain. Though the road was mostly soil, two parallel columns of stones had been laid out to provide traction for vehicles, and as long as they walked on the stones, their shoes weren’t sucked into the encompassing dark brown mud. The person whose body lay nearest the truck appeared to have bogged down in the mud, as his shoes were buried in it.

The forest grew darker as the day wore on, and more and more rain made its way through the canopy so that there was little respite from the droplets bouncing off their hats. They had a growing sense that they weren’t going to find high ground before dark and, eyeing the truck, with its bed more than four feet off the ground, Hamel whispered to Maggie Cross that they should spend the night on the truck. Others heard this, and while they milled about near the truck, trying to keep from getting any muddier or wetter, Alison Peeples suggested to Cody Boyd that he ask Howard Duncan if they could pile onto the truck and at least have one less thing to worry about for the night. The inescapable fear of reptilus blaberus infected everyone like a virus, but it was overwhelmed by the greater, more immediate fear of walking through a dark forest with rising floodwaters populated by an array of fearful creatures. Whether it was snakes, eels, caiman, jaguars, or piranhas, there were plenty of threats to pump up their already inflated imaginations.

After speaking with Boyd, Duncan watched as Hamel and Cross started to clamber onto the back of the truck, with boosts from Peeples and Carlos Johnson.

“Looks like a decision’s been made,” Duncan said to Boyd.

Within minutes, everyone was on the truck, either on the bed or in the cab. This would be where most of them would spend the night. Suarez preferred to climb into the crook of a nearby tree, ten feet above the truck.

“More room for us,” Hamel observed. “Besides, he makes a good lookout.”

“It’s also safer up there,” Boyd said in passing.

64

“I’M NOT KIDDING,” Cody Boyd was saying to Peeples, Johnson and Stephanie Rankin. “I’ve got enough footage for a reality show.”

“You’ve been shooting all along?” Rankin asked.

“I thought you didn’t have enough memory cards?” Johnson said.

“Yeah, well, I lied, Carlos. I didn’t want y’all to know ‘cause, well, you know, you might not be spontaneous and real. You know, reality is what they want.”

“Like people scared shitless?” Peeples said coldly.

“Yeah! No! Not exactly. Are you scared?”

“Damn right. Aren’t you?”

Johnson and Rankin stared at Boyd expectantly. As did Peeples.

“Well, not really.”

“What!” Peeples exclaimed. “How can you not be? Don’t you understand the situation we’re in? For Christ’s sake, man.”

“Look, maybe because I’m seeing everything like it’s a movie. Okay. You know, looking at life through a camera lens is…I don’t know. It’s different. It’s like you’re an observer looking in from the outside.”

“So this is just a game for you?” Peeples said. “A bunch of people is dead. We’re in a flood with all kinds of animals around us that could kill us. And I’m not including the fucking bugs. I am scared shitless. I admit it. I’m not brave. I would never have done this if I’d known what was gonna happen. It’s like a nightmare.”

“You think you’re the only one who’s afraid?” Boyd said sternly. “Fuck, we’re all afraid when you put it that way.”

AZEVEDO HAD THE front seat to himself. Duncan, Cross, and Hamel shared the truck bed with Boyd, Johnson, Rankin and Peeples and heard everything. Duncan gave Cross a tired look.

“Okay, okay,” Duncan barked. “The immediate thing we need to do is protect ourselves from the rain. Let’s get something up instead of stressing out. Do something to get ready to spend the night. Use your common sense. You’ve got tents and ponchos. Let’s get a roof up.”

Nobody had a plan at the start; several tents and ponchos were spread out on the truck bed. Rankin grabbed one of the tent bags and set the contents at her feet. Tent. Disassembled tent poles. Stakes. She put the stakes back into the bag and set it aside. She fitted the pieces into a pole measuring nearly twelve feet. She stuck one end into a hole in the edge of the metal truck bed and bent the other end into a matching hole on the opposite side. The arch it formed was low. The pole needed to be at least sixteen feet long.

“Does someone have duct tape?” Rankin called out. “We need a way to bind poles together.”

“I’ve got some,” Boyd called out, digging through his backpack.

Within minutes, they had fashioned a Quonset-like covering over the truck bed using rainflies. It was tall enough for all but Duncan and Cross to stand. The bed itself was soaked, so they spread several tents across the wet wood. Movement was limited, so everyone rolled out their sleeping bags and stripped down to underwear. They rigged a rope from one end to the other of the truck bed and hung wet clothes from it though with the continuing rain and one hundred percent humidity, there was little chance anything would dry. Two LED headlamps, set on low beam, were hung from the rope, providing them enough light to see one another as well as a temporary sense of security. Raindrops, falling from fifty feet or more, bounced on the thin nylon fabric like bombs, making it difficult to hear anyone speak. Duncan, raised up on his knees, surveyed his group, noticing that the younger members huddled at one end and the older members at the opposite end. As darkness descended, he suggested that one of the lights be turned off to conserve batteries.

“I’m sure everyone is hungry,” he said forcefully, leaning forward on his knees. “Let’s take a minute to gather everything we have and put it all in the middle. No holding back. We need to inventory our resources.”

Rankin was careful not to include her remaining stash of gin, but like the others contributed energy and fruit bars. Hamel also kept back his alcohol and would have done the same with his foodstuffs had Maggie Cross not scolded him.

Duncan gathered the food, which included vacuum-packed salmon packets and nutrition bars, measured nine equal servings, and passed them around, signaling Suarez to come down from his perch for his share. Some ate quickly, others lingered with their food, eating slowly as if the servings would seem larger. All that anyone could say was that they weren’t quite as hungry after the meal as they had been before it.

As darkness settled in, they grew quiet. Suarez returned to his tree, promising to keep watch while awake though even with his headlamp, he could see very little, just patches of dimly lit forest floor. Rain continued to ping off the nylon rainflies. Fortunately, there was no wind, and the rain fell straight down and wasn’t getting inside. On either side, they were transfixed by the dark emptiness that lay before them.

“Is there any way we can, like, close the ends?” Rankin asked.

“You think that will make you safer?” Boyd asked.

“No,” she said quickly. “I just would rather not look out there. Besides, there’s a little rain getting in.”

Since there was little room for people to move, there was no mass scramble to find materials to close the ends. Boyd gave Duncan one of his tent poles and, using the duct tape, Duncan secured a rainfly to the edge of the pole and then inserted it into the truck bed. He carefully taped it to the inside edge of the rainfly. While imperfect, it eliminated the view into the forest.

“That’s better,” Rankin said approvingly. “What about this end?”

“It’ll get really stuffy in here if we tape that one shut, too,” Johnson said, “don’t you think?”

“Just hang something from it,” Rankin suggested. “Just so it’s not wide open like that.”

“You got something we could use?” Boyd asked Rankin. “About the size of a bath towel.”

“I have something,” Cross said, waving her hand. She pulled out a pair of silk scarves and waved them toward Rankin.

“Perfect,” Johnson said, grabbing them and handing them to Boyd, who taped them to the top edge of the rainfly, setting his wet shoes on their ends to keep them in place. Rankin was hoping for something more substantial but didn’t complain.

With the ends in place, they started to figure out how they would all sleep in such a confined space. The bed was barely wide enough to stretch their legs, and Duncan had to fold his knees to keep his feet from poking out the underside of the rainfly. As each found an acceptable if not comfortable position, the fidgeting began, small movement that resulted in unintended knees to the back, misfired elbows to the head and whispering meant to avoid disturbing others but resulting in everyone straining to hear what was being said. Mostly, Boyd, Johnson, and Peeples were trying to calm Rankin, who was on the verge of hyperventilating. Peeples wrapped her arms around her and was shocked to feel her friend’s body shivering uncontrollably.

“How about a drink, Steph?” Peeples whispered in her ear.

Rankin shook her head affirmatively.

“Cody, check her pack. She’s got some vodka in it.”

“Gin, it’s gin,” Rankin whispered.

“Okay, gin. Cody, find it, please.”

Carlos Johnson pulled Rankin’s backpack from behind her and passed it to Boyd, who rifled through it, pulling out a plastic pint bottle wrapped in a T-shirt. It was not the only one he found. Johnson retrieved the pack and set it up so that Rankin could lean against it. He handed the bottle to Peeples, who broke the seal and twisted the cap off. She held it near Rankin’s face. The frightened woman grabbed at the bottle like a struggling swimmer clutching at a life preserver. She took several gulps and appeared prepared to finish the bottle right there when Peeples pulled it away.

“For medicinal purposes only,” she said as Rankin reached for it. “Let’s give it a few minutes,” Peeples whispered. “You drink it all now, you won’t have anything left for later.”

“There’s more in the pack,” Rankin said, under her breath as if trying to keep her stash a secret between her and Peeples.

Peeples looked at Boyd and Johnson for suggestions. Boyd shook his head.

“Just wait a few minutes.”

“She’s a happy drunk, right?” Johnson whispered timidly.

“Yeah, and kinda off-color sometimes,” Peeples said. “You’d be surprised.”

“She’s not an angry drunk, is she?” Boyd asked.

“Not that I’ve seen,” Peeples said, patting Rankin on the back.

As the three tried to soothe Rankin, Duncan, Hamel, and Cross watched sympathetically and hoped that the young graduate student would calm down so that the others could sleep. Azevedo was already snoring intermittently in the cab, which had a vinyl-covered bench seat that suited him well. Unexpectedly, the windows were intact and could be rolled up most of the way.

“You know, I have sleep aids,” Hamel said in a normal voice that startled everyone. “By the way, why are you whispering? You trying to keep secrets?”

“Funny,” said Peeples loudly.

“I think it’s so anyone who can sleep, can sleep,” Johnson said. “You know what I mean.”

“Yeah,” Boyd said in his normal voice. “Good luck with that. You have to admit, this is weird, spending a night in the jungle on a flatbed truck literally in the middle of fucking nowhere.”

“Yeah, it’s like who’s in control, us or something else?” Johnson mused.

“Like nature?”

“Will you guys stop it with this philosophical bullshit,” Peeples blurted. “We need to get some sleep.”

“Mr. Hamel,” Boyd said, “what kind of sleep aids do you have?”

“OTC. And call me George, please.”

“Good. Let’s cut them into quarters, and those who want some can have it.”

“Think one quarter is enough?” Johnson asked skeptically.

“That’s what I use,” Boyd said. “I take more, and I wake up hungover. One-quarter, I nod off and sleep pretty good, I mean, well,” he self-corrected.

Duncan and Cross took quarter doses of Hamel’s sleep aid. After a few more drinks, Rankin took one and eventually nodded off with a smile on her face. Boyd, Peeples, and Johnson continued whispering, despite the pounding of raindrops that sounded like tiny explosions and unidentifiable sounds that came and went in the surrounding forest. For the most part, they discussed the threat posed by the flooding, and whether Azevedo’s assistant would send a rescue mission. They wondered how long their food would last and then about the creatures lurking beneath the water and whether they would be able to walk through it in the morning and whether they’d find higher ground.

“Maybe we can start the truck,” Johnson suggested, to which Boyd nodded, and Peeples brightened.

“That would be great,” Peeples said, “a lot better than walking through the water.”

“I wouldn’t get your hopes up,” Boyd said. “It was abandoned for a reason. Maybe it’s out of gas.”

“Yeah, maybe there’s gas in that shed near the clearing. You saw it, right?”

“Yeah,” Peeples agreed optimistically. “Besides, maybe it’s not out of gas. Maybe they were in a hurry, or maybe they planned to come back for it but couldn’t.”

“Yeah, they got eaten by the insects,” Boyd said darkly.

This was the subject that had remained just below the surface all evening, and now it had suddenly popped up.

“I don’t like to think about that,” Peeples said, coldly. “It scares the hell out of me.”

“Me, too,” Johnson agreed.

“You think I’m not afraid of them?” Boyd asked rhetorically. “Hell, I’ve been coming up with different scenarios of what we’d do if they find us.”

“You think they’re looking for us?” Johnson asked, startled.

“They forage for food. We’re food. They may not be looking specifically for a group of humans but if they run into us…” Boyd said.

“That’s what scares me most,” Johnson said, “what do we do?”

“If they attacked us right now, I’d run like hell in the opposite direction,” Boyd said confidently.

“But how do you know which direction to run in the dark?” Peeples asked.

Boyd slowly exhaled and scratched his nose.

“What if you’re surrounded?” Johnson added.

“And what about everybody else?” Peeples said. “Are you just gonna run away and leave everyone else behind? How could you live with yourself?”

“Well, at least I’d be living,” Boyd said defensively.

“I didn’t think you were that kind of person,” Peeples said.

The conversation stopped, and the truck filled with the sound of insects, raindrops, splashes and bursts of deep, rolling thunder. Johnson and Peeples swallowed the tiny sleep aids while Boyd wrapped his in a piece of plastic and put it under the waistband of his underwear. It was difficult to get comfortable and not easy to fall asleep until the drug started working. Finally, Boyd passed around Rankin’s gin. That helped. After the second sip, Boyd set the bottle aside, and they lay silent in the darkness.

“Hey, I just thought of something,” Johnson said excitedly. “Can the bugs swim?”

This thought floated freely for a moment.

“Cockroaches can’t swim,” Boyd said.

“Despite not being cockroaches,” Peeples said, “they look like cockroaches. Maybe they can’t swim.”

“I can use another drink,” Johnson said. “You know, maybe, instead of being lost by the flood, we may be saved by the flood.”

“I don’t think Steph would like it if we drank all her booze,” Peeples said. “In fact, I think she’d be pissed as hell.”

“Think she can tell?” Johnson asked.

“She can tell,” Peeples said. “She can tell. You should just put it in her pack before she wakes up.”

“She’s out cold,” Johnson said. “Those sleep aids really work. I’m feeling sleepy myself.”

“Me, too,” Peeples said.

Boyd smiled as Peeples and Johnson got comfortable and stopped talking. He hadn’t taken his sleep aid because he wasn’t certain he should. He knew from experience that it would be hard to wake up in the middle of the night if necessary, and he was afraid that it might be necessary. He thought someone should keep watch, and since no one volunteered, he nominated himself. But it was a losing cause. He was exhausted, and he knew if he didn’t sleep he wouldn’t be any good in the morning.

It was like when he was a kid and had nightmares. He tried to stay awake but eventually fell asleep. It was happening to him now, only the nightmare was real. But what would he do anyway if the bugs attacked? There was nothing he could do except to think about options to defend themselves. Fire, it seemed to him, was the best weapon. A flamethrower would be ideal. The truck used diesel fuel, which wasn’t flammable enough to use as a weapon, even if the tank was full. They needed gasoline and then a way to use it as a weapon. Whoever had left their machetes behind might have left other equipment as well. And then there was that building near the perimeter of the clearing. Maybe that’s where they stored equipment and fuel. It was definitely worth looking into, he thought as his mind reached out for ways to let him think they were in control despite all evidence to the contrary. He wanted to sleep, but he didn’t want to take a sleep aid, and he was satisfied that if they could find some gasoline, they’d be able to defend themselves against the bugs. He focused on this hopeful thought to help him relax and let go of his anxious mind’s grip on consciousness.

65

DANIEL ROCHA CALLED Gonzalo Juarez first thing in the morning to see whether he planned to take his boat into the swollen Rio Negro and rescue Professor Azevedo. As it turned out, Juarez was working on his boat. The rain had let up, and while the river was running fast, there was less debris than he’d seen recently, and he did feel a responsibility since he’d agreed to pick up the group of Americans and was already two days late.

“Have you heard from them since we talked?”

“No, they haven’t called, and I haven’t been able to reach them. They’re in trouble; I told you that yesterday,” Rocha complained.

“I know, I know,” Juarez said, irritated. “My problem is I got no crew.”

Rocha paused before replying. Should he do this, or should he call authorities? The thought flashed through his head.

“You still there?”

“Yes, yes, I’m here. I’ll go with you if I can be of help.”

“That is the answer I was looking for,” Juarez chortled. “You know where I keep my boat?”

“What should I bring?”

“Enough for overnight. There’s a cabin we can stay in. Sleeping bag. Something to eat.”

Rocha wrote down the location of the dock and concluded it would be like a camping trip. He gathered a change of clothes, knife, food, water and other items from his apartment and stuffed them into the small backpack he used to carry books. He took a cab to Juarez’ boat and arrived just as the captain had started the engine. A cloud of black smoke rose from the engine room hatch, dissipating against the wood-framed roof that extended from the tiny wheelhouse to the transom.

After a cursory examination of the boat, Rocha had second thoughts.

“You have life jackets on board?”

“Of course. I’m not good swimmer. I have an inflatable. Hold four people,” Juarez stammered, struggling to find the appropriate Portuguese words.

Rocha boarded the vessel with his pack and sleeping bag.

“How long will it take to get there?”

“Three, four hours. We’re towing three boats, and you make sure they don’t smash into each other or fuck up the ropes.”

Rocha looked out over the stern at three battered aluminum boats tied to a cleat on the transom, their small outboard engines stored behind the wheelhouse

“How do I keep them apart?”

“You pull on one rope or other. Sometimes all of them. Depends on conditions, you know.”

“And what about these conditions?”

“Not the best, but better than yesterday. Hey, I can wait for better conditions. Maybe tomorrow.”

“No, we should go, they need our help.”

