The First Bird

CHAPTER 1

Pieter Jorghanson nodded and smiled, nodded and smiled. The small group of indigenous people he sat amongst were in the “lost tribe” category, found either by satellite photography or accidentally, during mining surveys.

This part of the jungle was unique and mysterious. Its informal moniker amongst academia was “the green boneyard”. For every ten scientists or enthusiastic professors who entered, only five returned, and of those who did, few had penetrated its dark heart.

The Gran Chaco Boreal, on the border of Paraguay, Bolivia and Brazil, is one of the last truly unexplored places on earth. Modern man knows more about the moon and the fathomless dark ocean trenches than they do about the deep green lands in this jungle. Two hundred and fifty thousand square miles of cover, so thick that from the sky the tops of trees looked like lumpy green hills.

To add to its impenetrability, armies of poisonous reptiles, insects and sickness-bearing parasites, as well as thorn forests with spikes long and sharp enough to penetrate the toughest leather or canvas, surrounded its core. Hacking through this dense biological barrier was slow; it could take a day to progress little more than twenty feet. Luck, a local guide, or a helicopter drop were the only ways in.

Pieter nodded and smiled again. A small woman smiled broadly in return. Gho-ka had taken a shine to him, and seemed to assume responsibility for teaching him their ways. Her first husband had been killed in the jungle, and now, as was her right, she was free to choose another mate. Pieter wondered exactly what she had in mind for him.

He looked at her closely — receding chin, thick brow ridge, squat torso and heavily muscled arms and legs. Very primitive-looking, he thought, as she touched his arm lightly and then pulled back, giggling and covering her mouth full of shovel-like teeth.

Overall, the tribe was friendly but extremely secretive. Pieter found that his rudimentary inquiries about the jungle were mostly met with patience or good humor. Very few questions elicited a more vigorous or aggressive response.

The Ndege Watu, as they referred to themselves, were like brightly colored birds, with their orange ochre body paint and red and yellow feathers hanging from their hair and groins. It had taken him months to find them, and then several more weeks to get close enough to share a smile and avoid being pierced by one of their poison-tipped arrows. Eventually, after weeks of swapping food and gifts, he had finally been invited to join them.

As a scientist specializing in social anthropology, Jorghanson was a barely competent linguist, so although he had first thought the Ndege Watu’s dialect might be associated with the Panobo group of languages, he had soon found it more song-like, punctuated with glottal stops, before moving back to a high-pitched whistling. Jorghanson had only managed to pick up the odd word and inference here and there.

What excited him most was the strange and amazing script the Ndege used. It far surpassed the simple nature of their language. Raised glyphs, more like artwork than anything he had ever come across, adorned totems and the walls of their largest huts. He needed an expert appraisal, but already he was thinking the language was a root dialect merged with some sort of Amerindian influence. But the writing … he looked at his notes and penciled some sketches of their character sets — Incan influence with a hint of Oceania, and more — definitely logographic and certainly unique.

He shaded in the characters for what might have been the Incan images for valley, or walled place. Most of the early tribes that encountered the Incans or Mayans were absorbed, used as slaves, or exterminated. Somehow, these little guys had managed to survive as a distinct and unique tribal group. Either some quirk of fate had caused them to be left alone, or the major races had wanted it that way. The Ndege had been lucky … and now so was he, he thought, smiling and nodding to his new friends.

He felt he had more than enough information to have the tribe given do-not-approach status under the Funei collective of South American lost tribes. That alone would gain him scientific kudos.

Jorghanson nudged Gho-ka, eliciting significant mirth from the other squat brown women, little bigger than children, but with brightly painted sagging breasts on their barrel chests. She covered her mouth again, hiding the long canines, but he could see her smile. I guess flirting is universal, he thought as he watched her join in the cooking of meats and tubers.

He made some more notes and smacked his lips; the smell from the fires was making his mouth water. He craved more food but was too polite to ask for it, nor did he know how. Besides, he didn’t feel he deserved it as he had never attended a hunt. He would probably scare the game, anyway. The only time he had tried to indicate his desire to come with them, he had been forcefully rebuffed. It seemed some parts of the jungle were strictly off-limits.

Jorghanson was financing this trip with his own money. He could have sought funding from his university, but doing so would have meant that any discoveries would be jointly credited. Though not mercenary, he knew that a solid discovery meant recognition, significant future funding, publication, and perhaps even approaches for nature documentaries — hello, David Attenborough. That’d be more like it, he thought.

He looked again at the picture writing — would it be enough? He needed an angle, a hook … he needed there to be a link to the great Incans or Mayans, or at least a perceived link. Hmm. Keepers of the Incan secrets — nah. Last of the Mayans? No, too much like Last of the Mohicans. Hmm, ancient Incans found — wait: ancient Incans found by intrepid explorer! Not bad. He’d need to think on it, but it was definitely coming together.

Jorghanson coughed and slapped at his neck in a vain attempt to catch an annoying insect. Too late; he felt the lumpy itch of multiple bites already at his collar. He didn’t care, it was a small price to pay. This was going to pay off a lot quicker than sitting at a desk, or delivering yet another lecture to bored students who’d rather be doing something, anything, else.

His stomach rumbled again. Through much excited gesticulating and a great deal of guesswork on his part, he’d deduced that the evening’s dinner was to include an animal that was a delicacy of the tribe. He watched hungrily as a layer of clay was cut away, followed by the steaming leaves, and the creature was broken up into smaller pieces. Everything would be eaten, and nothing wasted.

The animal looked to be the size of a good turkey. Handfuls of meat, skin and bone were piled onto pieces of bark and handed along the lines, firstly to the tribal elders, then to the warriors. Eventually Gho-ka brought him a mound of blackened flesh and bone, and he tried to make the difficult glottal-guttural sounds for “thank you”.

The small woman just smiled and nodded, grabbing a piece of meat and pushing it into his mouth. Delicious! It could have been rat for all he cared. High-protein food was hard to come by. Besides, the food wasn’t always cooked, and some things in the jungle, when eaten raw, were hard for a middle-aged westerner to keep down, no matter how adventurous he thought he was.

He coughed again as he savored another small piece of warm meat. Strange, he’d assumed it was a bird, but it didn’t really taste like one at all. He’d tried alligator, snake and even goanna in Australia. Like this, they were a solid type of meat, more like white beef than soft poultry. He’d love to know what he was eating.

He turned to the male next to him, pointed to his food, and made the sound for “good”, following it with the opening hand gesture that indicated a question. He raised his eyebrows and shrugged, hopefully indicating curiosity about what he was eating.

Jorghanson concentrated as a torrent of impenetrable words and sounds tumbled toward him. The small man pointed to the jungle and made flapping motions with his arms. Okay, a bird from the jungle. Jorghanson nodded and raised his eyebrows. The man snapped his jaws together, pointing at his own teeth. Yes, we’re eating it, got that too.

The man shrugged and went back to his food, and the scientist frowned, none the wiser. It had been months, and he still only understood a fraction of their language. He was a better karaoke singer than he was a linguist.

He picked up a chunk of meat attached to a flat piece of bone about three inches long, nibbled the clinging flesh off and then examined the shard. Odd. It was solid, not the lighter, hollow bone he expected from a bird. He picked up another piece, also flat, and fitted them together — it was the side of a skull, containing some upper jaw, and … teeth. Teeth? He held the fragment close to his face, then rummaged for his glasses to examine it more closely.

I’ll be damned, he thought — acrodont teeth on a bird. He swung to Gho-ka next to him and uttered a string of glottal stops and short vocalic sets, hoping upon hope that for once in his life he had got the translation right. Where?

The woman at first shook her head, her eyes going wide, but after some stroking and smiling, she smiled shyly in return. Pieter knew she’d tell him. He also knew he had just found his angle.

CHAPTER 2

Pieter was hot, damp and itched from his scalp down to the soles of his feet. The flight from Brazil to LA had taken nearly ten hours. This was after spending a week hacking out of the damned jungle.

And now this grotesque indignation. Though he was glad to be home, the stifling heat and humidity of the jungle was actually more pleasant than standing in an early morning queue at arrivals, waiting to have his retina scanned as part of the disembarking procedure.

At last the officer glanced up at Pieter’s face, then flipped through his passport, looking at the stamps, and pointed with his pen to the scanner. Pieter guessed that a small smile and a “welcome back” would only be delivered if he successfully passed the screening process.

Pieter leaned forward and widened one bloodshot eye. Even his eyeball felt gritty and itchy, and he longed to rub it. The small scanner flashed, and then … nothing.

The officer continued to look at his screen for a second, and then frowned. “Once more please, Professor Jorghanson.”

Pieter tried again, and the officer, sounding bored, simply said, “One moment please,” then leaned back to call another of the immigration officials standing behind the row of desks. The official sauntered over, giving Pieter’s disheveled frame and face a quick, seemingly disinterested glance that in reality took in everything about him. Pieter’s interviewer pointed at the screen, and the man leaned forward and frowned.

“Oh, for fuck’s sake,” Pieter muttered, not caring if anyone heard. He stepped back a pace from the desk, stretched, and glanced around at the waiting crowd, a hundred different nationalities all glaring at him, united in their frustration at the sweat-rumpled desk-hog he’d suddenly become. This time he did rub his eye, and annoyance welled up inside him, threatening to boil over into anger.

Normally a patient man, his crawling skin beneath and sweat-damp clothes magnified the delay to the point of insufferable torment. This is what hell will be like, he thought, grinding his teeth as the two men whispered urgently at the computer screen just out of his sight.

Pieter knew that an individual’s retina was unique, and that scanning it was one of the most precise and reliable biometric tests that could be brought to bear. Its error rate was around one in a million — when it fucking works, he thought, as his skin tingled like a living thing beneath his damp, stinking clothes. Even he could smell them — ammonia. Smells like I pissed myself, he thought.

At last, the official called him closer. He held out a small vial of eye drops. “Professor Jorghanson, have you ever suffered from a degenerative retinal disorder?”

Pieter thought about refusing the drops, but guessed that would probably just lengthen the delay, so he shook his head, mouthed “nope”, and snatched at the tiny bottle. He squeezed a drop into each eye. Both immediately felt better — still itchy, but less grainy.

“Once again, sir.” The man motioned to the scanner.

Pieter sighed theatrically and did as requested. He stood back and waited as both officers peered at the screen, then looked at each other and shrugged. His original interviewer looked up at him and smiled. “Welcome home, Professor.”

Pieter snatched his passport with a grunt and headed toward the luggage carousel, mentally checking off his next steps: collect the suitcases, duffel bags, and crates, then navigate customs. That wasn’t going to be pleasant — Round 2, he thought morosely.

Nearly an hour later, Pieter was waiting in the taxi rank. The people either side of him gave him a few extra feet, possibly due to the aura of prickliness and anger coming off him in waves, or more likely due to his unsettling odor, a mix of ammonia and cloying sweetness.

In the taxi, Pieter calmed himself by planning his evening’s presentation. Though physically fatigued, he was emotionally and intellectually charged. An early night could wait. It was only late morning, and not too late to invite a small but influential group of anthropologists, biologists, and — what the hell — paleontologists, just to make things interesting. He knew exactly which buttons to press to entice them, and an appeal for secrecy would guarantee that word would get out. Academics leaked like the Bismarck.

Once he had knocked their socks off, he’d graduate to a larger audience. Pieter knew he was on the border of Nobel Prize territory — how could he not be? He had his research, an exotic location, the secretive tribe and their fantastic language, and he had his specimen. That alone would crown his work, and lift him above all other academics, adventurers and poseurs in the country — no, the world! He snorted softly at his own hubris.

The specimen would be quarantined in a secret location for the next eight weeks, but that wouldn’t stop him from taking to the road long beforehand, or from securing a form of scientific copyright over the discovery. The respect of his peers was one thing, but that didn’t put food on the table … or rather, champagne in the bucket. He could sell it, and make a fortune. Hmm, he did have a contact, he mused, and sunk back in the vinyl seat, feeling the prickling on his skin again.

“Please turn the air conditioning up.”

The driver’s gaze flicked back at him, and he leaned forward, toward the dashboard. Jorghanson wasn’t sure the man had made any change, as he was still stewing in his own secretions. He pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and wiped his brow, excitement outweighing his discomfort.

He could almost see the look on his peers’ faces when he presented the images of the primitive-looking tribe. He’d discuss samples of their ancient and unique language. The audience would start to become restive, having expected more, given the expectations he had set. There’d be muttering, glances at wristwatches.

He’d play it cool, take some questions, then show the Ndege Watu’s glyph writing style — itself a wonder. Then he’d stop at what he knew to be a crude representation of the specimen and begin to discuss what it could mean. Perhaps he’d even allow some of his more esteemed peers to suggest an answer. They’d all be completely wrong, of course.

Almost as an afterthought, he’d answer the original question he proposed. Colombo-like, he’d reveal pictures of the live specimen — they’d be dumbfounded. His body juddered as he contained his laughter, delight making his eyes water.

If only he wasn’t still suffering from some type of jungle itch that was driving him crazy. He scratched at his chest and stomach, and wiped at his brow and his neck with the rumpled handkerchief, still in his hand.

He’d shower and grab an hour or two of naptime, then he’d jump straight into his delivery at the Santa Barbara University’s Lecture Hall. He couldn’t get the smile off his face as he gave the taxi driver directions. Stuffing the damp square of cloth back into his pocket, he didn’t notice the brownish stain on its soiled surface.

Pieter Jorghanson hummed to himself and leaned his head out of the car window, allowing the warm mid-morning air to dry the red sweat on his forehead.

Yep, things were going to turn out just fine.

“Shut the fuck up!” Mitch kicked the cage, then knelt down to read the tag. “I can’t even pronounce this — some sort of rare fucking parrot or sumthin … from … Brazil.” He lifted the cloth and peered into the shrouded enclosure. “Je-zuz.” He recoiled as the creature hissed at him, and the cage rattled and clanged as the animal backed its ungainly body against the bars.

“It stinks. No wonder it’s in quarantine — looks sick already to me.”

His colleague, Barbara Hernandez, snorted. “Yup, sure ain’t a looker. Just make sure it’s kept warm. It just came in from the jungle.”

“Well. It’ll love LA in the summer then — freaking jungle out there, baby.”

Mitch Merkhal got down lower and pulled out his flashlight, flicking it on and shining into the cage depths. The creature turned its head and fixed him with a small, ruby red eye. “Yecch.” Mitch reached between the bars, picked up a small piece of meat and flicked it at the bird. The food bounced off its wing, the bird casting only a momentary glance toward it before glaring once again at Mitch. It hissed and clanged once again, small taloned fingers on the apex of its wings clutching at the bars.

Mitch snorted in disgust. “Yeah, I wouldn’t eat that shit either, fugly.” He got to his feet, dropping the shroud back over the cage and wiping his fingers on his pants. Inside, the bird looked down at the morsel of food. A scattering of iridescent feathers fell to the cage floor, where they stuck, their quills coated in brownish blood.

Pieter Jorghanson woke at four, and sat up slowly. He’d taken painkillers for his headache, and after a shower and a nap he felt marginally more refreshed, but his body still tingled all over, and when he rubbed his forehead, his hand came away greasy and brown. He snorted — still exuding Amazon mud. He remembered falling face-first into the mud. They had to run for it — the Ndege Watu had been a lovable bunch until he went to leave with the specimen. Then they’d turned from friendly little doves to angry hawks in a flash.

Gho-ka had trapped one of the creatures in a plastic bag he’d given her, as she refused to touch it. Apparently the men always brought them back dead, drowned. He remembered when she had returned to him, sopping wet after an apparent swim. His breath caught in his throat and his eyes widened when he first saw it, its serrated beak bound closed with a small length of vine. Gho-ka had flatly refused to take him to the wall of flowers, where the creature had been living — at least, he thought so. That was as close to a translation as he could get. It didn’t matter, his prize was enough, and he could always come back with enough gifts to buy another dozen … or maybe not. Gho-ka had tripped as they ran. She’d cried out for him, but he had sped on. He could still hear the wails that had continued for many minutes before being abruptly cut off. He was sure she’d be fine. It was better for her to be with her own people anyway.

They had chased him for miles. Even now, he still didn’t get it; what did they care? It was just another plate of food to them, but it was his ticket to greatness. Greatness. He smiled and swung his legs off the bed.

Dressing quickly, he contemplated a quick bite but decided against it, hoping that the university room would provide a tray of sandwiches, or at least a plate of cookies. He chuckled when he thought of the facial expressions of his small audience as he talked through his presentation, seeing their polite boredom gradually turn to interest, then on to incredulity and wonder.

They’d be falling over each other to learn more about his work, to get access to it, to study it, then to try and hitch their own academic wagons to his speeding train of discovery. My turn, he thought, and chuckled again as he walked into the small bathroom and picked up his comb.

He smiled into the mirror. Learn more about it? Sure. Get access to it? Maybe. Study it? Not a chance. He’d already negotiated rights with an interested corporation — they got exclusive information and the location, and he got the academic recognition, and personal remuneration in the seven-figure range. Who said academia didn’t pay?

He looked harder at his reflection. Jesus, he looked terrible. His skin was gray and sagging — corpse-like best described it. Must be more tired than I thought. Maybe a week off before any more presentations.

He snorted; who was he kidding? A week off now? It was his time in the sun. Right here, right now.

Jorghanson ran the comb through his hair; his scalp tingled, and he was alarmed to see the teeth of the comb come away tangled with strands of hair and sticky with a brownish substance. He stared at it in confusion for a few seconds, then brought it to his nose. Phew — sickly sweet and ammonia-like. It reminded him of something that he couldn’t quite place.

Shit. Why now, goddammit? He dropped the comb into the sink and instead splashed water on his face and ran his wet hands up over his sparse hair, slicking it into place. The cool water felt somehow distant, like he had stretched cellophane over his skin. Straightening, he saw that the pallor of his skin hadn’t changed. He hoped it was just the lighting. Blue-white energy saving coils — always bad for complexions.

Jorghanson gathered his laptop, his presentation loaded, as well as some loose notes. He sucked in a deep breath. Tonight was the night — he’d never forget it. He hoped no one else would either.

Mitch Merkhal’s fingers itched constantly now, but not to a degree that worried him. Nearly time to knock off. He was looking forward to his first brewski. He whistled as he sauntered along the cool and dry aisles of the private quarantine station — long rows of mostly wooden and mineral items that only needed a short stay — and then sniffed back some snot. The dry atmosphere always made his nose run. He wiped it with his hand then ran his fingers up through his hair, pushing it back off his forehead and leaving a small red streak of brown.

The itch wasn’t enough to worry him … yet.

The lights were killing him.

Jorghanson had managed to struggle through his presentation and, as he had hoped, his small group was on the edge of their seats. Suspicion and skepticism had changed to enthusiasm.

Now to take it up to the next level — awe, he thought with satisfaction.

There were no more questions as he came to the final image. He stood back for a moment and drew in a breath. He tried to smile, but his lips felt funny — rubbery and numb. His skin was still itching, and also felt weird to the touch. Looking down at his hands, he had the weird impression that the skin was sagging, like a pair of ill-fitting gloves.

Jorghanson blinked a couple of times and wished he had worn a hat. Wearing one indoors was a bit pretentious, but given his recent trip and the images on his presentation, a little Indiana Jones flair would probably have been forgiven. He gathered himself, ignoring his torments, and smiled down from the small stage, which was little more than a single step a few inches high. He cleared his throat.

‘Ladies and gentlemen, the Ndege Watu is an ancient race, perhaps one of the first races to have existed in their secluded part of the Gran Chaco Boreal. Based on my fieldwork, it seems likely that they have resided there for untold generations … perhaps even millennia. They know their land — a dark and hidden land. But they also know the secrets it contains.” He paused for effect, and placed one hand on his chest. “They shared those secrets with me, and now, tonight, I wish to share them … with you.” He smiled benignly, then reached toward his computer and pressed a single key, moving the slide show to the last image.

The detail was exquisite, the lighting perfect, the specimen revealed in all its glory and phenomenal strangeness.

Pieter Jorghanson raised his head and closed his eyes. His voice was strong and sonorous, and sounding more like a Sunday preacher than a university professor. It had to be; already their voices were welling up in an academic fervor. He went on, even louder.

“Friends and colleagues, I give you an anachronism, a living fossil, and a biological time machine. I give you the mother of feathered flight, the first bird … the archaeopteryx!”

Chairs were knocked backward and pushed aside as the crowd got to its feet. They surged forward like some many-mouthed creature, yelling questions and jostling with each other, trying to get to the screen, to Pieter.

Then came the most beautiful sound Pieter had ever heard in his entire, unremarkable academic life — applause. He had done it, he was famous. His name would live forever with this find. A Nobel Prize for science and worldwide recognition would be his. It would happen.

He was dizzy. Perhaps the lighting and the euphoria were getting to him; making the blood pump from to his head too quickly. He leaned over his computer to steady himself, just as a small dark clump of something plopped onto the keyboard.

He frowned as he tried to work out what it was, and reached out to flip it over, thinking that perhaps someone had thrown something at him. But his fingers refused to grasp it; their tips felt squashy and somehow disconnected.

