Blood Forest Part 3

She swatted at them with her arms, letting out a shrill scream. They bit at her and she pushed back at them. Losing her balance, she stumbled away from the tree. The two others circled her. She felt moisture in her shirt, and for a moment she thought it was her own blood, until she saw the dangling ropes of baboon saliva.

The second baboon crawled up her back and with one hand, grabbed her ponytail, tugging her head back fiercely. She cried out as pain ripped across her scalp, the long hair threatening to tear out of her head.

They were all around her, two clinging stubbornly near her face and two circling her ankles, yipping and barking with their strange nasal voices.

Sam tripped over a root and fell into the mud. The roots formed a bowl around her and the mud clung to her clothing. One of the baboons lined up its teeth to take a bite out of her arm. The other two quickly hopped forward to set upon her as well. They seemed feverish and angry; they would claw and bite her until they tore her apart.

"Hey!" Brandon shouted. He held a fallen branch in two hands like a baseball bat. He landed right beside his wife, kicking up mud, and with a tight grip on his improvised club he swung at the lead baboon, striking it hard in the back of the head. The animal let out a broken bark as it tumbled off Sam.

He didn't stop, taking another step forward, nearly tripping over his wife. He swung the club again, connecting with the second primate. Sam heard a sickening hollow sound as wood connected with bone. The animal bounded away screaming.

She sat up, planted her palms in the mud, and crawled away from the last two animals until her back hit a root. As she climbed to her feet, the baboons turned on Brandon.

Sam stepped back over the root, backing away. The two Brandon had knocked off her shoulders were on their feet again, hissing. The four animals moved around him, threatening him with their gestures and yelps, but they kept their distance from his club.

"Get away, Sam," he yelled.

One of the baboons leapt. Brandon swung the branch, striking it firmly on the snout. Pieces of bark flew into the air and the animal rolled back. A second baboon was right there to take its place. He tried maneuvering the club back for another swing, but the primate caught and tugged it from his hands.

Sam searched behind her for another weapon. She had b.l.o.o.d.y claw marks on her mud-covered calves and her head still throbbed, a few torn strands of blonde hair tangled in the elastic holding her ponytail in place. She spotted her pack lying on the ground.

The baboons leapt at Brandon one after another. He managed to beat the first one off with his arm, but the second one wouldn't let go. All four animals pulled him down into the mud, as he kicked and squirmed.

Sam tore frantically into her pack, fighting with the cord that held the top shut. Once it was open she tossed objects aside. Clothing, energy bars, and a water bottle bounced across the jungle floor. She let out a desperate cry as she heard the screams of her husband behind her. She contemplated picking up the pack and using that as a weapon just as she saw what she was after.

She pulled a gray, flame r.e.t.a.r.dant case from her pack and tugged the latches open. She dropped it on the ground as she pulled out a red, brightly colored pistol. The gun was already loaded for one shot. Three spare flares rested beside it in the case.

She gripped it in both hands as she moved back around the tree. Two of the baboons were on top of her husband and the two others circled around him nipping at his sides. Without thinking, she angled the pistol at the largest of the animals, taking aim.

She pulled the trigger and a bright flash exploded in her eyes. The red flame shot out from the tip of the gun, trailing smoke, until it struck the baboon hard in the arm. The animal fell back from the force of the shot, but the worst was still to come. The flames shot up its shoulder, smoldering fur, and it opened its jaws in a horrific scream.

The animal hopped away, unable to comprehend what was happening. The other baboons backed off from their wounded companion, trying to escape from the sudden flame. Dripping hot magnesium scalded its skin and even as Sam reached for a second flare she found herself cringing at the creature's pain.

Brandon climbed up from the mud, searching for his stick. The weapon was unnecessary. The baboons lost all interest in the attack. The burning animal raced off into the woods. It screamed all the way through the trees, beating its shoulder roughly. The other three backed off cautiously and disappeared in the foliage.

A few pieces of dripping magnesium still burned in the muddy bowls of the tree roots.

The forest darkened as though night had fallen. When Brandon checked his watch, it was only mid-afternoon. Thunder broke with an earth-shattering crash, echoing throughout the forest. The noise rumbled on, rolling through the distance.

"We should set up the tent," Sam suggested.

Wind rustled through the canopy and leaves lit up like a thousand tiny strobe lights. Thunder crackled again.

They found a relatively open area not far from the river and set their packs down. The tent was easy to pitch, which was good because the rain already began to pour through the canopy, dripping long rivulets through the gloom. By the time the rain turned to downpour they had pulled themselves inside the tent. There was barely enough room for the two of them.