Juarez prepared the boat to leave the dock, and before putting the engine in gear, he motioned for Rocha to approach him at the wheel.

“You get seasick much?”

“I don’t know. I haven’t spent much time on boats.”

“Maybe you take seasick pill. Okay? You won’t have to worry. Believe me, you do not want to get seasick. You get so sick you can’t hold your head up. No, you don’t want to be seasick.”

Rocha took the Dramamine, struggled into an ancient orange life jacket and went to his post in the stern as Juarez slowly maneuvered the boat away from the dock and into the harbor.

66

“I’LL TELL YOU what,” Carlos Johnson said just after he woke, “that sleeping pill made all the difference. I think I slept through the night. What about you?”

“Mostly,” Cody Boyd said, rubbing the sleep from his eyes. “The thunder woke me up a couple times. But I’m okay.”

Poking his head out of the end of their home on the truck bed, Johnson saw a lake of murky, moving water as far as he could see. Mercifully, the rain had stopped.

“We’re gonna need a boat,” he announced.

“How deep is it?” Howard Duncan asked.

“Hard to tell. Looks like maybe six inches under the truck and maybe a foot or two everywhere else. The water’s really dirty.”

“And stinky,” Rankin said, holding her nose.

“Get used to it,” Boyd said.

“How you feeling, Steph,” Allison Peeples asked.

“Okay, I guess.”

“You were kinda freaked out last night,” Johnson said.

“Yeah, I kinda remember that,” Rankin said, apologetically. “I don’t know why.”

“We’re all on edge,” Duncan said.

“Did he see me last night?” Rankin whispered in Peeples’ ear.

Peeples nodded.

“Oh, shit,” Rankin said under her breath. “Just what I need. He’s gonna kick me out of the program; I know it.”

“Stop it,” Peeples whispered harshly. “He’s not gonna do anything. Just stop it. You’re not the only one who’s freaked out.”

Boyd saw that Peeples was upset and was about to say something when one of the doors of the cab opened and quickly shut. The entire truck seemed to shudder. Duncan pulled the rainfly on the cab end of the bed and saw that Antonio Suarez had joined Professor Azevedo on the front seat. Azevedo was sitting in the passenger seat while Suarez sat behind the huge steering wheel. Duncan knocked on the cab’s rear window and motioned for Suarez to roll down the passenger window. He leaned toward the passenger side.

“Professor, Antonio, did you sleep well?”

“Well enough,” Azevedo said, his voice harsh and gravelly. He cleared his throat twice. “Not bad, considering.”

Suarez nodded in agreement.

Little rain was reaching the ground through the canopy, so Duncan pulled back the rainflies. He got his first good look at the forest. Where a road had been yesterday, there was now a lake. Tall grass poked through the water like a patchwork of green islands.

“What now?” George Hamel asked. When no one responded, he asked again, only louder.

Duncan eyed the group crowded together on the truck bed. Most were looking at him as if he had answers. If they were properly prepared, if they could all carry their own weight, if they were certain about where to find high ground, the answer would have been obvious. But everyone who paid attention could see there were few certainties, other than those that worked against them, such as the flood. Leaning to the side of the cab, he asked Suarez if he thought the flooding would get worse. The guide shrugged his shoulders.

“I don’t know, Professor,” he said.

“How about a guess?”

“The water will get deeper.”

“How much deeper?” Hamel asked, who stood behind Duncan and could hear Suarez’ soft voice.

“I don’t know.”

Duncan shot Hamel a critical look.

“How’s he or anyone going to know how deep it’s gonna get?”

“I don’t know,” Hamel said. “You got a problem with me asking questions?”

“No, of course not,” Duncan said defensively. “It’s just that nobody knows what’s going to happen with the weather, okay? It’s not like we have any information about how much rain is coming down and where.”

“So, what you’re saying is basically we’re shit out of luck.”

Duncan sighed and cut off the conversation by asking Boyd to measure the depth of the water under the truck. Using a small tape measure attached to his keychain, he dropped barefooted onto the road. The water rose above his ankles.

“About six inches,” he said, walking cautiously to the front of the truck where he took a second measurement. “Yep, six inches all around.”

Suarez pressed against Azevedo as Boyd grabbed the steering wheel and pulled himself into the driver’s seat. The keys were in the ignition. Looking at Azevedo and Suarez, who were looking at him, he turned the key. The engine sputtered. He turned it again. The engine sputtered and backfired loudly. It startled the people in the cramped truck bed.

“What the fuck?” stammered Johnson.

“Is someone shooting at us?” Hamel said, jokingly.

Boyd sat back in the seat, his hands grasping the steering wheel. He turned the key again.

“It sounds like it wants to start,” Johnson said. It didn’t.

“Who knows anything about truck engines?” Boyd said loudly.

“I know something,” Suarez volunteered.

“Great. Why don’t you try to get it started? I’m not sure if it’s got any fuel.”

Boyd climbed from the cab onto the bed while Suarez popped the hood and started poking around.

“You know, Doc,” Boyd said to Duncan, “we were talking last night about the bugs and what we could do to protect ourselves if we run into them.”

“I’ve been thinking about that, too. I think the best approach is to avoid them as best we can.”

“What if they showed up here? How could we avoid them? We’re sitting ducks here, and unless the engine works, who knows how long we’ll be stuck here?”

Duncan had no rebuttal. He’d focused his attention on finding high ground and had let the threat of the bugs fade into the background. But he knew that wasn’t a successful strategy though he hadn’t formulated any defense that would protect them. From what he’d seen over the past several days, he felt they had some sort of swarming intelligence and that they seemed to behave like ants, sending out scouts to locate food, and somehow signaled the colony. From the video that Suarez had shot of his boss, he saw that the bugs surrounded their prey before attacking and then attacked from all sides at once, thus making it impossible to defend oneself. The only strategy he could think of was to run, but how successful would that be with hundreds of the creatures attacking every orifice, the eyes, and other soft targets? He wished he had a better understanding of their capabilities but was willing to listen to any ideas.

“So, do we have any alternatives?” Hamel prodded. “If we start walking, and the water continues to rise, we might end up with no place to sleep. We might even lose people, especially if we have to stumble around in the dark.”

“I was thinking that maybe that shed over there might have some gasoline in it. We might be able to use gas to defend ourselves. I mean, the bugs can’t be immune to fire, right?” Boyd said.

Duncan nodded in agreement. He looked across the clearing to where Boyd was pointing toward the shed.

“How you gonna get there? You don’t know how deep the water is, and you can’t even see the bottom,” Duncan said.

“I know, I know,” Boyd sighed quickly. “It’s just that we can’t just sit here. If we can get the truck running and there’s fuel in the shed, maybe we’ll have a chance. I’m hoping there’s gasoline there, not just diesel. Diesel would be good for the truck, but it doesn’t burn like gas. We can really light those suckers up with gas.”

Duncan was skeptical but agreed that they had little choice. They were one step from desperation. They were running out of food and water purification tablets. Without Hamel’s sleep aids, they might not even be able to sleep. And he had a limited supply.

“I don’t like the idea of you going alone,” Duncan said.

“I’ll ask Johnson.”

“No,” Duncan said emphatically. “I’ll go with you.”

67

BOYD AND JOHNSON made their way to the shed as quickly as they could. Duncan stayed behind at the urging of Maggie Cross. The water was nearly up to their knees in most places, and they were fully engaged in the moment, each carrying a machete. They had only their imaginations to work with, and that accounted for Boyd’s inordinate fear of giant snakes and Johnson’s mindless fear of being eaten alive by piranha.

The double doors of the shed, constructed of steel panels that were now mostly covered with rust, were open. The water flowing in and around it glistened with oils and gasoline.

“This is toxic,” Johnson said as they approached, using sticks to keep their balance. The dirt floor had turned into mud, making it difficult for them once they got inside. Fuel cans, crates, and tools were scattered about, and petroleum fumes were present but not bothersome.

“We need diesel for sure,” Boyd said, pulling out a rusty eight-liter can. He managed to unscrew the rusty cap and sniffed its contents. “Gasoline here,” he announced, holding the can up.

“We should stack the good stuff somewhere,” Johnson said.

Built on a slightly higher elevation than the surrounding forest, the floor was under a half foot of slowly swirling water. Johnson pulled a small table from a corner of the shed and set it upright near the entrance. He leaned on it to bury the legs in the mud and then Boyd set the fuel can on top.

“Let’s put something heavy on the top,” Boyd said.

“Yeah, it’s a little wobbly.”

Boyd pulled a small rusty sledgehammer from a pile of debris and laid it on the table and continued checking cans and drums for fuel. It took only a few minutes to find three additional eight-liter cans, two of which they determined were at least half full of diesel fuel. The fourth can was empty.

“You know what would be great,” Boyd said, “if we could find a sprayer of some sort.”

“A sprayer?”

“Yeah, you know, like for pesticides. We could use it like a flamethrower.”

“You’re kidding.”

“No, why not?”

“Well, first of all, a sprayer is not a flamethrower. How would you ignite the fuel? Hold a lighter up as you spray? Good way to self-immolate.”

“Yeah,” Boyd said grimacing slightly. “I hadn’t thought about that.”

“You know what we could use?” Johnson asked rhetorically. “Torches, or better yet, flares. I wonder if there’re flares here. You would think they’d have flares, wouldn’t you?”

“They’re prolly under water, but they got lanterns,” Boyd said, pointing to several banged up kerosene lanterns hanging from nails pounded into the wood frame. He grabbed one, held it near his ear and shook it.

“It’s got fuel,” he said happily.

“Let’s take a couple.”

“What about kerosene?” Boyd asked.

“I’ll bet they’ll burn diesel. I don’t think there’s a big difference between kerosene and diesel.”

“You know, I was just thinking, there might be flares in the truck.”

“Could be.”

In addition to the fuel cans, which they placed on the table, they added a small pile of hand tools and rusty machetes, ignoring discarded chainsaws that were piled in a corner. They used rope they found in the shed as shoulder straps to hold their machetes. Johnson carried two cans and Boyd the third as they left the building and started the trek to the truck, leaving the empty can and lanterns behind.

68

DESPITE NEITHER KNOWING much about old diesel trucks, Duncan and Suarez understood that starting the engine was the most important thing they could do. The hood raised, they peered into the shadows of the engine compartment, willing to do what was necessary, but lacking the skill and knowledge to do more than guess at what needed to be done. Duncan was moderately familiar with automobile engines, but only enough to be able to change spark plugs and filters, not enough to deal with fuel injectors or the electrical system. Suarez had experience working on his brother’s cars, but they were nothing like the truck, which was at least thirty years old.

“I’ve never been a car guy,” Duncan said. “Anyone here know anything about motors?” he called out.

They weren’t certain that there was diesel in the fuel tank. They rapped it with their knuckles several times, and it sounded hollow but not empty.

“I think it’s low, but there’s fuel in there,” Duncan told Suarez, who nodded in agreement. “Maybe it’s not getting into the engine. What do you think?”

“I don’t know for sure, Mr. Howard. I worked on a couple diesel when I worked in a garage. Maybe it’s the fuel filters. They need to be filled with diesel, or they won’t work. And maybe the fuel line could have an air pocket. That’s all I know about diesels.”

“Do you think the fuel is stale?”

Suarez shrugged. He could think of nothing else to say and stared awkwardly into the engine compartment.

Duncan noticed a commotion on the truck bed as Peeples and Rankin pointed toward the clearing. Boyd and Johnson were within shouting distance.

“What you guys got?” Rankin shouted. “I hope it’s gin.” Turning toward Peeples, she whispered, “I shouldn’t have said that, should I?”

Peeples smiled wanly, pursed her lips and shaped a silent “no.”

“Gas and diesel,” Boyd shouted.

Duncan sloshed around the side of the truck, careful not to slip off the submerged roadway, smiling broadly. When they reached the truck, he asked them to pour one of the cans into the tank and to give one to Suarez.

“When he’s done with it, go ahead and add it to the tank,” Duncan said. “We need to do this fast. Antonio, get busy on the filters and tell us what we need to do to check for air pockets.”

While Johnson poured the diesel into the tank, Suarez located the dry fuel filters and filled them with diesel. He showed Boyd how to work the injector pump and instructed him to do it until there was pressure in the fuel system. He pointed out the bleeder valve and told him how to bleed the air out of the system.

Everyone on the truck bed watched intently as the men hustled to get it ready to start. Duncan assigned Suarez to start the engine. He hadn’t decided who should drive. Nobody had experience driving on a road covered by six inches of murky, moving water. It would be stressful no matter who drove, he thought. It would be stressful for everyone. Everyone had just as much to lose as everyone else. He had been able to ignore the big picture by focusing on details. Now the seriousness of their situation hit him in the face. They could all die. Including himself. What should they do? Drive in the hopes that they would find high ground? Sit tight and hope that the water didn’t continue to rise and push the truck into the current? He wondered whether they could save themselves. He was not counting on being rescued.

69

DANIEL ROCHA WAS worn out by the time Captain Juarez turned off the Rio Negro into the tributary that led to the cabin where he was supposed to retrieve Professor Azevedo and the Americans two days ago. Juarez puffed on a Derby cigarette as he slowly guided his boat into a lake. Everything looked different. Almost as if he’d never been there. This bothered him. He was sloppy about a lot of things, but not when it came to his boat and his role as a captain. He was a lousy bookkeeper, but his wife did that. Not recording the GPS coordinates was sloppy. Not making mental notes of landmarks was sloppy, and now it meant he moved more slowly and stopped more often.

Rocha was relieved when the boat turned off the river and out of the raging current. He’d struggled the entire trip to keep the small boats from banging each other into oblivion. During that time, he’d perfected his technique, learning how much rope to give them and how to keep the ropes from tangling, but it became easy when they were out of the current. The boats fell in line like ducklings waddling behind their mother. No longer concerned with the boats, he looked around him and wondered where the lake had come from. Though he had never been to this place, he had been in the forest numerous times but had never seen anything like this. He got the impression quickly that the captain wasn’t sure where he was going. He watched Juarez in the tiny wheelhouse as he stared at the fish finder.

“Are you looking for fish?” he asked, puzzled by what the captain was doing.

“I’m trying to keep the boat in the middle of the channel,” he replied curtly. “This tells you the depth, so I’m trying to keep the boat in the deep part. There was only one channel when I was here last week, and not this deep. It looks different.”

He felt confident that he had turned into the correct tributary though it was impossible to know for certain, given the flooding.

“I wish we could contact them somehow,” Rocha said.

“You’re telling me? I just want to find the cabin.”

“Is there anything I can do to help?”

“Squeeze in here and watch the depth finder while I steer. Keep us where the water is deep. That will get us there,” Juarez said.

70

LATE THAT MORNING, Augusto Santos and Julio Carvalho watched sheets of water slowly pass under Raul Barbosa’s raised cabin. They’d moved in after repeatedly telling guide Javier Costa that a flood was imminent and that they should abandon the expedition until the threat passed. Costa refused. He told them that he needed the money “and the Americans are doing important work. Ciência.” This happened shortly after the group crossed the shallow stream that turned into a torrent, preventing the group from retreating. The pair had backtracked across the stream before it became impassable and returned to the cabin, which they admired. Santos and Carvalho had grown up in the same gritty neighborhood in Manaus. Both had dropped out of Catholic school in the eighth grade and made their living as laborers and jacks of all trades with occasional thefts to tide them over during lean times.

Santos was tall and athletic-looking while Carvalho was short and stocky. Both were in their mid-thirties. They had worked for Professor Azevedo on several of his forays into the forest. Carvalho served as a cook and laborer, and Santos managed scientific equipment. They had told Azevedo that they could do anything from guiding to security, even though neither man had done either for pay. When Azevedo called them about accompanying the expedition, they told him that they needed money to purchase ammunition and supplies. Each purchased ancient shotguns at a pawn shop. One was a double barrel and the other a single barrel. After buying ammunition, they went to the river bank to try them out. Each man fired several shells at floating debris. Both were satisfied with their purchases. Carvalho joked that he was surprised his gun didn’t blow up in his face.

The area around the cabin had not flooded when they reached it, exhausted from the long hike. That night, they heard the water as it rippled across the landscape. By morning, everything within sight was under water, but they felt secure since there was plenty of food and water, and the wind turbine and photovoltaics supplied electricity. They fiddled with the radiophone but couldn’t figure out how to make it work. It was while both were standing on the deck that they saw the approaching boat.

“How deep do you think it is?” Santos asked in Portuguese.

“I don’t know,” Carvalho replied, spitting over the railing. “Too deep for me.”

“You think there are snakes in the water?”

“Probably.”

“And caiman?”

“I suppose.”

Carvalho leaned over the railing and spit again, the spittle arcing into the muddy water, splashing for an instant before being absorbed by the ripples.

“I’m not going to leave this place until it’s dry,” Santos said, waving his arm expansively.

“I’m with you,” Carvalho smiled and then grew serious as he squinted at something in the distance. Rubbing his eyes, he stared again and then ran into the cabin where he grabbed binoculars that dangled on a leather strap from a nail. Returning to the deck, he aimed the binoculars at an object moving slowly toward them. It looked like a boat, but was too far away to see clearly, even through the binoculars. He couldn’t even tell whether it was moving.

“What you see?”

“I don’t know,” Carvalho said, “see for yourself. Looks maybe like a boat to me.”