“What’s going on here?” He looked up at the crowd, and immediately there came a yell from the front row.

“He’s having a stroke!”

“Who, me? I’m having a stroke?” His vision grew more indistinct as something slipped down over his eyes. He moved a hand up to the side of his face — it sagged. No wonder they’d assumed he was having a stroke. His features were hanging limply, more like a hound’s dewlap than a human cheek.

Someone else screamed, a woman’s voice this time, he thought. The high-pitched cry went on and on, and was like a dagger into the center of his brain. Those damned lights. He looked up toward them, cursing their tormenting brightness for intervening at the moment of his triumph, but the thick veil had now slipped completely over his eyes.

The room spun and he fell to the floor.

CHAPTER 3

Matt Kearns stretched out on the float in the center of the small swimming pool. A hat concealed his face, and he could feel the sun’s warmth like a blanket on his belly and thighs. He might just roll into the water again soon, or maybe he’d have another drink. Decisions, decisions, he thought, and sighed.

He was in Orange County for a week to attend a conference on sub-Sumerian languages and their dialects. It might have been a dry subject for anyone but a handful of archeologists, anthropologists, and paleolinguists, but for Matt, one of the youngest and brightest in the business, it was a little slice of academic heaven. And that was before you factored in the extra benefits.

“Honey?” He used the tips of his fingers to paddle his float backward to the edge of the pool. “Meg, honey, can you get me another drink?”

He breathed in the smells of coconut suntan lotion, chlorine, and a thousand more scents of summer that emanated from plants overhanging the tropical-style swimming pool. On days like this, nothing could go wrong … and only one thing could make it better. “Megan, can you …”

The pool erupted around him in an explosion of water as a human cannonball hit its surface, blowing him off his float. Matt came to the surface spluttering, his hat floating like a lilypad beside him. His girlfriend surfaced face-first, her long hair cascading down over her slim, tanned back and shoulders.

That’s what you get for dating younger women, he thought, spitting water. The fun never stopped.

At twenty-five, Megan Hannaford was one of his best students, and that wasn’t just because she happened to be sleeping with him. She was a tomboy at heart, and as athletic as they came. Smart as a whip, she would make a terrific scientist in whatever field she chose. He’d probably end up working for her one day.

He looked into her beaming Nordic features and smiled. Matt was nearly ten years older than Meg. He’d been the youngest professor of archeological studies at Harvard University until he decided to jump the rat race. He was now at Asheville UNC, where he met Meg. His longish hair, youthful features, and sharp mind made him a favorite with the faculty and students.

She said he had wise eyes, ancient eyes, the eyes of a man who had seen things. She didn’t know how right she was.

Megan threw her head back and laughed, hugging him. She pressed one sharp fingertip into his shoulder. “Look at you — you’re going to end up lobstering, and then you won’t want me to touch you.”

Matt ducked underwater and came up to spit a stream of pool water onto her chest. “The important areas were covered. You can still touch those.” He raised his eyebrows comically.

She reached under the water and squeezed his groin. Her eyes widened in shock. “Where’s it gone?”

He laughed. “The water’s cold.” He waded to the side of the pool and lifted himself out. Megan followed and sat next to him, and then leaned over and kissed him, softly at first, and then a little harder and deeper. She reached down again. “Oh, there he is. Welcome back, big fella.” She continued kneading his groin.

Matt pulled her closer and Megan drew back from the kiss. “What about a drink first, handsome?”

“Mmm, yes please. I think I must be in heaven.” Matt went to lie down on the warm pool deck.

“Good idea … make it two.” Megan smiled and fluttered her eyes.

“But, I thought … oh, I get it — cute and pushy.” He jumped to his feet and walked across the warm flagstones to grab his towel from the back of a banana lounge. He saw that his footprints had already started to evaporate in the hot afternoon sun.

They’d head back to Asheville tomorrow. He was actually looking forward to getting back to work — cushy trips for lectures were fine, but he loved his job, and he could never complain about being paid to do something he would have done for free if given the chance.

The phone rang as he stepped inside, and he danced lightly across the rug to pick it up, wiping his hands on the towel around his waist.

“Professor Kearns? Matthew Kearns?”

It was a woman’s voice, and not one he recognized. He responded warily. “Yes?”

“Professor Kearns, my name is Carla Nero from the CDC. Do you have a moment to talk?”

“The CDC?” Ignoring the wet towel around his waist, Matt sat down. The Center for Disease Control was like a giant coiled spring, ready to be launched at any serious domestic disease incursion. With enormous funding, human resources, and scientific firepower at their disposal, these guys didn’t exactly make house calls to see if you had an upset stomach from last night’s shrimp.

His mind worked furiously over the recent trips he had taken in and outside the country. Nothing disquieting came to mind.

“Talk … about what?”

“Something you’re very familiar with, Mr. Kearns — old languages.”

Matt frowned. “I don’t get it. When you said CDC, you meant the Center for Disease Control, right?”

There was light laughter. Matt quite liked it. “Yes, we’re that CDC. We have a small outbreak we’re running down, and need some clues as to its provenance. We’re hoping you can assist us with that.”

“Look, Ms. Nero …”

“Carla.”

“… Carla, I’m heading back to Asheville tomorrow, and I should be in the office the day after that—”

She cut him off. “I just need a few minutes. In fact, I’m just down the road.”

“I see. I take it a no is probably not an option then?”

There was that disarming laugh again. “Of course you can say no. Don’t be so distrustful, Professor. We were just in the area and your name popped up. Coffee okay?”

He grinned crookedly. Too many spy movies. “Sorry, suspicious nature. Comes from working in faculty — everyone’s always looking over your shoulder. So, sure, where?”

“Café Glace Noire, just around the corner from you. I’m at a table out front right now. I could only save one extra seat, so please come alone.”

“Glace Noire it is. I’ll see you in ten.” He hung up and glanced across at Megan. Her hair sparkled in the sun, and she leaned back, giving him a clear view of her flat belly and full breasts. He should have asked for twenty minutes at least. He dropped his towel and was about to cross to her when he had a sinister thought — how did Carla know he wasn’t alone? He looked up at the trees surrounding the secluded pool area as his suspicious nature returned in a rush.

Carla watched the young man saunter down the street. He had excellent academic credentials, was physically fit, spoke every major language and could read or interpret hundreds more. At just thirty-two Matt Kearns was one of the most respected paleolinguists in the world today. He also had a history of working with government departments and came personally recommended by an old friend, Colonel Jack Hammerson. Perfect, she thought.

She looked him up and down: hands in the back pockets of his jeans, hair hanging down to his shoulders and stubble on a healthy jawline that spoke of forgetfulness rather than fashion consciousness. What’s not to like? she wondered.

This man could help, and he was right here, right now. She didn’t intend to let him off the hook — too much depended on it.

Carla turned to a large man in a dark blue Ford Taurus down the street and nodded imperceptibly. The car pulled out and drove slowly away.

Kearns slowed as he neared the café’s numerous outdoor tables and she watched, slightly amused, as he glanced at a few of the patrons, unsure whether to approach her or the older woman with the severely pulled back hair. She decided to make it easy for him.

“Professor Kearns, I presume?” She stood and held out her hand.

He smiled warmly and gripped her hand, shaking it firmly. “You presume correctly. And call me Matt. Not even my students call me Professor Kearns.”

She motioned to a seat next to her and he sat down. After a few minutes of polite chat about the weather and the city, Matt leaned forward.

“So, Carla, the CDC wants to speak to me. Should I be alert and alarmed, or remain quietly confused?”’

She smiled and waited another minute, as the coffees were set in front of them, until the waiter had disappeared. “I’ve seen your résumé, Matt. You’ve been around, so I doubt anything I could say would alarm you too much. But I think we’re the ones who are confused, and that’s why we need your help.”

She sipped her coffee. “Do you know a Professor Pieter Jorghanson?”

Matt frowned, then shook his head.

“That’s okay; he isn’t exactly a household name, even in your academic circles. He used to specialize in anthropology for the University of Santa Barbara. You see, Professor Jorghanson traveled down to the jungles of South America recently, stayed for three months with an undiscovered tribe of natives, and returned a few weeks ago with a fantastic tale and a rather unique specimen. It seems there has been a bit of an adverse biological repercussion as a result of the visit. We need to shut that down.”

Matt tilted his head. “Oookay … and now the million dollar question — how does that affect me?” He flashed what he obviously thought was his most winning smile. Carla sipped again and watched his face. He was wary, but interested. She leaned forward, holding his gaze. “Have you heard of the Gran Chaco jungles in South America?”

Matt leaned forward as well, and lowered his voice. “Paraguayan or Southern Brazil Boreal?”

Carla smiled. “Brazil, Pantanal region.”

He whistled. “Heavy going — some of the thickest jungle on the planet.”

She nodded, thinking that she’d been right about him. “Sure is. It seems Professor Jorghanson found a previously undiscovered tribe who inhabit the area. Over the past twenty-four hours I’ve been given a crash course in indigenous South American dialects and writing systems. My basic understanding is that a race’s writing is supposed to be the representation of their language, usually expressed through a set of symbols. But strangely, the language and writing don’t really marry up. Jorghanson’s discovered tribe, the Ndege Watu, read and write a language that, according to the scholars I’ve spoken to, isn’t really their own. It’s like the writing was taught to them … we think perhaps by the very first Incans.”

Matt sat forward, his eyes wide. “Wow.”

“Exactly.” Carla exhaled sofly. “Our problem is, we need to know what these natives were saying, writing … even thinking. And we need to know now.” She paused, looking down at her cup.

Matt waited for her to continue. Finally, he opened his hands, palms out. “And?”

Carla continued to hesitate, wondering whether she should tell him any more just yet. While she tried to think, Matt leaned forward and spoke softly.

“You still haven’t told me why there is such urgency, or why you and the CDC are involved. This adverse biological repercussion you mentioned — was there some sort of infection that Professor Jorghanson brought back?”

Carla looked at him for several more seconds, then made her decision. She nodded. “You’re partly right. There is no infection — it’s more like an infestation. It seems the specimen Jorghanson brought back had a few passengers, and now they, and their offspring, have escaped. Our problem is parasitic. And the parasite, like the specimen, is — was — something not seen by modern man … probably ever. Perhaps excluding the Ndege Watu.”

Her face became more serious. “It’s moving faster than we can — using us as the vectors. Think about all the people you would come into contact with in a week, or even in a single day — going to work, to the shop, on public transport — dozens, maybe hundreds? And then of those hundreds, extrapolate that again by the people would they come into contact with, and then again, and so on. We call it a contamination shockwave — it moves out in a ring from the ground zero patient, and keeps traveling until it’s stopped or burns itself out. That shockwave has already started, and that’s why we’re involved, and the reason for the urgency.”

“But it sounds like you’re planning a trip … to the Gran Chaco? You might as well be dropping yourself into hell.”

“Then hell it is. It’ll be a lot worse than that if we don’t get this under control. We need to find out how the local Indians survived, or lived with the infestation. Something down in that jungle kept them safe, and kept the parasite under control. But up here it’s missing. Believe it or not, we’re in a race, one the CDC needs to win. And I certainly don’t have time to drag along a full team of linguists and camp out in some jungle hothouse for a month. We need one person, one all-round expert.” She leaned forward and grasped his wrist. “We need you.”

Carla retrieved a folder tucked down by the side of her chair and laid it flat on the table. She rested her hand on it. “We need answers.”

Matt was intrigued, but there was no way he could suddenly up and go, especially for a week or two. He thought about the best way to let her down. He knew a few linguistic specialists he could recommend. He glanced at the folder, curiosity burning now. Maybe, for now at least, he’d see if he could help.

He reached out, but then stopped. Carla had a hand firmly on the folder but her head was turned. She smiled at a mother and daughter at a near table. The little girl was trying to sit a small doll down beside her cup of hot chocolate, all the while scolding the doll for taking too long, and wagging her finger at it like a mother would.

“Ah, Carla.” Matt cleared his throat.

Carla continued to watch the girl. But the smile she once had began to turn down slightly at the corners and her eyes moistened.

“Carla?”

She quickly turned back to him.

“Someone you know?” Matt asked.

“No.” She shook her head. “Just… reminds me of my daughter.” She blinked and a frown momentarily creased her forehead. “Madeleine.”

Matt thought about continuing the topic, but there was something in the woman’s expression that warned him that maybe family, or this relationship, might be out of bounds.

Instead, he nodded toward the folder. “So, you want me to read something, a map, you said? I can certainly try, but I have to tell you, it can take hours, days, or even weeks to extract the meaning from some written languages — if they can be read at all.” He reached across and slid the folder out from under her hand. “Can you tell me anything else? I’m intrigued now, and believe me, context helps.”

She smiled and lifted her cup. “We’ll see.” She sipped, watching him over the rim.

“A test, is it?” Matt raised an eyebrow and opened the folder, spreading the contents on the tabletop. There were photographs, and a small device with a cord and an earplug on one end — a recording of something, he assumed. He lifted the first picture and grunted softly.

“Picto-language — but a more modern variant, of an ancient dialect. Wow, these guys are good.” He looked up. “This is modern, right, not a copy of some earlier writing images?”

“Near as we can tell, it’s only a few months old.” She sipped again.

“Hmm. Looks Incan.” He snorted. “Looks Incan, Olmec, Sumerian, and a bastardized form of Mayan. In fact, it looks quite unique — more like art than language.”

Matt placed the photograph on the table and pointed to an image of a gross head with a tongue protruding. “The sign for eating, I think. Like Incan, but not quite right. It might have been once, but has now evolved into something quite different. Obviously idiographic, but I’m not sure about the phonetic relationships.” He sorted through each of the pictures of the language, nodding and muttering to himself from time to time.

He looked up at her and she nodded, raising her eyebrows, waiting for him to go on.

Matt reached for the tiny earpiece and stuck it in his ear. He picked up the small silver box, pressed a button, and swiveled a small dial. As he listened he frowned slightly and lifted one of the photographs to glance at it before closing his eyes and tapping it on the table as he listened. “Glottal stops, clicks, whistles — a little like the African bushman, but longer consonants. I also detect the use of a morphosyntax a little like the local Pirahã tribe. Hmm, this’d take a while to unpick … but it could be done.”

“Well?” She drew the pictures back and rested her arched fingers on them.

“Well. That … is not a map.” He sat back.

“It’s not directions?” Carla frowned. “Godammit — we didn’t get the original. Okay, what is it then?”

“A shopping list and … a recipe, I think.”

“Think of it as the first ever master class in cooking.” Matt watched with amusement as the CDC woman’s face went from anger, to acceptance, and then on to humor, as she finally realized that the joke was on her.

“The danger of making assumptions, right?” She smiled ruefully for a second before getting serious again. “But you can read it?”

Matt spun one of the images around and pointed to the photograph. “Most of it. Look, the sign for fire, for eating, for a valley that’s either behind, or hidden, or underneath something. These symbols here mean flowers or plants, and these mean a wall, or barrier. I’m obviously not one hundred percent clear, but the context is that it’s a valley that’s hard to find or to get to, and might be blocked by a barrier. Okay, also the sign for bird, and — hmm, for teeth. That’s a little weird, teeth and bird together. It’d be better if I could see the original drawings, but based on what I can see, it’s no real location, and no explanation or cure for your problem.” He sat back. “I guess it doesn’t help much.”

Carla gathered up the photographs. “Well, it confirms two things; one we already suspected.” She slid the pictures back into the folder and finished her coffee.

“And the other?”

“The other is that you’re the real deal, and you’ll be coming with us.” She smiled without humor.

Matt drained his cup and set it down, not looking at her. “Yeah, well, about that. You see …”

“Professor Kearns, this …”

He held up his hand. “Now, I’d love to help, but …”

She leaned forward, cutting him off. “This is not a request.”

Matt gave her a sympathetic smile. “I’m flattered that you think I’m the only one who can help you, but I’m not, and further, I’m just not available right now. Besides, I’m not sure I can do much more.” He sighed. “Look, I know this is important. I promise I’ll look at it as soon as I can. That’s the best I can do, I’m afraid.”

Carla smiled, flashing a line of perfect white teeth. But there was little goodwill in the smile — more a shark-like menace.

“Golly … you promise?” The smile disappeared. “Professor Kearns, under the national sequestration laws, if we, the CDC, determine there is an imminent threat to the domestic American population, we have the right, and the capability, to sequester any item, asset, record, or individual for as long as we deem necessary.” She stared him down, as confident and assertive as a New York tax attorney going in for the kill.

Matt swallowed, suddenly realizing that the attractive woman with the big gray-blue eyes was used to getting her own way.

She smiled again, this time warmer and softer. “Please, Professor Kearns — Matthew — this is important. I really want you to come with us by choice, not because we made you. And by the way, it’s not my problem, it’s our problem.”

Matt knew she had thrown him a bone to make him feel in control, just as he knew that the hand squeezing his balls wasn’t his own.

Carla pulled her chair a little closer to the table and reached across to grasp his forearm. “Matt, I mentioned we are in a race … it’s against the clock. An opportunity to be placed right at the source has arisen and the CDC intends to take it. Believe me, it took a lot of arm-twisting to make this happen, so we can’t afford to be indecisive right now.”

“But what do you expect me to do? Talk to these Ndege Watu? It would take me weeks to even learn the rudiments of their language. The writing, I can probably pick up, but anything else? I’ll need more time.”

“We leave in twenty-four hours. You can study on the way.” She stood, tucking her folder under one arm.

Matt shook his head. “Not a chance. I’ve got to …”

“No, you don’t. You’re already packed, and the university has agreed to grant some additional leave while you are on secondment to the CDC.” Her gaze was unwavering.

Matt’s mouth was hanging open, but no words came as his mind worked like a wheel spinning in soft sand.

Carla smiled as a dark Taurus pulled up to the curb.

Finally, Matt’s brain started working. “What about Meg? She’s staying with me.”

“By now, she’ll be on her way home.” The gentle, confident smile remained in place.

The Taurus’s side door opened and a young woman exploded out, yelling something back into the car. She marched down the street toward Matt, shoulders hunched and fists balled. He noticed that her feet were still bare.

“On her way home, you say? You obviously don’t know Megan.” Matt noticed that Carla’s smile had dropped and her brows had drawn together.

The driver got out of the car and opened his arms, hands out, and shrugged. Carla swore.

“Just what the hell is going on, Matt? This goon walked into the house and just started putting your stuff into suitcases. Then he gave me this, and told me to get dressed and go.” She threw a rumpled piece of paper onto the table. Matt picked it up and unfolded it — it was a coach class ticket back to Asheville.

“Coach? Hmm, clearly money’s no object.” Matt looked from Carla to Megan. ‘Honey, meet Carla Nero. Carla, this is Megan Hannaford. Carla here has asked whether we would like to take a little trip with her.”

The CDC woman’s face was like stone as she kept her eyes on Matt. “Don’t do this, Matt. It’s not a game.”

Matt swallowed; the woman’s eyes were like lasers. In for a penny, he thought. “You want my help — she comes.” Matt knew that inviting Megan might make his involvement too irritating or difficult — it could be a deal breaker. At least, that’s what he hoped. “She has an encyclopedic knowledge of ancient writing styles, is an excellent biologist, has walked the Kokoda track, and she’s probably fitter than both of us put together.” He shrugged. “I need her.”

Carla looked the young woman up and down. Megan met her gaze and held it, matching her intensity. Matt briefly thought about ducking for cover.

“Oh, I’m coming.” Megan looked at Matt, her jaw clenched. “Where?”

Matt smiled. Megan was combative, and was digging in even though she had no idea what the trip involved. Someone had just told her she couldn’t do something — bad move.

“Dr. Nero?” The huge driver stood behind Megan, looking like he’d be more than happy to wrestle her back into the car.

Matt spoke over his shoulder to the hulking man. “Don’t even think about it.” He turned to face Carla, wondering what he would do if the driver tried anything.

Carla tapped a finger on the table for a second or two, ignoring the younger woman’s ferocious stare. “I don’t have the authority to endorse your … girlfriend’s travel. Besides, this is no Contiki tour, with cocktails and paper umbrellas. Professor Kearns, you know where we’re going. People die, or sometimes disappear, down there. You want to put your friend at risk?”

Megan pulled up a chair and sat down, leaning into Carla’s face. “Listen, lady. I’ve climbed Lizard Head Peak in Colorado — thirteen thousand feet of crumbling volcanic plug — solo. I’ve dived to three hundred feet using an experimental hypoxic gas blend, and I’ve been in many tropical jungles besides the Kokoda. But I’m not here for a pissing contest. What the hell is this all about?”

Carla studied Megan’s angry face, then smiled. The shark was back. Uh-oh, thought Matt. If Carla tried to slap Megan down that would ratchet his girlfriend up to supernova level. He needed to throw in a circuit breaker.

“Two choices, Carla — either we both go, or neither of us does. Don’t think of it as an intrusion or a hindrance. Think of it as double the help.”

She swung around, shaking her head, her face carrying a hint of warning. “You really don’t know what you’re asking.”

