Authors: David Faxon
He meticulously peeled the skin
, then washed the blood and dirt from the white meat. Could he eat uncooked reptile? He'd force himself; there might not be anything else for days. He bit off three or four pieces and swallowed without chewing. Again, he thought of survival training, a week in the field when there was nothing to eat but insects. They weren't that bad as he remembered. Neither was the snake. His hunger satisfied, he rested and prepared for nightfall. He swallowed the four Tylenol, rubbed jet fuel on his body, using it as a repellent for insects, then propped himself against a tree. Surprised with his resourcefulness, he had kept his wits and did what was necessary. Tomorrow would bring plenty of people to the area, he hoped. And his rescue.
That night, the jungle swallowed him up, no moonlight or starlight penetrated the canopy, the darkness
was total. There were new sounds all around, some from wild animals passing close. Surely, they had picked up his scent. Keeping his spear close, he spent the first night in fear of unknown creatures he couldn't see but was sure they could see him.
CHAPTER
EIGHT
Twelve miles north of
Teman-e’s village, a band of twenty men snaked their way through the tropical wilderness. With them were five captives, tied securely to one another, spoils of a raid the day before. Three women and two men walked single file on the narrow trail. The first man in the tethered group wore a hemp leash around his neck, held tightly by a muscular warrior who jerked it violently every so often, forcing the group to keep pace.
All five had noticeable injuries, the men far worse than the women who sustained only minor cuts and bruises. The lead prisoner suffered a large head wound
. Blood streamed down his face and shoulders. His companion behind, had the broken remnant of a spear protruding from his leg. This caused him to fall frequently. For each delay, he suffered punishing blows from a tall warrior, his face painted to resemble a death’s head skull, the most feared man among the primitive tribes.
If the captives survived the long march, the men
faced a lifetime of slavery and beatings. The women, in addition to cruel treatment, were to produce healthy male babies. Otherwise, they would be killed, or worse, banished, a death sentence that came slowly.
The warriors wore savage designs on their faces. Some completely black, some made to look like wild animals. They belonged to the Wakawakatieri, the most inhumane of all primitive tribes in the Amazon. They commanded fear and loathing by all who shared the remote regions. Believed to possess supernatural powers, they fought their enemies with fanaticism. Ten warriors could attack
, and easily defeat, five times their number.
That day, far from their village, their mission was to find and kidnap choice women from other tribes, who fit their requirements
; healthy, comely, with wide hips suitable for child bearing. Those captured faced approval or rejection from a tribal council. In addition to kidnapping women, they often killed as many villagers as possible, limiting the number of male captives. Wakawakatieri believed they drew personal power from killing their enemies.
On the eighth day of their sojourn, they found what they were looking for, a small place of only about a hundred souls. From the obscurity of the jungle, they watched patiently, sizing up the situation, making note of the ones they would kidnap, the number of defenders. Children played innocently
, or clung to their mother's legs while the evening meal was prepared. Most of the younger men were on a hunt. The ones remaining were older, engaged in idle gossip. The Wakawakatieri waited a few hours by the river, all the while observing the women. There were three considered choice. They fell on the village, grabbing the ones chosen and killing the old men. One of the women fought desperately to prevent a warrior from taking her baby. He pulled the child from her, ran it through with his spear, seized the woman by the hair, and dragged her away.
Uxhomeb was a homicidal fiend who enjoyed using his physical advantage to intimidate and inflict pain
on whomever he pleased. Invariably, he would have his victims killed ritualistically. He wasn’t above thrusting a spear into a pregnant woman if she was unfortunate enough to get caught in the middle of a raid. Indeed, he bragged openly about the abominations he committed. Even his own men risked unspeakable death if they disobeyed his commands. At six foot two inches, he towered above them. None came within eight or nine inches of his height. He hid behind a mask of paint, some days white, some days black; as if to conceal the fiend who committed horrible acts. Stained teeth, filed to points, completed the ghostly and fearsome appearance.
Mere r
umor of his presence caused the abandonment of entire villages until the danger passed. Throughout the civilized and uncivilized worlds, men like him learned that violence always brings fear. Fear parlays into power. An age old, simple formula that always worked.
Uxhomeb’s attention turned to the prisoner in the rear who kept falling, only to struggle to his feet under a
torrent of blows. A wry grin appeared on his face as he signaled to quicken the stride. This caused the man to fall even more often and he held his hands near his head to shield himself from the blows he knew would follow. Once more, he tried to stand, but the broken spear- head penetrated further into his leg, now cutting into muscle.
Uxhomeb halted the group. Casually, he bent over the man
, saying in a calm voice that if he fell one more time, he, Uxhomeb, would personally behead him. But only after he was tortured. At first, the man trembled, then recovered his composure, knowing that no matter what happened, his fate was already sealed. Better to get it over with. He struggled to stand erect. This would be his moment, his final act. He sneered at the chief, then spit into his face. Uxhomeb didn’t react immediately. When he did, his rage couldn't be contained. He ordered the man’s eyes gouged, then he would be burned alive. Several warriors seized him to begin the horrific torture. The other prisoners, blindfolds removed, were forced to witness the execution. Blood lust and revenge were satisfied for the time being. He signaled the column to move forward, kicking the burning corpse one last time.