Santos agreed.

“And it is coming this way.”

“Maybe they can get us out of here,” Carvalho said, hopefully. “And maybe they got beer.”

“And cigars and dancing girls,” Santos said sarcastically. “I’ll be happy to get out of here, at least until the flooding is over. Then, maybe, I’ll come back. This isn’t a bad place. It’s got a lot going for it, and what I heard was that the guy who owned it is dead and got no relatives. So, you know, I might come back.”

“I was thinking the same thing,” Carvalho said. “Exactly the same thing.”

“We might do it together, at least until one of us gets tired of living in isolation, all alone in the forest. Suits me,” Santos said.

Carvalho wasn’t certain whether Santos was being sarcastic or simply making an observation. He was something of a wise guy. He wondered whether his friend was trying to lay claim to the cabin or whether he was simply fantasizing about living in the forest. He felt tension as a result and didn’t want to concede anything but didn’t want to commit to anything either. But he forgot about it as he watched the boat approach, pulling several boats behind it. Having made out the wheelhouse, he knew it was the same boat that had dropped them off. He and Santos gave each other high fives. Any thought of being stranded vanished, and instead of thinking about living in the forest, they began looking forward to returning to Manaus.

With each moment, their elation increased as Santos started waving a large towel. Carvalho looked on approvingly. As the excitement of rescue passed, he said quietly to his companion, “Let’s not tell them we deserted the Americans, okay? Let’s just say we got separated.”

71

SUAREZ SAID A silent prayer before trying to start the truck. The engine turned over on the first attempt but did not start. On the second attempt, it turned over a bit faster and then backfired, sending an explosive cloud of black smoke billowing out of the tailpipe. It startled everyone. The third try resulted in the engine shuddering and shaking so violently that Suarez feared the motor mounts had cracked. The battery seemed to be fading, and he worried about how many more attempts he could make before it ran out of juice. One? Two?

He waited a moment, lowered his head until his forehead touched the steering wheel and turned the key again. Another backfire, a cloud of black smoke, and the engine was running roughly as the guide manipulated the choke and tap danced on the gas pedal to keep from giving too much or too little fuel. He did this for several minutes until the motor had warmed up and ran relatively smoothly. He pushed the choke in and slowly removed his foot from the pedal. The engine continued to run smoothly. He sighed and crossed himself.

Duncan watched Suarez through the cab’s missing rear window. Confident within his areas of expertise, including expeditions in dangerous places, he was feeling the effects of sleeplessness, hunger, and anxiety. The same could be said of everyone. Rankin walked a fine line between hysteria and mere fear and had difficulty controlling her emotions. Her friends tried to reassure her but, failing that, avoided saying anything that might set her off. Duncan was so upset that he would have sent her packing had that been possible. Now she had become just another distraction that he tried to ignore.

“How much fuel’s in the tank?” Duncan asked Suarez, who left the engine running and climbed from the cab onto the bed. Suarez shrugged.

“The fuel gauge is broken.”

“Can we put a stick or something in the tank?”

Hearing this, Boyd lowered himself to the ground. The truck had two fuel tanks, one on each side of the cab behind the running boards. The fuel cap was missing from one tank and the second tank had a cap but had lost its gasket. He checked the fuel level in each tank by inserting a stick he’d picked up in the muddy water.

“Only a couple of inches each,” he said as he lifted himself onto the bed. “I guess we didn’t bring enough diesel. We’re gonna need more, or we won’t get far.”

With each passing moment, it seemed that either the water was rising or moving faster, and Duncan realized that it would take more than a couple of cans to fill the tanks. Boyd and Johnson wouldn’t be able to do it alone, so he volunteered himself, Hamel and Suarez, to return to the shed for diesel. With two empty cans in hand, the group shuffled its way toward the shed. All the while, Hamel was hyper-alert for reptiles. He was so anxious that he could not resist talking about his fear, which spread his anxiety to Boyd, who had his own issues with snakes. Duncan felt an urge to slap Hamel. But his fear was not irrational. They could feel things sliding against them in the murky water, and they sighted several snakes resting on debris piles in the clearing.

“That’s a python,” Hamel shouted, pointing nervously toward an object floating in the water a hundred feet away.

“Looks like a log to me,” Boyd said.

“Really?” Hamel said suspiciously. “You think so?”

“Just keep moving,” Duncan said. “Whatever it is, it’s over there, and we’re over here. Just keep moving.”

Hamel kept his eye on the object, which moved slowly with the current. Picking up the pace, he moved splashily to the front of the line next to Duncan. If it was a snake, he was determined not to be the first victim.

They paused as Johnson led the way into the shed. Somewhat spooked by Hamel’s sighting of a snake, he entered cautiously, scanning the water and the walls for reptiles. Seeing none, he waved the others inside. The water had risen several inches since their first trip.

“Okay,” Duncan said, “we’re here for diesel. Check the drums first.”

Four large drums stood on end in one corner. One was completely empty. Boyd pushed it on its side, and it floated across the shed into the opposite wall. The others had enough liquid in them that they were difficult to move. They struggled to unscrew the rusting filler caps with their hands. After several fruitless minutes, they looked for something they could use to either unfasten the caps or pound them out. Johnson grabbed the sledgehammer they’d found on the previous trip

“Here we go,” he announced. Boyd held his hand out, and Johnson gave him the hammer. He gently pounded the cap on its edge to try to break it loose but only managed to crush it. He pulled his multitool from the leather holster on his belt, pulled out the flat blade screwdriver and, with the hammer, started banging it against the cap in an effort to get it to turn. Worse than not turning it, he dented the cap, making it less likely that it would come off.

“Shit,” he said. “This ain’t workin’.”

“What’re you trying to do?” Hamel asked.

“I’m trying to get the freaking cap off.”

“Then what?” Hamel asked.

Boyd leaned on the drum. It wouldn’t budge. It was nearly full.

“I don’t know. But then we don’t know what’s in it. You see any labels?”

Work stopped for a moment as they assessed the situation.

“We need a screwdriver or something. My multitool isn’t big enough,” Boyd said. “Anything metal with a sharp point. We’ll just pound a hole in the side. Everybody look for something.”

It didn’t take long for Duncan to grab onto a rusty pry bar that he felt as he shuffled his feet. Pulling it up from the murk, he handed it to Johnson, who approached Boyd with it.

“How many cans do we have?” Duncan asked.

Each of the men sounded off. Three cans.

“That’s not enough,” he said glumly.

“I’ve been looking since we got here,” Johnson said, “and I’m not finding any more.”

“Too bad we couldn’t float one of these drums like that empty one,” Hamel mused, pointing.

“That’s not a bad idea,” Boyd said, “assuming there’s diesel.”

“If there is diesel, why don’t we drain some of it, so the drum floats?” Hamel suggested.

Everyone exchanged enthusiastic looks.

“That’s the ticket,” Johnson said.

With Johnson holding the sharp end of the pry bar against the side of the drum midway from the top, Boyd started to bang on it. On the third whack, he nearly smashed Johnson’s wrist. Johnson dropped the pry bar, stepping back quickly as if to avoid a second blow. Boyd apologized and reached into the water for the pry bar.

“Sorry, man,” he said, handing it back to Johnson. “I’ll try to be more careful.”

“Yeah,” Johnson said, “good idea. But don’t just try.”

Duncan felt uneasy as Boyd and Johnson worked on putting a hole in the drum. What if it was filled with gasoline? He wasn’t concerned about a fire as much as he was concerned about the fumes that would result. The gasoline would float on top of the water and cover every square inch. Even with the door open, there was little ventilation and virtually no wind.

“Cody,” he said, “don’t make a big hole until we know what’s inside. We don’t want to be standing in a lake of gasoline.”

Johnson and Boyd stopped banging on the drum.

“You know what you can do,” Hamel said, “cut a small hole in the cap on top. You should be able to tell what’s inside from the smell.”

Everyone was taken aback by Hamel’s suggestion. Duncan and Boyd wondered why they hadn’t thought of it. Boyd grabbed his multitool and extended the Phillips head screwdriver accessory. One of two things is going to happen, he thought, as he rested the tip of the screwdriver over the metal cap. Either he’d punch a hole in it, or he’d smash his multitool to smithereens. Be gentle, he whispered to himself. With everyone watching, he pounded it several times, each a little harder than the previous. And then the small screwdriver went through the cap. Lowering his head to the top of the drum, he sniffed.

“It’s diesel!” he shouted. Cheers filled the tiny shed.

He and Johnson attacked the side of the drum, and this time, with a newfound enthusiasm, they broke through the thick steel releasing a stream of reddish liquid, which began to fill the room with fumes.

“Thing to do is move the drum out there,” Boyd said, nodding toward the doorway.

Boyd, Johnson and Duncan frantically grabbed the top edge and started rotating the drum out of the shed while fuel poured out of the hole, splashing them with every turn. Once out of the shed, they waited for the level of the fuel inside the drum to drop below the hole. The drum was still too heavy.

“Think it’ll float now?” Hamel asked.

“I don’t think so,” Duncan responded.

“Yeah, we probably need to drain more of it before it’ll float.”

“Maybe, maybe not,” Duncan said. “As I recall, we could determine this if we knew the specific gravity of the diesel and weight of the drum.” Stopping himself, he chuckled. “Forget it. Just empty it until it floats.”

While Duncan, Hamel, Boyd, and Johnson worked, Antonio Suarez stood out of the way, surveying the limitless sheet of water that covered the forest floor. He was hungry, and he knew everyone else was as well. He’d heard monkeys in the canopy, but unless he had a bow and arrow, they remained safely out of reach. Likewise birds. And fish, but no fishing line or bait. And he knew there were mangoes and bananas and edible plants in the forest, but none that he could see.

72

WHILE THE MEN were gone, the women had little to do. Professor Azevedo sat against the cab in one corner minding his own business while the women disassembled the makeshift shelter, so they had room to move. By the time the men were out of sight, their nervous energy gave way to talk. At first, they avoided negative comments, so they focused on what they would do once they found high ground. Then Alison Peeples wondered whether they would be rescued.

“You know,” she said, “am I not right, Dr. Azevedo, you talked to your assistant, and he knows we need help?”

Azevedo looked up and nodded. “Yes, he knows we are in trouble.”

“Well, there you go,” Peeples said, optimistically. “There’s probably someone already on the way.”

“Yeah,” Cross said, tentatively. “The only problem is how will they find us?”

“Dr. Azevedo gave him the coordinates, didn’t you, Professor?”

The old man nodded and smiled.

“See! All they need are the coordinates, and they got ‘em.”

“You know, I wanna believe that,” Stephanie Rankin said. She’d taken several surreptitious sips of gin and seemed relaxed. “But, you know, we’re still here, and it won’t be long before it gets dark, and I can’t imagine anyone would be looking for us in the dark.”

“Okay, so what?” Peeples said. “Maybe they find us tomorrow.”

“If we move, which is what the guys are trying to do, how will they know where we went?”

“Yeah,” Peeples said thoughtfully. “I guess it depends on how far we get.”

“Which is why maybe we should just stay here.”

“We can’t,” Cross interjected. “If the water gets much higher or faster it might push us off the road. That’s real trouble.”

“Like we’re not in real trouble already,” Rankin sniffed, frowning.

“I get that,” Cross said. “We’re all scared, okay. So what? We still need to do what we can to get through this. Focusing on our fears makes things worse.”

“I’m not focusing on my fears.”

“Yes you are,” Peeples said defiantly. “What do you call what happened last night?”

Rankin gave her a puzzled look.

“What happened?”

“You’re saying you don’t remember?” Cross asked.

Rankin statued for a moment. She searched her memory. Nothing there.

“Yes, yes. Really, I don’t remember anything from last night.”

“Really?” Peeples said accusingly. “That’s convenient.”

“Yes, really. Why? What happened last night? Tell me.”

“This is going nowhere,” Cross said. “We need to focus on important stuff, like pooling our food. The rest of it. You know, the stuff you’ve been holding back. I know I have.”

“What about the guys? You think they’ve been holding back?”

“Of course, they have,” Cross said. “We should check their packs, too.”

“It’s the least we can do for ‘em,” Rankin chirped.

Their anxiety relieved for the time it took to scavenge the food, the three women used binoculars to keep their eyes on the men.

“You know,” Rankin said, “I feel safer with men around? Isn’t that silly?”

“It’s not silly,” Peeples said. “Physically, they are stronger. It makes sense. So, yeah, I feel the same way. But don’t tell them that.”

73

WITH THE DRUM tipped on its side and floating, the men pushed it out of the shed and started the return trip to the truck. With Duncan leading the way, Boyd and Johnson held fast to the drum and struggled to guide it against the moving water. The water was too high to take normal steps, so they shuffled their way toward the truck, careful to keep the fuel from spilling.

They couldn’t help but notice snakes floating in the water along with the current, which unnerved Boyd more than he had thought possible. He shivered when he saw one, even though they were no closer than fifty feet. Johnson tried to calm Boyd after he pushed too hard on the drum, which caused it to begin to roll and develop a mind of its own. Boyd tried to counter the roll, but he lost his hold, and it suddenly came about in the current, breaking free. Like an inflated ball, it began to outdistance them as they shuffled after it.

“Grab the damn thing!” Boyd shouted, but it was out of reach.

Duncan lunged at it but couldn’t gain a hold. Suarez dropped the lantern he carried, dove into the water and with several strokes caught up to it. Fighting the current to keep it from getting away, he worked his way in front of it. Leaning against it, his feet pressing into the mud, he struggled to resist it. With each roll, fuel spilled into the water, releasing a pungent odor.

Momentarily underwater, Duncan regained his footing and, as he and Johnson converged, they managed to grab hold of the lip on each end just as the drum was about to roll over the slightly built Suarez. Quickly, they turned the drum so that the bottom end faced the current. Boyd joined them, and they continued in a tightly packed group.

With the four men pushing the drum, and the women shouting encouragement from the truck, they concluded their trip to the shed with handshakes, fist bumps and wary eyes on the rising water.

74

GETTING THE DIESEL out of the drum posed no less of a problem than getting it to float. The drum was less than half full, heavy and with only the smallish opening they’d made on the side. Standing it on end, the fuel did not reach the hole.

“Why did we cut the hole in the middle?” Boyd wondered aloud.

“Can’t we cut another one?” Hamel asked.

“With what? We left the tools in the shed.”

“Can we lift it?” Duncan asked.

“I don’t know. It’s pretty heavy,” Boyd said. “Maybe, if we all got under it.”

“If we could lift it on the bed, we’d be able to roll it so we could pour the diesel into the cans,” Duncan said.

The water was deep enough that as they stooped to get their hands under the submerged end of the drum their heads were nearly submerged. Suarez, the smallest of the group, was under water. At first, they struggled against the suction of the muck. Once they got the drum off the ground, they nearly lost it as the diesel sloshed inside. Finally, with all their strength, they managed to get one edge of the drum onto the truck bed. From there, they rolled it on its end until only a small part of the edge hung over the bed.

The women cheered, and the men once again high-fived themselves. Boyd remained on the ground while the others boosted themselves onto the truck and carefully tilted the drum so that they could slowly fill a pair of gas cans that Boyd poured into the driver side fuel tank. He’d lost count of the number of cans he’d emptied, and the tank was half full. Johnson and Duncan stood the drum on end to keep it from rolling around when the truck was moving. While the others waited expectantly on the bed, with Azevedo in the cab, Boyd pulled himself out of the water and into the heavily worn and duct-taped driver’s seat.

“Let’s get moving,” Duncan said, slapping the top of the cab several times.

75

CARVALHO AND SANTOS waved and shouted as Captain Juarez steered his boat toward the cabin. Daniel Rocha watched from the deck as Juarez inched away from the main channel and suddenly came to a stop as the boat scraped against the river’s bottom that several days ago had been Barbosa’s landing. Juarez cut the engine and tied a rope around a tree.

“How deep is the water here?” he shouted at the two men watching from the cabin.

They shrugged.

“Don’t know,” Santos said. “Last time we were here, it was dry.”

“Probably not more than a half meter,” Carvalho offered.

“Idiots,” Juarez whispered under his breath. Using a gaffing pole, he plunged it into the water.

“Looks like he’s right,” he said to Rocha. “Maybe it’s up to our knees.”

Shoeless, they lowered themselves over the side, holding onto the gunwale as they sank into the ankle deep mud. Rocha nearly lost his balance as he lifted one foot.

“Wish I had something to keep my balance. This is slippery stuff and keeps trying to suck you down.”

“Wait a minute,” Juarez cautioned as he clambered onto the deck.

“Think this will help?” he said, handing the gaffing pole to Rocha.

“Yeah, that should work. What about you?”

“I’ll find something.”

Armed with the remnants of a two-by-four pulled from the engine compartment, Juarez dropped into the mud, and together they made their way to the cabin, soaking their shorts in the process.

Santos greeted them like long lost friends and offered them beverages and snacks. Following a moment of fellowship, Santos and Carvalho summarized their story, after which Rocha peppered them with questions about Azevedo and the expedition. Rocha thought the answers were vague and unsatisfying. They couldn’t even tell him how many people were in the group, but they agreed to help find them.

“That’s the least we can do under the circumstances,” Carvalho said, adding quickly, “in the morning. It will be dark soon.”