‘You’re right about one thing. I certainly don’t know what the hell I’m asking for. So, if you want our help…’ Matt shrugged and took Megan’s hand. Megan smiled back, and then turned to Carla with a look that said checkmate.

Carla shrugged and nodded, almost sadly. “I see I’m outnumbered and outgunned. If that’s the price of your assistance then I have no choice but to accept your terms, Professor.”

“Really? Uh, thank you,” said Matt.

“Damn right,” Megan threw in, her jaw still thrust forward with hostility.

Carla reached down and pulled another folder from a slim briefcase. “Professor Kearns — Matt — I’m going to lay my cards on the table.” There was a hint of a smile.

Matt smiled back as his brain worked to catch up with what had just happened. A few minutes ago, he had been trying to get out of the trip, then somehow he found himself demanding to be taken. How did that work? Matt had a sneaking suspicion that he was the one who had really been outgunned.

Carla slid the folder across the table, keeping one hand on it. “Before I show you this, please remember that within US borders, we have great authority when it comes to protecting our nation’s health. I’m sure I don’t need to tell you that this is confidential. One word, and there will be enforced incarceration until we deem the threat to public health to have abated.” She locked eyes with Megan. “Agreed?”

Megan held the woman’s gaze, breathing deeply. Matt could feel the waves of anger rising off her. He sat as still as stone, waiting them out.

Seconds passed as the two women eyeballed each other, until Carla raised one eyebrow, her smile never slipping.

“Whatever.” Megan went to grab the folder, but Carla didn’t move her hand.

“Agreed?” She tilted her head.

After a few more seconds of compressed lips, Megan muttered “fine,” then snatched the folder and flipped it open. Round one to Dr. Carla Nero, thought Matt.

Megan immediately recoiled. “Jesus Christ! What the hell is this?”

Carla’s face was devoid of emotion as she nodded slowly. “That, my dear, was Professor Jorghanson.” She spoke without looking at the images. “Forty people he came into contact with are also dead — a trail of bodies leading from the airport to the taxi rank and his hotel. The same goes for another seven people in and around a private quarantine facility in LA. Added to that, we have over eighty people in a negative air pressure isolation unit — a warehouse, really …” She looked from Megan to Matt. “… and all are expected to die in the next few days.”

Matt looked down and flinched. “That many? But what the hell could do this? You said it was a parasite? But how? What?” He gritted his teeth as he looked at the way-too-clear photograph. A body was laid out on a metal table, stripped of its skin. Meaty, glistening, with blue and red veins and arteries, stringy sinew and streaks of fat shining wetly under the harsh lights of a white tiled medical examination room. It was the face that unsettled Matt the most. The features weren’t fixed in shock or agony, but instead held an expression more like … surprise. It was as if Professor Pieter Jorghanson, even in death, still didn’t understand what had happened to him.

On another table, in a large silver bowl, sat a pile of gray, rubbery-looking material. Matt winced, realizing that it was the man’s skin. “What a ghastly way to die.”

“They all died like that. The parasite that came back on the specimen is a form of burrowing mite. It exudes an enzyme that liquefies the protein in the subdermal layers of its host — liquefies them for consumption. In the process, it literally flays the host alive … from the inside out. The only upside — for want of a better term — is that the nerves are the first thing to be short circuited, so the process is actually quite painless.”

“Painless? How the hell do you know that?” Megan pushed back her seat and walked a few paces away from the table.

Carla watched her go, but there was no smile on her face now. She turned back to Matt. “Professor Jorghanson had age-related macular degeneration, cirrhosis of the liver, and a mild form of recessive morbilli virus. He probably contracted the more benign strain of measles as a kid, and his system stored it instead of eradicating it. Regardless, he was still a fairly robust man.” She held Matt’s eyes. “You see, we know he wasn’t in pain at the end, because Professor Jorghanson was still alive when he was brought in … like that. The decorticating process didn’t kill him — it was the shock and fluid loss that did.”

She closed her eyes for a second or two and drew a deep breath. “At least now we know what we’re dealing with. Still, by the time we get to an infested victim, the subdermal insult is … significant. The patients are being kept in an induced coma until we can work out a way to do comprehensive skin grafts — if they live that long.”

Matt shuddered. He didn’t want to see anymore, but Carla pulled another photograph from her folder and laid it on the table. This one showed an enormously magnified arthropod creature — teardrop-shaped, with a serrated head, powerful-looking crab-like legs, and several fleshy looking dewlaps trailing behind.

“Public enemy number one — sarcoptes scabiei primus — the scabies mite.” She pulled a face. “‘Primus’ meaning ‘comes first’. This little monster is perhaps the first ever scabies mite, hence the tag.”

“You’re kidding. Scabies? As in, what sailors from the fifties used to bring back after an exotic holiday?”

Carla snorted softly. “Yes, and no. It’s a recognizable parasite, but not one we’ve seen before, other than trapped in fossilized amber.” She tapped the photograph. “This little critter eats and lays eggs … and that’s all it does. The near-microscopic size of the mite, plus the fact that an infested individual can be carrying millions of mites, makes transference fast and easy. You do the math.”

“But scabies is treatable.” Matt pushed the picture back toward her.

“Sure it is. A five percent preparation of permethrin or a twenty-five percent dose of benzyl benzoate in a solution should kill ’em every time … but not these monsters. The only effective thing we’ve come up with is DDT, and as it’s a subdermal infestation, we would need to inculcate the insecticide, once the mites are on, inside the host. We’d also need to perform mass spraying of the open environment to tackle the free-range variety. By the time the enviro-freaks ever allowed that to occur, half the population would be infested, or dead. Bottom line, we’ve got months — maybe weeks — to find something that will be fast, effective, and have minimal effects, both to us and the environment.”

She sat back wearily. “Something in their natural habitat kept these things in check. Otherwise, the Ndege Watu, Jorghanson’s specimen, and just about every living creature down there would have been skinned alive. I’m betting that the natives know what that something is, and I need to find out.”

Matt nodded, more in sympathy with the problem than with any actual understanding of how it could occur. “It’s a nightmare, but you said you had to twist arms to make this happen. For heaven’s sake, after seeing these pictures, who in the hell do you need to convince?”

“That’s our problem. The CDC has no jurisdiction outside of the American continent. We don’t have time to make formal requests to foreign governments, who could vacillate while we burn with infestation. In fact, they’re more likely to slap a ban on us for stealing their property.”

“You mean the specimen?”

She nodded. “We need to join a group already authorized to travel to the Gran Chaco Boreal. There’s a private expedition leaving tomorrow. We’ll be leaving with them.”

Matt glanced over his shoulder at Megan, who was sitting on a low wall, staring at the ground. He wondered if she was still determined to accompany him. “This private company, do they know where to go? And the danger the mite presents? I’m guessing they’re some sort of global medical team. Medical Corps International or Médecins Sans Frontières, someone like that?”

Carla laughed. “I wish. Not even close. Before he died, Jorghanson sold the location and rights to the specimen to a Mr. Maxwell Steinberg.”

Matt sprang forward. “You’re shitting me — Dinosaur Kingdom Max Steinberg? I loved that movie! But how is he even allowed to be involved, given the danger?”

“Mr. Steinberg is aware of the risks, and doesn’t see them as a problem, not when it comes to locating ‘the find of the century’. People like Steinberg regard problems like this as things to be negotiated away or bulldozed over.” Carla’s hand curled into a fist, her anger palpable.

“Steinberg’s argument is that there are more bugs on the average person’s pillow than on the specimen, and that more than five thousand people die every year from food poisoning, so our little problem is nothing to be too concerned about. He can be very persuasive, especially when he’s making eight figure donations annually to both political parties.” She tilted her head. “But he has his uses. Though the CDC has no power outside our national borders, we certainly carry a big stick within them. If he wants to bring something back, he better play ball. We can use him, just as he’ll try to use us.”

Matt nodded, trying to come to terms with the politics and dynamics of a side of government he rarely saw. “And the original specimen?”

Carla looked grim. “Now destroyed, but not before it succumbed to the burrowing mite itself, and managed to contaminate a lot of innocent people. Steinberg blames us for not getting it into some sort of treatment sooner.” She snorted. “You see, it was taking the specimen out of its environment that signed its death warrant. No modern man has ever come into contact with this bug. In fact, excepting Jorghanson’s lost tribe, perhaps no human has ever been affected by it. The thing is a living fossil, a primordial remnant.”

“That’s the bug, but you said it was a passenger? On the ‘specimen’ you destroyed? What exactly was this ‘specimen’ you keep referring to?”

Carla half smiled, but her eyes were sad. “What was it? It was a magnet, and one causing a stampede that we need to get in front of. Our primordial parasitic remnant was living on something just as ancient. And given that the parasite could have been a factor in the demise of the dinosaurs, I think it’s appropriate that it was found …” She glanced briefly over her shoulder, perhaps to see where the waiter was, before placing a final photograph on the table. “… found existing on the body of another living fossil. The specimen was a living archaeopteryx, the first bird, and we need to find its home before we end up like the dinosaurs.”

CHAPTER 4

Maxwell Dodi Steinberg belched as he drank his imported beer and looked out over the choppy Malibu surf. He leaned his hand against a sheet of the toughened curved windows that ran the fifty feet around the living room of his clifftop mansion — four furnace-toughened three-quarter inch sheets, invisibly bonded together, each costing more than your average Rolls Royce.

He peered down at the rooftops of his neighbors — aging movie stars, rock promoters, and business tycoons. He could have bought them all a hundred times over — not bad for a skinny Jewish kid from Arizona. He belched again, then swallowed the beer-flavored acid that came up with the gas.

Steinberg was pissed off. He was one of the wealthiest and most powerful movie producers in the world. His special effects movies had grossed billons of dollars, and he counted A-list celebrities, presidents, and Tibetan spiritual leaders amongst his inner circle. So he could afford to — and did — pay a fortune for the rights to Professor Pieter Jorghanson’s prehistoric bird … and then the CDC freakin’ went and destroyed it — and cremated what was left! Even though it was dead, he could have had the bones reconstructed. Movies were one thing, but merchandizing and surround marketing sales were where the real money was.

He put the bottle to his lips, thinking. Alive would have been best — better a living fossil than just another dead one.

He sucked heavily on the freezing beer and picked up a pile of papers from one of the cream leather couches. He still had the professor’s notes, and a map to the village, which was a start, at least. As far as he was concerned, he was counting down to launch. He’d lead a team down to the jungle himself. He’d find Jorghanson’s Garden of Eden-cum-Lost World, even though the old boy had managed to succumb to some sort of jungle mange. He’d seen the photos — yecch.

Steinberg gulped more beer and snorted. He’d make sure he was better prepared. He’d take jungle specialists, paleontologists, an entomologist, a medical doctor, plus enough fucking DDT to level the entire Amazon if he needed to. For his sins, he’d also been told he had to take some CDC pencil-neck, who now also wanted to bring a linguist — sheesh. What, they didn’t trust that his language expert would tell them what he found out? He snorted again — of course he fucking wouldn’t! He toasted his reflection in the glass, turning side-on and sucking in his gut, and thinking he should probably put some pants on.

Steinberg’s mind whirled at the possibilities. Talk about fiction turning into fact. It was a goldmine and a dream come true, all rolled into one. He didn’t need the money, but he certainly liked the attention and respect that came with being a winner. And that respect, baby, was global respect.

His people had smoothed a path with the Brazilian government. Visas were approved, and local guides, and anything else he needed, would be provided. Funny what a couple of hundred grand dropped into a few Mickey Mouse bank accounts could get you.

Respect, yeah, that’s what it freakin’ got you.

CHAPTER 5

Matt sat in the back of the Cougar AS532 and dozed. The flight in Max Steinberg’s Gulfstream G550 from LAX to Brasília International Airport had taken twelve hours. After a quick customs check on the tarmac, they were escorted directly to a big green military helicopter, which would take them to the Mato Grosso Plateau, part of the Brazilian Highlands. It was an ancient tableland that fell away to flood plains called the Pantanal, the largest continuous wetland on the planet. These flood plains at their darkest heart contained the almost inaccessible Gran Chaco, one of the largest unexplored places on the planet.

Matt felt a hand on his leg, and opened one eye to groggily peer around the cabin. He felt like crap — he didn’t travel well — and probably looked like he felt. The twin-engine chopper could take twenty fully kitted soldiers, but today its cargo was less than half that. Glancing around, Matt could see that the warm cabin and long flying time was having the same effect on most of his companions. Other than a single brusque movie producer, the group consisted of scientists, specialists, and a formidable-looking guide — or maybe bodyguard — Kurt.

Kurt was the only one who seemed fit and alert. He had spent much of the early ride explaining the specifications of the helicopter to Megan. Matt noticed that he suddenly became very tactile when talking to her, using his hands to illustrate the flight characteristics of the craft, and touching her shoulder, arm, and eventually her leg. Creep, he thought.

Matt had listened to Kurt expertly describe how they would coast along at a hundred and fifty miles per hour, well within the chopper’s potential of more than one eighty. The bodyguard had gestured port and starboard, at the housed engines — a couple of Turbomeca Makila 1A1 turbo shafts that could punch out 1589 horsepower on command, he had intoned solemnly. Then he had nudged her and winked, and lowered his voice to a conspiratorial level — apparently it’d last about twelve seconds against one of Uncle Sam’s Black Hawks, and even less against an Apache. These last nuggets necessitated a good-natured grab of the knee. Matt had groaned and sat back after that.

He felt his eyelids drooping again, until he felt the hand on his leg start to dig in, like a claw. He opened his eyes to see Megan leaning toward him. He pulled back one cup of his headphones, and she placed a finger on his ear, then rested her chin on the hand. This allowed her voice to be carried to him more via vibrations than by sound waves. It worked. You didn’t have to shout, but you did need to concentrate.

“Twenty minutes.” She looked excited.

Matt nodded, and swallowed down a moment of queasiness. As a specialist in ancient languages and remnant civilizations, jungle came with the territory — jungles, dry deserts, and once, the frozen Antarctic. But he’d take a desert over a jungle any day. The odd scorpion, sand viper, and dry heat were easily preferable to millions of seething, crawling, sliding things with way too many legs. Added to that, he already knew there was something down there, almost microscopic, that literally burrowed under your skin and flayed you alive. What’s not to like? He swallowed again, and tried to pull his lips into the semblance of a smile.

He looked around at his fellow passengers, who were slowly being roused by the ever-energetic Kurt. He hadn’t needed to nudge Max Steinberg — he was another traveler who didn’t seem to sleep on flights. Come to think of it, Matt wasn’t sure he’d even seen him blink yet. Steinberg was all grizzled baldness and skinny-armed paunch, fifty-something and, so far, uncommunicative, seeming to prefer a slim computer tablet to human dialogue. He had only grinned once, more shark than human, revealing a gold tooth just off to the side. It looked incongruous amongst his polished Hollywood teeth, and Matt wondered why he kept it.

The producer’s fingers darted over the screen, flicking away images as rapidly as they appeared. The few times he had looked up, his eyes had darted over Matt, Carla, and Megan, then moved on as though the trio had been analyzed, categorized, and then dismissed. It was the look of a man who probably had multi-million-dollar movie stars kowtowing before him, and didn’t need any more pissant scientists.

Matt shifted his gaze to the man seated on the movie producer’s left. Joop van Onertson was a Dutch paleobiologist specializing in ornithological evolution, and the all-round go-to guy for early species analysis. He had spent the first twenty minutes of the trip trying to explain the pronunciation of his name to Kurt and Steinberg. It rhymed with soap, he had said, with the “J” taking a “Y” sound — Yope. But it didn’t stick. After being called Jewp, Jop, and even soap, he gave up, telling them to call him Joe.

The small entomologist sitting beside him had been listening to the struggles of Joe-Joop with a face like stone. The Chinese scientist was a leading expert on entomology with parasitological specialization. Carla had acknowledged the man, and later told Matt she knew of his reputation, and was glad he was with them.

Xue Jian Dong hadn’t bothered trying with Kurt and Steinberg, obviously realizing that Xue would have been an articulation bridge too far, and Dong was just asking for an earthquake of derisive mirth. He simply stuck out his hand and said, “Jian” and smiled flatly. Later, as his eyes had slid across to Carla and Matt, he looked skyward and shook his head. Matt liked him immediately.

During the introduction process, it became immediately obvious to Matt that Steinberg’s team had been organized for him, not by him. It was clear that he was meeting a lot of his handpicked experts for the first time. That suited Matt just fine; it meant that there was hope that any findings or decisions would be objective, and not simply Steinberg’s paid-for answers.

Close to Jian, John Mordell, MD, had risen to his feet, placed both hands in the center of his back, and stretched. Silver-haired and daytime-TV handsome, he was a practicing doctor who had worked with allied forces in both Afghanistan and Iraq. When he spoke, his accent was cultured English. Matt wondered where he and Steinberg could have ever crossed paths. Matt couldn’t decide if he was relieved or concerned that Steinberg had brought an English battlefield surgeon on the expedition.

The last two members of the group were “as different as grease and butter,” as Matt’s grandmother used to say. One was an academic peer of Matt’s, Dan Brenner, head of Linguistics at Stamford. He was a star in the paleolinguistics arena when Matt was just starting out, and if not for the early offer from Harvard, working with Brenner was probably where Matt would be today. The slow-moving older man had been strangely standoffish, and Matt couldn’t hide his disappointment. If there was one person on the trip, other than Megan, who he could have expected to have a rapport with, it was the avuncular academic. Brenner must have been over sixty-five years old by now. Matt hoped that, as Brenner’s career approached its winter, he didn’t begrudge Matt the fact that his was only at spring.

The final member of their group was their Brazilian guide. Like a small dark bird, his eyes constantly moved over the group, the cabin, his hands and feet. One foot constantly tapped, as though his body coursed with a form of agitated electricity. It was hard to guess at his age — his skin was smooth and hairless, but his eyes had a yellow tinge that spoke of campfires and a native Tupi heritage, rather than jaundice. Moema Jesus Paraiba looked nervous and hangdog, and Matt wondered exactly what he already knew about their mission.

Matt turned to Carla, who was furiously sending and receiving text messages on her smartphone. Her face was grim. Matt suspected she was probably getting updates about the state of the epidemic back home. She cursed softly, then exhaled between tight lips. She was an impressive woman. Already she had engineered a truce with Meg, rebuffed the silver fox Mordell, stared down Steinberg, and put Kurt firmly in his place. Steinberg had brought six men, not including himself, but Matt felt sure that with Megan and Carla, he already had them outnumbered.

Matt swiveled to look out of the porthole window at the rapidly approaching land. They were to be dropped off at the base of the plateau. One moment there was reassuring stone only a few dozen feet below them, then they passed over the plateau’s cliff edge. His stomach lurched as he watched a waterfall pour itself, in slow motion, hundreds of feet to the forest floor, its thick spout of water mostly turning to a shimmering mist long before it reached the frothing pool far below.

They would follow the stream until they came to a clearing cut out of the massive green tangle of plants, spend a single night at the campsite, and be ready for an early start the next morning … an early start into the thick heat of the Gran Chaco, and to its very heart — the Boreal — one of the last secretive, primordial areas in the world.

They dropped quickly, and the enormity of the continent’s flora rose up around them, overwhelming and intimidating. Matt marveled at the giant trees — green, mushrooming skyscrapers, their monstrous canopies rising hundreds of feet in the air. Colossal kapok, ficus, and giant mango — everything grew big down here. There were rats the size of small pigs, and snakes that could swallow a horse whole.

Matt didn’t want to think too much about the creepy big-small things … like two-foot long centipedes, or the Brazilian Wandering Spider, which was the size of a large man’s hand, venomous as a cobra, and prone to roaming the forest floor at night and curling up in dark spaces during the day, such as a handy termite mound, a rotting log, or some unlucky camper’s sleeping bag. He shuddered and held tight to the seat as the craft slowed and then hovered for a few seconds, like a giant metal dragonfly about to settle on a palm frond.

As soon as the wheels touched, Kurt was on his feet. He helped lift backpacks and equipment into place near the door before bulldozing his way toward Megan. He grabbed her pack and slipped it over her shoulders. As she turned her back on him so he could adjust the straps, she looked at Matt and winked, her amusement plain.

Kurt slapped both her shoulders and announced she was ready to jump, before adding that he’d have to take her skydiving one day… oh, and Matt, of course, if they were still together. This last was said through flashing white teeth. He gave her shoulders another squeeze, and she thanked him and walked unsteadily under the weight of her pack to where Matt was standing, holding his pack on one shoulder.

“That’s odd; I wonder why he didn’t offer to help me?” Matt raised an eyebrow.

She laughed softly, then said, with mock earnestness, “Well, it’s nice to meet a real gentleman once in a while.”

Matt pulled a face and leaned in close. “Yeah, well, just watch out. He looks like the kinda guy who believes there’s only a fine line between cuddling and holding someone down so they can’t get away.”

“Ooh, what big green eyes you have, Professor.” She grabbed his shirt and pulled him forward so she could kiss him. He forgave her teasing immediately.

