Read Pray for Darkness: Terror in the Green Inferno Online

Authors: James Michael Rice

Tags: #FICTION / Horror, #FICTION / Thrillers / Suspense

Pray for Darkness: Terror in the Green Inferno (26 page)

BOOK: Pray for Darkness: Terror in the Green Inferno
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Fifty-five

As the shadows filled the space between the trees, Brooke Harlow stumbled down the well-worn footpath that would return her to the safety of the research center. Squishing along in her wet boots, she tried to pick up her pace, but her legs were leaden, hopelessly cramped from the long hours in the river, and the best she could manage was this awkward, bumbling gait. At some point she realized that she had dropped Ben’s waterproof bag, and was forced to turn around. She discovered it a few hundred yards back, dangling from a lattice of vines on the side of the path, and even though she could not remember what was in the bag, or why it was so important, she all but wept at the sight of it.

Now clutching the bag against her chest, she continued toward the research center as the night pressed in and the jungle noises reverberated inside her head like the beating of a heart. The walk seemed longer than she remembered—and more treacherous. Branches seemed to reach just a little bit farther onto the path as she walked by, and the roots seemed to grow a little higher as she stepped over them, as if the forest wanted to do her harm. She told herself this was all in her head, and yet…

From nowhere and everywhere came Auggie’s seething voice:
You think you’re prepared. You think you’ve done everything you’re supposed to, study hard, work hard, keep yourself out of trouble, and then—whoosh! Something arrives out of the blue that you never saw coming. Something you never even imagined. Something that’ll knock your little world off its axis. Something that’ll either change your life for the better, or end it forever. Chaos.

Brooke stopped, straining to see inside the tunnel of darkness, but there was no one there. After three or four seconds, she started shuffling forward again.

Someone needs to make it. Someone needs to let the world know what happened.
Ben’s voice now, floating through the corridors of her memory, but no less real than if he had been standing right beside her. It seemed a lifetime had passed since that night they sat on the steps of the research center, looking at the stars, ready to share their very first kiss. A hundred other memories of him flickered through her mind, but the one that finally lingered, the one she wanted so desperately to forget was: Ben pushing his waterproof bag into her hands as he prepared to do battle with a monstrous caiman. She remembered the look in his eyes; he knew he was going to die. Then why did he do that? Why did the stupid fool do that? And the answer came to her in the sound of her own voice: he did it for you. It was his final sacrifice, his final act of love. And with this thought, she began to cry like a little girl. As the tears trickled from her eyes, she ordered her legs to go faster, faster.

We have to get back to the lodge
, Cooper said.
We have to warn people about this.

I will
, thought Brooke.
I will, I will, I will.

But what if we’re the carriers? What happens if we bring this back into the world? What if it wants us to?

Who had said that? Was it Cooper? Auggie? No—that was also Ben, speaking to her in private the night they slept on the sandbar. But Ben was dead. They were all dead. And she was the only one left to warn the world.

Let us be going now
, Ernesto spoke calmly.
There is nothing here but death.

Up ahead there was a gap in the canopy, and the moonlight shone down onto the path like a spotlight. Beyond that, she could see the yellow glow of kerosene lamps, and she knew the research center was close. Then a shadow peeled away from the forest, blocking the light. Someone was standing in the middle of the path, facing the direction of the lodge.

“Help…” Brooke croaked. “Help me!” But the figure did not hear her. Using her last reserves of strength, Brooke sucked in the humid jungle air and released it with a piercing scream. “HELP ME!”

Jerking around in surprise, the figure started toward her, loping along at first, and then breaking into an all-out run. In her last few seconds of consciousness, Brooke Harlow recalled the strange behavior of the inhumans, not so much trying to catch them as to chase them, to drive them forward through the jungle…
Toward what?
she wondered, though the answer was right in front of her eyes. Why, toward civilization, of course…

She managed one more step before her legs betrayed her. As her foot caught a root, she toppled forward, arms spinning as she fell through space.

And when the darkness rushed forward to embrace her, she was glad.