As anxious as he was to find the professor, Rocha agreed, “At first light.”

76

THE YOUNG GUIDE, tethered by rope to the front bumper, led the way, using a palm branch that he stripped of leaves to help keep the ancient truck centered on the road. He used the palm to feel the edges of the road. The water was knee high on Suarez, bathed in the dull light of the search lamp mounted on the passenger side door. The dashboard lights gave the cab an eerie green cast. The single working taillight gave the water a reddish glow. Everything else around them was either impenetrably black or, where the moonlight found a way through the canopy, immersed in shadows. Occasionally, Carlos Johnson swept the beam of his flashlight on a three hundred and sixty-degree tour of their surroundings. The light was effective out to fifty feet but reflected hundreds of feet away from the eyes of unknown creatures. They guessed that the eyes belonged to jaguars or giant black caiman. Their imaginations were beginning to run away from them, again.

Boyd’s hands looked bloodless as he squeezed the steering wheel. With every bump, the front wheels twisted to one side, and it was up to him to prevent the steering wheel from spinning and leading them off the road. He sweated profusely, his eyes glued to Suarez, who was all that stood between them and disaster in a ditch.

Professor Azevedo, sitting next to Boyd, steadied the passenger side searchlight and offered words of encouragement, congratulating the young men on keeping the truck on the road though they moved so slowly that the speedometer suggested they weren’t moving at all. The constantly moving water filled the air with a swishing sound not unlike a distant waterfall. Carried along was a cascade of debris, mostly forest detritus stirred up by the current.

Maggie Cross drew close to Duncan, who, from his post standing behind the cab, watched Suarez struggle to keep his balance. They were going too slowly, he thought, but given that they could barely see the road, he saw no alternative. His greatest fear at the moment was of rising water. If it got too high, the truck would end up downstream, and that would end any chance of finding higher ground.

Cross put her hand on his and smiled demurely. He smiled at her.

“Are you afraid?” she asked quietly.

He sighed.

“If you mean, am I worried, yes, I am.”

“I’m not afraid to say that I’m as scared as I’ve ever been,” she confessed. “I know some of the others are, too. This is all too much.”

“Oh, yeah, I agree with that,” he said, looking at her face in the dimness. “I wish we weren’t here. Definitely. But we are, so there’s no point in giving in to fear. We have to focus on things we can do to help ourselves, and at this point that seems to be riding this tortoise until we can’t ride it anymore.”

“You think that will happen?”

Duncan gave her a puzzled look.

“I mean, do you think the truck is going to run out of gas?”

“It could. Or it could fall off the road. If anything, that seems to me to be the most likely negative,” Duncan said.

“What would we do then?”

“Hopefully, get out and walk alongside our guide.”

“We’d probably make better time,” George Hamel said snarkily. He overheard everything and insinuated himself into any conversation whenever the urge hit him.

“You know,” Duncan said quietly to Hamel, “you may be right about that. I’ve been thinking that myself.”

Hamel grinned.

“I told you so,” he said to Cross.

“Shh,” she said, annoyed. “I don’t care.” Turning toward Duncan, she added, “You don’t really think we’re going to walk in this, do you? What about the snakes? You have seen them, haven’t you? And all the other things in the water?”

“No, we’ll stay on the truck as long as we can,” Duncan said sagely. “I’m just saying that there may come a time when we have to abandon it. If the water gets above the wheel wells… hell, if it gets that high Antonio won’t be able to find the road, and then we’ll be stuck.”

“Let’s hope that doesn’t happen,” she said.

“Let’s hope,” Duncan replied. “And let’s be glad that we haven’t had much rain today.”

While Duncan and Cross continued their conversation quietly, Hamel moved to one side of the truck. Occasional flashes of lightning lit the sky, partially exposing the distant forest. It was during one of these flashes that he sensed something floating toward them that was neither a log nor a tree branch. It rode low in the water and resembled a patch of leaves. It was too far away for his flashlight to reach, but there was something about it that captured his attention. Eventually Johnson joined Hamel, peering into the vast darkness.

“Can you see anything?”

Hamel pointed into the distance.

“I can’t see a thing,” Johnson said.

“Wait for the lightning. You’ll see it.”

“What am I looking for?”

“I don’t know. It looks like a pile of leaves or something. Maybe an island. Looks like a carpet of something. It’s dark. It’s hard to tell, but it’s moving toward us. I wish we had more light,” Hamel said.

“Oh, like all the other crap that’s floating around us?” Johnson said flippantly.

“No, this is different. I don’t know; it looks weird.”

“Everything looks weird in the dark.”

Lightning flashed above the canopy, followed by deafening thunder.

“There, there,” Hamel said excitedly, pointing into the darkness. “See it? Who’s got binoculars?”

Johnson stared where Hamel pointed.

“Use mine,” Cross said. “We used it to watch you guys.”

Hamel handed his flashlight to Johnson and pointed where to shine it. He looked through the binoculars briefly. He squinted to see details, but there wasn’t enough light. Johnson turned it off.

“I couldn’t see a thing,” Hamel said, disappointed.

More lightning, followed by thunder that shook the ground.

Hamel kept his eyes on what he now took to be a pile of debris. It was rounded and spun slowly, and something jumped within it, like grasshoppers, he thought. It was still too far away for the flashlight to pick up. The lightning stopped, and the forest was once again enveloped in humid darkness. Hamel waited, ready to raise the binoculars at the next lightning strike.

77

DUNCAN’S ATTENTION WAS focused on Antonio Suarez, some thirty feet in front of the truck. He felt anxious about their situation but was worried about the young guide. Suarez had been in the water for several hours without relief, and Duncan wondered whether he should take a break. While Boyd worried about plunging everyone into an abyss, Duncan was fearful about stopping, even for a few minutes. Would the truck sink into the mud and not have the power to propel itself? Progress had been slow, perhaps one mile an hour. He was about to call for a ten-minute break when another cascade of lightning and thunder burst. He heard a commotion behind him. Turning to face the rear, he saw Hamel pointing, the binoculars glued to his face.

“It’s not grasshoppers,” Hamel said. “My God, my God, it’s the bugs!”

Hamel handed the binoculars to Duncan and put his flashlight on the water. For a moment, they glimpsed the patch of debris in the shadows just before the lightning faded, and the object disappeared into the watery darkness.

“You’re sure?” Duncan said to Hamel.

“Didn’t you see it?”

“I saw something.”

“Did you see them jumping? That’s how I know.”

“Know what?” asked Johnson, who sat on one edge of the truck bed and craned his neck to see Hamel.

Hamel and Duncan exchanged glances.

“The bugs,” Hamel said.

Johnson sprang to his feet.

“Where! Where are they?”

“They’re out there,” Hamel said, pointing. “You can’t see them except where there’s lightning.”

Johnson took the binoculars and peered into the darkness.

“I don’t see a thing.”

“I’m telling you,” Hamel said, “they’re out there. Howard saw them, didn’t you?”

“I saw something,” Duncan said, “but I need a better look.”

The conversation between Hamel and Johnson caught Alison Peeples’ and Stephanie Rankin’s attention. They’d been sitting alongside each other, covered in ponchos, taking surreptitious sips on Rankin’s gin.

“So, it might not be anything? You know, you shouldn’t be saying things like that unless you’re sure,” Johnson scolded.

“I am sure,” Hamel insisted. “I’ve been watching since we got on the truck.”

“When did you first see them?” Peeples asked, anxiously.

“I don’t know, fifteen minutes ago, ten. Not long. They’re not close enough for my flashlight, so it’s just glimpses when there’s lightning.”

While this conversation was going on, Boyd and Azevedo listened up. Boyd took the transmission out of gear and called Suarez, who returned as quickly as he could through the murk.

“Professor,” Duncan said, pointing with an index finger, “can you aim that light over here?”

It took a moment, but Azevedo managed to turn the rusty mechanism, which screeched loudly, surprising and frightening the people on the bed. The screeching of bare metal echoed into the forest. The light had greater range than Hamel’s flashlight, who scanned the area with the binoculars while the others peered into the illuminated emptiness. Moments passed. Hamel relocated the raft, now at the outer limit of the searchlight’s reach. It was larger than he’d originally thought. More than ever, it looked like it was heading toward the truck.

“Do you see anything?” Cross asked.

“It’s them. It’s the bugs. There’s thousands of ‘em. I don’t know for sure, but it looks like they’re floating on their backs. Some of them are jumping. I don’t know what that’s about,” Hamel said, peering through the binoculars.

Hamel handed the binoculars to Duncan.

“What is their weakness?” Duncan muttered to himself.

“What’s that?” Hamel asked nervously. “Did you say ‘What’s their weakness?’”

“Professor, do they have any weakness?” Duncan asked.

Azevedo paused thoughtfully.

“Their weakness was that they could not reproduce successfully.”

Duncan frowned.

“And they don’t seem to do well in water. They can’t swim, or at least they couldn’t,” Azevedo said.

Everyone heard this.

“What?” Rankin said loudly. “What the fuck are we afraid of? There’s water everywhere.”

The mood lifted at this news. There were smiles and laughter, and Johnson and Rankin started shouting in the direction of the bugs, threatening to drown them, issuing insults as if the insects could understand them. Duncan was less sanguine, aware that despite being unable to swim, they had managed to organize themselves in such a way that they could float an entire colony, apparently safely. He also knew they could jump and could see some of them doing so through the binoculars.

“So, Professor,” Boyd asked, “all we gotta do is pour water on them?”

“I didn’t say that,” Azevedo said, his voice reflecting his exhaustion. “And this is true for the bugs I studied before they proliferated. The specimens I saw, there were never more than several dozen in a colony, struggled in water and tried to crawl out of it as quickly as they could. I had not seen them flip on their backs and float. That is new behavior to me.”

“So, maybe they can swim, huh?”

“I can’t say for certain, one way or another. I only know that the ones I studied could not swim. They were like cockroaches in this regard.”

Duncan took this in and inhaled deeply, exhaling slowly. He asked Hamel to report on the bugs’ progress and asked Azevedo to point the light according to Hamel’s instructions. Could the bugs swim or not? Drowning the bugs could not be Plan A.

“We can’t assume that blaberus can’t swim,” Duncan said loudly. Everyone was talking to somebody about drowning the bugs, and he wanted them to stop. “We have to come up with something else to defend ourselves, in case they slam into us. We don’t know if they will. It depends on the current. But we have to be prepared.”

He’d achieved his immediate goal of shutting everyone up. The ideas were slow in coming.

“They’re kinda hung up on something,” Hamel reported, binoculars glued to his face.

“Okay, what kills them for sure?” Boyd asked.

“Fire, don’t you think?” Peeples said.

“Yeah, that would do it,” Johnson agreed.

“Yeah, but how?” Duncan asked. “We don’t have a flamethrower or torches or anything like that. All we got are two cans of gas.”

“Someone could swim out there, you know, where they are and maybe get behind them and pour some gas on the water and then light it,” Boyd suggested.

“Sounds dangerous,” Cross said.

“Too dangerous,” Duncan agreed. “You could set yourself on fire.”

“You know, we don’t even know if they’re going to attack us. What if the current carries them in a different direction?” Peeples said.

“We can’t depend on that,” Duncan said. “Whatever we do, there will be risk involved. Just look around. It’s dark. We’re in the middle of a flood.”

“Why not just keep moving down the road?” Boyd asked from his seat behind the steering wheel.

Everyone looked at Duncan for a response.

“I’m afraid we might run off the road. The water seems to be getting higher, and I’m not sure whether Antonio can keep us in the middle of the road.”

“Maybe he needs some help,” Boyd said. “Maybe if we had two guys out there …”

“They just broke loose,” Hamel interjected, breathlessly.

Pressure was mounting now. No one volunteered to walk with Suarez, and Duncan was on the verge of doing it himself but, as the leader, he felt he needed to stay on the truck where he could have a better view of the situation.

“Olay, who wants to do it? Who wants to help keep the truck on the road?” Duncan said, looking at Johnson and Hamel. Hamel continued to concentrate on monitoring the insects, showing no interest in doing something else.

“You know, George,” Maggie Cross said, “I could watch with the binoculars. Why don’t you help get us going?”

“I’ll do it,” Peeples said, finally, raising her hand.

“No, I’ll do it,” Johnson said, forcefully, clambering from the side of the truck into the water before anyone could protest. Suarez joined him in the water and helped him find a branch to use to sweep along the side of the road. As soon as they were in front of the truck, Boyd put the transmission in gear and inched the ancient vehicle forward.

“Go faster,” Hamel said. “They’re gaining on us. And I hate to say this, but there’s more of them.”

“More of them?” Cross asked. “If they can’t swim, how can there be more of them?”

“There’s more patches of them. Bunches of them. At least that’s what it looks like.”

78

ONLY DUNCAN AND Cross could hear Hamel. The diesel was loud. Peeples thought she heard Hamel say something.

“What did you say,” she asked, tugging on his elbow.

“I said there are bunches of the bugs in the water.”

“Oh.” She gave him a puzzled look and stammered, “What the fuck are we going to do?”

Hamel shrugged and went back to watching the bugs through the binoculars.

Peeples tugged on Duncan’s elbow.

“He said there’s more of them all the time. Are we gonna be okay?”

Duncan looked away briefly, trying to think of something to say. It was a question he’d been avoiding for days.

“We need to keep ahead of them,” he said, finally.

“I think you got your answer,” Rankin whispered to Peeples.

“That wasn’t an answer,” Peeples barked.

“I don’t know what’s going to happen,” Duncan said sharply. His guilt had gotten the better of him, and he knew it immediately. “Look, Alison, I don’t know. I think we should really focus on what we can do to defend ourselves or avoid them. Nobody planned on this happening.”

“So, what can we do?”

“Keep moving,” Duncan said as the truck lumbered forward. Boyd struggled to control the truck against the perpendicular rush of the water and, like everyone else, began to tire.

“It looks like at least one of the rafts is coming toward us,” Hamel announced.

Without a word, Duncan grabbed a gas can and set it on the cab’s roof.

“Find a cup or something that we can use for the gasoline.”

“Why not just pour it out of the can?” Cross asked.

“We’d use it up too fast,” Duncan said. “Besides, it’ll be easier to aim it with a cup.”

Rankin grabbed the first cup that she saw and nervously handed it to Duncan. Cup in hand, Duncan wondered how he’d light the gas. All he had was a butane lighter.

“Anybody got any matches?”

Nobody responded. He repeated his question, loudly. A few “not mes.”

“How about straw, or kindling, something that burns easily?”

Peeples dug a splinter out of the truck bed and handed it to Duncan.

“Will this do?”

“Perfect,” Duncan said, “find some more. We may need it.”

Turning to Hamel, Duncan asked, “How we doin’?” when the truck suddenly lurched, nearly knocking his legs from under him. Cross grabbed Duncan’s shoulder to steady herself.

“Sorry,” Boyd said. “We hit a rock or a hole or something.”

“Goddamn!” Hamel shouted, after nearly losing his balance. “What the fuck!”

“You want to drive?” Boyd said loudly.

“So,” Duncan repeated, “how we doing, Mister Hamel?”

“You know, I almost fell off the truck. Into the water,” Hamel said forcefully. “But to answer your question, we aren’t. We’ll be lucky if this first one doesn’t hit us. Tell ‘em to move faster.”

“We’re moving as fast as we can,” Boyd shouted. “Like I said, if you can do a better job, you’re welcome to it.”

“That’s not what I’m saying,” Hamel said defensively. “I’m saying, if we don’t go any faster, the bugs will hit us. You can stop for all I care. I don’t know how many bugs there are, and I don’t control the current, so maybe just sitting here is as good as moving. Anybody here know how to figure the odds?”

Duncan set the cup in front of him on the rusted cab roof and carefully filled it with gasoline.

“George, how close are they?”

“See for yourself.”

The raft was on the outer edge of Professor Azevedo’s searchlight, which he centered on the bugs. A couple hundred feet, and they’d either hit them or not. It’s like a video game, Duncan thought. Hit or miss, there’d be more. And certainly they would hit the truck, and either the bugs would be incinerated, or they’d drown, or they’d devour their prey.

Things began to happen very quickly as the raft of jumping bugs neared the truck. Duncan estimated it would hit somewhere near the rear passenger wheels. If only they could go a little faster, he thought they could avoid it, that it would drift by without colliding with the truck. But what could he say? They were already going as fast as they could without driving off the road, which would be far worse.

As the raft of bugs neared, he saw the ones that were jumping were actually getting well above the level of the truck bed, and that scared him. If it weren’t for that, they could try to push the bugs away with a pole, but there was too much of a chance of them jumping onto whoever was holding the pole. When he looked around, he could see the fear on his companions’ faces. There was no attempt by anyone to hide it. They all understood they could be facing a horrible end.

“What happens if the fire doesn’t kill them?” Peeples asked anxiously.

“I don’t know,” Duncan said quietly. “I wish I did. The only other thing I can think of is to get under the water and hold your breath.”

“Really?”

“Well, Professor Azevedo said they don’t swim well, and these guys here, if they could swim, don’t you think they’d be doing it? Look at ‘em, they’re on their backs, and the ones that are jumping look like, well, I don’t know why they’re doing it. I was thinking that maybe there wasn’t enough room for ‘em so they jump on top of the others to keep from drowning. But I don’t know. And it doesn’t matter.”