A hissing clank interrupted them as the side door was thrown back and the Gran Chaco Boreal pushed its way into the cabin, bringing with it a tidal wave of sensations — cloyingly sweet flowers, rotting vegetation, decay, and spoiling meat somewhere close by.

Heat and humidity washed over them. Up on the plateau it had been roughly eighty degrees and about fifty percent humidity, but down here, in the real jungle, where the geography and towering plants trapped the moisture and held it like a thick blanket over the lowlands, the humidity jumped to around ninety percent. Matt groaned, as if house bricks had just been placed in his pack. Though the actual temperature might not have been much more than up on the plateau, it felt a hell of a lot less comfortable.

Matt leapt to the ground then turned to help Megan, who had already dropped down beside him. She walked forward a few paces, then stopped to turn and look at her surroundings. She spun, holding her arms wide and grinning.

“Wow.”

Matt frowned, noticing that her words were indistinct. After the steady drone of the chopper blades, muffled by headphones, the cacophony of noise from every single thing that could squawk, croak, chirrup, or scream was deafening.

He inhaled the damp, wet air, and exhaled loudly. He’d better get used to it — they’d be there a while. Adapt or die, he thought wearily, paraphrasing Darwin.

Matt followed Megan as she walked toward the clearing that would be their camp for the evening. His shirt was already hanging limply, damp and uncomfortable, and a cloud of gnats had formed around his head, attracted by the salty perspiration that was beading on his forehead. Yep, adapt or die.

CHAPTER 6

Doctor Francis “Hew” Hewson, Carla Nero’s second in charge, prodded one of the growing lumps that had appeared on the neck of the female patient. She had presented herself for intense aggravated itching and loosening of her skin, and had been quarantined immediately. However, in the last few hours her new symptoms — the swellings — had doubled in size. Dr. Hewson had to suspect that the protuberances were linked to the infestation outbreak.

He looked down at the sleeping woman, little more than a girl, and sighed unhappily. The mega-dose cocktail of metronidazole, crotamiton, and mebendazole being fed directly into her system was keeping the spread of the parasites under control, but it wasn’t killing them. It was if the anti-parasiticals were just holding the invading army behind a chemical wall that would soon be overrun. Hew knew the chemical compound only bought them a few more days at most. Eventually, the invasive parasites would overwhelm her system, and if they didn’t, the harsh drugs would probably destroy her internal organs long before they eradicated the intruders.

Wearing Perspex goggles and a sealed clean-room suit, Hew prodded the lump again. It wasn’t hard, like an epidermoid or sebaceous cyst, but soft, the size of a fingernail, and only slightly red. He turned to a metal table, wheeling it in close, and grabbed a glass slide and a scalpel, intending to lance the eruption and examine the results under the microscope.

He held the slide below the growth, expecting a dribble of dead biological fragments to be expelled by the woman’s immune system. There would probably be nothing more than a build-up of pus, dead bacteria, and phagocytes, just like a giant boil would contain as the body battled an infection.

He made an incision in the side of the lump, intending to delicately cut halfway through the skin and then lift it away, like a lid. To his surprise, however, as soon as he pressed with the blade, the small mound burst.

There was nothing there — no blood, serum, or even pus. Nothing ran from under the cap. Indeed, it seemed hollow. Hew continued slicing through the skin, then, using tweezers, lifted the lid free. Inside was a small, dry crater, descending no farther than the subdermal layer of the skin. Like a dry blister, he thought, and turned to swap the scalpel for a powerful magnifying glass on an extendable arm, a strong halo of lights around its edge. He brought the lens in close and squinted.

Hew swore softly into his face mask and moved the lens to the side. With the added light, even with the naked eye he could now see the particles rising in a fine mist — a micro-dispersion plume. It could be nothing else. There were nano-sized particles rising, and Hew prayed they weren’t what he thought they were.

Grabbing a swab, he dabbed it into the dry hole, and then wiped it across the slide. He carefully slid it under the microscope platform and fiddled with the magnification to clarify his image.

Sonofabitch. Eggs — and now they’re airborne.

CHAPTER 7

The evening was hot and humid. Even though Matt had applied enough insect repellent to deter even the most persistent six- or eight-legged blood-sucking pests, they still hovered just a foot outside of the chemical forcefield, as if they knew that his body would soon wash away his defenses and a spot of salty skin would be theirs for the taking.

Kurt and Moema had dug a fire pit and got a good blaze going for the evening meal. Dinner had been baked ham and flatbread, both cooked in the ashes, with salad vegetables followed by tinned fruit and washed down with revolting coffee. It was probably the last cooked meal they’d have on their trek. Kurt had assured everyone that there’d be more than enough food to supplement, and eventually totally replace, their rations. Water wasn’t expected to be a problem in a rainforest, and purification tablets had been handed out, along with instructions on how to use them to disinfect their water. Add little white pill and shake — simple. It made the concoction taste like a swimming pool, but at least you didn’t contract dysentery and end up squirting half your bodyweight out through your ass.

Matt had left Carla and Megan talking to Jian. He was delighted to see that the women had found some common ground — the last thing he wanted was a split in his own camp when they were already outnumbered. He knew Megan would force him to take sides and, given he had to work with Carla, it would have meant several weeks of hell … and more of the same when they got home.

He wandered over to where Steinberg’s linguist, Dan Brenner, was sitting away from the dry heat of the flames, smoking a kretek cigarette — a habit Matt remembered he had picked up in Vietnam, on one of his many field expeditions in search of the mythical mother-root language. The smell of cloves, tobacco, and other mixed spices reminded Matt of crowded Asian streets, bright lights, and honking cars.

“Professor Brenner,” Matt paused, waiting, as the older man simply exhaled a plume of smoke. “Mind if I join you?”

Brenner continued smoking. Matt frowned. Okay, awkward, he thought. “It’s nice to see you again …”

Still nothing. Matt stuck his hands in his pockets. “Uh … is there a problem? Something I’m not aware of?”

Brenner turned and regarded Matt with half-lidded eyes. The look didn’t just carry indifference, or professional snobbery; it held contempt, disdain, and barely suppressed anger. The stare hit Matt like a physical force. He almost took a step back, but instead he waited, holding the gaze.

Brenner looked away. “No, nothing, if losing ten years of your life’s work counts as nothing.”

Matt’s brow furrowed even further. “Excuse me?”

Brenner sucked on his cigarette, worked the smoke around in his mouth, then blew it out through compressed lips. “My paper on the ancestor language. That work was valid and evidence-based. It took me ten years to trace my way back up the paleo-lingual lines of the Southern African Capoid peoples. And then through the Nilo-Saharans back to the potential proto-language — it was the monogenesis of all spoken tongues.” He paused, and pointed at Matt with his cigarette, the motion ending in a stab.

He continued, his words squeezing out through clamped teeth in barely suppressed fury. “Ten long years to reach my conclusion, and it took you ten fucking minutes to obscure and demolish it … and then you encouraged my work to be gang-raped by your teenage cheer squad. Unprofessional, discourteous, and damned downright academically vandalistic!” He turned away, his lips a thin line.

Matt sat down in front of him. He rubbed a hand through his long hair, pushing it back up off his face. It stayed, slicked by perspiration and insect lotion.

Now he understood the man’s previous coolness. He dimly remembered the paper — it hadn’t seemed a big deal at the time. It was the responsibility of the scientific community to peer-review papers, and question them where necessary. That was just the way it worked. It forced the author to respond to any challenges to their conclusions with a forceful and factual defense. Sometimes, minor flaws in logic were found, and sometimes, just sometimes, the author had to go back to the drawing board. It had happened to him, and, he’d bet, to every scientist who hung their work out to be road-tested by the academic marketplace.

Matt remembered that many scientists had agreed with Brenner. Perhaps they shared his belief in the common language ancestry theory, or perhaps they were simply awed by the enormity of his academic status. Matt wasn’t, and being young, he had no time for being polite. The fact was, he just didn’t buy the theory. No matter how persuasive the man’s argument, the proposition didn’t work.

Matt had written a small and simple rebuttal, and posed a few questions. He expected a polite response, and maybe a professional debate. Instead, he got silence. After that, it was as if a swarm of academic locusts had been unleashed on Brenner’s work. It seemed the questions Matt had asked were good ones. Unfortunately, Brenner had no good answers.

Those academic locusts had shredded Brenner’s paper. At the time, Matt thought it weird that the linguistics giant had never defended himself. He just seemed to surrender. After a little while, Matt had forgotten about it, and moved on. Not Brenner, it seemed.

Matt cleared his throat. “Professor Brenner, I just asked some obvious questions. You needed to have the answers. We all do, that’s why we hang our work out in the daylight. If no idea ever got challenged, we’d have automatically believed the Earth was flat, or that mankind was solely responsible for climate change.” Brenner exhaled more smoke, watching Matt. He dropped his cigarette into the damp soil and ground it out.

Matt slid forward a little. He tried to keep his tone conciliatory. “I read all your work, and there were some terrific ideas there. I wanted to believe, really I did, but I just couldn’t.” Matt waited a few seconds, but the man still gave him nothing. He felt exasperated. “C’mon, Professor Brenner, you hypothesized that the ancestor language had its genesis nearly one hundred and eighty thousand years ago. But that’s improbable, and impossible to prove. Given the millennia that had passed, every single word would have been altered, changed, substituted, or even just dropped. There could never be any recognition of what it used to be.”

The older man lunged forward, his face coming within inches of Matt’s. “Bullshit.” The sounds of the forest stopped for a few seconds, and every member of the camp swung to look in their direction. Fortunately, the forest forgave them quickly and resumed its chorus, making it impossible for the group to listen in.

Matt wiped spittle from his face as Brenner pulled his lighter and another cigarette from his shirt pocket. He pointed the lighter at Matt like a gun. “The analysis was empirical. Humans were fully anatomically capable of language and communication at that time, and the matrilineal ancestor would have had the intellect, as well as the physical capability, for sophisticated communication. We started banding together — how do you think they managed that?”

Matt shook his head. “Wolves band together. So do lemmings. Look, I just think that modern man of about fifty thousand years ago, and by that I mean sapien-sapien, or at least Cro-Magnon, would have been better equipped to produce complex speech. I never said that there wasn’t communication prior to that — just not a real language, ancestor or otherwise.”

The older man leaned back, looking a little deflated.

Matt inched forward. “Professor, I …”

“Fuck off!” Brenner stuck the cigarette in his mouth and got to his feet. He looked down at Matt, and for a moment it seemed as though he was about to say more, but instead he just made a disgusted noise in his throat and strode away.

Matt sat for another few seconds and then sighed, standing and sticking his hands in his pockets. He wandered back to where Megan, Carla, and Jian sat, temporarily postponing their conversation to watch him, hoping for an update on the flare-up. He sat down and started drawing on the ground with a stick.

Megan put her arm around him. “So, how’s your day going, champ?”

“Had better.” He slumped, resting his chin on his hand, and stared into the fire.

Carla leaned around in front of Megan. “What just happened? I thought you guys were about to come to blows. Are you going to tell me that the profession of linguistic expertise is akin to some sort of contact sport?”

Matt snorted and flicked the stick into the fire. “Nah. I reviewed a paper of his years ago. It was a pretty good piece of work, and it seems it was to be Brenner’s defining moment — the cherry on his linguistic cake, so to speak. But I found a few flaws and asked a couple of simple questions. They were just supposed to initiate a discussion — it happens every single day, to every single academic — but instead it started a wholesale collapse of his theory. He hasn’t forgotten about it.”

“Obviously.” Megan narrowed her eyes in the direction of Brenner — in her book, Matt’s enemies were her enemies.

Jian grunted. “It is disappointing when we find that our idols have feet of clay.”

Matt laughed without humor. “Feet, legs, and up to the armpits, I’m starting to think. Well, I can guarantee I’ll be off his Christmas card list this year.”

Megan smiled broadly. “I’ll send you two to make up for it.” She kissed his cheek. “So, Henry Kissinger, who are you going to make friends with next?”

Matt nudged her with his elbow and turned to return her kiss. “I was thinking about going straight to the top, and spilling hot coffee on Max Steinberg’s lap. Anyway, enough about my social skills. What have you guys been talking about?”

“Mitigators.” Carla glanced briefly at Jian, as though seeking his approval to proceed. He nodded, and she continued. “Nothing in Professor Jorghanson’s notes indicated there was any physical problem with the specimen he brought back, or the native population, or any other animals in the vicinity. His notes were a little vague on the actual location of the creature. He did refer to a wall of flowers and thorns, and a hidden sacred place, but he didn’t actually find the bird himself — one of the tribe caught it for him. After that, there’s nothing until he is on his way home.”

Carla gazed into the distance — she seemed to be seeing the dead academic’s notes as she spoke. “Anyway, somehow, between the time he boarded the flight and the time he disembarked, something switched on the parasites. They went from what we think was an annoyance, to something far more communicative and deadly.”

Jian nodded. “We believe there was a biological balance, and that something was holding the parasite in check within its local environment. Dr. Nero mentioned mitigators. What we are looking for is something that mitigated or attenuated the mite — slowed or stopped it from killing its host. Generally, effective parasites try to form a balance with their host — killing it does not benefit the parasite. Some additional factor was added, or removed, which turned the sarcoptes scabiei primus from an effective parasite to an ineffective one.”

Matt remembered the images of the skinless Jorghanson. “Ineffective is not the word that jumps to mind. So, we’re looking for that mitigating factor — that makes sense. What do you think it could be?”

Jian shrugged. “It’s impossible to know yet, but we do have plenty of exemplars we can use to model our suspects. We actually know a lot about our natural environment’s existing biological retardants.”

“Retardants — sounds like we’re looking for a fire blanket,” said Megan.

Carla took over. “Sure; we’re looking for anything that obstructs or decelerates the mite’s aggressive potential in the local area.”

Megan was nodding. “You mean like some sort of natural insecticide?”

Jian nodded once. “Very good, and yes, that is the number one contender. But it could also be bacterial. We know that a microorganism called bacillus thuringiensis produces toxins that act as a larvicide against caterpillars, beetles, and mosquitoes. So, another contender.” He held up a hand, counting on his fingers one by one. “It could also be a reciprocal parasite like a nematode, or perhaps an entomopathogenic virus. We might also be looking for a predator; there are wasps so small that they prey on greenfly eggs.” He shrugged and spread his hands, as though signifying the size and complexity of their search.

Carla took the baton up again. “At this point, anything and everything is on the table. It might be in the flora population — sap, bark, pollen … After all, some plants produce chemicals that can stun pests. After eating geranium leaves, black beetles can become stunned for twenty-four hours, rendering them vulnerable to attack from other predators. Other plants produce a natural birth control; they can engineer forced termination of an egg-clutch, or even render an insect infertile. We know this because we are exploring all of these avenues to try and mimic the natural defensive capabilities of plants, and allow us chemical-loving humans to reduce the amount of toxins we are pumping into the earth.”

Carla leaned forward and rubbed her face, then pushed her hands up through her damp hair. “So, we have a lot of options to sort through, and not a lot of time.” She shrugged, and half of her mouth turned up in a wry smile. “Or it could be something we don’t recognize, and don’t even know to look for. But we’re here, and at least we have the opportunity to search at the source. At a minimum, we need to find a local animal that has an infestation of the primus scabies mite, and then analyze the parasite’s internal chemistry to try and detect some sort of unique trace in its system that will give us a clue to what we’re looking for.”

Matt nodded slowly, beginning to understand the enormity of the task. He spoke softly. “I hear Steinberg simply wants to catch a live archaeopteryx, get some footage, and then head straight back home. What happens if he finds his specimen quickly, and you haven’t found your answers?”

Carla seemed to think for a moment before answering. “Then there are three options. One, we all leave together — jump on the Steinberg express, and forget about why we came in the first place. Two, we convince everyone to stay here until our job is finished. It’d mean twisting a lot of arms, and I’m pretty sure we don’t have enough physical, legal, or financial leverage to achieve that. Or, three … and then there were three. We stay, finish our job, and find our own way back.”

“Four.” Megan spoke without taking her eyes off the fire. “I’d stay too.”

Carla looked at the young woman for a moment, then nodded. “Good.”

They sat in silence, each watching the fire as it consumed the pile of damp wood. After a few minutes, Carla drew in a deep breath, and exhaled slowly. “Damn jungles — we shrink them by about fifty million acres a year.” She snorted derisively. “Ninety percent of West Africa’s rainforests are already gone forever. Indonesia’s could be fully logged out by 2020. We’re mowing down the greater Amazon at the rate of a football field a second. These places are our lungs, and the wellsprings of some of the world’s greatest cures … but also the source of some of its greatest killers.” Carla leaned back, her face grim.

Jian nodded. “Yes, this is true. Like Pandora’s box. As we push back the jungles and enter previously untouched areas, we are finding flora and fauna that harbor devastating illnesses and parasites.” He sat for a second, lost in thought, before turning to Matt and raising his eyebrows. “Or perhaps these things are finding us.”

“You mean things like Ebola?”

Jian laughed. “Ebola?” He laughed again, and shook his head. “Ebola is a Hollywood bogeyman — a microbiological Freddy Krueger. It’s probably killed more chimpanzees than it has humans. But things like malaria … we have lost our fear of it. We pop a couple of tablets before traveling, and think it’s all gone away, when in fact it’s still killing over three-quarters of a million people a year. If we don’t read about it, or see it on TV, it just doesn’t exist. The fact is, there are a thousand other things that have crawled, flown, and slithered out of the jungles that are inimical to human life. We guard against viral and bacterial incursions, but we are not as vigorous in our defense against parasites.” Jian looked across at Carla, perhaps expecting her to object, given her role with the CDC, but instead she continued to stare into the fire.

Jian lifted a canteen from between his feet, unscrewed the cap, sipped, then held it up. “Clean water — we take it for granted, but in some countries it is a rare thing. Water can be a killer. Parasites love it, and love to find their way inside our bodies. Schistosomiasis bores into the skin, and lives in the blood. Guinea worms can enter your system via dirty drinking water and eventually burst from your body as a giant toothed worm several inches long. Then there’s leishmaniasis, cryptosporidium, giardia, chagas disease — the list goes on.”

“You see, Professor Kearns, the jungle is a wonderland for we entomologists, but sometimes the tiniest creatures can cause the most damage, and must be treated with the utmost respect.” He held up a finger, then reached into his pocket and pulled out a small pocket-sized smart-pad and started to open pages, searching for something. He stopped, half-smiled at the screen, then turned it around for the group to see. “And sometimes the things we entomologists find are not so small …”

The image on the screen showed a single wasp — black and grotesquely armor-plated with spikes and a shiny yellow-and-black carapace. Its jaws were enormous and hooked at the tips. It was positioned next to a soda can, and the creature was easily the length of the can.

“The newly discovered Indonesian Warrior Wasp — found on the remote island of Sulawesi. It’s five inches long and mostly eats other insects and slow birds. However, it also managed to blind one of the researchers before they could capture this one to study.” He motioned to the other team members. “Mr. Steinberg thinks he is looking for the Garden of Eden, but perhaps he will find something a little less benign.” Jian smiled and pushed the device back into his pocket.

There was silence for a few seconds, then Matt turned to Megan. “Glad you came?”

“Pass me the insect repellent,” she shot back, looking queasy.

Moema Paraiba muttered and paced in the shadows. A native Tupi, descended from the once-mighty Tupinambá, one of the oldest indigenous peoples in the country, he felt alone and strangely afraid in his own land.

His people had been in South America for thousands of years, and had seen empires rise and fall. He knew the jungle, knew its secrets … and he knew that where the karaíba, the white ghosts, wanted to go, was madness.

He had not wanted to guide them into the dark heart of the jungle. He had told Mr. Max that he knew the way to the area, but that some places were off limits, even to his people. He had also said he couldn’t understand the strange picture writing of the Aîuru tapy'yîa people who lived there, and that he doubted he would be able to communicate with them. He actually wanted nothing to do with them — he had heard of the small and ugly tribes that lived in the area, had heard the legends of cannibalism, strange diseases, and the grotesque things that were only kept from the katu-taba, the good people, by the wall of pain.

He paced back and forth, muttering to himself. Many years ago, his grandfather had told him and his brother the story of when he was a young man. He had joined a karaíba expedition to look for gold in the deep jungles. The bosses who were with them had used guns on the small tribes, and made them flee before them. But he had also told of coming to a mighty cliff wall covered with thorns. It was both deadly and awesomely beautiful. Along the canes bloomed flowers of the deepest red — each looking like a tiny fist of blood. His grandfather had said he could smell their perfume from many paces back.

The karaíba had captured one of the local Aîuru tapy'yîa and forced him to show them the way inside the wall. Only the bosses went through, six of them, while Moema’s grandfather and his Tupi brothers had waited for them.

It had only taken a few hours for the screaming to start — first in terror, then in pain — soaring up above the enormous barrier. His grandfather had fled back into the jungle, and had not stopped running for days.

Moema had wet his pants when the old man described the gruesome sounds he had heard, and the sounds of something big colliding with the barrier. The old man had told him that while running, he realized that the gods had created the giant wall of thorns to keep something terrible in.