Fifty-six

There was nothing extraordinary about the petite, unassuming brunette who boarded the Delta Airbus 330 in Lima for the red-eye flight to New York. She did not speak to anyone in line and exhibited a deep reservoir of patience as she waited more than five minutes for an American couple to stow their belongings in the overhead compartment (hemming and hawing about the lack of space for their overstuffed carry-ons) and finally take their seats. Quietly slipping into her seat near the back of the aircraft, she leaned her head against the shuttered window and closed her eyes. A moment later, a potbellied man in a New York Jets cap squeezed himself into the row of seats and plopped down beside her with a disconcerted grunt.

“Like a goddamned sardine…” he grumbled.

The girl could sense him watching her, his eyes moving greedily up and down her body. He seemed to expect a response from her, but she kept her eyes shut tight, hoping he’d leave her alone. She had just begun to doze off when a swirly-haired stewardess, conducting her preflight inspection of the aisles, stopped and asked her to buckle up for takeoff. Opening her eyes, the girl looked at her wearily. The stewardess’ bleached-blonde hair was pulled back into a tight bun that sat on top of her head like a pom-pom, and her face was etched with the fine lines of middle age. A gold, rectangular tag was pinned to her lapel, but the girl could not read the name. The stewardess smiled at her, her teeth a dazzling white. Nodding slightly, she buckled her seatbelt and leaned her head back against the window. Before the plane was even in the air, she had already fallen into a deep sleep.

An hour later, the same swirly-haired stewardess returned to make a perfunctory attempt to awaken the girl for dinner—tonight the choices were Salisbury steak with mashed potatoes, veggies, and a brownie, or vegetarian lasagna with apple cobbler—but when the girl did not respond to either choice, the stewardess served the Jets fan (he chose the steak) and continued on to the next row of passengers. Much to the dismay of the nearest passengers, the Jets fan smacked his lips when he ate and slurped his Coke through a straw—and still she did not stir, not even when he knocked his drink over, transforming her hiking pants into a wearable Rorschach test. Once she cried out in her sleep, shuffling her feet back and forth as though trying to run. Four and a half hours passed, and they were somewhere high above the Caribbean when the memories came crashing back to her.

There were faces, faces that should have been familiar to her but they weren’t. They seemed alien, repulsive, grotesque. She was in the jungle again, running through the trees. She was hungry. There were other people there too. For some reason she could not see them clearly; they looked like shadows, faceless shadows. And suddenly she was falling, falling from the steep embankment, splashing down into the liquid darkness. She closed her eyes and when she opened them again, she was on the river, floating with the current. A boy reaching across to her, holding her hand. She heard birds, saw the blinding sun rising up above the trees. There was something else, too, something that floated across the surface of the water like a log. A log with teeth. The sun winking off a steel blade, the flick of a tail, and then the water churned red… but the boy, what had happened to the boy?

She awoke with a start. The Jets fan was in the middle of a movie when he felt the girl stir beside him. Taking one look at her sallow complexion, he was up and out of his seat with almost comical speed, the girl rushing past him with one hand clamped over her mouth, dragging a small backpack behind her as she raced toward the bathroom in the rear of the plane.

She almost didn’t make it. She banged on the door, but it refused to open. At the last second, a steward appeared from the kitchen area and yanked the door aside for her, folding it against the wall like an accordion. Slamming the door shut behind her, the girl flipped up the toilet lid and vomited until her stomach was empty and her throat was raw. At some point, her legs began to wobble and she slid down to the floor, still retching.

Panting and shaking, she rose slowly, leaning her weight on the edge of the sink.

When she had composed herself, she sat on the toilet, removing the waterproof bag from her backpack. Reaching into the bag, she removed Ben’s video camera and held it between her trembling hands. Reluctantly, she opened the small viewing screen. She hesitated, her finger hovering over the row of buttons. Then, with a sense of reckless abandon, she pressed PLAY.

The screen was broken—or so it appeared at first. A pale speck of light appeared in the corner of the image, and she recognized this as the moon. The moon bounced around the dark screen as the camera shifted to a new angle, and then Auggie’s hushed voice wafted out of the tiny speakers.