The rain pounded their shelter. Thick, moist air drifted inside. Resting for the first time since the attack, Sam took the opportunity to check the scratches on her calves. She tugged at the collar of her shirt, revealing more across her shoulder and collarbone. They cleaned each other's wounds with their first aid supplies. Most of their injuries were only minor scratches.

As the storm raged around them, they stayed silent. Brandon stared at the tent walls. Every so often he thought he heard a noise nearby. It seemed someone was creeping around the tent.

He counted their remaining energy bars and what was left of their water. They had enough supplies for one more day of travel. If they went any longer, they would need to find more water. That shouldn't be too hard, considering the pouring water outside. The rain flowed around and underneath the tent. Inside, the humidity condensed into droplets.

The rain finally ended, leaving the air even more hot and humid. It was as if the humidity was insatiable. No matter how much liquid it poured down to the ground, it always held more, nothing like the dry heat back in California that he was used to.

With the pounding rain gone, the sounds of the forests returned.

Brandon worried about the Cessna. They had managed to pull it toward the embankment and tie it to tree trunks, covering it with plant fronds. Would the ropes hold? He feared that when they returned, it would have broken free, slid down the embankment, and floated down the river.

"Looks like we're going to have to stay out here overnight," Sam lamented. She lay back on the floor of the tent, her clothes and hair wet with moisture. She folded her arms behind her, looking exhausted.

"Yeah, it's probably better than trying to move around at night," he agreed. With sudden guilt he added, "Sorry."

"Why are you sorry?" Sam asked.

"I was hoping I could get us to a village by now." He shrugged and lay beside her, resting an arm across her stomach. He could feel the dampness where sweat and rain gathered in her shirt.

"It's not so bad," she replied quietly. "It was my idea to come out here in the first place."

One of their mutual friends had planned to conduct an aerial survey of Africa for the National Geographic Society a year before. When that same friend had died of heart failure, Sam suggested they volunteer.

Brandon had made a considerable living as a gambler, allowing Sam to quit modeling. That left them with enough time to enjoy what they both loved: exploring the world one country at a time. The couple was always looking for their next outrageous adventure and a tour of Africa in a small Cessna certainly measured up. It had been a little difficult convincing the Society to let the couple take over the survey, so Brandon had volunteered to provide the plane.

"And besides," she added, "I'm the one who crashed the plane."

He shook his head. "You didn't . . ."

"I know!" she exclaimed before he could finish the thought. "There was nothing I could do. I don't crash."

He laughed at her sudden reversal. He should have known she wouldn't really accept the blame for that. If she was anything, she could be stubborn, one of the many reasons he loved her.

She slid closer to him and they rested against each other, listening quietly to the sounds of the forest, as darkness fell.

4.

The large campfire blazed into the night. The smoke acted as a natural insect repellant and with the dense canopy overhead, the forest would be pitch black. Cold wasn't a concern. While October marked the beginning of the rainy season, the temperature rarely fell below seventy degrees Fahrenheit, even in the middle of the night.

Alfred stared at the crackling logs. The starter log Gilles had used burst into flames instantly only moments after they had decided to take the chance and start the fire. They had worried that the militia might be looking for them still and since they had camped near the road, pa.s.sers-by would be able to see the flame.

Gilles, the Congolese mercenary, sat across the fire, deep in his own thoughts. As he sat, he smoked a cigarette, the tiny orange flame burning in the darkness. Nessa was by the Jeep, sorting through supplies. She was determining which supplies had been left in the other Jeep, which showed no sign of returning.

Finally, Gilles looked up and regarded Alfred carefully. Although Alfred was African by ethnicity, he had been born and raised in the United Kingdom, making him European in the eyes of the locals.

"Do you have many crocodiles in Angleterre?" Gilles asked suddenly. When Alfred looked up, confused by the question, the mercenary gave him a friendly grin and nodded toward the prosthetic arm.

Alfred looked down at his arm. He had long ago become accustomed to the thing. He no longer felt the "ghost pains" he experienced for years after the accident.

"No," Alfred said, shaking his head. "No crocodiles. But if you think these jungles here are dangerous with the crocodiles and leopards, then you have never braved the streets of London."

Gilles nodded slowly, pretending to show the man considerable respect, but his friendly smile didn't fade.

"For those who don't understand the maze of streets and the flow of traffic, London is a very dangerous place indeed," Alfred continued, his tone light-hearted. "The streets are small, designed for horses and carts, and they are thick with cars of all kinds and sizes, moving to their destinations without concern for the pedestrians in between."

Gilles' face grew a little more serious. "You were in a car accident?"

Alfred nodded a little. "One day when I was twelve I found myself late for school. I lived in a congested part of the city-it's called Kennington, in the Borough of Lambeth. Living there, I suppose you get used to it, and particularly when you are in a hurry you forget about the danger."