“That’s not much of an alternative,” Cross said. “Diving under water. Aren’t there other things in the water that can hurt us, too?”

“I don’t know,” Duncan said, “I just know that it’s something we can do. Maybe it’ll work, maybe it won’t. I don’t know what else to say.”

“They’re almost here,” Hamel shouted excitedly. “They’re almost here. C’mon, Doc, get the gas ready.”

Holding the gas-filled cup in one hand, Duncan moved sideways toward the rear of the truck bed. He handed it to Hamel and lit the splinter with his lighter.

Hamel did as instructed, keeping it from spilling by holding the cup in both hands.

“What if we miss?” Hamel said, nervously.

It then occurred to Duncan that they might need more than one cup of gasoline, and he said aloud, “Find more cups, everyone. We need more ammunition.”

Everyone got busy searching, pulling out backpacks and rummaging through them like thieves. Within a minute, they’d lined up four on the cab roof and began filling them with gasoline. At the same time, Duncan inched as near to the edge of the truck bed as he dared. He told himself not to throw it too early for fear of missing the bugs entirely, but then worried if he waited too long that the gasoline would get under the truck, setting it on fire. He knew that diesel fuel ignited at a higher temperature than gasoline, but decades of use and misuse would have resulted in flammable chemicals soaking into the wood planks on the bed and the running boards. But he pushed that out of his mind. He needed to hit them just right, just in front of them so that when he tossed the lighted splinter into the water, they would be engulfed in a sheet of flame.

Taking the cup from Hamel with one hand, who almost didn’t let go for fear of dropping it, Duncan shuffled to the edge of the truck and, leaning over, timed the release of the gasoline as the raft of bugs neared. It was a good four feet across and six feet in length. He hoped it was too big to miss. Azevedo kept the light on the bugs, giving Duncan as good a view as he could hope for. As he lit the splinter, everything seemed to him to move in slow motion. He felt ready to do what he had to do but hesitated for an instant. What if he missed? The fear of failure just wouldn’t let go as if second guessing himself had value in such a situation.

“Did y’all find cubs, I mean cups? And more splinters?”

He didn’t hear the response as at just that instant he emptied the cup into the water. There wasn’t nearly as much gasoline as he’d thought. The cup was only two-thirds full. And then he tossed the lighted splinter. He wondered whether it would set the gasoline on fire or die in the water. The answer came swiftly as a fireball launched skyward, lighting up everything around it and drowning out Azevedo’s searchlight.

Along with the burst of flame and smoke, a high-pitched screeching filled the air as countless insects were incinerated. The raft broke into smaller pieces as the bugs reorganized. Many more were jumping while others were sinking under the water. With no place to land, the jumpers ended up in the water and disappeared. The jumping gave them a few seconds of life before succumbing to the water. Because there were so many, some of them managed to land on the truck. Several landed on Hamel, who discovered how difficult they were to remove from his clothing.

“Help me,” he shouted as he pulled several off his shirt front, tearing the cloth as he did so. Peeples pulled several off of Hamel’s back and then felt a slight stabbing pain on her back.

“Doc, Doc, they’re on my back. Help me!”

Duncan grabbed at the bugs on Peeples’ back and realized their forelegs had torn into the shirt cloth. Duncan wrapped his hands around several and yanked, ripping pieces of cloth and tiny pieces of flesh as he tossed them into the water. Peeples winced.

“Did you get ‘em? Did you get ‘em?” she shouted. “Please say you got ‘em.”

“I got ‘em,” Duncan replied.

While this was going on, Azevedo tried to alert everyone that another raft was approaching but couldn’t get anyone’s attention while they struggled to clear the truck bed of bugs. The current carried the remaining pieces of raft under the truck and the bugs that jumped ended up smashing into the undercarriage, crushing themselves, or drowning. Hamel hovered near the cab on the driver’s side, clearly frightened. Responding to Azevedo’s imprecations, Duncan urged Hamel to watch the next group of insects. But he shook his head.

“You can’t ignore them,” Duncan reasoned. “Our only chance is to stay ahead of them and hit them before they hit us.”

“I’ll do it,” Rankin said resignedly, raising her hand.

“You don’t hafto,” Peeples whispered.

“Yes I do.”

Watching this, Maggie Cross frowned and gave Hamel a withering look. But he wasn’t watching as his chin was buried in his chest like a disobedient child.

Hamel handed the binoculars to Peeples, who stationed herself at the rear of the truck, about a foot from the edge, not as close as Hamel had stood. Adjusting the focus, she zeroed in on an area less than two hundred feet away, where Azevedo’s light barely reached. Still, she could make out the outlines of another raft, which itself was hung up on debris.

“How we doing?” Duncan asked.

“Ah, fine, I guess,” Peeples said, pointing toward the raft. “There’s a bunch of them out there. Can you see ‘em? They’re right on the edge of where the light is. You can see ‘em with the binocs.”

She handed the binoculars to Duncan, who initially pointed them toward where Johnson had been looking and then scanned the entire area. He thought he saw other rafts but couldn’t be certain because of the uneven light. He didn’t want to increase anyone’s alarm any more so he kept it to himself.

“Just let me know when they break loose,” he said, returning the binoculars.

Remembering what happened the last time, he slammed on the brakes; Boyd gently brought the truck from nearly two miles per hour to a dead stop. His eyes were on Johnson and Suarez, who were pointing to something in the distance, beyond reach of the truck’s single headlight. Azevedo brought his light to bear and sighed. More bugs.

Johnson and Suarez returned to the truck and asked Duncan what they could do to help.

“Keep an eye out for the insects,” Duncan said while carefully pouring gasoline into a cup.

“You gonna dump the gas on the bugs?” Johnson asked, not having been aware of the first encounter.

“That’s the plan. But be ready, because some of ‘em will get on the truck. A couple of them attacked George and Alison.”

Johnson shot a concerned look at Peeples.

“I’m okay. Just a torn shirt and a little blood. Nothing to worry about.”

While waiting for the next brush with the insects, Duncan advised everyone to try to rest, even if they couldn’t sleep.

“You and Antonio must be worn out,” Duncan said. “Find a place to sit and try to rest. I know it’s hard, but Alison and I will keep a lookout. Who knows how long we’ll be doing this?”

“The longer, the better,” Boyd said.

Despite the bugs appearing in the road in front of the truck and the rafts drifting toward them from the side and the rear, surrounding them on three sides, the rafts were either hung up or those that were drifting were not on a collision course with the truck. However, the water level had risen above the running boards and was nearly at the level of the fuel filler cap. Boyd kept the engine at idle to charge the battery and power the headlight and the searchlight. He feared that the cap would leak without a gasket and asked Azevedo to check the glove box to find one. There was no gasket, just several rusty screwdrivers, a hammer and rusted screws and other junk. He thought about the function of a gasket as a mechanical seal and then looked around the cab, reaching under the seat and behind it to find anything that he could jury rig into a gasket.

“Does somebody have a spare T-shirt?” he asked loudly.

“What for?” Rankin asked.

“I need it for a gasket for the fuel tank. I’m afraid if the water gets any higher, it’s gonna get into the tank.”

Since most of the packs had been rifled through in search of cups, Cross grabbed the first shirt she saw and handed it to Boyd, who promptly tore off a piece, which he grasped as he lowered himself onto the running board and into the water. He felt the current pushing him away from the truck but steadied himself. The water level was within several inches of the filler cap, nearly up to his waist. Removing it, he covered the inside of the cap with the cloth and screwed it into place. It was still loose, so he tore off another piece of cloth and added it to the cap. This time, when he tightened the cap, it didn’t jiggle. Not satisfied, he added a third piece of cloth and replaced the cap. This time he was barely able to screw it down completely, it was that tight. He wasn’t sure that he could get it off without a wrench but felt that it would prevent water from seeping in. All the while he was doing this, he was battered by debris floating underneath the truck. As he lifted himself onto the truck bed, he said, “What can I do to help?”

Hamel, who crouched in the corner of the bed behind the driver’s seat, had found Boyd’s video camera in the pile of gear and was aiming it at Boyd. Boyd gave Hamel a puzzled look.

“You can keep an eye out toward the front. Stephanie will do the rear. Right, Steph?” Duncan said.

Boyd, Rankin and Peeples snickered and exchanged glances.

“What’s so funny?” Duncan asked.

“Nothing, nothing,” Rankin said. “Let’s keep our eyes peeled.”

Suddenly, Duncan found himself with nothing to do. The same with everybody except Boyd and Rankin. Hamel continued filming, watching the LCD screen intently. No one was talking. The air was heavy with the sound of undulating water, interrupted by occasional unidentifiable animal noises. Thunder continued in the distance, the storm now moving away. Or so he hoped.

They all started to nod off, exhausted, the adrenaline rush giving way to the adrenaline crash. Even Duncan could not keep from laying his head on the cab roof momentarily.

“Oh, my, God!” Peeples said, enunciating each word slowly as she stared through the binoculars. “They’re coming.”

Like a slap in the face, this brought everyone to their feet, all except Hamel who continued to watch everything through the camera’s LCD screen. Azevedo flooded the area with the searchlight, revealing several smaller rafts seemingly headed toward the truck.

“Fill all the cups,” Duncan said frantically, as he watched the mats of insects approach.

Peeples and Johnson lined up five cups on the cab roof and gingerly filled them while Duncan brought one to the rear of the truck. The bugs weren’t close enough yet to light a splinter. With two rafts, one in front of the other, Duncan’s anxiety increased. Could they defend themselves against two of them, one after the other?

“Alison, Carlos, each of you bring two cups. Cody, dig out some more splinters. I need them right away.”

The trio moved quickly and were at Duncan’s side with the cups and splinters.

“You have a lighter?” Duncan asked Boyd.

“Yeah, right here,” Boyd said, pulling a butane lighter from his shorts pocket.

“OK, when I tell you to, light one of the splinters. I’ve got one, and I’ll use it for the first cup. Can you light it for me?”

Duncan handed the splinter to Boyd, who prepared to light it when Duncan stopped him.

“Not yet, give it a minute. They need to get closer.”

Now it was up to the current and the debris. Duncan hoped the rafts would catch on debris that would re-route them, break them up or stop them altogether. But they seemed to have a clear path, moving rapidly toward the side of the truck, almost perpendicular to it. Instead of hoping that they would miss the truck entirely, his new concern was that they’d hit the front of the truck where he couldn’t reach them. What would they do then?

“Professor, Professor,” he said, “can you roll up your window?”

Although he’d been able to lower the window, Azevedo struggled to raise it, pulling the glass with one hand while turning the crank with the other.

“No, it won’t roll up. Why? You think they’re going to hit me?”

“Can you move to the driver’s side, or better yet, is there any way you can get back here?”

“I can move over, but I don’t know how I’d lift myself.”

“I can help,” Boyd volunteered.

“That’s nice of you,” Azevedo replied, “but what can you do?”

“I can help push you. If you can just get out on the driver’s side.”

“I’m too fat and heavy. You’re not a weightlifter, are you?”

Boyd looked at Hamel, who aimed the camera at the younger man’s face.

“Can you help, Mister Hamel?”

“I’m not getting into the water. Sorry.”

Boyd sighed deeply.

“Well, then give me my camera. I’m not gonna let you use it if you’re not going to help.”

Hamel became defensive, hiding the camera behind his back with one hand while holding his other arm in a parrying fashion as if to ward off an attack. Boyd frowned angrily.

“I’ll do it,” Johnson said. “There’s no time to waste.”

But before Johnson could hand his two gasoline-filled cups to Maggie Cross, Duncan said, “They’re almost here. They’re headed right to where I’m standing. Get ready. Where’s the splinter? Cody?”

Boyd stopped in his tracks and put a flame under one end of the splinter while shuffling to Duncan’s side. Once the flame was going, he handed it to Duncan. At that point, he could see the bugs. They were within ten feet of the truck. Bugs were jumping madly as Duncan leaned over to pour the gas into the water just in front of the bugs, dropping the lighted splinter into the water seconds later.

The air burst into flame again, the heat forcing Duncan to turn away. Insects let out high-pitched screeching. Grabbing a cup from Peeples, he braved the heat to pour it alongside the truck, protecting his face with his free hand. Then he threw a third cup, some of which almost immediately was carried under the truck. But nobody paid attention as everyone focused on the insects, some of which were again landing on the truck and its occupants.

Suddenly, Peeples dropped the cup she was holding and started screaming. Gasoline splashed across the wood plank truck bed, splattering on people’s shoes and ankles. Peeples writhed as insects landed on her chest and in her hair and swiftly started their gruesome work.

Rankin was the first to respond to Peeples, pulling off several of the bugs almost immediately. The ones in the hair were the hardest and, for Peeples, the scariest. They became entangled, and when Rankin tried to pull them off, all she ended up doing was painfully pulling Peeples’ hair. By this time, Boyd had handed his cups to Duncan, pulled out his pocket knife and, wrapping his hand around a bug’s body along with a hank of hair, sliced through the hair and threw the bug and hair into the water. Working quickly, he made short work of the insects in Peeples’ hair while Rankin finished with the others digging into Peeples’ chest. The young woman then collapsed against the side of the cab and sobbed, joining Hamel who was recording again.

Cross handed a cup to Duncan who threw its contents into the water, hoping to cover the remainder of the first raft, which was breaking up and its remnants floating under the truck. They heard the faint pinging of bugs as they jumped under the chassis and into oblivion.

Peeples wasn’t the only person struggling with insects, but the others were able to bat them away or crush them under foot. Cross took the flexible panel at the bottom of her backpack. It was thin but tear proof, measuring about sixteen inches by twelve. She used it like a flyswatter. Rankin used her hands and, seeing the success Cross was having batting the jumpers into the water, tore into her backpack to pull out its panel.

Duncan’s fear that the bugs would collide with the front of the truck became real. With everyone fending off bugs behind the cab, nobody was watching, except Hamel, who watched everything through the camera’s LCD. A cluster of insects broke off from a larger raft and was floating toward the passenger side front fender. He understood that if the bugs were able to climb onto the hood, many more could follow depending on the current. He also understood that Azevedo would die if the bugs managed to establish a foothold. Given time, even a handful of bugs could kill a person by attacking the eyes or other soft spots. Once they latched on, if they weren’t quickly killed the way Rankin and Boyd had killed the bugs attacking Peeples, they would slowly, excruciatingly consume their victim.

With only a moment to plan, Duncan crawled onto the cab, sat on its front edge and asked Cross to hand him two cups of gasoline and some splinters.

“I don’t have any? Where are they?” she asked, her voice betraying panic.

“Just pull ‘em out of the flooring,” Duncan said.

Cross fell to her knees and dug at the boards with her fingernails, but to no avail.

“Quickly,” Duncan said, his voice rising. “Give me something, anything I can light. I don’t care. Paper, anything.”

Boyd joined Cross and, knife in hand, dug into the edges of a board, slicing out a long, sharp splinter, which he broke in half and handed to Duncan. He lit it immediately and, holding it away from his body, poured a half-full cup of gasoline into the water alongside the passenger side wheel well, dropping the flaming splinter after it. The flames spread quickly, surrounding the right front and the passenger side to the door. But it wasn’t enough as a cloud of insects filled the air, many coming down on the hood and onto Duncan, who waved his arms like a madman to swat them away. Although he got most of them, several had landed on his legs and just that quickly he was no longer in the fight, focusing instead on tearing them away from his body, which he did, leaving parts of them embedded in his flesh. Blood dripped down his calves, and though he was in pain, he ignored it. Then another raft hit the side of the truck, almost dead center on the passenger door. Duncan lit another splinter, poured gasoline into the water and set it ablaze. But he was a little late with the flame, and plenty of them had already launched themselves into the air, landing on the hood, the cab and inside the cab onto Azevedo’s lap.

While this was going on, Boyd grabbed one of the gas cans and was on the verge of pouring it into the water but stopped with Azevedo’s first screams. The old man let go of the searchlight, which hung precariously from its mount, pointing downward, illuminating only a small area near the front fender. Were it not for the flames on the surface of the water, those on the truck bed would have been in near total darkness. Everyone knew instinctively that the situation was out of control.

The professor leaned against the door, pushed it open and rolled into the water like a potato sack, through a patch of flame and insects. Even though he wore size forty-four pants, the water was high enough that he was completely submerged. Duncan saw the old man tumble in the water, shouted and watched as he submerged out of sight, but the immediate problem was the insects at the front of the truck. The bugs were infiltrating the cab through the open windows and more were coming.

Duncan leaned over as far as he could toward the front of the cab and poured a cup of gasoline followed by a lighted splinter, and the front of the truck and its underside erupted in flame, sending a cloud of bugs into the air, most of them falling back into the water. Duncan and Boyd stood against the cab and batted away the bugs that didn’t land in the water, but there wasn’t much they could do against the ones that were inside the cab. The two exchanged glances. Without a word, Boyd lit a splinter while Duncan leaned over and tossed gasoline into the cab. Boyd leaned toward the driver’s side and threw in the lighted splinter. The cab exploded into flame, filling with screeches and smoke, setting what remained of the upholstery on fire. Acrid smoke billowed out of the windows, but the slight breeze pushed it away from the truck. By now, it was clear to Duncan that they were fighting a losing battle. Already one of the gas cans was empty, and the remaining can was less than full.