He shouldn’t be doing this. He muttered and paced some more, hoping that when he came to stand before his gods, he would not be judged harshly for his transgression. He shook his head; he was making the same mistake as his grandfather, but he had been warned, so this was worse. He stared off into the darkness, wondering if he should stay. It would take him many days to get back, but at least he would get back.

He cursed and spat into the jungle. Aiyee, he needed the money. Jobs were hard to come by, or he’d already be slipping through the trees back to the foot of the plateau. But he’d be left with next to nothing — the boss-man Mr. Max had been smart enough to pay him in instalments, with the largest portion to be paid on their safe return.

His eyes slid across to the largest group of the karaíba, huddled together around a map and what looked like small television screens. The large one treated him like a slave, and he was sure that sooner or later he would strike or kick him if he had the chance. Moema knew of men like this — always brave and strong when they had a stick, a gun, or money.

He glanced at the women. Their faces were so pale and long, not the perfect honey-colored round ones of his people. He wondered if they ever smiled. He sighed; this had seemed like a good idea back home. Moema turned and caught his breath. Standing right in front of him was one of the karaíba, the one with the long hair who always sat with the horse-faced women.

“He-rêr a'ê Kearns — I am Kearns, a teacher.” He held out his hand.

Moema blinked. The man was speaking old Tupi — and very well. He nodded and mumbled his own name, and took the offered hand, pumping it, but not looking the white man in the eye.

Kearns spoke again, in the language of his forefathers. “You look nervous. May I join you? I might be able to help.”

CHAPTER 8

Albert Dusche drove the baggage cart across the hot tarmac. There were only a few late suitcases and packages left to load, and frankly, it was just as well. Just about every other asshole on his shift had called in sick — night sweats and a nasty rash, apparently.

Fuck me sideways, what was happening to this country? His father had fought in Nam, lived on jungle rations, and crawled through mud, blood, and minefields. These days you get a couple of pimples and you gotta stay in bed for a week. No wonder the Chinks and Aye-rabs were kicking our asses every which way to Sunday.

He slowed the cart, the small amber light on the rear post indicating his presence on the runway. He climbed out and rolled his shoulder before walking to the conveyor belt, pulling on his gloves as he went. He leaned one hand on the metal edge and yelled up into the dark aircraft hold. “Yo!”

There was a responding “Yo!”, then a head appeared — Ruiz — giving him the thumbs up. “Hey, my man, Dusche-bag. Let’s go.”

Fuck you too, wetback. Dusche sauntered back to the cart and grabbed the first bag, swinging it heavily up onto the moving belt. He moved like part of the machinery — grabbing, turning, and chucking, then back again. The next bag was brand new, and he slammed it down hard, just to give it a little character. Something crunched and tinkled inside. Oops. He laughed cruelly. Sorry grandma, no perfume this year.

He grabbed the handle of the next bag and tugged, grunting from the effort. His hand slipped as he swung it around to the belt — heavy mother, he cursed. Inside the canvas gloves, his fingers were wet with perspiration. Dusche looked at the remaining bags — all soft casing and no sharp edges — then pulled his gloves off and tossed them onto the cart’s seat, waving his hands around for a few seconds to dry them.

Smells like old socks and vinegar, he thought, wrinkling his nose as he caught a whiff of his fingers. Time for new gloves.

Barehanded, he grabbed the last two bags and threw them up onto the moving conveyor, standing with his fists on his hips and watching them roll up into the dark hold. Ruiz appeared like some sort of cave-dwelling mammal, grabbed the bags, then disappeared inside the hold to stack them in their secure places.

Dusche flexed his fingers; they felt strangely bloated and tingly. He held one hand up, turning it over, and frowned. It was coated with something that looked like brown grease. He sniffed, then pulled his head back. Yecch — smells like sugared shit. Filthy fucking bags — people transport all sorts of crap these days. He wiped both hands on his pants.

“See ya,” he yelled over his shoulder, not caring if he was heard, and jumped back into the luggage cart.

Ruiz never noticed that the handles on the last two bags were streaked with the same brownish grease that coated Dusche’s hands.

Neither did the handler at LaGuardia, or the owner of the bags, or the taxi driver.

CHAPTER 9

Matt returned to where Carla, Megan, and Jian were sitting on the far side of the fire and formally introduced Moema, even though the native Brazilian had shaken each of their hands at the start of their journey. This time Matt used Moema’s full Tupi honorific title, firstly in the old language, and then in English. Moema nodded to each, almost bowing.

Matt leaned in close to him. “Would you like me to translate, or is English all right?”

Moema nodded. “English, but some words you can please translate, He-rêr a'ê Kearns.”

Matt sat down in front of his three traveling companions, his back to the fire. He motioned to the packed earth beside him and Moema also sat.

“Moema was telling me that he does not like where we are going. He said it is pûera — a bad place.” He turned to the young man, who nodded his agreement. Matt continued. “He has heard tales of the deeper parts of the jungle where we are heading and wants us to be warned, and think very long before he takes us any farther.”

Megan turned to Matt. “What are the tales he’s heard? Is it the disease?”

Matt nodded toward Moema. “You can ask him Megs; he speaks English.”

Megan grimaced. “Sorry Moema, I wasn’t thinking. Can you please tell us more about the stories you have heard?”

He shrugged. “I do not know much. Only what I have heard when the elders gossip, or what my grandfather told me when I was a child. When he was a young man, younger than I am now, he traveled deep into the Gran Chaco and found the Aîuru tapy'yîa — the Ndege Watu. They are said to be a very, ahh …” He turned to Matt and made a show of putting his fist out of sight under his shirt, whispering to him. Matt found some English words he could use — hidden, secret. Moema nodded and continued. “The Ndege Watu are a very secret people, and do not like any intrusions.”

Matt leaned forward. “Did anyone talk to them?”

Moema shook his head. “My grandfather, he said they were not like us; not … real people. They ran away after the karaíba fired their guns at them. But that was good as it is said they are eaters of men’s flesh, so …” Moema pulled a face. “My grandfather also said they found the wall of thorns, but he did not enter. Perhaps that is why he lived. The legend has it that anyone who enters, other than the, uhh, clean ones will die.”

Megan inched forward on her tree branch. “Did no one return from behind the thorns?”

“No one.”

“What do you think happened to them? Did they not find their way out, or …” Megan trailed off.

Moema shook his head forcefully. “My grandfather said they screamed.”

Carla’s head snapped around. “They screamed? How long were they in there?”

Moema held up one finger. “I think, maybe one hour.”

Carla turned to Jian, frowning. “That doesn’t sound like an infestation of mites — even a mass infestation.”

Jian nodded. “That’s right, and besides, we are expecting them to be in some sort of benign state in their natural environment — at least, we hope so. Most interesting indeed.”

Carla reached out and touched the Brazilian’s forearm. “Mr. Moema, have you heard of any sickness where the skin itches?”

Moema’s eyebrows shot up, and he laughed softly. “In Brazil jungles, it is rare not to itch — there are many plants and insects that can cause this problem.” He shrugged. “We just live with them.”

Carla shook her head. “No, no, let me rephrase that. Are there any insect afflictions …”

“Afflictions?”

She tried again. “Ahh … illnesses, sicknesses, where the skin can be become … loose.” Carla pinched the material of her sleeve and wobbled it back and forth.

Moema looked upward and bobbed his head from side to side as he thought about the question. “There is one caterpillar, the ybyrá, that has hairs that can make the skin, first itchy, and then break open all over in sores. Some people have died.”

Jian nodded. “Lonomia — I know it — contains a powerful anticoagulant. Nasty open rash, and in rare cases, causes bleeding into the brain. Not our suspect here.”

Moema shrugged. “Sorry, that is all I know.”

“That’s okay, it’s very helpful Moema, thank you.’ Matt patted the young man’s shoulder. “Did you ever tell Mr. Steinberg your grandfather’s story?”

“Yes, and I also told him that I would not be able to speak to the Aîuru tapy'yîa even if we found them, but he said just to get him there, and he will look after the rest.”

“Damn the torpedos, and full speed ahead,” Megan muttered, glancing briefly over to where Steinberg and his group were chatting and drinking coffee. She leaned closer to Moema. “This hidden place really frightens you, doesn’t it?”

Moema looked at her for a few seconds, then his brow furrowed. “Yes … no, I am not scared.”

“No one said you were. I think you’re very brave.” Matt added quickly.

Moema nodded and his expression brightened, perhaps feeling as though he his machismo had been validated. “Even the loggers and drug runners will not pass through the deeper areas of the Boreal. There are no riches there, just the black jungle, and the thorns, and death. It is forbidden, but I will take you as far as I can. Like my grandfather, I will not enter.” He looked sadly across to Matt. “I wish you do not enter either. I do not want to be just like him — the only one to survive.”

“Wow.” Megan’s eyes were alive with a mix of fear and excitement.

Jian looked at Carla and raised his eyebrows. She sat back, frowning, and Matt could tell what she was thinking — either she had underestimated the parasite, or whatever was behind that wall might be even worse.

Later that evening, Matt and Megan grabbed some time away from the group, sipping antiseptic-tasting coffee. The fire was making Matt’s eyes dry and his eyelids heavy. Despite having to sleep rough, he reckoned it’d be about five minutes before he was out cold.

He watched drowsily as John Mordell shone a small light into Max Steinberg’s ear — probably checking for fungal infections. A thousand quips came to mind. None of them would have endeared him to the movie producer or his large bodyguard. Matt yawned.

Megan leaned into him. “So, what do you make of this hidden jungle, professor? Superstition and a little local Brazilian charm, or do you think there really could be a secret place sealed off behind a giant wall covered in thorns?”

“Brazilian charm?” Matt snorted. “I think there is something there — Moema was genuinely scared, not just putting on a little theater for us Americanos. But they must be pretty good thorns to create a lasting physical barrier.”

Megan sipped her coffee and pulled a face. “Pretty good physical barrier? That’s an understatement. The creature that Jorghanson brought back was supposed to have died out over one hundred million years ago, and is somehow supposed to have been shielded for that amount of time — by some sort of wall or cliff covered in plants? Bullshit. Matt, I respect your opinion, but not even I’m buying that. There’s no plant living today that is going to live that long. Even the granddaddy of them all, the Bristlecone pine, can only live to about five thousand years, and we’re talking millions here … lots of millions.”

Matt shrugged. “Yep, it’s a puzzle all right. But there is a precedent. Don’t forget that the Wollemi pine was found thriving in a valley in eastern Australia after it was thought to have been extinct for two hundred million years. So, I agree, no individual plant can live that long, but its species, its progeny, could survive.”

Megan raised one eyebrow. “Maybe. I guess it doesn’t have to be the same plant. If it’s a climber, the old canes could provide a lattice for the next generation, and so on. The cage’s bars could just keep regenerating.”

“Exactly … and we keep finding biological time machines, and creatures living within them that we thought had fallen off the evolutionary chart. The fact is, the specimen Professor Jorghanson brought back shouldn’t be alive today, but something kept it alive in a unique and isolated habitat. The clues all seem to fit, when we start to see them in some sort of context.”

He nudged her. “Take the Wollemi pine, found in a hidden valley, neatly protected from forest fires and other external influences. The tree was a prehistoric remnant — the last time we saw it, it was pressed into Triassic stone.” Matt sipped his coffee, made a guttural sound and spat the vile mouthful back into his cup. He threw the dregs into the fire. “Now imagine if that Wollemi pine’s valley wasn’t open at the top. Instead, imagine it was enclosed by a massive barrier, creating a living cage. What else might be shielded in there, and survive because its habitat was preserved, and no new predators could get in?”

Megan seemed to think for a minute. ‘Okay Sherlock, but you’re forgetting something. You’re only thinking about new predators getting in. What if the barrier stopped old predators from getting out? Remember Moema’s grandfather’s story about the screaming.”

“Old predators? If that was true, what could they be?” he said sleepily, staring into the flames for a few moments. He stretched and yawned, then got to his feet. “I can’t think straight. I’m tired.”

“Not too tired, I hope?” Megan grabbed his belt and dragged herself up beside him.

“For you? Never.” He grabbed her around the waist.

CHAPTER 10

Matt woke early. His bladder felt the size of a basketball, and his dreams were becoming dominated by images of waterfalls. He’d held it during the night rather than risk stepping outside in the dark. He didn’t think he’d be very popular if he just stuck his dick out and hosed the ground out front of his tent.

Matt crept forward in the cramped little tepee and peered through the zipped mesh front. It was still a murky pre-dawn, and there was a low mist hanging over the ground. The fire was now a smoldering heap of silver, lumpy ash. The occasional ghost of smoke leaked out of the pile.

It was quiet — eerily quiet. Throughout the day, the noises of the jungle were almost overwhelming. Rushing shapes pushed through undergrowth, swung through trees, or burrowed into leaf litter on the ground. Then at night, the unseen nocturnal denizens took over, and the sound of pursuit and capture, eat and be eaten, screeches, screams, and whoops were even more intimidating. But then at dawn, when the nightshift and dayshift switched over, there was a brief period of silence and stillness that was hauntingly tranquil.

No better time to take a piss. Matt fiddled with the tent zip. He had taped it down the previous night to ensure nothing could wriggle through the minute gap between zipper head and tent floor. He lifted it slowly upward. The sound of zipper teeth unlocking was like a canvas sheet being ripped in the muted dawn.

He stuck his head out — warm, green — it reeked of composting humidity, but above all, it smelled … alive. He stepped out, stood straight, and stretched, feeling his vertebrae pop. Throughout the previous day he had done little more than travel, sitting for most of the time. It still felt like his body needed to decompress. A nice trek through the Amazon jungle will sort that out, he thought darkly.

Matt pulled his boots on and, in shorts and t-shirt, briskly walked a few paces away from the camp and ducked behind some palms — far enough, he hoped, for modesty and silence, but close enough to be heard if he had to call for help.

He lifted one leg of his shorts and aimed into a spiked bush. He stood for a few seconds, waiting. Nothing — vapor lock. Ever since he was a kid, whenever he needed to go the most, it took him ages to start the flow. But once it started …

The stream arced into the bush, drilling into its depths and causing some small creature to scuttle away to dry safety. Matt tilted his head back and sighed with assuaging pleasure. After a few seconds, he opened his eyes, sensing movement on his periphery. His stream stopped dead, and the ensuing sting made him wince. He spun around.

“And she’s happy with that?” Kurt stood just a few paces away, already fully dressed in his fatigues, and carrying an armful of wood.

“Ahh, yes, I guess.” Matt felt his indignation surge as he turned his back to try and start pissing again. A few dribbles splashed the toes of his boots. He strained harder.

He knew Kurt had his eye on Megan, and even though he hadn’t fully explored where his relationship with her was going, and there’d certainly been no talk of long term between them, he’d be damned if he’d let Doc Savage start hitting on her.

He heard Kurt come even closer. His stream automatically shut off for good. Fuck. He still had a little more pissing to do, and tossed up whether to give up, or pretend to still be going so he could keep his back turned to the bodyguard-slash-jungle guide.

Kurt spoke, so close behind him that he could have been looking over Matt’s shoulder. “Be careful hanging the old baloney pony out for too long down here, Professor. The heat and smell of the salts will bring the jungle mosquitoes — one bite and the sensitive skin down there will swell up like a balloon. The trick is to keep waving your hand over it as you go.”

Oh, shit. “Right, right, thanks.” Matt started waving his free hand over the top of his penis. He heard Kurt leave, laughing softly.

Matt rolled his eyes and stopped waving. Very funny. You got me this time, asshole.

Matt sauntered nonchalantly back into the camp, keeping his eyes on Kurt, who was stacking wood on the fire, trying to coax the ash back into a blaze. And of course he’ll be able to do it, Matt thought sourly.

Kurt looked over his shoulder at Matt and winked. Matt gave him his best and most sarcastic smile in return, then knelt to duck back into his tent. Megan was up and pulling on a t-shirt. “Where’s my wake-up coffee?”

He looked shocked. “So sorry, I’ll get right on to room service — would you also like some pastries?”

She nodded royally. “Yes please, a fresh baked croissant would be fine.” She lunged forward, pushing him back onto the thin air mattress, and kissed him hard. He felt himself swell — even without the mosquito bites.

“Coffee’ll be a few minutes — GI Joe is just kick-starting the fire.”

She pulled back a few inches. “Kurt?”

“Mmm-hmm.” He went to kiss her again but she started to sit up.

“He’s all right.” She continued dressing.

“All right, all right, or do you mean … all right?”

She laughed. “Just all right He’s a bit like a cross between a boy scout and a big puppy — big, fun, but not too bright.”

Matt nodded, not fully reassured. He would have preferred she compared him to a lizard, or a hog. Something slightly less cute than a puppy.

Megan flicked out one long leg to pull on a boot. “So, first day’s full trekking into the mysterious black heart of the Boreal.” She pulled what she thought was a spooky face. “Apparently there’s only a real track for the first few hours, and then …”

“I get it; then it’s into the wide green yonder. Who told you that?” He lifted himself up on one elbow.

She looked at him for a few seconds, then slowly lifted three fingers to her forehead in a boy-scout salute.

“I see.” He couldn’t hide his annoyance.

“Forgeddaboutit. You’re my one and only Action Man.” She pulled on her other boot, then went to duck out of the tent, but he grabbed her.

“Not so fast; one more kiss before we start the day. By this evening, we’ll both be physically smashed.”

She allowed him to pull her back and lay her down. “I can go for that — if you’re quiet.” She rolled on top of him and kissed him deeply. “But I can’t agree to just one kiss.”

Truth was, he planned to be as noisy as he could manage. He wanted Kurt to hear the no complaints bit he mentioned. He smiled and eased her shorts down.

Later, Matt and Megan joined the group for a cooked breakfast of leftover fried ham, beans, coffee, and some rehydrated orange juice — antiseptic flavor, of course. There was something extra cooked in amongst the beans. It tasted like potato, but was purple. Moema had called it a Kenke, which Matt had assumed was some sort of local yam. So, the local foraging has begun, he thought.

While the group was gathered together, Max Steinberg got to his feet and cleared his throat. “Good a time as any for the morning’s briefing. I hope everyone slept well?” He grinned, and for the first time Matt noticed that his teeth were a mix of blinding white, gold, and silver. This told him two things. One, this was probably why the man rarely seemed to smile, and two, perhaps it’s not just his teeth. Perhaps the entire man is metal inside — a robot sent from the future to make movies and annoy the CDC.

Steinberg held out his mug to Kurt, who immediately refilled it. Without waiting for a response to his question, he went on.

“It will take us about a week, give or take a day, to reach the area where we believe our predecessor encountered the indigenous tribe. Those days will be extremely hazardous, and our guides,” he nodded to both Kurt and Moema, “will be talking to all of you about the rules. I don’t need to mention that you should avoid wandering off from the group, and don’t touch or eat anything that the guys haven’t checked out first.” He paused, looking at each of them individually and nodding, as if expecting everyone to reply with a nod and a “yes, sir!”

He pointed to Kurt, who was holding what looked like a solar light for the garden — about a foot in length, with a bulb at one end and a plastic spike at the other. “We will be leaving GPS markers as we go. Although the heavy forest canopy means we’re invisible to visual satellite imagers, our mission will still be tracked and mapped, in case we need to call for help — God forbid.” He grinned briefly before once again becoming serious.

“This here is base camp. Where we’re going is inaccessible from the air. The jungle treetops extend nearly two hundred feet straight up, and do not lend themselves to helicopter landings, so … no chopper is going to be able to land, or even hoist us out. We need to make it back to this point — as I said, our base camp.” He grinned his shiny smile once more. “Should be a walk in the park. Oh, and by the way, when we leave, we leave. If you want to wander off or get lost, then please make your own arrangements for traveling home.” He raised his eyebrows, looking at each individual in turn. No one doubted for a second that he was serious. Beside him, Kurt smirked and looked at Matt.

Steinberg motioned to his large bodyguard, then stepped back a pace. “If you please, Mr. Douglas.”

Kurt nodded to his boss, then stepped forward with his hands on his hips, looking like a big-game hunter about to regale them with tales of bagging a killer rhino in Kenya. “How many of you have been in a jungle before?” Most hands were raised. “Good. Okay, now, how many of you have been in the Amazon jungle before?” All hands went down except Matt’s, which Kurt ignored. “Well, this is real life down here. Sitting in an air-conditioned office in New York, or eating sushi in California is not living … this is.”

Matt heard Jian groan under his breath, and tried hard to suppress a laugh, knowing that he was already on Kurt’s shit list. He didn’t fancy making the guide a real adversary, especially given that he was twice Matt’s size.

Kurt squared his shoulders and paced, keeping his eyes on the group. “There are no jungles like the Pantanal. This here is one of the last unexplored areas of jungle left in the world. The Amazon is roughly four million square miles. Two hundred and fifty of those are still just a green question mark on a map. That’s where we are now. I guarantee none of you will forget your time in the Gran Chaco Boreal.”

Matt could tell he was warming to his role — a closet martinet. He nudged Megan, but she ignored him. Kurt had her attention one hundred percent.