“Hey, Ben,” he whispered in a contrite tone. “If you are listening to this message, it means that I’m off in the jungle somewhere. I know—” His voice cracked a little, and there was a long pause as he struggled to compose himself. “I know you’re probably pretty pissed off at me right now, so I just wanted to tell you I’m sorry. I… I don’t know what else to say on that. I’m going to try and find help for you guys. I can move faster on my own, I think, so you just tell everyone to hang in there. Help is coming soon.”

There was an audible click as Auggie pressed the STOP button and the video clip froze on the screen, waiting to be replayed.

She put the camera back inside the bag, folded down the top, and dropped it into her backpack. As she prepared to exit the bathroom, she caught a glimpse of herself in the mirror, but was unable to recognize the glistening complexion and bloodshot eyes of her reflection. Pausing with her hand on the lock, she found herself staring into the cold and emotionless eyes of a stranger. One of her eyes began to twitch, and she leaned closer to the mirror, probing the area with her fingers until eventually the twitching stopped.

She remained that way for a few seconds, her hand on the door, staring into the reflection of her own eyes. But there was something else, something she had not noticed before. She leaned closer to the mirror, until her nose was practically touching it. Pulling her eyelid down, she saw something moving back there, swimming through the bloodshot sclera.

Something black, like a shadow.

Pulling her fingers away, the skin snapped back into place, concealing all evidence of the hellish miracle that was happening behind that lovely green eye.

Stepping back from the mirror, she put on her sunglasses and returned to her seat.

Epilogue

JFK International Airport was congested with travelers from all over the world, more so than usual on that Monday morning in August. Overnight, severe thunderstorms had caused several delays to both inbound and outbound flights, and now hundreds of would-be passengers rushed from one terminal to another, hurrying to get to work, or home, or vacation. They were frustrated, and eager to get on with their lives. They slurped their lattes, gobbled their brunch, yapped on their cell phones, complained about the economy, and argued with the TSA officials about the absurdity of liquid restrictions.

They were busy, far too busy to pay much attention to the breaking news regarding the four young Americans who had gone missing (and were presumed dead) in a remote section of the Peruvian Amazon. The few who did take notice seemed to dismiss the story with an air of self-righteousness:
Glad it wasn’t me
, was the most prevalent thought. Coming in a close second:
Bunch of idiots… why the hell would anyone want to take a vacation in such a Godforsaken place?

But most people neglected to follow what the reporters were calling “A Tragic Story,” just as they neglected to notice the petite brunette who assimilated herself among the throngs of bustling travelers.

She followed the flow of passengers off the plane, through the Jetway, and into the concourse, where she allowed herself to be swept up in the stampede to Immigration. From there, it was easy. She waited patiently in the queue, passing the time by studying the people around her—their bizarre facial expressions and mysterious mannerisms. When it was her turn, she handed her passport and declaration form to the uniformed officer, and placed first her thumb and then her fingers on the fingerprint scanner, just as she had watched the others do ahead of her. After flipping through her passport for perhaps five seconds, the officer handed it back to her and she continued on to the baggage claim area. From there, she circumvented the swarm of people around the luggage carousel, nodded her way through customs, and moved swiftly toward the exit.

As she drifted toward the waiting area, she saw a man and woman waving their arms at her, shouting for her attention. Several others were there too, holding up homemade signs and jumping up and down, apparently very happy to see her.

Walking slowly toward them, she felt a nervous shudder in the pit of her stomach and stopped.

Pausing just before the security gate, she removed the waterproof bag from her backpack—through the thin layer of plastic she could see the rectangular bulge of Ben’s video camera—and tossed it into the gaping hole of a nearby trash bin. Shrugging on her backpack, it seemed as though an enormous weight had been lifted, and she felt a most peculiar tingle as the muscles around her face contracted all at once. Though she did not understand what this odd sensation meant, the cluster of Brooke Harlow’s friends and family interpreted her upward slanting expression as a smile, and several of them—her mother and father included—began to cry with joy at the incredible resilience of their beloved little girl.

Making a subtle adjustment to her dark sunglasses, she veered back toward the waiting area. Toward the waving people. Toward the strange new world beyond.

BOOK: Pray for Darkness: Terror in the Green Inferno
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