Suddenly, not far from the front passenger side, Azevedo poked his head out of the water, gasping for breath.

“Professor!” Duncan shouted.

The old man struggled to keep his head above water, craning his neck as he did so. Fatigue and his generally poor physical condition prevented him from pushing himself to his feet. Duncan, Boyd and the others crowded together, all of them shouting at Azevedo to get on his feet. The old man shook his head and mumbled something. Antonio Suarez shouted at him in Portuguese, jumped into the waist deep water and grabbed Azevedo from behind. He tried to lift him to his feet, but Suarez was too small and the professor too large as both men briefly submerged.

“Can you move?” Suarez asked.

“No, I can’t. Save yourself. There’s nothing you can do for me.”

Suarez shook his head.

“As long as I can stay underwater, I’ll be safe from them,” Azevedo said, reassuringly. “That’s why I got into the water. Some of the insects were on me, but they seem to have drowned.”

“What about all the junk in the water? There’s all kinds of stuff, I can feel it.”

“It’s not so bad, so far. Anyway, I have no choice. I can’t even stand up, I’m so ashamed.”

“Professor, I’m not leaving you.”

Boyd was the next to join the pair in the water. Splashing to them, he kneeled alongside Azevedo, his head just above water, and put his shoulder under the professor’s arm. Seeing this, Suarez did the same on the other side, and the two tried to lift the old man, but fell back. It was like trying to lift a bag of wet sand out of a mud hole.

“I can’t even help you!” Azevedo shouted. “I can’t even help myself. Go away before it’s too late. Let me take my chances.”

Everyone on the truck was scouring the area for more insects, but there was little illumination since the searchlight was pointed toward the water. Even though the interior of the cab continued to smolder, Johnson climbed inside through the driver’s side window and gingerly perched on what remained of the seat, feeling with his feet for cool spots. At the same time, he raised the searchlight and swept it across the area from the front to the rear of the truck.

“Guys,” Johnson shouted, “Bugs are comin’ right at you. Look!”

“Get out of there,” Duncan urged.

“We can’t leave Doctor Azevedo,” Boyd shouted.

“You have to,” Azevedo said. “You’re young; I’m old. I’m finished. Let me be.”

For the first time, Azevedo struggled against his would-be rescuers. He could see the approaching insects as well as the others. With one last burst of energy, he pressed his shoes into the muck and managed to push himself forward, away from Suarez and Boyd, disappearing for a moment under the murky water. The young men shouted after the old man, but he remained under water.

“Get away from there,” Duncan shouted. “We can’t use the gas as long as you’re in the water. There’s nothing else to do. If you don’t get out, you’re endangering the rest of us.”

Suarez wanted to stay, but Boyd pushed him toward the truck, and the two clambered up the front bumper, onto the hood and then over the top of the cab onto the bed. Duncan handed a splinter and his lighter to Maggie Cross, who lit it and held it, using her hand to shield the flame. Just as he was about to pour gasoline onto the water, he saw Azevedo’s head pop out of the water, now more than twenty feet away from the truck. Although he wasn’t directly in the way of the insects, some of those that were jumping landed on him and underwater he went.

“Five, four, three, two, one,” Duncan counted quietly, and then leaning over the side of the truck, gently emptied a cup. Then he tossed a splinter, and a wall of flames erupted just in front of the insect’s raft, which disintegrated as it hit the fire.

Almost immediately, bugs started raining down, most of them hitting the water, but some of them landing on the hood and cab roof. Cross and Duncan brushed off the ones on the roof but could do nothing about those on the hood. Within moments, they scurried into the cab, which Johnson abandoned quickly, retreating to the bed. While he worked the light, he managed to set it in a position that kept most of the light aimed at the forest and not straight down into the water. Even so, it illuminated about half the area than it had when Azevedo controlled the lamp.

Once again, the bugs were taking over the cab, and once again Duncan tossed gasoline inside and lit it. With bugs in front of them and threatening them from the side, and running out of gasoline, Duncan looked at Boyd and shook his head.

“This isn’t gonna work,” he said matter-of-factly. “We’ve got to get out of here.”

“What about the professor?”

“I’m thinking about us. We’re gonna die if we stay here.”

“What are we gonna do then?”

“Steer the truck off the road and into the current. Maybe it’s deep enough that we’ll be carried along. I don’t know what else to do. We could all go into the water, but when we run out of light, we’ll be blind. We won’t even know where the bugs are.”

“I don’t know if I can reach the pedals the way the fire is eating up the interior.”

“Then I’ll do it. There’s no time to waste.”

Duncan took a step toward the driver’s side of the bed, but Boyd deftly swung himself into the cab, put the truck in gear and muscled the steering wheel enough that the wheels started a modest turn. He hoped to keep it from tipping on one side or the other.

“Brace yourselves,” Duncan shouted. “Grab onto to something and hold on. If we get dumped into the water, stay where you are and duck under. The bugs can’t swim.”

“Neither can I,” Hamel said, nervously.

“You won’t have to. It’s not that deep.”

The truck got halfway down the side of the road before it started to tip to one side. It didn’t help that the water was pushing hard against it. Clouds of steam burst from under the hood as the truck descended into the soft muck, the passenger side wheels rising out of the water. Without so much as an “Oh, my God,” the truck went over on the driver’s side, sliding several yards before coming to a stop in deeper water that covered half the vehicle. The engine sputtered into silence. The lights were still on but dimmed significantly when the engine quit.

Using a flashlight, Duncan counted heads. Boyd climbed out of the cab for the last time and made his way to Duncan. Because the truck tipped so slowly, everyone got off safely, but gear they weren’t carrying in their clothing was scattered and floating away, and the gas can had disappeared though the air reeked of gasoline vapors.

They had lost the high ground and no longer had any way to see the bugs from a distance. Since the truck had come to a stop with its front end pointing away from the current, he moved to the front where the others joined him. Exhausted and soaking wet, no one talked as they huddled together like penguins. Whether because they could no longer see the oncoming insects or felt protected by the truck, an unexpected calm settled over the group. Duncan used his flashlight to illuminate the passing current, which continued to carry insect rafts and parts of them downstream.

Then the screaming started. It came from the other side of the road. Suarez immediately tried to bolt, but Duncan stopped him.

“There’s nothing you can do.”

“The professor needs our help.”

“It’s too late. He wouldn’t want you to help now.”

“I can end his misery. I watched poor Javier die this way. I cannot do it again.”

“You can be killed too, you know that?”

“Besides, we need you, too,” Boyd said. “You’re our guide; you’re the only one who can get us out of this place.”

Suarez took a deep breath and was about to break free when Duncan pointed his flashlight at a raft of insects passing less than fifteen feet away, the air above it teeming with jumpers.

“You think you can survive that after what you’ve seen?” Duncan demanded.

Suarez shrugged, and Duncan let go. The guide watched the insects until Duncan doused his light. They were enveloped in near total darkness, able to make out forms but not details. But the screams got worse as each began to imagine what was happening to Azevedo. And then, perhaps five minutes after they had started, the screams diminished and then stopped. There was one more outburst, and then only the sound of the interminable current. Duncan made a mental note of the time. One twenty-six a.m.

79

IT WAS ONE-FORTY the next time Duncan looked at his watch. For about fifteen minutes, things had settled down enough that Peeples started to complain of feeling cold. Standing was itself a challenge in the debris-filled water. Unknown objects assaulted their legs as they steadied themselves against the current. Every several minutes, someone switched on a flashlight or headlamp to see what was around them. Sometimes they saw insects, and sometimes they didn’t. Hamel wondered optimistically whether most of them had passed them by, but there was no way of knowing without better light. The flashlights penetrated the darkness no more than fifty feet, some of them much less. Always, they were looking for signs of insects.

As time passed, their fear began to subside as they caught glimpses of bug rafts moving away from them downstream. These were smaller than the ones that had collided with the truck but, without weapons to defend themselves, the size of the raft didn’t matter. The gas cans had washed away. Most of their equipment had disappeared underwater, and all they had was what they were wearing or carrying. They had nothing they could use to bat the insects away. Even so, they were breathing easier, and some felt the worst had passed and that when dawn came they would be able to settle on their next move. Some rested on the truck’s front bumper and tried to steal some sleep. A couple of others leaned against the hood, including Boyd, who stretched his torso across the rusty hood in a fitful effort to find a position that would help him rest, if not sleep. Eventually, he gave up and simply leaned against the truck.

Hamel and Cross had started a conversation about the water level and whether it was starting to decline. Hamel maintained that it was while Cross said she couldn’t tell. They asked Duncan what he thought.

“I can’t tell. If it is, it’s not much. But I don’t think it’s getting any higher.”

“That’s good, isn’t it?” Hamel asked.

“I suppose,” Duncan said absently. His energy had run down, and he found himself stifling yawns and bracing himself against the truck to steady himself. Even though they were exhausted and uncomfortable, listening to Hamel and Cross talk quietly about normal things suggested that the worst was behind them.

“I just wish I hadn’t lost the camera,” Hamel said.

“Me, too,” Boyd agreed. “‘Course, I wish I was in a comfy bed somewhere, anywhere.”

“I’ll tell you what I wish,” Rankin said, “I wish I had a bottle of booze.”

“Well, as long as we’re wishing,” said Johnson, “I wish we’d find a boat that will take us out of here.”

“I wish we had some food,” Peeples added.

“I wish Professor Azevedo was alive,” Suarez said solemnly.

Silence came over the group as the guide had punctured the delicate bubble of growing optimism. Chagrined by the guide’s heartfelt reminder, they started looking inward, or at least quietly savored what some saw as a downhill glide back to civilization. That was until Johnson aimed his light on the endless flood and what looked like a log floating nearby that turned out to have a tail propelling it.

“My God,” Hamel said, “is that an alligator? Now we got alligators to deal with? What the fuck!”

“It’s a caiman,” Suarez said. “We don’t have alligators in Brazil, just caiman.”

“Aren’t they worse?” Hamel asked.

Suarez took his machete out of its sheath as he watched the creature glide darkly in the water.

“Why is he doing that?” Hamel asked anxiously.

“Just in case,” Duncan said.

“In case of what?”

“In case it takes an interest in us. From what I’ve read, they’re mean SOBs,” Boyd said.

Duncan cautioned everyone to remain still and quiet.

“Keep your light on it,” he said to Johnson.

Johnson followed the caiman with his headlamp until it was gone. Conversations started again.

“I wonder if there are others,” Peeples said.

“I would think so,” Duncan said. “After all, they live here.”

“I wish we hadn’t seen it,” Hamel said.

“Why?” Cross asked.

“Well, now it’s just one more thing to worry about. Now it’s the bugs and the caiman. What’s next, piranha?” he laughed uneasily.

“There are piranha in these waters, I’m sure of it,” Johnson said. “But, you know, they don’t usually attack people.”

“Not usually?” Hamel said.

“Contrary to popular belief,” Peeples added, “they have such a bad reputation because when they do kill someone it gets blown out of proportion, like with sharks. Don’t tell me you didn’t learn anything about the rainforest before we started this trip?”

“No, not really. I came just to keep Maggie company.”

While listening to this, Boyd thought he’d detected movement from the opposite end of the truck. Was it a snake? As long as he couldn’t see it, he could block it out of his mind, but now he sensed something in the dense darkness that sent a shiver down his back. Switching on his headlamp, he reflexively stepped back from the truck as the light revealed insects jumping not fifteen feet from where he stood. Others did the same as they realized what was happening.

“My God!” Rankin shouted, stepping back awkwardly and falling butt-first into the water. Johnson grabbed her arm and pulled her upright.

Everyone had taken several steps back from the truck and watched the bugs jumping in Boyd’s light.

“Move back, everybody move back,” Duncan commanded.

As they backed away, Duncan and Johnson used their lights to lead them while Boyd kept his light on the bugs, which didn’t take long to reach the hood of the truck. At this point, only a handful were jumping, as they swarmed.

“I think we’re safe in the water,” Duncan said. “They can’t swim.”

The group gathered around a thick stand of trees, about fifty feet from the truck. Without the truck to partially block the current, they were exposed to its full force and had to find ways to maintain balance against it. Duncan switched his light off to conserve power and Johnson did the same. Boyd’s light was starting to dim, and when he switched it off they were again swallowed in darkness.

Fear had returned, and panic was not far away. It was nearly three a.m. and imaginations were once again running amok as some whispered about all the things that could kill them. Rankin felt something nibbling on her calf, and she screamed and started kicking her legs.

“Something’s biting me!” she screeched.

Johnson put his headlamp on her and pulled her toward him. Squatting so that only his head was above water, he felt around her legs.

“Nothing there,” he said reassuringly, standing.

“I felt something,” Rankin insisted, “but it must be gone now.”

“It’s was probably leaves or something floating by,” Johnson said. “Whatever it was, it’s gone now.”

“I wanna be gone now,” Peeples said.

“Don’t we all,” Cross agreed.

Duncan and Boyd kept their eyes on the truck. Illuminating it intermittently, they saw that the bugs were forming a raft near the bumper. It started slowly but grew quickly, machinelike in efficiency. In less than twenty minutes, the raft had expanded to at least four feet in diameter. The larger it got, the more bugs jumped.

“We gotta find something, a stick, a branch, anything to fight these things, or push them away,” Duncan whispered to Boyd.

He asked Suarez if he could climb one of the trees they were clinging to and cut some branches. Suarez understood immediately what to do and shimmied up a tree and started hacking with his machete, dropping several branches on the heads of the people below. It wasn’t until this started to happen and Duncan once again had his light on the truck that the situation became clear to everyone.

People scrambled to grab the branches out of the water. Some were covered with leaves and too flexible to use as a prod. Others were sturdier and could be used to push the raft away, except they weren’t very long. Hamel took several steps back in the darkness and leaned against a tree about ten feet from the group. Seeing this, Cross shouted, “George, where are you going?”

“I’m getting out of here,” he shouted and tried unsuccessfully to climb the trunk.

Everyone was stunned at how quickly the raft moved toward them when it broke away from the truck. Only seconds remained before it would reach them. Already bugs were falling into the water within a body’s length of the group. There was no longer time to prepare. As the bugs floated within arm’s length, Johnson, using the longest branch that he could find, jabbed at the raft, trying to push it away. It was like poking a stick into an ant mound. The air filled with buzzing and bugs, and within seconds Johnson screamed, dropped the branch and ducked underwater where he pulled at several bugs that had landed in his hair. Whether they were dead or alive he didn’t know as he tore out strands of hair, squashing the hard-shelled bugs. He dove into the water without taking a deep breath and was able to stay under only briefly before breaking the surface, brushing against the edge of the raft, gasping. Seconds passed, and he dove under again. This time his head and shoulders were crawling with bugs. He tore at them as best he could, but there were too many of them and, while they were vulnerable in the water, it took a moment for them to drown, during which they lacerated his scalp and upper back. Running out of breath, he pushed himself along the bottom with his legs, hoping to break surface away from the insects. But he was disoriented and couldn’t see the bugs from underwater. When he surfaced, his lungs empty, he gasped and sucked in great gulps of air, along with bugs. He felt them slide like huge lozenges into his throat.

80

BOYD AND DUNCAN had their lights on when Johnson went underwater. Then they lost him. Found him. Lost him. All the time, he was screaming, even underwater. They were the screams of someone being eaten alive. His eyes obliterated, unconnected, blind. They heard him scream “Kill me, kill me, kill me!” before the almost inhuman screech was cut off by water. Up. Down. Up. Down. And then the screaming stopped as suddenly as it had started. They’d lost track of him. They scoured the water for bubbles while at the same time keeping their distance from the raft of bugs.

Others huddled together among the compact stand of trees as if bracing themselves for an attack. Everyone was on edge from Johnson’s screams. Was he better off dead? No one spoke it, and Rankin continued to sob as if she’d just lost a loved one. Time seemed to stand still. And then Johnson stood up in the swirling water, blood pouring out of his mouth.

“Kill me, please, kill me,” he screamed again.

“For God’s sake,” Hamel yelled, “Kill him. This is unbearable.”

Suarez stepped forward, his machete in hand. He hadn’t been able to help the professor, but he realized he was the only one who could do what needed to be done. Bugs filled the air, many of them coming down in the water after their brief flights, as Suarez, holding the machete in front of him like a lance, dove underwater toward Johnson. With uncanny accuracy and without surfacing, he plunged the wide blade into Johnson’s abdomen. Surfacing briefly, he pulled the blade back, gave it two quick thrusts and then, as the bugs descended onto him, he dove underwater, surfacing behind the group, gasping for breath. Whatever bugs had landed on him had let go.

The others watched in shock over the brutality of what they’d just seen, but relieved that it was over. For a moment, no one said anything.

“We can’t stay here,” Duncan said, finally.

“The insects can’t be everywhere,” he said. “It’s our bad luck that brought us here. The forest is huge, and there can’t be that many of them.”

“Where we gonna go?” Peeples asked, as she comforted Rankin who struggled to regain her composure.

“Away from this place,” Boyd said. “Head back the direction we came.”

“Why not the other way, keep going like we were when we were on the road?” Hamel asked. “Isn’t there high ground somewhere?”

“Didn’t you see the bugs in front of the truck? We couldn’t have kept going anyway, we’d have driven right into them.”

“Okay, okay,” Duncan argued. “Cody’s right. Let’s just head back and get away from these things.”