Kurt stopped pacing and stood with his legs planted and arms folded. “The round trip should take no more than twenty days, depending on what we find, and how long we need to kill, capture, or catalog our specimen.”

“Excuse me. I’d like to remind you that before anyone handles the specimen we need to examine it. That is, if you ever plan to get it back into the United States.” Carla, sitting ramrod straight, directed her question past Kurt to Max Steinberg.

“Yes, yes, yes.” Steinberg waved his hand dismissively, as though shooing a fly off his lunch. Carla tried to hold his gaze, but Steinberg turned away, bored with the line of questioning. He nodded to Kurt, who cleared his throat. Matt saw Carla’s eyes narrow and her jaws move, as though she was grinding her teeth. He could read the annoyance and distrust, plain on her features. He also wondered briefly who she was referring to when she said “we”.

Kurt went on. “Remember where you are. Things live and die fast down here … and they die hard. Sure, people enter the Pantanal and come back to tell the story — Mr. Jorghanson showed us that. But for every hundred assholes who wander into the Gran Chaco, only a few ever come back. And Mr. Jorghanson also showed us what can happen to those who do come back. He disrespected the jungle, and it caught up with him … rather unpleasantly, I hear.” Kurt paused and studied their faces before continuing.

“Okay team, here are the rules. Rule one — down here I make the rules. That’s all you need to know for now.” Kurt grinned. “I’ll tell you the rest as we go. Listen to them, follow them, and hopefully we all find what we’re looking for and be home in a few weeks, sipping champagne and toasting our success.”

He looked across at Moema and motioned for him to approach. The Brazilian had been standing to one side of the group holding a large roll of paper. Kurt took it and let it unfurl, then handed it back and had the smaller man hold it up, acting as his human clipboard, his small brown fingers clamped around each upper edge. It was a large satellite image of the jungle. Though it showed rivers, some lumpy mountains, and shadows of depressions that could have been valleys, basin plains, or just bad lighting, it was largely green — just green. Kurt tapped the center with his knuckle.

“Basically, we’re here … and we need to get here.” He moved his finger a couple of inches.

It didn’t seem like much of a hassle, Matt thought, when you looked at it from a few hundred miles above.

Kurt tapped again. “We will need to push through plenty of virgin jungle, on foot, of course, and without a track. We will also need to cross a river. We’re heading into the wet season — it hasn’t hit yet, but the river will still be fast flowing, and as you’ve probably noticed, we didn’t bring a canoe.”

Matt raised his hand. “Will we make them when we get there?”

Kurt laughed and pulled an incredulous face. “Do I look like MacGyver?”

Matt nodded vigorously.

The biologist, van Onertson, looked confused and mouthed, “Who?” to Matt, before shaking his head.

“No, Professor Kearns, we will be finding shallows and wading … and yes, there will be piranhas, leeches, and crocodiles.” Kurt smiled as Matt’s eyebrows shot up. “In fact, there’s half a dozen species, ranging from the tiny dwarf caiman to the big black river crocs. They can be twenty feet long and as wide as a Buick. And once the wet season hits, you’ve really gotta worry. That’s when they tend to move up and away from the rivers. Makes for a nice surprise, having one of those big fuckers poke its head into your tent at night.”

He grinned at Matt. “That’d sure interrupt any sweet lovemaking going on.” Kurt straightened, and Matt felt his face go hot. “Okay, if we respect the jungle, it might just respect us back. We pack up now, and I’ll do an inspection before we set off in …” he looked at his wristwatch, “… thirty minutes. Questions?”

Joop tentatively raised his hand. “How will we know when we’ve arrived?”

Kurt shook his head and his lip curled momentarily in derision. “Arrived? Jewp, we’ve already arrived.”

To his credit, the biologist didn’t give up. “But is there an actual destination? How will we know when to stop trekking? Will it be when we find the Ndege Watu, the specimen, or when we run out of patience?” He raised his eyebrows and tilted his head.

It was a good question; Matt had been wondering the same thing. He doubted they’d come across a sign that said, “You are here”, with a big red arrow pointing to the ground. Also, lost tribes tended to be a little shy — they were funny like that. That’s probably why they were lost in the first place.

Kurt started to speak, but Steinberg stepped toward the front of the group and laid his hand on the bigger man’s forearm. “We have Mr. Moema Paraiba and we have Jorghanson’s trip journal, which details the coordinates of his starting point, and gives the directions and timing of his travels. From that, we are able to form a basic travel plan. The rest is in the hands of old lady luck. We need to find the Ndege Watu so they can show us the way to the home of the fantastic creature Dr. Jorghanson brought back, God rest his soul… the creature our CDC friends destroyed.”

Steinberg avoided looking at the bristling Carla. His mouth was turned down, almost wistfully. “That’s if we can find them, and if we can persuade them to show us the way … and if we can find another specimen … There are a lot of ‘if’s. But by being here, onsite, we give ourselves a good chance of success. Sitting home in LA, we give ourselves nothing more than interesting dinner conversation.”

Most of the group nodded. They knew he was right. He turned and raised his eyebrows at Kurt, who looked again at his watch.

“Ladies and gentlemen, final inspection is now in … twenty-six minutes.”

CHAPTER 11

The CDC headquarters was an enormous modern building with an impressive double curved frontage on Houston Mill Road. But the impressive façade masked its true character, which was better identified from the rear. It was a disease-fighting factory, complete with industrial piping and high-intensity incinerator smoke stacks.

Doctor Francis “Hew” Hewson sat in a long white corridor, bored but still nervous as he waited to be called. He gazed at the rows of historical photographs on the walls — probably intended more as intimidation than decoration.

The CDC was created under President Roosevelt in 1942, during World War II, as the Office of National Defense and Malaria Control. Malaria had proved a major problem for the US troops fighting in jungles, and was hitching a ride back to the States when the wounded warriors returned home.

The office changed its name to the Center for Disease Control and Prevention, or CDC, in 1992. Its multi-billion dollar budget and expanded brief meant it had now become the nation’s watchdog for almost everything, from food poisoning and occupational health and safety to modern bioterrorism.

Hew stared hard at the double wooden doors, willing them to open. His foot tapped on the ground and he shifted in the hard seat. Just twelve hours ago he had forwarded his research and results, along with his concerns, to the office of the director. Within an hour he had received a short reply; a few sentences that boiled down to “get here now and explain yourself.”

He expected, or hoped, that headquarters was as alarmed as he was. Now it was his job to fill in the details, and perhaps be involved in spearheading some sort of national operation.

His foot tapped faster, from heel to toe now. He wished Carla were here; this was her domain. He leaned forward onto his knees and rubbed his face, thinking of his boss. She would march in, pin them with that gaze of hers, and then blow them out of the room with her forceful logic.

He sat back. Unfortunately she was down in the jungle, so it was up to him. He hated this part — the politicking, the negotiating and the selling. He guessed that dozens, maybe even hundreds, of scientists and doctors in the field had raised alerts, but probably few had requested what he had — national mobilization. Now it was up to him to justify his request. Dammit, he thought again. Carla should be doing this. She’d twist these guys around her little finger. If only I’d …

The thought froze in his brain as the doors opened soundlessly, and a smiling woman motioned with her finger and then breathed a few sentences he couldn’t quite hear. Why did she need to whisper? Was the Pope inside? Hew got to his feet and swallowed, making his prominent Adam’s apple bobble on his thin neck. The woman turned and disappeared inside, and he followed.

Several older men and women were standing around talking quietly, pouring coffee into good-quality bone china. The lengthy wooden table running down the center of the room held piles of notes in front of each seat. As Hew stood waiting, he could see his research on top of the pile.

The smiling woman silently moved her lips again and led him to the front of the room. Sunk into the table was a recessed electronic panel and a small screen. He looked it over for a few seconds then nodded — he knew what was expected. The panel contained various plug-ins for a dozen different types of media. He pulled a stack of paper and a small memory stick from his briefcase and inserted it into the appropriate jack. Immediately the screen came to life.

Hew’s fingers moved rapidly over the small keys as he found his information. A flicker from behind told him that his technical fumbling was working — whether he liked it or not, his presentation had begun. He swallowed once again, and sucked in a huge juddering breath. You never get a second chance to make a first impression, his father used to say. Better make the most of it. He worked to slow his breathing.

The woman leaned in close and placed a glass of water next to his hand. He strained his ears. She smiled, her lips opened, and he waited for something: “good luck”, or “you’ll be fine.” Instead, she whispered, “please be brief,” then turned to one of the silver-haired men and whispered something to him. The man glanced briefly at the screen, then nodded to the woman.

His gaze returned to Hew, and he spoke, his voice deep and warm. “Dr. Francis Hewson, ready to commence, I believe?” His silver eyebrows were raised.

Hew nodded, and gave a weak smile.

“Good man. My name is Dr. Thomas Mason; I have the fortunate — some would say unfortunate — responsibility of being lead director of the CDC.” As he spoke, he walked back to the long table and sat at its head, at the farthest point from the screen. Responding to the signal, the rest of the group ambled over, balancing cups and saucers as they came.

Hew nodded and smiled some more. He knew the name, but had never seen the man in person. Mason was large and barrel-chested. That could have meant a matching barrel stomach, but that was expertly hidden by the expensive tailoring of his suit. He looked like he’d be quite at home sipping wine at Martha’s Vineyard, or heading up a large corporation in New York, or anywhere in the world, really.

The older man had a commanding air, but Hew wasn’t going to call him “sir” just yet. He needed to create a sense of authority — he needed them to respect him, and, more importantly, listen to him. He tried to think of how Carla would deal with them, then he nodded to the older man and spoke with as much gravitas as he could muster. “Dr. Mason.”

Mason motioned open-handed to the screen and sat. He didn’t bother introducing anyone else, and no one seemed in any way inclined to be introduced. The motion was clear enough — begin.

Hew coughed into his fist and stood back from the screen. He folded his arms, then immediately unfolded them. His nerves were beginning to overcome his attempt at coolness. He lifted the electronic click pointer, and cleared his throat.

“Ladies and gentlemen …” Nerves made his voice higher than it should be. He made a conscious effort to compress his vocal cords and take it down a few octaves. He started again. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have a serious problem.”

Jimmy Ruiz slowed as he came to the border crossing. Maria had his American employment card and their passports ready on her lap, but crossing from the USA into Mexico was never a problem. Judging by the small number of cars banked up, their wait would be little more than ten minutes or so — nothing compared to what they’d encounter when they returned.

Ruiz kept the windows up and the air conditioning on full blast. Already the outside temperature was pushing ninety degrees, and a yellowy haze lifted dryly from the dust and exhaust of the idling vehicles. He touched the temperature knob again, managing to find another hair’s breadth of turn in the dial.

Maria pulled her shawl a little tighter around her shoulders and sneezed theatrically. She had given up asking him to turn it down, instead sitting in irritated, rugged-up silence. Now she had reached the final stage of protest — the physical demonstration of her discomfort by feigning illness.

Ruiz ignored her. There was no way he could turn down the cooling artificial breeze — it was the only thing giving him relief from the damned itch. His skin crawled, from the roots of his hair all the way down to his greasy scrotum.

He shifted in his seat, winced, and cursed under his breath. A few days back he had visited one of the local brothels after downing a few beers with his friends. His favorite girl, all big hips and long red hair, had made him feel special, and young, instead of pushing forty with a growing gut and thinning hair. If she had given him something … he cursed some more, this time the soft words passing his lips.

“What?” Maria broke her silence and turned with a scowl.

“Nothing, my sweet.” He shifted in his seat and sniffed. He needed a shower; he stunk.

Hew had been speaking for around fifteen minutes, and had only just covered the suspected origination point of the parasite, its primary symptoms and multiple transmission mechanisms. He knew he was going to go over his allotted time, so he spoke faster as he clicked his pointer at the screen, preparing to outline his recommended treatments.

Mason held up his hand like a traffic cop.

“Number of deaths to date, Dr. Hewson?”

“Ahh, forty-eight … known deaths.”

Mason nodded. “Number currently afflicted?”

“Known and projected, there are …”

“Just known afflicted for now, Doctor.”

Hew was going to object, but saw the bored expressions around the table and experienced a sudden sinking feeling in his gut. His presentation wasn’t working.

“Two hundred and twenty — more than half of those now in an induced coma.”

“Fatality rate? Please, Dr. Hewson, don’t make me pull this information out of you.” Mason sounded impatient.

Hew clicked ahead a few panels in his presentation, but Mason kept his eyes on him. “Well, fatality rate is around twenty percent, but that’s so far. And if you class recovery as being in an induced coma, or living on anti-rejection drugs following full-body skin grafting, then I’d hardly call it a stunning recovery rate.” He bit his lip; he was starting to sound shrill.

From beside Mason, an Asian woman lifted some notes from the desk, and looked up at him. “Dr. Hewson, you call for an immediate raising of the Infectious Disease Alert Level to …” She looked down at the notes again, and scoffed slightly. “Five. Do you know what that means?”

He licked his lips. He knew it was one of the highest possible levels of alert, and that every medical facility in the United States would be moved from vigilance to action. He didn’t know all the details, but he thought it was appropriate. “I have a basic idea.”

“Really? Not to trouble you with details, Doctor, but it means we would need to shut down international travel and have medical facilities set up for a prospective one million suffers of a life-threatening or life-ending illness. It also means that we would need to inform the World Health Organization, who would be expected to raise a simultaneous global alert — one level short of what is instigated for a global pandemic.” She dropped his notes back onto the table. “And all that for forty-eight deaths?”

“Look, this … infestation is almost invisible. It has the potential to …”

She raised her voice. “Last influenza season we lost over 40,000 people.” She paused and raised one eyebrow. “We had over 30,000 new cases of AIDS, we had 20,000 people die from secondary bacterial infections caught in our hospitals, and do you know how many people died from something as simple as diarrhea last year?” She didn’t wait for an answer — her point was clear. You’re wasting our time. “I appreciate your concern, Doctor, and we will definitely …”

Hew threw the electronic pointer on the table. “No, you don’t appreciate my concern. This infestation is the archetypical bamboo syndrome — it’ll be invisible for a time, then it’ll explode up all around us, and overwhelm us.”

Mason’s eyebrows shot up. Hew knew he understood what he was implying. A bamboo syndrome was named after the way the plant grew under the ground for many years, secretly spreading its runners for hundreds of feet before, seemingly at some sort of prearranged signal, bursting up through the soil in dozens, sometimes hundreds, of places. One minute you had a few feet of growth, the next, you had a jungle.

Mason held up his hand again. “We never said we planned do nothing. We’ll pass your information along to HAN.”

“HAN.” Hew said the word softly as he turned back to the screen. From the swiftness of the decision, it had to have been made before he’d even walked into the room. It had been his job to try and change their minds — and he’d failed.

Carla, you should have been here, he thought. HAN, the primary Health Alert Network, was a countrywide program that was used to disseminate information nationally at the state and local levels. It could reach over ninety percent of the population via a messaging system that transmitted health alerts to over one million health and authority recipients.

Hew packed his things away. It was better than nothing, he thought. He heard Mason speaking again and turned.

“You’ve done your job correctly, Dr. Hewson. You have raised the profile of the threat, and for that we thank you. However, at this point the mortality rate, or even the transmission rate, is not of sufficient significance to warrant a threat level change. We are also aware that your senior colleague is already looking for a biological retardant at the source.” Mason pushed his chair back but didn’t rise. “So, for now, we’ll monitor the situation. Thank you for your time.”

Hew nodded and noticed that, wraith-like, the whispering girl had returned to his side. She led him to the door and stood back, holding it open and smiling. At the door he paused for a second and half turned, thinking about Mason’s comments. Not of sufficient significance. Mason hadn’t seen … none of them had seen the lumps or the potential aerosol spread of the infestation. None of them had seen the raw skin after the epidermal layer literally slid off the physical frame. Sure, the patients weren’t killed immediately, but the idea that they could recover … or even be expected to live? That wasn’t living.

The woman whispered something to him, and Hew rounded on her. “Speak up, will you?” He pushed open the door and marched out.

CHAPTER 12

Matt marveled at the strength of the small Brazilian man. He was a good foot shorter than Steinberg’s burly bodyguard, but he managed to carry twice the pack weight. It seemed to Matt that where Kurt was Crocodile Dundee, Moema was a little brown Hercules.

Carla had told him the packs mostly contained demountable cages, and some camera equipment. Luckily the cameras were little more than the size of a shoebox, including long-life batteries. In Moema’s grandfather’s day, they would have had to carry suitcase-sized boxes and tripod legs. Matt had offered to help, but Moema had just looked confused, then smiled and shook his head. Matt knew not to press him — he was paid to do the job, and was certainly strong enough, so any offer to lighten his load might have been viewed as a question about his masculinity.

They had been trekking for over six hours, and Matt felt small streams of perspiration running under his long hair and down his face to join up with the rivers on his torso before continuing down through his groin to flood his socks. His clothing had long given up trying to absorb the sweat and was now doing little more than adding to his personal weight and discomfort. The salty bath also meant that insect repellent had to be reapplied hourly, otherwise the constant swarm of tiny satellites circling his head would land for a quick meal. Matt hated to think what the chemical onslaught was doing to his system, but preferred it to being injected by some parasitic jungle microorganism in a bug’s saliva.

He let his eyes wander to the treetops overhead. As they traveled farther into the heart of the Boreal, it became darker — not from increasing cloud, or evening fall, but from the tree canopy, which became further enmeshed, forming a single ceiling of dark green. Shoals of small monkeys seemed to travel with them, running across the upper branch balconies and constantly scolding the humans for their intrusion, and occasionally lobbing soft rinds of fruit in their direction.

Megan was in her element, Matt noticed, walking along with her gaze directed to the green sky, mouth turned up in a broad grin. Occasionally she would dart to the side of the track or get down low to stare at something under a rotting log or growing on a tree trunk. She continually fell behind, and when Kurt turned back to glare, it was usually at him. Matt would just shrug and grin. If Kurt wanted someone to yell at her, he could do it himself.

The path was narrow and squashy underfoot — little more than an animal track, and surprisingly dry. However, the wet season would soon commence, bringing drenching rains that could last for weeks at a time without any corresponding relief from the heat. Matt couldn’t wait — there’d be moss, mold, and other exotic fungal infections growing like coral from between their toes and behind their ears.

Matt sped up to walk just behind Carla. For the most part, walking side-by-side was impossible on the narrow pathway.

“Damned hot.”

“Don’t worry, you can cool off in the pool this evening.”

Matt groaned good-humoredly. The thought of a cool swimming pool, even a frosty beer, was too much to bear. “That would be heaven right about now. Any word from home?” He’d been watching her repeatedly tap away on her smartphone.

“Unfortunately, no. Communications are getting a little patchy. I trust my people in the field — it’s up to them now. They need to document the cases, treat the afflicted, and, where necessary, raise appropriate alerts with head office. I don’t think … I hope we’re not at any sort of critical juncture just yet. I’d prefer to have a natural treatment, or develop something simple and with as few side effects as possible, before we have to resort to a barrage of chemicals.” She looked across at him with a half smile. “We’d cure the population, but would probably get sued for the next fifty years.”

“Ungrateful sods.”

She laughed. “We’re only ever fully protected under special legislation if the government deems it to be a high probability threat to life — basically, take it or die.”

“They can do that?”

She turned and smiled without humor. “We can do a lot if we need to, Professor Kearns.” Her jaw was rigid. “If we find a treatment, I’ll make damned sure people take it. Did you know that with all the vaccinations we have available today, vaccination rates in the West are dropping to pre-1950 levels?”

“That’s weird. Why is that?” Matt glanced at Carla. Her face was hard, but there was sorrow around her eyes.

“Bottom line, we think we know better. I certainly did. I didn’t get my child vaccinated for pertussis — whooping cough.” Carla watched her feet as she walked, her words lifeless. “At six, Madeleine should have recovered with standard antibiotics; instead she developed encephalitis, and died in agony. My husband — ex-husband — and I were too trendy, too clever, to bother with vaccinations. We paid the ultimate price.”

Matt now understood the woman’s drive. It was more than a calling — it was her penance.

“I’m sorry.”

“It was a long time ago.”

Matt saw that Carla’s jaw was set, but her eyes had welled up. “Carla, if there’s anything…”

She shook her head quickly, and looked away. Matt got the message; the topic was closed. They marched in silence for another twenty minutes before Carla’s tight expression eventually eased.

Kurt called a halt at the base of a large tree, pulled his canteen from his belt and took a small sip. He rescrewed the top and lifted his chin; it looked for a minute as though he was sniffing the air. “River coming up soon, ladies and gentlemen. Once we cross that we get into uncharted territory.”

Matt leaned in close and whispered to Carla. “I thought we were already in uncharted territory.”

Kurt glanced over at Matt. “Only uncharted on our maps … but once we cross the river … uncharted on his.” He nodded toward Moema.

Matt gave the big man a flat smile. Great, hearing like a bat as well, he thought.