Alfred paused. He remembered the day clearly. The sky was overcast and gray. He had been weaving down streets and alleyways having missed the bus that would take him to Stockwell Park High School.

"I was crossing Camberwell, right before it meets Clapham Road. Traffic was backed up all around. A line of cars was almost parked on Camberwell-I think that up ahead there had been an accident and the cops had closed down the street. When I saw that, I ran through the cars without thinking. I completely missed sight of a bus coming in the farthest lane."

He remembered the sounds of honking horns and a few cursing individuals, as he weaved through the lines of automobiles until he reached the bus lane on the other side.

Across the fire, Gilles listened with rapt attention.

"Buses in London are big hulking beasts, built into two stories to hold more people," Alfred explained. "When I saw it coming out of the corner of my eye, I panicked-naturally. I turned to duck out of the way, but I tripped and fell on the ground."

With his hook, Alfred pointed to his good forearm, making a slashing gesture close to the wrist. "The tire rolled right over here, shattering the bone. The weight of it tore the flesh, stretching my skin over the pavement."

Gilles winced as he visualized the gruesome accident. He rubbed a hand gently over one of his own wrists.

"I didn't feel the pain at first, just a pulling sensation from the bus dragging my body. It wasn't until after that the pain started to sink in and, well, I don't think I have to tell you it was agony."

Gilles snorted and shook his head. The mercenary was likely no stranger to pain. Alfred had spotted various scars on the man's body.

"I knew I was dead, lying there in the street."

Gilles asked, "Is that why you are a doctor?"

Alfred shook his head. "I'm not a doctor, really. I'm a chemist. Throughout my youth, I suffered pains and complications due to my arm. I was constantly on medicines that suppressed my immune system and weakened my body. So I was often sick.

"Then I learned about Echinacea angustifolia, the narrow-leaf coneflower. The plant was used by North American Plains Indians for hundreds of years to bolster the immune system and fight off infections. Its chemical make-up can be broken down into a list of chemical const.i.tuents that-"

Alfred paused, looking carefully at the man across the fire. "Well, in the interest of not being too longwinded, I began to become interested in the chemical actions of plants. Finding the science in the magic you could say."

Gilles laughed. "Science. Magic. What's the difference?"

Alfred laughed with him. "Exactly."

"So you are a magic man?"

"Call me what you will. But since I discovered my love for phytochemistry, I have not once been sick."

Gilles looked skeptical. "Not once?"

"Not once," Alfred insisted. "Not even a sniffle."

A sound came from the forest. Gilles was on his feet in an instant, his rifle in both hands.

"Rebels?" Alfred whispered.

Two dark silhouettes approached in the gloom, and soon the campfire reflected in the lights of their eyes.

"Calme," a voice called from the darkness. Delani and Ike stepped into the firelight, looking ragged and exhausted.

Alfred breathed a sigh of relief at the sight of the two men. "Thank G.o.d you're both here."

"Where's the Jeep?" Nessa asked as she strode over to them.

"The rebels got it," Ike said.

"Where is Kipwe?" Gilles asked.

Delani lowered his head.

"He's with the Jeep," Ike answered.

Nessa turned and walked away. Gilles, Delani, and Ike all fell silent. Their silence was the only emotion they would show. These men were hardened, familiar with brutality and loss. Alfred pushed his gla.s.ses up his nose, feeling the moisture underneath. Sweat.

A breeze blew through the forest and the campfire flickered angrily.

After a few moments of heavy silence, Alfred got up, relinquishing his spot by the fire. The three mercenaries sat quietly around the fire as the chemist made his way over to the remaining Jeep to find his colleague.

Nessa sat in the front seat, pouring over the map with a flashlight. As Alfred approached, she glanced at him before turning back to the map. He climbed in beside her.

"That's unfortunate," Nessa said without looking up.

"It is."

Nessa had two maps of the Ituri Forest that she was comparing, one hand drawn and the other computer generated.

"There's a town here on this Bantu map that isn't on the one we got from our contact in Kinshasa." Nessa tapped the hand-drawn map with her finger. "The area we're looking for would be right here on this map. I'm sure the map's not completely accurate, but the location corresponds with an unnamed village."

"The village may not really be there," Alfred offered. "The political environment changes so much and the forest is a mystery even to the people that live there."

"Still, this village is not far away," Nessa went on, pointing to another marked location. "We could go there and ask around."

BaKokwa, as it was labeled, seemed to be no more than a day's travel down the road. "That sounds reasonable," Alfred said with a nod.

Neither of them noticed Ike approaching until he stood right next to them. "Delani wishes to terminate his contract with H. Hurley International," the Australian said.

Alfred looked up in surprise. "Come again?"