With lights losing power, and virtually no supplies or gear and only a few water bottles, Duncan led the way with Boyd bringing up the rear, doing everything they could to preserve battery life while somehow lighting the way and avoiding holes and tripping over roots or themselves. They followed each other closely, afraid to be separated, and at the same time not wanting to be the first one to stumble or worse. But it was only a matter of time before the flashlights died, and everyone knew it. Nobody wanted to think about what they would do when that happened.

81

DANIEL ROCHA WAS up at dawn to the smell of freshly brewed coffee, but it did not lead to the early start he’d hoped for, since Captain Gonzalo Juarez couldn’t be awakened as he snored quietly on a cot in the mostly dark cabin. Daylight was near at hand, and Carvalho couldn’t wait to find Professor Azevedo, but he was simply a passenger and the youngest man in the room. The other two were already on the deck sipping coffee while watching the relentless flow of the unending lake that surrounded them. When he approached them, Augusto Santos welcomed him.

“Think the water is higher or lower than last night?” Santos asked in Portuguese.

“I can’t tell,” Julio Carvalho said.

“I can’t tell either,” Rocha said. “Where’s the coffee?”

Carvalho directed him to the percolator on the small gas stove inside. The coffee was strong and hot, and the first sip burned his tongue. By the third sip, he felt more awake and returned to the deck where he leaned on the railing and idly listened to his companions who were talking about soccer. Rocha was one of the few Brazilians who had no interest in soccer, but listened anyway in an effort to avoid thinking about the professor and how they should be acting with greater urgency. It was a rescue mission, after all.

Sunlight occasionally broke through the clouds and the rain had stopped, and the only reason he could think of why they hadn’t already left was the sleeping captain. This gnawed at him, and when he went inside to refill his cup he stood over the captain on his cot and started talking as if the older man were awake.

“Don’t you think we should be going?” the young man said in a normal voice. “It’s not raining, and the other fellows are ready to go. You should try this coffee. It’s very strong and very good. In fact, I can’t see how you can sleep with the smell. It’s strong enough to wake the dead.”

The captain grunted and mumbled something unintelligible. Rocha gave him a moment and then held the pot near the captain’s head.

“Smell that? How can you resist it?”

This time the captain rolled over, his head pressed against his pillow, his dark eyes focused on Rocha.

“What time is it?” he asked in a low, gravelly voice, breaking into a brief coughing fit, which caused him to sit up to clear his throat.

“It’s nearly six-thirty,” Rocha said, filling a cup and holding it out. Juarez took it in both hands and sipped. Then another.

“Good coffee.”

“I didn’t make it.”

“It’s still good coffee. Nothing like fresh Brazilian coffee.”

“Shouldn’t we be on our way?” Rocha prompted. “This is a rescue mission, not a fishing expedition.”

Juarez frowned and took a deep breath.

“I don’t like your tone,” he said abruptly, rising to his feet. “A few minutes won’t make a difference.”

“You don’t know that,” Rocha insisted.

“Okay, okay,” he said. “Just let me finish my coffee.”

Rocha smiled victoriously, went to his cot, packed his belongings and returned to the deck where Santos and Carvalho were still talking about soccer. After a few moments, the captain emerged on the deck in his underwear.

“What’s for breakfast?”

“That’s a good idea,” Santos said, standing from his perch on a bench. “I’ll see what we have.”

“Hope it’s more than a can of beans,” Carvalho said.

Rocha felt his frustration build. Nobody seemed to have any sense of urgency about the mission. He thought he should remind them but saw how they brushed him aside as they went inside to rustle up breakfast. While he remained on the deck fuming, he heard someone shout something about eggs.

“Hey, we’ve got eggs,” Carvalho said, looking into the small refrigerator next to the stove.

“I’ll bet there’s a chicken coop down below.”

“We would’ve heard them,” Juarez said, “especially the rooster.”

“I don’t know,” Carvalho said. “Where else would the eggs come from?”

“Yeah,” Santos said, “it makes sense that the guy who owned this place would have chickens. He’s out here in the middle of nowhere. He can’t just go to a store.”

“Hey, young fella,” Juarez called. “Why don’t you go downstairs and let us know if you see a chicken coop?”

This angered Rocha. It was one thing to wait for breakfast, but this was worse. It was obvious that the captain didn’t care about what they were there to do, or so it seemed to Rocha. He began pacing and finally burst into the doorway.

“You ought to be ashamed,” he said defiantly. The three men turned to face Rocha. “Professor Azevedo and his friends could be dying right now, and all you’re interested in is breakfast and whether there’s a chicken coop. Well, I won’t stand for it.”

Juarez shook his head. The others exchanged puzzled glances.

“Listen, young man, whether you look for the chickens or not has no bearing on when we will get underway. I’m a man who likes to start his day with a hot breakfast. You don’t have to eat if you don’t want to. If it makes you feel better, you can just go out to the boat and wait there. It’s not going to take long,” Juarez said sternly.

“Try to relax,” Santos said sympathetically. “We’ll be riding in small boats and won’t be able to carry many provisions. You should eat now or you’ll be hungry later. It’s up to you.”

Santos prepared a breakfast of eggs and canned black beans mixed with weevily rice, which they devoured along with a second pot of coffee. Conversation revolved around how well stocked and organized the cabin was and how good the eggs tasted. While waiting for them, Rocha pulled two of the small boats to the side of the cabin. He loaded water bottles into each boat and thought he had everything ready when he looked up toward the deck and saw Captain Juarez shaking his head.

“What?” Rocha said.

“You forgot something.”

Rocha looked at the boats for a moment.

“What did I forget?”

“The motors.”

Rocha studied the boats. He slapped his forehead.

“They’re on the boat, don’t you remember?” Juarez said. “They’re too heavy to carry this far. Besides, you also forgot the fuel.” Pausing for effect, he added, “You see, it does one no good to be in a hurry.”

“Did you find any chickens?” Santos hollered.

Rocha took several aggressive steps toward the boat but halted when Juarez called, “Wait a minute. I’ll join you.”

The captain finished dressing and quickly joined Rocha.

“Let’s bring this boat back. We’ll bring back the motors and gas and anything else we might need.”

“Like what?”

“Oh, like a compass, a map. I see you already got the water. Good. Wouldn’t want to forget that.”

Within fifteen minutes, they were back installing the outboards and preparing to launch their journey. The captain questioned Santos and Carvalho about their boat handling skills. While setting his shotgun into one of the boats, Santos said, “We’re guides, guards, jacks of all things, ain’t that right, Julio?”

“True. We do lot of things, mostly legal, all for money, of course.”

“Well, know this, I’m not paying a single real,” Juarez cautioned.

Santos scrambled aboard while Carvalho held the boat steady. Moments later, they used canoe paddles to shove off, and after several false starts managed to get the old outboards running amid clouds of gray smoke. While Carvalho took the helm, Santos quietly opened a beer and announced, “This is going to be a good day.”

“Where’d you find that? Carvalho demanded.

“In a cabinet. There’s more. This is my reward for cooking breakfast.”

82

CAPTAIN JUAREZ ENTERED the coordinates that Rocha had given him into his small, handheld GPS. It resulted in a much more direct route than the Americans had taken. It took only three hours to arrive at the clearing, which was mostly underwater. They stopped there to consider their next move, which was to motor to the shed to see if anyone was there. Rocha called out multiple times but received no response.

“I assume there is some sort of road,” Juarez said, “otherwise, how would they get the lumber out?”

“It’s underwater now,” Santos said.

“Maybe they drowned,” Carvalho said.

“Don’t say that,” Rocha responded angrily. “It’s too soon to give up. We just got here.”

“Relax, young man,” Juarez said. “We’re not leaving, we just need to decide which way to go.”

Juarez instructed Santos and Carvalho to probe the western portion of the area while he and Rocha scouted the eastern half. They did this for about a half hour, using sticks to check for depth. Juarez thought that a raised area could indicate a road, and that’s how they found the elevated roadbed.

“This has to be it,” Juarez said. “It’s very close to the coordinates.”

The water was about waist high with debris piling up in small, slow moving islands. Unable to see the roadbed through the murky water, they used sticks much the way that Boyd and Suarez had used them to feel for the sloping edges. Progress was slow. Rocha was hopeful that this would lead them to the professor. For the most part, the current pushed against the side of the boats, which made it difficult to follow the road closely. But it wasn’t long before they found a partially submerged truck to one side of the road. It was an old truck, and it was impossible for them to tell how long it had been there.

They reconnoitered the area for fifteen minutes when Carvalho shouted.

“Over here,” he said, pointing to debris that had piled against a stand of trees.

Juarez had his boat alongside Carvalho’s boat in less than a minute and watched as Carvalho used a stick to pull at pieces of tattered cloth and beneath a body, barely recognizable as human. It looked as if it had been partially devoured, with chunks of flesh missing, particularly in what looked to be the abdomen. As Rocha stared at it, he realized it wasn’t the professor’s body but derived little comfort from it. He wondered who this was, and whether he or she had been part of Azevedo’s group.

“It stinks pretty bad,” Santos said, holding up an arm with his stick and then letting it drop into the water.

“This isn’t your professor, is it?” Juarez asked.

“I don’t think so. He was bigger, you know, fatter.”

“Maybe the animals have reduced his size,” Carvalho said.

“Why do you say such things,” Santos shot at his friend. “You’re just upsetting the boy. Can’t you see?”

“I can see that something has been eating this body,” Carvalho responded brusquely.

Rocha had tensed as Carvalho spoke but thought better of responding after hearing Santos’ admonishment.

“If I had gloves, I might check his pockets,” Santos said, “but I won’t touch a dead body without gloves.”

The boats slipped away from the body and moved alongside the partially submerged truck. Everyone had a look inside. It offered no clues.

“Anybody got any ideas where to look?” Juarez asked.

“Maybe we should separate, you try to follow the road, and we’ll head in this direction.”

Tapping the fuel tank in his boat, Santos said, “I don’t know. Do we have enough fuel? And look at the time.” He held up his wrist, displaying a cheap watch with a plastic band. “It’s a little after noon. How much time do we have?”

Juarez checked the fuel tank with a stick and threw it in the water. The gasoline on the stick blossomed in the water.

“We’re fine,” he said.

“Should we be calling out their names?” Rocha asked. “Maybe they can hear us, even if they can’t see us.”

Santos and Carvalho looked at each other and shook their heads.

“What should we say? We don’t know their names,” Santos said.

“The only one I know is Professor Azevedo. His first name is Fernando.”

“Okay, we can do that every once in a while, but I don’t want you shouting in my ear all afternoon. Just once in awhile, okay. And you guys, don’t go too far. We should meet back here, at the truck, by one thirty. That’ll give us plenty of time to get back, and if we haven’t found them in an hour, then we might have to wait until the flood goes down.”

Speaking quietly to Rocha, he added, “You may as well get used to the idea that we may not find them, and that they’ve met with some catastrophe.”

Rocha nodded and then, as they pulled away from the truck, he shouted, “Professor Azevedo, can you hear me?”

83

IT WAS NEARLY dark when the two small aluminum boats glided to a stop alongside the cabin. The four men tied the V-hulls to one of the cabin’s stilts and slowly trudged up the uneven wood stairs to the deck where they slumped onto benches. Rocha struggled not to act on his disappointment when the captain broke off the search without finding the Americans or the professor.

Juarez made the best of things with a spicy vegetarian stew from available ingredients. Three of the men ate with gusto, cooling their tongues with warm beer. The fourth, Daniel Rocha, sat by himself on a bench, nursing his gloom. He knew it meant the old man was probably dead. Though he felt guilty for thinking it, it also meant that Rocha would be out of a job. But he was hungry and ate. It was good stew, everyone agreed. Having eaten, they briefly discussed calling authorities using the radiophone. But they fell asleep one by one before any decisions could be made.

84

ONCE AGAIN, ROCHA woke in the predawn darkness. Again, not wanting to disturb the others, he sat on the deck waiting impatiently for the day to get started. He felt strongly about continuing the search, and when Juarez awoke, he approached him as he dressed and made his pitch. Juarez listened as he made coffee, nodding his head and seeming to be in agreement. After a few sips of the strong brew, they walked on the deck and leaned on the railing, looking at the vast sheet of water.

“Did you notice, the water level is going down?” Juarez said, pointing to a ring the water left on a nearby tree. “See, it’s down ten centimeters already.”

Rocha shrugged. He wasn’t interested in the water.

“I think we should notify the authorities,” Juarez said.

“I agree,” Rocha said, “but shouldn’t we also try to find them, the professor, and the Americans? We’re already here. What if they need our help?”

Juarez smiled wanly. He’d come to the conclusion that the reason they found no trace of them was because they were dead and their bodies were either underwater or had drifted away in the current. He knew Rocha wouldn’t accept this, so he didn’t mention it in so many words but dropped hints, none of which were acceptable to Rocha. Juarez finished his coffee and left the deck to make breakfast. Rocha followed him inside and stared at the radiophone, which was mounted on a shelf in front of a small table along a wall. He’d never used one but studied the control panel, which had several knobs, dials and switches. He asked Juarez if he knew how to use it.

“I haven’t used that one, but I’ve used them. They’re like the radio in my boat, I think. This one looks old.”

Following a breakfast of eggs and beans, Juarez pulled up a chair in front of the radio. It was then that he realized he was looking at an old radiotelephone and not the type of device on his boat. He switched it on, and the room filled with static. He manipulated several knobs and then realized he didn’t know what he was doing and shut it off.

Rocha, who was watching, said, “The radio’s not working?”

“I don’t know. It’s more complicated than what I’ve used. Maybe there’s a manual or something.”

In one corner were several shelves filled with books and old magazines. He scanned the titles and pulled out a thin, worn paper booklet. It was the radio’s manual with many dog-eared pages. Raul Barbosa, the cabin’s deceased owner, had written notes in the margins of numerous pages. Unfortunately, Juarez couldn’t read the Portuguese scribbles. He handed the manual to Rocha.

“You’ll have to read it to find out how to use this thing,” he said, returning to his seat in front of the radio.

Rocha looked at the table of contents and turned to the section on operating the radio. At the top of the page was a notice that the law allowed only licensed high-frequency radio operators to use the device. When told of this, Juarez laughed.

“That’s a joke, right?”

“No. That’s what it says right here,” Rocha said, pointing out the paragraph.

“Just tell me how to use this thing,” Juarez said impatiently, and then thought better of it. “You know, there’s no reason why you can’t do this. After all, you can read Portuguese. You should be able to follow the instructions quicker by yourself.”

With that, Juarez poured the last of the coffee and joined Santos and Carvalho on the deck where they talked about the water level and the news that Carvalho had located a small chicken coop with two chickens and eggs waiting to be taken.

Rocha was not a technologist and felt frustrated from the start. He’d never used anything like a radiotelephone but persevered for the sake of the professor. After a half hour, despite doing things exactly as the manual instructed, he didn’t even know whether the signal was getting out or whether he was using the correct frequency.

“I’m used to looking up information on the internet,” he whined to Juarez. “If I could do that, I could probably figure this out. But the manual only tells you what all the switches and dials are for, not how to make a connection with someone.”

Juarez had hoped that they could get in touch with authorities and let them put together a proper rescue operation. He knew that a group of missing Americans would get their attention. But that wasn’t likely now. And Rocha continued to press him to resume the search.

“Maybe I can reach someone from my boat,” he said. “I know how to use my radio. Let me give that a try.”

Rocha thought the captain was wasting time, but if he could make contact with authorities, especially quickly, they could then continue the search. Once aboard the boat, however, and after multiple attempts to reach anyone, Juarez shouted to Rocha, who’d been watching from the deck.

“I’m gonna head toward the river,” Juarez shouted. “I should get a better reception there. You wait here. It won’t take long.”

Rocha was livid.

“What the fuck? You can’t do that. It’ll take hours. Look how long it took to get from the river to here.”

“That was because I was hauling boats behind me. I won’t have to deal with that. This will be much faster.”

While Rocha argued, Juarez started the engine and, moving deftly on the deck, undid the lines that kept the boat in place.

“What’s he doing?” Santos said to Rocha, who was still shouting at Juarez.

“He’s going back to the river.”

“Without us? What the fuck,” Santos said. “Hey, what about us!” he shouted at Juarez. “Don’t go without us.”

“It’s okay. I’ll be back in an hour,” the captain shouted.

Within moments, Juarez was out of earshot. Rocha explained to the others what was going on. Santos was relieved.

“Jesus, I thought he was going to leave us here,” Santos said.

“Well, we should be looking for the professor, and now we’re just stuck here.”

“You could take a boat if you want and do it yourself,” Santos suggested.

Rocha grimaced.

“I can’t. The captain has the GPS. I’d get lost.”

“Well, you’ll just have to wait,” Santos said, popping the top on a beer. “You want one?”

85

ROCHA WAS THE first to spot Captain Juarez’s boat. He wasn’t alone. A second, larger boat motored behind him, tying up alongside Juarez’s boat when they neared the cabin. Juarez was accompanied by three men wearing the uniforms of wildlife police. Two deputies followed a youngish looking corporal onto the cabin deck. With a nod, the corporal’s men entered the cabin to check it out. Juarez, Rocha, Carvalho, and Santos formed a semicircle around the corporal on the deck.