“Hey.” Megan caught up with them. After hours of hiking she was still walking as easily as when she started. She was using a long stick as a walking staff, and she tapped Matt’s leg with it as she went past, heading off the path and leaning up against the trunk of an enormous tree.

She tilted her head back. “This is like a wonderland.”

Matt smiled. “Yep, the happiest kingdom on earth.”

She craned her neck forward. “Hmm, that sounds a little sarcastic … or perhaps just world-weary. I haven’t been on as many trips as you, Indiana, so to me, it’s all fantastic.” She pulled the rolled bandana from her head and wrung it out, raining salty drops down onto the rotting leaves at her feet.

Megan went to lean back again when Jian came out of the brush and roughly pulled her forward.

“Hey!” She stumbled and then swung around, raising her walking stick in his direction. But Jian was already on her, slapping her furiously.

“What the fu—” Matt grabbed at the small entomologist, but pulled back when he saw the crawling mass on Megan’s shoulders.

Jian continued his attack as Megan shielded her head. “Aztec ants.” He swatted at the half-inch insects, some stubbornly clinging to the damp material of Megan’s shirt with their sharp, hooked feet. In another few seconds he cleared the red and black mass and pulled her up. Megan did a little shivery dance, and stuck out her tongue.

“Yecch.” She continued to shake.

Jian pointed at the tree. “Sorry, but that’s a cecropia tree. It has a symbiotic relationship with the Azteca Alfari ant — very aggressive. Anything deemed to be attacking the tree triggers the hive’s warrior response.” He pointed at the tree with a twig; by now every leaf tip and stem was bristling with the spindly insects.

Matt looked at her and raised his eyebrows. Megan just shook her head. “It’s still a wonderland. And besides, they were probably just as scared of me as I was of them.”

Jian grunted. “One thing insects do not know is fear. Lucky for us, they are small.” He backed up as the ants started to take small leaps from the leaf tips toward his twig. “Otherwise, life on this planet would be very different.”

CHAPTER 13

Forget it. Matt gave up and walked in sullen silence, his thoughts the only voice left to chide him for trying to engage Dan Brenner in conversation. The professor refused to offer any more than grunts, and the odd flat-eyed, indifferent stare. After a time Matt had dropped back a step or two, vowing to empathize a little more in future before banging out his professional opinions on another man’s life’s work.

It was mid-afternoon when, ahead of them, columns of misty sunshine broke through the green ceiling, announcing the river. The waterway was a tributary of the Mamoré River — relatively small, but still a good fifty feet wide, moving sluggishly. Kurt unclipped his holster and moved cautiously along the bank until he found what he was looking for — a slight lumping in the water from one bank to the other. He conferred with Moema, who nodded once, then he had the small man take a length of rope, tie it around a tree and wade in.

Matt gritted his teeth in apprehension. Bottomless water always scared him. Even though the coffee-colored water only came up to the Brazilian’s waist, the thought of something hiding just beneath the surface, in all its toothed or spiked glory, made his stomach lurch.

After a few minutes Moema was safely on the opposite bank. He quickly set about tying the rope around another tree, creating a handrail for everyone to follow. Kurt waved to the small guide and then turned to the group.

“Single file, follow the line, hang onto the line, do not stop or step away from the line.” He pointed to the river. “Just below the surface we have a silt pile. These are temporary underwater bridges. Something gets wedged in the river, debris builds up against it, and then silt covers it. It’ll be washed away in the next rain surge, but for now, it means we don’t need to swim.”

The big man had a smirk on his face. “But be warned — either side of that silt pile its get deep … and big things hide in the deep. So, let’s not go swimming.” He turned and whistled to Moema, waving him back.

“Grab all your gear, ’coz we aren’t making two trips. I’ll go first, followed by Mr. Steinberg. The rest of you follow.”

Max Steinberg handed Kurt his computer bag and other personal effects. Moema picked up a pack, looped it over his shoulders and then lifted another large box up onto his head.

Matt turned to Megan. “Seems the rule against making two trips doesn’t apply to the hired help.” He pointed to the river and bowed. “Ladies first.”

She turned and smiled. “Just don’t be last. You’ve seen what happens in the movies to the last guy on the jungle trail.”

Matt waited with Moema. The small man looked surprisingly comfortable despite the hundred pounds of gear on his head and back. Matt pulled a face. “Hope there’re no crocodiles.”

Moema looked at Matt for a few seconds and then shook his head. “No, not here.” He turned back to the water. “They get eaten.”

Matt frowned, replaying the comment in his head, and then dismissed it. He mustn’t have heard correctly. Megan had just set off, pulling herself across on the rope, and now it was his turn. He took a deep breath and lowered one foot into the water, feeling his boot squelch into the mud and sink a good four inches. He kept his eyes on his girlfriend’s back as he carefully placed one foot in front of the other.

He inhaled. The smell rising in mist-like vapors reminded him of mud and perfume — the damp soil, combined with the pollens and sap from a billion trees and flowers that had touched its surface now rode the water on their way to the coast. At one point something bumped his knee and he froze, tensing his muscles, expecting the grind of large jaws to come at any second.

A prod in the center of his back from Carla, crossing behind him, unlocked his muscles and he started to move again. He let out a small, sheepish laugh and turned to make some sort of self-deprecating joke when just behind Carla, Dan Brenner grunted and then splashed heavily into the water up to his neck. His face looked ashen, and in an instant he went from looking confused to terrified. The linguist winced and screamed shrilly, his head whipping beneath the brown surface of the water, as if he had fallen into a deep hole.

No, not fallen. Been pulled.

Kurt yelled for everyone to get out of the water, and Moema dropped his pack and raised a long machete over his head, his eyes wide. Matt could hear the little man yelling a single word: yacu-mayma, yacu-mayma, over and over. Matt automatically translated the word in his head — mother of the water.

Something huge lumped up at the brown surface. There was a flash of shirt, and then it was gone, pulled down deep again. John Mordell, the doctor, dove toward the swirling water, and then, for some reason unfathomable to him, Matt did the same.

He swam with his eyes tightly closed — the coffee-colored water would have done nothing but fill them with grit if he’d opened them. He swept his arms back and forth, searching for the professor amongst the debris and mud, and was rewarded when he briefly touched an elbow. He grabbed it and reached out with his other hand, but where he expected to grab another portion of arm, he instead felt a muscular, scaled hide — thick as his waist, and as unbreakable as a tree trunk.

Moema’s words echoed in his mind. Mother of the water. His hand slid down to Brenner’s, and the linguist’s fingers clasped weakly onto his own, but the leviathan muscles that bound him tightened and rolled, and the fingers were pulled away. Matt’s lungs were near bursting and he broke the surface.

“Snake!” He was spluttering and startled to see he was a good twenty feet away from the bank and in the center of the river.

Kurt yelled for him to swim, and Moema pointed frantically to the bank. Gunfire erupted as Kurt fired several rounds into the murky water, making little geysers of brown shoot up around him and causing the birds and monkeys overhead to scream their outrage and rip away in the upper branches.

Matt waved his hands. “Stop … he’s here.” He dove again, but could find no sign of the man. This time when he came to the surface Megan and Moema were there, Moema with his long blade still held aloft. Megan grabbed his collar and dragged him backward, coughing and spluttering, until they made it to the bank.

“Shit, shit, shit.” Kurt marched up and down the sloping mud, his gun at his side.

Matt retched water and mud, and wiped grit from his nose. “I felt him … it had him, a snake, a giant fucking snake.”

Megan brushed his wet hair off his face while Moema sheathed his long blade and stood up, his eyes on the moving water.

“Snake, yes, these are the waters of the yacu-mayma. It can grow longer than twenty men, and as wide as a pony. It is gone now … Mr. Brenner is gone now,” he said.

“But, he was still alive, when …”

Moema shook his head. “Not anymore by now — he will be crushed; the yacu-mayma will squeeze him soft, and then devour him whole. I think it will be doing this in its lair … now.”

Megan stood up and planted her hands on her hips, her chin jutting out. “We need to retrieve that body, and then pack it in. Party’s over, Steinberg.”

Kurt took a step toward her. “Retrieve the body?” He pointed a finger at her chest. “Listen …”

“Kurt.” Max Steinberg stopped him and nodded to Megan as he took a few slow steps toward her.

“This is a tragedy, and we shouldn’t make hasty decisions when emotions are running high.” He came a little closer. “We’ll try and send a message to the authorities. However, if we do ‘pack it in’, we’ll miss the last of the dry season, and have to leave it until next year to try again.” His mouth turned down and he shook his head almost sadly. “I’m afraid I won’t be doing that. So, my team will be pushing on … today.” He shrugged. “But by all means, you, or you and your little team, wait here for the authorities to arrive … if they arrive.”

Megan’s mouth dropped open and then snapped shut, her jaw set in determination. Matt groaned, knowing what was to come, as Steinberg turned away, talking softly to Kurt.

Megan turned to Carla, but the scientist looked away. Matt knew her frustration would boil over, and she would do or say something she, and then probably he, would regret. She marched over to grab Steinberg’s elbow and whipped him around. “Wait a minute, not everyone agrees with you …”

The movie producer tore his arm free, but his face remained calm. He smiled and raised his eyebrows. “Really? Ms. Hannaford, do you really want to vote on it? Okay.” He turned to the assembled group.

“Anyone who wants to turn back or stay here, please raise their hand.” He looked along the faces, as each person looked down or away. John shook his head sadly, as did Jian, who mouthed sorry in Megan’s direction. Joop’s mouth opened for a second before his gaze slid away and his mouth closed without a word. Steinberg shrugged. “Sorry.”

“Fuck you.” Megan turned to Carla, who had her eyes downcast. Steinberg spoke up. “Dr. Nero?”

She looked up, her eyes going from Steinberg to Megan as she shook her head. “He’s dead, Megan. Nothing we can do for him.”

“But … it’s too dangerous. More of us will die if …”

Carla held the young woman’s angry gaze. “I warned you this wouldn’t be a picnic. We knew what we were signing up for. Megan, I’m sorry, but a lot more people may die if we abandon our search now.”

Matt got to his feet and put his arm around her shoulders. “Let it go, Megs.”

She looked down and shook her head violently, then shrugged out from under his arm, walking away a few paces.

Matt looked back along the group, stopping at Max Steinberg. “Can you at least pretend to be sorry one of your team just got killed?”

Max Steinberg frowned and walked a few paces closer to him. He nodded, his face the picture of contrition. “You’re right, you’re right. I’m sorry, Professor Kearns.” He put his hand on Matt’s shoulder and looked into his muddy face. “Are you okay? That was very brave of you, son.”

Matt shrugged. “It was instinct. I just hope that someone would do the same for me.”

Steinberg nodded gravely. “Of course. I just hope we don’t need to.” He smiled. “However, there is some good news.” He slapped Matt on the shoulder. “You just got a promotion.”

CHAPTER 14

Matt noticed that the farther they tracked from the water, the more Moema’s demeanor changed. The guide slowed, became more cautious and particular about his movements. Even Kurt had loosened the strap over his gun. Together the large bodyguard and the small Brazilian would walk carefully forward, then one or the other would pause and stand listening for several seconds. Matt found it unsettling and painfully slow. The addition of the heat, humidity, and things nipping at his exposed legs made it freaking agony.

Even Max Steinberg had commented about the feeling of being watched. Moema had nodded, and responded that in the jungle, there were always a thousand eyes watching — every day, every night. It hadn’t made any of them feel any more secure.

A small opening in the undergrowth gave them room to spread out a little and rest. A waist-high mound seemed to grow in the center of the clearing, like a giant green boil on the earth. Kurt climbed to the top and stood like a captain at the bow of his ship, surveying the path ahead.

“Let’s take a few minutes.” He looked at each of them. “I don’t need to remind you not to wander off — this is Ndege Watu territory. We need everyone’s eyes and ears focussed from now on. If they’re here — and they probably are — let’s hope we can communicate with them.” He looked at Matt pointedly. “But first we need to make sure we don’t scare them off, or give them a reason to attack us.”

Megan leaned in close to Matt, having regained some of her spirit after the river encounter. “Looks like it’s all up to you now.”

Matt snorted softly. “No pressure.” He turned to her with raised brows. “Besides, you’ll be helping.”

Matt looked past her and saw Moema pacing around the edge of the clearing. Often, he’d move a little way into the jungle to examine something before continuing his slow sentry walk. Matt left Megan with Carla and followed the guide for a while before the small man turned to him.

“Signs of the Ndege Watu?” asked Matt.

Moema exhaled through his nose, then shook his head. “No, nothing … but there should be, He-rêr a'ê Kearns. The Ndege Watu are not just in the jungle, they are part of the jungle. They will know we are here. But I can see no sign of them. This is strange.”

Matt looked around at the green wall surrounding them. “Hmm, you said they were shy. Maybe they are staying hidden.”

Moema shrugged. “Yes, maybe I think that.”

Matt watched him for a moment. He didn’t believe the little man thought that at all.

“Get down.” Kurt froze and then hunched over out front. Behind him, Max Steinberg, Matt, and the line of scientists got down on their haunches and tried to blend into the undergrowth. Matt watched the big man as his eyes slid across to something beyond the next stand of trees, fronds, and vines. He turned, put his finger to his lips, pointed at Matt and Moema and waved them forward … slowly.

When they reached the front of the line, Matt could see what the guide had found — they were about to break through into a broad clearing, the red, hard-packed earth dominated by small round huts with tightly thatched roofs.

Moema grunted his observation. “No fire.” Matt understood his concern. For a tribe as primitive as this, fire was hard to create. It was probably up to one or more individuals to keep the spark burning in the communal fire pit. This one had gone out.

Kurt turned to Matt. “Say something, tell them, hello.”

Matt furrowed his brow. “I have no idea how to say hello.” He looked at Moema, but the small man just shrugged and turned back to the village.

Kurt shook his head. “Fucking great.” He pulled his gun from its holster.

“Wait, let me try something.” Matt walked forward and tried to make an approximation of the sounds he had heard on Jorghanson’s recording. Matt had been able to identify some conversation threads he thought he understood. He tried to lower his vocal cords to make the unique Ndege Watu sounds. The vocalizations came out like a series of whistling clicks.

They waited for a few minutes, but there was no reply.

Matt tried again. Once more, there was nothing but silence … almost. After a few more seconds, there came an almost imperceptible sound from one of the huts.

Moema tilted his head. “Maybe someone.”

Kurt nudged Matt. “Say hello again.”

Matt half turned. “It’s not …” Ah, forget it. There was no point trying to explain the Ndege Watu expression of friendship to Kurt. He made the small series of whistle-click sounds again.

They waited, but, other than the soft sounds from inside the hut, there was no response or reaction.

“Okay, that’s it, we’re going in — stay low and on your toes.” Kurt pushed through the final barrier of green, and entered the camp. Matt wrinkled his nose at a strange odor, like decaying meat, old flowers, and spoiling food.

Kurt crept toward the hut where they had heard the noise, and turned to wave them closer with his gun.

“It stinks … dirty bastards.” He held the revolver up and went to step in front of the open entrance, but Matt caught his elbow and pulled him back.

“Let me.” Matt stepped out, repeating the few phrases he had memorized. He crouched in the opening of the hut, and blinked to try and help his eyes adjust to the darkness. “Hello?”

There was an explosion of movement. A small boar burst from the tent, trailing stinking entrails in its jaws. Matt fell backward. “Shit!”

Kurt stepped over him, ducked his head into the hut, then immediately pulled it back out. He turned to Moema. “Dead. Check the other huts.”

The small man nodded and scurried off, his long blade in his hand. Kurt grabbed Matt’s forearm and pulled him to his feet. The guide yelled for John, no longer worried about silence.

“Doc, get in here, we got a body.”

John came from out of the jungle, immediately followed by Carla, then Megan.

Moema returned and Matt could see that his normally coffee-colored face was slightly ashen and his eyes wide. “More Ndege Watu — men, women, children; all dead. Maybe thirty — all tribe, I think.”

Kurt grunted, showing no emotion. “Go around the perimeter and see if there is any sign of another tribe, or something else coming in or going out. Be on your guard.”

Moema looked confused, and Kurt clarified. “Be careful.”

The small Brazilian nodded and disappeared, just as John went to duck into the hut.

“Doctor.” Carla bustled up to him and handed him a pair of rubber gloves. John nodded his thanks and pulled them on, then they both entered the hut.

Kurt looked at Matt, his mouth turned down. “So, everything gone — waste of fucking time.” He sauntered back to talk to Max Steinberg, and Matt hung in the doorway with Megan at his shoulder. Matt saw her watch the big man walk away. He turned back to see the doctor and CDC scientist go to work.

The hut was a scene of human carnage, but Matt guessed that was largely due to the scavenging boar. There were two bodies, one larger than the other, with missing limbs, eyes and nose eaten away, and its abdomen torn open. The smaller one was primarily intact, save for the open torso — the softer entrails were always the first to be taken.

Matt winced. The smell was rancid-sweet and the buzz of large agitated jungle flies in the small humid space made him pull his damp handkerchief from his pocket and hold it over his nose and mouth.

In one corner — the only untouched part of the small hut — there were half a dozen soft-looking bags — skins that had been sewn into a balloon shape and then continually worked and treated until they looked soft and supple. Matt pointed to them. “Maybe something they ate or drank — weird-looking water bags. Maybe we should check the local streams for algae or some other type of contaminant.”

Carla reached across to pick one up. It had rings of small stones sewn in around its edges and some type of carved bone stopper in the opening. She grunted softly, uncapped it, lifted it to her nose and waved it back and forth under her nostrils for a second or two. “Dry and odorless.” She held it up. “Strange decoration for a water bladder; not sure if it was for food or drink, but good workmanship. We can check their sources later.” She dropped it back in the corner and turned back to the body.

“Heavens, I’ve never seen anything like it; look at this.” John gestured over the adult’s brow, and spoke softly to himself. “Prominent brow ridge, low vaulted cranium, receding chin … could this be a local genetic trait, a predilection for deformity?” He moved to the smaller figure. “It’s the same — not as developed, but the same. If this is representative of the tribe, then these guys are not just primitive, they’re primordial throwbacks.”

“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves, John. What can you tell me about the cause of death?” Carla said.

“Okay, right, it’s just …” He bent over the larger body and gently prodded the skin with two fingers, then looked in the mouth and peeled back the eyelids, checking the soft tissue for discoloration. Meanwhile, Carla parted the thick black hair, peering at the scalp and leaning in close to look at the strands.

“Good; no dermal lifting, no sign of parasite infestation other than some local hair lice.” She sat back and watched John lift the remains of the stump and prod the flesh of the armpit. He raised his eyebrows. “Swollen, and the skin is mottled.” He pulled open the mouth again and then tugged on the facial cheek, making the lower lid droop. “Conjunctive eye, blue-gray spots in the mouth.” He looked at Carla, but Matt spoke first.

“Measles.”

Behind Matt, Megan snorted without humor. “That’s been our gift to indigenous populations for over five hundred years.”

Carla sat back on her haunches and nodded. “True. In 1592, two-thirds of the native population of Cuba was wiped out by an outbreak, one-fifth of Hawaii’s population in 1850, and so on and so on. It still kills millions globally.” She rubbed her forehead with the back of her arm.

“There are twenty-one different strains of the virus. Some are nothing more than a mild inconvenience to us.” She turned to Matt. “Remember Jorghanson and his recessive measles strain? Not so recessive down here.” She peeled off her gloves and stood up.

John did the same. “These bodies are probably still highly infectious. Probably not to us, but definitely to any other indigenous person who comes into contact with them, and maybe even to …” He turned to look over his shoulder.

“Got it.” Carla nodded toward their guide. “I’ve got some antiviral that I can give Moema as a preventative. But you’re right, we should bury them.”

Matt looked around at all the huts. “Moema said there were about thirty bodies — we’d need earthmoving equipment.”

John threw his gloves into the hut. “Then burning it is. But …” he winced as he spoke. “I’d really like to take a sample back.”

“Sample?” Matt frowned. “Of the measles strain?”

John shook his head. “No, no … a sample of the morphology — just a skull.”

“Huh?” Matt pulled a face.

Carla waved her hand in John’s direction. “I’d like to see the paperwork trying to get that back home … especially given what we’re currently dealing with. Forget it, John.”

“This could be big. I don’t even want to mention the word ‘Neanderthal’, but …”

“But you just did. John, there are many physical traits that are extreme and influenced by nothing more than the environment. Take the Mbenga Pygmies of the Southern Congo. They’re all waist-high to us, and their height has been attributed to low levels of ultraviolet light, leading to reduced vitamin D, which affects …”’

John finished for her. “Bone growth.”

Carla nodded. “Also, their soil is low in calcium — double whammy.”

John shrugged. “There isn’t always a simple explanation. After all, there’s no such thing as a living archaeopteryx, right?” He gave her his best smile. “I’ll scour it — no biological traces, just clean bone, I promise.”

Carla half smiled and tilted her head. After a few seconds she nodded. “I love an optimist — especially one who turns out to be a head-hunter. I still say you’ll never get it back into the States.”

“Thanks.” John turned back to the body.