The next day they
came to a tributary where warriors and captives alike, paused to drink. As they slaked their thirst, an eerie silence caused them to pause. Something ominous was about to occur. Heads turned to the sky. Seconds later, the plane with Terrence Connery and 224 others, passed about five hundred feet directly overhead. All, except Uxhomeb, fell to the ground covering their heads, sure they were about to be killed by a monstrous creature. He stood in silence as the plane disappeared below the tree line then watched a ball of flames rise in the distance. He displayed no sign of fear, sensing only that this was something that could bring him extraordinary power. Because of the density of vegetation, he estimated it would take a while to locate it. He kicked the cowering warriors, told them to get on their feet. He would lead them to something remembered for generations.
CHAPTER
NINE
That night, the longest of his life, each sound, each rustle of leaves, prompted him to tighten his grip on the spear. Eventually, exhaustion brought welcome sleep. But it was short lived. Soon after midnight, he awoke to find ants attacking his leg wound, biting his flesh, crawling on his chest and down his pants. Frantically brushing them away, he crawled hastily on all fours to the shallow stream, seeking relief from the demon insects. He remained there the rest of the night, weighing which was worse; another possible encounter with a snake or the biting sting of fire ants. After what seemed an eternity, a misty dullness lit the forest as a new day began. With it came the rising sound of monkey chatter. Thankful the night was behind him, he made his exit from the stream.
As he wrung his tattered shirt dry, he saw movement in the bushes about thirty feet away, obviously something large, something unafraid of him. His eyes shifted to the ground. Next to his foot lay the
remains of the snake he had killed. Whatever was in the bushes would soon challenge him for it.
How could I be so stupid
? He picked up the carcass and threw it as far as he was able, then decided to put as much distance as possible between himself and whatever was in the bushes. It was a prudent concession.
He
waded into the warm water, wincing each time he stepped on a rock. Using the spear for support, he cautiously followed the stream as it twisted and turned through thick growth, past mossy tree trunks with exposed roots, past hanging moss, past an occasional small animal that stared in wonderment. Insects buzzed his face, neck, and arms, stinging repeatedly, especially the large black flies. Their bites were particularly painful, covering him with spots of blood.
It took an hour or more to travel less than the distance of a football field, but it seemed like he had gone miles. He
would continue until there were no signs of fuel in the water. If his thinking was correct, he would then be just beyond the source. Once he could see no trace of fuel, he'd head into the jungle, hopefully toward the wreckage.
Eight o'clock; already the temperature was near ninety with a dew point to match. The air was thick and clammy as he made his way through choking plant life. Shafts of filtered light made it possible to see more clearly than when he first began the search. Insect bites were a continuous torment. He thought, if this didn’t make one of the ten levels of hell, it certainly qualified.
Another twenty minutes passed before he noticed the
stream was clear. Inadvertently, he had gone beyond the point where it entered. He turned. He was near the source. The strong odor guided him as he climbed from water on to mushy soil. Another fifty yards, the odor of smoke grew stronger. Then he saw it.
Standing on end, supported by trees and vines,
was the right wing. Liquid spilled from its massive tanks, winding toward the stream. The fuselage couldn't be far. He touched the towering object almost reverently, cupped his hands under the fuel and splashed it over his body. Almost immediately, this brought welcome relief from biting insects. Looking up to the high branches, he saw clothing; shirts, underwear, pants, all torn from bodies or ripped from luggage as if someone hung them to dry.
He searched among the bushes looking for anything of practical use. Instead, he found laptop computers, books, magazines wallets, papers strewn everywhere. He picked up a wallet and opened it
. Inside, a face stared at him from a driver’s license, then a picture of two children, then a woman, smiling.
If she wasn't with him on the flight, did she know by now his plane was missing? That he would never return?
It was all too bizarre. His world turned upside down in the space of a day
. Now, less than twenty four hours later, he stood alone in the middle of the Amazon, staring at a man’s picture. How important was his four billion dollar hedge fund now? What about the yacht he never found time to use? Or the vacation home in France where he stayed only once? He'd trade it all for one kit with medical supplies.
He scoured the area and made an invaluable find
; a pocket lighter somehow missed by security at the airport, then an unopened can of Coke and a box of assorted safety pins he kept to use as fish hooks. There were no medical supplies, or food among the debris. Before leaving, he searched the array of clothing a second time, finding a pair of pants and a shirt in much better condition than his. Because of the heat and humidity, he considered cutting the pant legs above the knee, then thought better of it, too many creatures feasting on him. More practical to keep the pants long and button the shirtsleeves.
What he really needed was a pair of shoes. He saw several but none matched or were the wrong size. He pushed aside some foliage and found a pair of size ten running shoes in perfect condition, laces tied together.
As he neared the crash site, two other parties searched for the same thing, separated only by short spans of time. They would soon converge. The lone hunter, Teman-e, sought the meaning of a message he thought would greatly affect his people. The homicidal Uxhomeb thought his find would bring him greater power. Connery wanted only to treat his injuries, find a way out of the mess he was in. He continued on, following the drifting smoke.
Towards noon
, both the heat and jungle cacophony were increasing. Locating the crash site was more than elusive, and he was tiring quickly. Thirsty and dripping with sweat, the can of warm Coke once again appealed to him. As he drank, he noticed a little more light coming through the trees, as if there might be a clearing ahead; an encouraging sign- he had to be close. He swallowed the last of the soda and moved forward. Light penetration increased steadily as he neared a swath of toppled trees. All at once, the jungle opened. He stared in disbelief. Directly in front of him loomed the huge tail section, nearly as high as a five-story building, towering like a monolith, starkly out of place in the canopied forest. Surrounding it were pieces of wreckage, still aflame, as if they were votive candles lit to honor the presence of so many who had died, in a place that had no name.