“Who is in charge here?” the corporal asked stiffly. According to the nametag on his shirt, his name was Barros.

The men glanced at each other.

“I guess I am,” Juarez said. “Captain Juarez at your service.”

They’d introduced each other on the river. The others pressed tightly around Juarez, wanting to catch every word.

“Gentlemen, if you don’t mind, I’d like to speak with Captain Juarez privately.”

Rocha, Carvalho, and Santos moved out of sight on another part of the deck.

Juarez and the corporal took seats on a bench, facing each other awkwardly as they twisted their torsos. This lasted for seconds before they faced forward and spoke while only glancing at each other.

“You should have told me you were in charge,” Barros said. He took out a notebook and pen. “This is for an official report,” he said slowly. “Briefly, tell me what happened.”

“I already told you that,” Juarez said.

“I know, but I wasn’t taking notes, and now this is for the official report. Just tell me, briefly, what you already told me. I find it helps if I capture your dialogue; you know, the way you speak. Helps give the report veracity. My lieutenant likes that.”

In less than five minutes, the corporal closed his notebook and rose. The two officers were leaning against the railing, talking quietly. Juarez called to his companions to join him.

“Captain Juarez filled me in about the Americans. Bug hunters. They came at the wrong time of year. They should have waited.”

“The end of the rainy season is sometimes the worst part of it,” Santos agreed.

“That’s right,” the corporal said. “Anything else you can tell me about them, what they were doing, where they were going? That sort of thing.”

Juarez explained how he had dropped off the group on a trip from Manaus. The guides then mentioned what they’d seen or heard. The corporal looked up from his notebook when Santos talked about finding skeletons.

“Skeletons?”

“Yes, skeletons. You know, the bones were still mostly connected. Not like you usually see in the forest.”

“What kind of skeletons?”

“Animal skeletons, and I think a human skeleton though I didn’t see it,” Carvalho said.

Corporal Barros stopped taking notes.

“A human skeleton?”

“Yes, yes,” Santos said, “one was with a dog. I think I didn’t actually see it, but I heard them talking.”

Barros looked askance at the captain.

“Why didn’t you tell me this?” he asked curtly.

“I didn’t know,” Juarez shrugged. “I only dropped them off.”

Barros sought an explanation from Carvalho and Santos, who inadvertently admitted they had been hired as guards. They had hoped to keep themselves out of the corporal’s notebook.

“The obvious question is, how come you’re here instead of guarding this group?”

“Finding the skeletons, I don’t know, it scared us. You know, lots of bad things can happen in the forest. They didn’t explain things to us. Besides, we saw how the water was rising, and the Americans didn’t want to turn back, but we did,” Santos said.

“And just in time, too,” Carvalho added.

Finishing his interview with the guards, the corporal parlayed with his deputies, who were skeptical about what was said, and then asked if the guards could take them to where the skeletons were found. They agreed to try. Using Juarez’ boats, they motored away from the cabin late in the morning and arrived at their destination a little after one. The guards were in one boat, the corporal’s men in the second boat and the corporal sat with Rocha and Jaurez in the third boat. The water level was receding, sunshine was breaking through the canopy, birds were singing and monkeys screeching from above. After several false alarms, the guards were satisfied that they’d found the area where the skeletons had been found. Although the water level had dropped overnight, only the largest debris piles rose out of the water. Corporal Barros was losing patience, and his deputies were openly criticizing the guards and suggesting that they were making it up.

“Why would we make something like that up?” Santos countered indignantly. “What do we have to gain?”

Finally, the guards unsteadily climbed out of their boat to poke around, handing the bow line to one of the deputies to keep it from drifting away. The water in some places was no higher than their knees, but they felt pressure to find a skeleton, any skeleton. In their frustration, they used their machetes to cut poles from tree branches and started jabbing in the water to try to dislodge evidence that they had spoken truthfully. Even though they lived on the edges of legality, they resented deeply being thought of as liars. When one of the sticks became lodged on something under the murky water, jammed up against a log or stump, Santos pulled up on it as if working a heavy fish, and on the end of the stick was a portion of a ribcage. Santos smiled triumphantly and swung the stick toward the corporal, who pushed it away.

“Don’t throw that thing on me,” he ordered.

“See, see,” Carvolho said joyously. “We weren’t lying. We were telling the truth, and there it is.”

Rocha was stunned by this, as were Barros and his men. The guards were instructed to place the ribcage in their boat, which they rejected.

“I’m not riding in a boat with a skeleton,” Carvalho said defiantly. “Put it in your boat if you want it.”

“I’m in charge here,” the corporal said, authoritatively. “This may be a criminal matter. This is evidence.”

“I’m not going to look at this—this thing,” Santos argued.

“Then cover it up,” Barros said. “You’re either going to take it, or I’m going to file a charge of hindering an investigation.”

The guards looked at each other before bursting into laughter.

“You can’t make that stick,” Carvalho said, “and you know it.”

The corporal instructed his deputies to join the guards in the water. At first, they thought they were to take the guards into custody, but when their boss saw what was about to happen, he told them to stop.

“See if there are more bones,” Barros told them.

Both responded slowly. Neither wanted to handle a body with bare hands. They put on cloth gloves and felt around the water where the guards had pulled up the ribcage. There were more bones, including a skull, which they loaded into the guard’s boat. When they were finished, the pile was nearly eighteen inches high, mounded in the middle of the boat. They draped it with a large dirty towel that one of the guards had used as a seat cushion. While the bones were collected, at the corporal’s instruction, Captain Juarez used his GPS to mark the location.

“Is this one of the Americans?” the corporal asked as everyone returned to their boats.

“No, no,” Santos said. “This they found.”

“There were other skeletons,” Carvalho added, “I think they were animals.”

“We didn’t go much further,” Santos said. “We turned back because we were worried about flooding.”

“We were lucky to survive,” Carvalho said.

Rocha spoke little up to now, but he was worried that they were going to return to the cabin instead of searching for the professor and the others.

“What about the Americans?” Rocha asked the corporal. “Aren’t we going to look for them?”

It was a question that Barros wanted to ignore. It was already mid-afternoon, and he was concerned about returning before dark. Yet, he understood the ramifications of not at least trying to find the Americans. There would certainly be publicity, and if it turned out that he failed to help them, things could go badly for him. The department would close ranks, leaving him to fend for himself. And he felt that Rocha could either be an ally if he went on with the search or an enemy if he did not. He didn’t need more enemies.

Using Juarez’s GPS readouts from the previous day’s search mission, they continued the journey, reaching the clearing within a half hour. The water had receded since yesterday, and in places they could make out the outlines of a submerged road. Corporal Barros made notes about the obviously illegal lumber operation that had been here and wondered if the site had been abandoned or whether it would be back in operation once the forest dried out. Juarez gave him the coordinates.

They proceeded toward the old truck, which was not far away. He instructed his deputies to search the area on the opposite side of the road while he led the way, with Juarez and Rocha following, to investigate the area surrounding the truck.

“The water’s really come down,” Rocha said. Juarez steered cautiously around debris. In places, the boats’ hulls scraped against the forest floor.

“No telling what’s in the water,” Santos said to Carvalho.

“Lots of shit, I bet,” Carvalho snickered.

Gonzalo Juarez asked Daniel Rocha why the Americans had gone into the forest near the end of the rainy season.

“What were they looking for?”

“I don’t know. Some kind of bug. Professor Azevedo doesn’t confide in me. He’s probably had dozens of work-study assistants like me.”

“I don’t know what that is, but go on,” Juarez said.

“We get a scholarship, but we have to work for a faculty member to pay for it. Anyway, I don’t know much. Just the call with the coordinates and that they were in trouble. At least that’s how I remember it.”

The conversation was interrupted by a shout.

“We’ve found a body.”

Everyone looked toward the deputies on the other side of the road. They motored over quickly. Using a paddle, one of the deputies lifted up human remains. The torso was chewed up, and the eyes were missing, and there was a large, painful-looking hole in the abdomen. Juarez positioned his boat so Daniel Rocha at the bow could get a better look.

“I don’t know if it’s him. This person’s face is so chopped up. What could cause that?”

“Did you find clothing?” The corporal asked.

“The body still has pants.”

“Did you check the pockets?”

“No. Is that what you want us to do?”

“Well, yes. Of course. I’m assuming it’s a male, and he might be carrying a wallet or cell phone or something we could use to establish an identity.”

The deputies looked at his each sympathetically and shook their heads. Neither wanted to touch the body, even with gloves.

“Nestor, just reach down and pat around. This may be a person of some importance,” the corporal said, more as a suggestion than an order.

“Like I care,” Nestor responded sarcastically.

“You do this, and I’ll include it in my report,” Corporal Barros coaxed.

“And you’ll tell the lieutenant, too. Right?”

“I’ll tell the lieutenant,” Barros said, reluctantly.

Nestor shot a triumphant look at his partner and reached into the murkiness, feeling for pockets or lumps in pockets. Anything but organs. Or muscle. But as he moved his hand, he knew he was feeling things he didn’t want to see. But, he had aspirations.

Without everyone watching, Nestor’s arm shot into the air, his dripping hand clutching a mobile phone. He passed it to his partner, who gave it to the corporal, who handed it to Rocha.

“Professor Azevedo had an iPhone. I’m not sure if this is his. It’s the same color and model, as far as I can tell,” Rocha said, returning it to the corporal who put it into the small backpack he and his men carried.

Corporal Barros looked at Nestor, his eyes issuing a command to look again.

“Who the fuck is this guy?” Nestor whispered.

“Barros?”

“No. This guy,” he said, pointing at the water.

“Some professor. I think. That kid, he knows him.”

Nestor was glad he had gloves. He knew he felt bone in places and loose flesh. The pants were large, and he could feel a bulge. He pulled on the pants until his arm was out of the water. The body was suspended just below the surface. What was left of it. Below the abdomen, the damage had been done by piranha or other aquatic denizens. The bites on the legs were jagged. The bulge was in a pocket that had a button closure. Nestor fumbled with the button momentarily, pulled out a wallet and let go of the pants. The body disappeared into the muck. The wallet was delivered to the corporal. He examined it and passed it to Rocha.

“Sorry, son,” Captain Juarez said. “The flood got him.”

Resuming the search near the truck, they found Johnson’s body. Its condition was similar to Azevedo’s. Chewed up below the waist and devoured in the torso. After returning to the cabin before nightfall, the corporal called in his report using his boat’s radiotelephone. Nestor listened closely. Not once did the corporal mention his name. He fumed.

Everyone could hear as the lieutenant said over the speaker that they’d found a group of Americans in the forest.

“Our guys asked them what happened, you know, they were in bad shape, and one of them says they were attacked by insects that killed two of their companions. Insects. One of our guys says, ‘Did the insects carry them away?’ you know, sarcastically. And the guy, the American, says, ‘No, they ate them.’ With a straight face no less.”

A low hum filled the room punctuated with crackling static.

“Can you imagine that? They’re in shock, obviously.”

“We found two bodies,” Barros said into the microphone. “They were in bad shape.”

“Well, let’s leave that to the civil police, shall we?”

86

CIVIL POLICE INSPECTOR Eduardo Dias assembled the six Americans in a small conference room two days after they were found. Several had received medical treatment for small wounds. The leader, Howard Duncan, sat at one end of the rectangular wood table while Dias sat at the opposite end. George Hamel and Maggie Cross sat on one side, facing Cody Boyd, Stephanie Rankin, and Alison Peeples. In his notebook, he recorded the Americans’ somber mood.

“Is everybody here?” Dias asked in passable English.

“Our guide isn’t here,” Duncan said. “He kinda disappeared after we were found.”

“You have his name?”

“Antonio Suarez.”

“Anyone else?”

The Americans exchanged glances.

“Three people were killed; you know,” Duncan said.

“Three?”

“Yes,” Duncan said. “We had another guide, he was the first one, then Professor Azevedo and Carlos Johnson, one of my students.”

“We also found some bodies,” Boyd added. “There was a guy and his dog, that’s the first one we found, and then in this clearing we saw some skeletons, but we don’t know where they came from.”

“These are human skeletons?”

“Oh, yes,” George Hamel said. “You have to understand, there were animal skeletons all over the place. It was like a battlefield or something.”

Dias noticed some of the others nodding their heads in agreement.

“And these people, these skeletons, they were killed by insects?”

Everyone acknowledged this was the case. The lieutenant put his pen down and leaned forward in his chair.

“I must say, I have never heard such a thing. I’ve heard of killer bees killing people but nothing like this.”

“These aren’t bees,” Duncan said. “They have a name, reptilus blaberus.”

“I’ll have to look that up on the internet,” Dias said, making a note.

“You probably won’t find it,” Duncan said. “The name hasn’t been accepted yet by any scientific organizations. You see, the habits of this insect changed radically over the past several months or so. That’s why we were in the forest in the first place. To find them and collect specimens. Prior to that, there weren’t enough of them to harm anyone. Now, there are probably millions.”

“These are the same bugs that allegedly killed a Mr. Raul Barbosa?”

“Yes,” Duncan said quickly. “As far as we know, Mr. Barbosa was the first victim.”

“If these things are so deadly, how do you explain your survival?”

Duncan, with the help of others, summarized what they’d gone through, what they did to fight off the insects and how they escaped by finally outmaneuvering them after their companions had been killed.

“You see, they can’t swim, but they can float, but they’re subject to the current so when they were coming toward us, we moved to the side and just kept going, we hoped putting distance between us without running into another colony,” he said.

“We were lucky,” Peeples said quietly, her head down.

“So you kill them with fire, correct?”

“As many as we could, but most of them survived.”

“Maybe if we had a flamethrower we could have done better, but all I know is that I’m never going to look for them again,” Rankin said. Several of the others nodded in agreement.

“As soon as we’re done here,” Cross said, “I’m flying out. I’ve had about as much entomology as I can handle.”

“Oh, you say that about everything,” Hamel scolded softly as she squinched her nose.

The meeting wound up in less than an hour with only Duncan and Boyd offering to help with the investigation. The two remained in the room after the others had left.

“Tell me, from what you say about these insects, what was it that saved you?”

“The flood,” Duncan said. “It trapped us at first, but in the end, it protected us.”

“If only we’d figured it out sooner,” Boyd said, “but if the truck hadn’t gone off the road, we’d probably never have left it.”

“And we’d be dead,” Duncan added.

“So, if these things attacked when it wasn’t flooding?”

“We’d be dead. Our guide took a video of his boss being killed. He may still have it though we lost everything we had when the truck went into the water.”

“They attack without warning. You can’t get out of their way,” Boyd said. “We watched the video. We saw the body, or what was left of it. I watched one of my friends die. I’m willing to go back, but only to recover Carlos’ body and Dr. Azevedo’s body. Otherwise, I want to go home.”

“What about you, Professor?”

“I’ll help. I’m not sure if we’ll find them or not. But we’ve got to take precautions.”

“What kind of precautions?”

“Flamethrowers,” Boyd said. “I’m not kidding. These things can jump ten feet, three meters, into the air, and they’re like army ants when they attack. They don’t stop unless you kill them.”

Wrapping up the conversation, Dias said, “My last question is why we haven’t heard about these insects before? I understand, you said they changed their behavior. I just don’t understand. Did this happen overnight?”

“We don’t know,” Duncan said. “We thought we knew something about these insects, but it turns out we don’t. They could be the top predator in the forest, and if that’s what they become, you’ll know about it, and you’ll wish you didn’t.”

“Obviously, this is an open investigation,” Dias said. “We will locate the guide and get whatever he has to offer. And we’ll try to recover the bodies, but as you mentioned, they may no longer be there. But we’ve been in contact with a wildlife officer who is at Mr. Barbosa’s cabin. According to the message I got, they’ve found bodies, and they marked them with a GPS, so maybe those we can recover.”

“Really!” Duncan said, surprised.

“That’s the word I have. We will join them perhaps as soon as tomorrow. We’ll retrace steps and get a handle on this. As for the flamethrower, I don’t think the department has one. I’m sure we can find something that will do. Meanwhile, if we find these insects, we’ll wipe them out.”

“How?” Boyd asked quietly.

“Perhaps we’ll spray them with a poison. Get some sprayers, fill them with insecticide. Problem solved.”

Duncan and Boyd smiled wanly, shook hands with the lieutenant and left the meeting.

On the cab ride back to their apartment, Boyd confided, “If it wasn’t for Carlos, I don’t think I’d go back. Not now. Maybe a year from now, but not now. It’s too soon. Hell, two days ago we were fighting for our lives in the dark. I feel numb. I’m exhausted still, and I didn’t get much sleep last night.”

“You know, since they have coordinates, they don’t need us,” Duncan said. “Maybe I’ll call him this afternoon and tell him we’re no longer interested.”

Boyd gave his boss a stunned look.

“I can’t believe you just said that,” Boyd said.

“You’re right,” Duncan said. “I need to find some specimens, even dead ones, for the papers I have to write. Really, if it weren’t for that, I’d call it off. But I was just thinking, what am I gonna do if I can’t write a paper on this? I’m a scientist for chrissakes.”

“That’s more like it,” Boyd said. “For a minute there, I thought someone else had taken over your body.”

“So, you’ll go, too? I sure could use you.”

“Yeah, I’ll go. But, like I said, it’s for Carlos. I think we owe him.”

THE END

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