“Professor Kearns!” Jian’s shout came from the far end of the camp, and Matt and Megan jogged over to find the entomologist. They passed the last huts, went through a narrow passage in the vegetation, like a green corridor, and then entered another small clearing. This one was meticulously cleared of debris, and at its center stood three stone totem poles, each ten feet high and completely carved with raised glyphs. Matt had seen some like them in Jorghanson’s sketchings. He knew his mouth was open, and he couldn’t stop the smile from spreading across his face. The intricate detail was magnificent — even more so now that it was before him and not just in stylized, two-dimensional sketches.

“Beautiful,” he whispered. They were more art than language.

Megan nudged him. “I wish you’d show me that sort of adoration.”

“Wow. Wow.” Matt ignored her, walking slowly around each column, occasionally stopping and fingering a particular raised pattern, symbol, or image. The carvings wrapped all the way around the poles, the story being told in a sort of spiral. Matt could see that each had pole been carved over a long period of time, as the glyphs closer to the bottom were encrusted in lichen and of a slightly different style to the ones at the top — the story, or message, started at the base and worked its way upward.

Kurt and Steinberg came up behind him. “So, not a complete loss after all.”

Matt frowned and spoke without looking at the movie producer. “Depends on your perspective — they’re all dead. So, I think a big bloody loss, for them at least.”

Kurt snorted. “Yeah, caused by that asshole Jorghanson, I hear.”

“That’s enough, Kurt.” Steinberg looked at Matt with a somber expression. “Of course you’re right. We should be more respectful.” He paused for a moment, then immediately brightened, flashing his golden grin. “Tell me you can decipher them.”

Matt and Megan heaved the last body onto the pyre, throwing their gloves in after it. The group had made three large fires and added the bodies one at a time to ensure they were fully carbonized. In a matter of hours, the Ndege Watu would be nothing more than memories — the lost tribe now fully lost to the world.

Matt worked with lost races and language fragments, and knew that what he and other scholars could decipher from their work, no matter how imperfect the translation, would now be the only chance this strange and primitive native group would get to tell their story — to impart their knowledge, and tell them their secrets, their loves, fears, and legends.

What a waste. Matt remembered Carla’s words about the disease being our gift to primitive tribes for centuries. We might as well have just used a machine gun, he thought glumly.

John was pounding a stake into the ground at the base of a tree. He then tied one of the tribe’s skulls to the stake with a nylon cord, threading it through the empty eye sockets. He moved quickly, completing the job before Moema could see him at work on his grisly task. He finished by covering it with leaves, and some soil, and then stood to pull his gloves from his hands and stretch.

He noticed Matt watching him, and nodded toward the small mound. “The bugs will clean that down in a few days. Hopefully the larger animals won’t be able to carry it off.” He shrugged. “We’ll see.”

It was getting late, and Kurt was calling for camp to be set up around the totems, as this was the closest clearing that was dry, level, and away from the stinking ash of the burning bonfires.

Joop stood examining one of the bladders from the Ndege huts, his face drawn into a tight frown. He lifted it when he saw Matt approach.

“Strange. It’s definitely animal, but I cannot identify it. Might be some sort of reptile, given the long cell structure, but …” he shrugged.

Matt grunted. “Sleep on it — maybe you’ll work it out?”

The jungle around them was strangely quiet — either the flames or the alien noises they made scared the local fauna away. Or perhaps it was a respectful silence for the passing of such a large number of forest souls. Lying in his tent, it took Matt hours to drift off to sleep, his mind haunted by images of coughing natives and the skinless scientist who had unwittingly delivered death to them. Beside him, Megan tossed and turned and murmured in her sleep, perhaps sharing the same nightmares.

The next morning was uncomfortable — muscles complained, mouths were dry and tasted of ash, and eyes felt gritty from lack of sleep. Breakfast was roasted local yams, and something Moema brought in from the jungle to cook. It could have been poultry, reptile, or even a type of meaty fungus. It didn’t matter. That morning, food was nothing more than fuel, and most of them chewed and swallowed like automatons.

Matt finished eating and stood, stretching. He walked a few paces to the green corridor leading back into the camp and turned to see if Megan wanted to join him. His heart sank a little when he saw that Kurt had already taken his seat, and that the pair spoke animatedly. Jealousy burned a little and Matt turned away, walking the few dozen paces back into the open compound.

Small ghosts of smoke lifted from the center of the funeral pyres, which were now little more than oval scars of damp ash, like sores with silvery crusty scabs on the red earth. Matt stretched again and drew in a breath. It was odd — in amongst the odors of old roasting meat and damp ash, there remained an underlying hint of flowers, still strong despite the fact that there were few open blooms in the vicinity. Those plants that did feature large purple or green trumpet-like flowers were near odorless to him. He ignored it, putting the smell down to spoiling vegetation in the huts.

Jian and Carla passed him, already locked in conversation. Each of the team had been allocated tasks, but much of what happened with the expedition hinged on what Matt could find out from the Ndege Watu totem poles. He and Megan would pretty much spend the day seated before each of the poles, unraveling the words, sentiments, expressions, and general essence of the age-old artifacts.

At least, that’s what he thought he and Megan would be doing.

Matt jumped slightly as Steinberg called his name too loudly. He came out from the green corridor with Kurt and Megan in tow. Matt noticed that the big bodyguard held a small brown satchel monogrammed with calligraphic initials. PJ — Pieter Jorghanson.

Steinberg held out his hand and Kurt handed the slim pack to his boss, who in turn passed it to Matt.

“Here, it’s all the material we were given by Jorghanson. He, uh, departed before we could really talk to him about any of it in any detail. You might find something useful in there to speed up the translation.”

Matt took the satchel. “Thanks.” He flipped it open, noting the mini-discs, half a dozen small string-bound books, and a slim electronic tablet that played movie content. He looked up and nodded. “Okay.”

Steinberg shrugged. “Well, you’re part of the team now, so no secrets.” He paused, hardening his gaze. “From anyone.” He turned and sauntered off.

Kurt saluted Matt with one finger, gave Megan a winning smile, then followed his boss. For a minute Matt expected Megan to follow, but instead she came and put her arm around his shoulders.

“No pressure, champ?”

He moved out from under her arm. “You know how it is — it’ll happen when it happens.” He glared at Kurt’s back for a moment. “So, you’ve joined the A-Team then?”

She ignored him and pointed to the satchel. “What else is in there?”

He watched her face for another moment, before deciding to shake off his petulant mood. “Let’s see.” There was no reason for him to carry on being surly — she was his girlfriend, but it wasn’t like they had even talked about getting serious. Still, he felt he was somehow competing for her, and it burned him.

He sighed, opened the satchel again and began sorting through it, drawing forth several small leather books bound together with an elastic band. He opened the first.

“Trip diary.” He began flicking through the pages, quickly passing over the early stages of the man’s travels. He finished the first book and shuffled it to the back, then opened the next … and then the next.

“Okay, here we go. Jorghanson making contact with the Ndege.” He went to the next book in the small stack. “Looks like language classes, day one.” The ink drawings were of the totems, with Jorghanson’s carefully handwritten notes beside them. It was obvious the man was struggling to understand the language, and their writing was totally beyond him.

“Hello … looks like he found his Rosetta Stone.” There were detailed drawings and a description of one of the members of the tribe, a female, pointing to the symbols and mouthing specific glyph’s meanings. There were long interpretations of the sounds and words — ank-arg-okah, eban-kken, doo-arnoh-da — the list went on. Matt spoke the words slowly.

“It’s like a blend of a written form of ancient Olmec, but spoken with a different tongue — as if the images are being interpreted with an accent.” He turned to Megan, who was frowning.

“Megs, imagine if we found an English manuscript from the 1500s, and struggled through reading it aloud — it’d sound damned different to how the original author meant it to sound half a millennium ago.”

He shook his head. “It’s not making sense.” He started to flip through the pages of the notebook again. “Come on man, give me something.”

Then he stopped, the frustration in his knitted brows easing, and a smile spread across his face. There it was, the key Matt was looking for. Jorghanson’s drawings now had directional arrows showing how the woman would point at a symbol, image of a face or animal, and make the sounds for the glyph, and then move her hand across to the next pole — not to the next symbol on the same pole. The key was which image was interpreted next — all the poles were to be read together. “Bingo — it’s not what you read, but the order you read it in. They key is knowing how it fits together.”

Matt couldn’t help the admiration creeping into his voice. “Simple, but complex — one image by itself is like a letter … but read all together, they become something more.”

He grabbed Megan’s hand. “Let’s go.” They headed back to the smaller clearing, where the totem poles were. He slowed in front of the poles and walked along them, then came back to the center pole. Matt put the notebooks down and took a few steps back.

He snorted. “You almost had it, Professor Jorghanson. I bet he thought she was just showing him the images for his own education, trying to teach him their language. In fact, she was probably breaking all the tribe’s taboos and actually reading it to him.” Matt walked along the line of poles again, then pointed to one. “Here … I think it starts here.”

Matt laid his hand on one of the symbols, then moved to the next pole to touch another, then on to another, his lips working silently as he pulled the meaning from the ancient patterns.

“‘The Old Place’, or ‘the First Place’ …uh, let’s go with the Old Place. Okay, ‘the Old Place where the giants live … should not be entered by …’ something here that could refer to anyone who is not blessed or clean … maybe cleansed. Anyway, it goes on to say: ‘Take not the unclean meat, lest the anger of the gods takes from you all that covers you.’” He turned to Megan. “All that covers you — could that mean your skin?”

Wow, Megan mouthed. “Just like Carla’s bug.”

Matt clapped his hands once. “I think this could be it, Megs.”

“I’m getting Carla, she’ll want to hear this.” Megan took off.

“Wait, I haven’t …” But he was too late. Sighing, he walked along the poles, reading as he went. “The Old Place … entering the Old Place, but from where? Where is this Old Place?”

Fronds and branches were beaten aside as Megan led a panting Carla into the clearing.

“You’ve got something?” Carla was sucking in breaths, even though she couldn’t have come more than a few hundred feet. Matt guessed her excitement and anticipation were taking her breath away more than her lack of fitness.

“Maybe. I think so … I can read the totem poles — they mention angry gods taking your skin. They also mention an Old Place, where giants live.”

“Promising. Are you sure?” Carla straightened as her breathing returned to normal.

Matt shrugged. “We’ll never know if I’m right, will we? The authors, or at least the caretakers, of this language are all dead. So I’m all there is right now.”

Carla tilted her head. “Okay, okay, professional pride aside, tell me what you’ve got. Where is this place?”

Matt looked back at the poles and shook his head. “Well, that’s the million dollar question, isn’t it? I don’t know yet. I need to read more of the totems — front and back.”

Carla nodded and looked around, as if searching for a place to sit.

Matt hunched his shoulders. “Might take a while.”

Carla shrugged and sat down on a patch of thick grass. Steinberg and Karl pushed into the clearing.

“We just heard, well done. So, what can you tell me about the bird?” Steinberg slapped him on the shoulder, then stood with his hands on his hips. Jian and Joop joined them.

Matt looked hard at Megan. “It’s a bit premature for high-fives just yet. All I’ve managed to decipher is something that might be about the infestation … or rather, its effects. It might not be related at all. It’s going to take me a while, so I …”

“We don’t have a while, son. The wet season is right around the corner. Believe me, you do not want to be trapped here, or trying to hack your way back through this jungle, with a million gallons of water dumping on you every minute of every hour.”

Kurt grunted and nodded, and then turned to Matt as though he was addressing a slow child. “Ever seen the giant Amazon leech?” He raised his eyebrows.

Jian grunted. “Haementeria ghilianii — I have; very big.”

Kurt snorted, keeping his eyes on Matt. “I’ll say it’s very big. Very fucking big at eighteen inches … and it just loves the wet season. And let’s not forget about footrot to the ankles — makes athlete’s foot look like a small blemish. You can actually lose toes.” He turned and winked at Megan, who smiled and shook her head in a shame on you, you big lug, type of way, then turned to Matt, imploring, as if urging him to get with the program.

Matt raised his eyebrows. “Yeah, you know what? I think I have encountered a jungle leech before.” He noticed Carla smirking.

Matt looked at the row of faces, all waiting on him. He exhaled slowly, feeling himself deflate. “Look, give me another few hours … and give me some peace and quiet, okay?” Matt went to turn back to the poles as Megan shooing the others from the clearing. He half turned.

“Everyone.”

Megan’s mouth fell open and she stared at him for a moment before turning on her heel and storming back through the green fronds.

Matt sat cross-legged and stared up at the poles. His own notes were open beside him on the soft, fleshy grasses. He believed he had drawn some of the translation from the strange symbols, leering faces, and interlocking lines and dots, but it still refused to make any logical sense.

“I wish Professor Brenner was here,” he said to one of the moss-covered faces. “Or Megan. Why did I kick her out?” He already knew the answer. Because I’m a jealous asshole, that’s why.

He picked up his notes and examined the sketches he’d made. He had summarized the glyph-strings into three logical — as far as he could tell — story lines. The first referred to an Old Place that was “hidden” or “behind” something, and called the “blood jungle”. Sounds inviting, he thought grimly. It was where the “teocuitl” was kept. Females or untested warriors were forbidden to enter. Only the special elders of the tribe were allowed there, to hunt.

The second story string told of water and people with what looked like two heads, swimming. Only one head was covered in hair. A depiction of their gods, maybe? There was also the sign for washing, or cleansing. Washing away the dirty water, or cleaning themselves before entering the water?

Matt pushed his damp hair back off his face, and exhaled through the side of his mouth. He looked at the final string of characters. It talked of the “land of giants” — represented by tiny human-like characters shown next to what were either tree trunks or the legs of huge beasts. Hmm, there were no elephants in South America … at least, not for about ten million years. He scratched his head and looked at the last few images. Flowers — that was all, just pictures of blooms.

He put down his notes and spread them out, like a pulled apart comic book, then leaned forward, resting his chin on his hands, and let his eyes move over them. As the sun rose high in the sky, Matt continued to simply sit and stare. Occasionally he would rearrange the sketches, or stand to pace around the poles. Then he’d make more notes, and then pace again.

Eventually he slowed, and then stopped, freezing mid-step. To anyone watching he would have looked like a machine that had wound down. His gaze was directed at the ground, but his focus was nowhere near the clearing he was in. Matt’s gaze had turned inward as he let his imagination take the images in intuitive leaps and bounds.

In a flash, his muscles unlocked and he darted back to the image of the men with two heads.

“Maybe.” He started to grin and nod. “Just maybe.”

He ran back to the huts.

Megan spun to face Matt as he rushed back into the small camp.

“Maybe.” He darted past her, his enthusiasm pulling her after him, and also drawing Carla, Jian, and then the other members of their group.

He went quickly to his small pile of gear and retrieved the drinking bladder he’d found in the Ndege hut. He peered at the stopper, and then turned it over to examine the seals before facing the group, now assembled in a half circle behind him. He held it up.

“You know, I thought these might have been used for food or water. But the nozzle and stopper looked strange. I couldn’t work out what it was actually for until I remembered a remote tribe up in the north-eastern tip of Papua New Guinea. Their village is on a natural lagoon that flushes out every tide, and deposits shellfish into a deep gutter at its edge. The young men dive down to the bottom to collect them … they stay down for ages, and not just by holding their breath — they take another lungful of air with them.” Matt held up the bag, and put the nozzle in his mouth.

Carla went to stop him. “Don’t do that, remember the …”

Matt shrugged. “I’ve had measles.” He put the nozzle back in his mouth and blew — the bag inflated. He took it out, and the bag remained inflated. He nodded. “Yep, that’s what I thought — it’s not for water, it’s for air … just like the New Guineans.” He held the bag up, now ball-shaped, and shook it. “This, ladies and gentlemen, is an aqualung.”

He waited. Some faces were blank, some were creased in confusion or disbelief, but a few were smiling. Of course. He let the silence stretch for a few more seconds before continuing.

‘I’ve translated what I can, and so far the totem scripts tell of the Ndege race that has lived here since the beginning time. According to the poles, they are the guardians of the teocuitl and something called the blood jungle.” Matt swung the bag in his hand. “Somewhere, there is a river, lake, pool, or some body of water, where the Ndege dive down and pass through into their hidden sacred land.” He looked at Steinberg. “Through to where your specimen came from.”

“Teocuitl?” Megan tilted her head. “That name is familiar. That’s early Incan, for …” She trailed off, looking excited.

Matt nodded. “I think so. The language is a mish-mash of ancient South American flavors, spiced with some of their own inflections. The word looks the same, but I might be pronouncing or translating it incorrectly. Hell, I could be translating it all incorrectly.”

“Teocuitl — gold?” Megan folded her arms.

Matt nodded. “More precisely, the Aztec word for excrement of the gods, but yeah, gold.”

“Gold?” Kurt’s eyebrows shot up.

Steinberg was grinning broadly and nodding his head. He looked like he was about to break into applause, and in fact he brought his hands together in a single clap. “Well done, my boy. So, all we need to do now is find it … ah, find the way in, I mean.”

Matt nodded. “The way in, the way under, the way through …” He shrugged.

Steinberg turned to Kurt, his face becoming serious. “We set off tomorrow morning. Find me that water source.”

CHAPTER 15

Dr. Francis Hewson watched the sealed dump trucks move single file toward the rear of the massive Atlanta CDC buildings. He swallowed, feeling his Adam’s apple bob on his neck. It hurt from the dryness — nerves, he guessed.

The board had recalled him twelve hours ago — events had proved him right, and now valuable time had been lost. He looked again at the line of trucks — it wasn’t just time that had been lost. He glanced at the rear of the building, where the professional façade gave way to more industrial architecture. Smoke stacks pushed out plumes of grayish smoke — there were no illusions about what this part of the complex did. The factory was designed for just this type of scenario.

Hundreds of bodies were being burned every day now. The public had been told it was due to lack of cemetery space, but this was only partly true.

The bodies were seized by teams in hazmat suits, zipped into airtight bags, and then quietly transported here, or to one of hundreds of new disposal facilities dotted across the country. The glossy black bags were unnamed, unloved, and simply tossed onto a conveyor belt to be fed into the heart of an industrial furnace, where they, and their millions of hungry passengers, were consumed in an instant.

Hew looked a little farther down the block, where another row of trucks was pulling out of a side exit, undoubtedly now empty.

“Off for the next pick-up, eh boys?” he muttered.

The double doors opened behind him, and the silent woman beckoned him in with a nod of her head. As he passed by, he leaned in close to her.

“I guess we’re all staying silent now, aren’t we?”

CHAPTER 16

Matt sat between Carla and Megan and watched as Kurt spread a green map out on the flattened dirt. Moema squatted beside the map and used a stick to point at different invisible landmarks. As far as Matt could tell, the map was almost useless. It showed endless lumpy green, and only the largest of rivers appeared as slim lines between towering tree canopies, woven together by millions of years of chasing the sunlight.

Megan nodded at them. “I suppose if anyone can find water, it’ll be Kurt.”

Matt groaned and rubbed his head. Carla looked at him momentarily, and then shrugged. “Doubt it; more like Moema.”

Megan tilted her head. “Well, it’s not home turf for either of them, so we’ll see.”

Carla nudged Matt, mischief in her eyes.

He grunted. His first instinct was to offer little more than a disinterested shrug. But then he decided he wasn’t going to play the surly boyfriend just because of some teenage game Megan was playing with Kurt.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I think the water, or the water entrance to this Blood Jungle or Old Place, or whatever it is, may be something like a sinkhole — a small pool of water only a dozen or so feet across.”

“Maybe it’s underground.” Megan lifted her chin to try and see where Kurt and Moema were pointing on the map.

“Maybe. Anything is possible. I just get the feeling it’s somewhere that is generally inaccessible. A tunnel behind a waterfall, a sunken cave, a river — it could be anything. Who knows, it might be something we can’t even imagine.” He got to his feet.

Megan and Carla followed him as he walked over to stand at the edge of the map.

“Anything interesting?” Matt asked.

“Nothing,” said Moema.

“Maybe,” said Kurt.

Matt glanced at Megan, who raised her eyebrows and smiled. He waited a few seconds for Kurt to continue — he didn’t.

“Ah, any clues for us city folk, Kurt?”

“Not yet, leave it with me.” Kurt didn’t look up, continuing to stare at the impenetrable green map. Matt felt like they were being dismissed — fine with him.

Megan squatted. “Can I help?”

“Megs, I don’t think …”

“I don’t know, can you?” Kurt gave her a boyish grin.

Matt stifled a groan and clamped his annoyance behind clenched teeth.

Carla leaned in close to him. “Easy, cowboy.”

Megan frowned at the map. “You need to cross-reference this against the satellite images — have you got them?”

Kurt snorted, but with good-natured humor. “Sure, but they’re worse than useless — nothing but green on green on green. Don’t expect to pick up something clever like sun reflection, it just won’t happen.”

She smiled winningly. “Humor me, I’ve done my geography homework.”

Kurt looked at her for a full ten seconds before he shrugged and turned to Matt.

“Can you get me my tech-pad, in the large pack?” Before Matt could snarl something back, he turned back to Megan. “It’s not real time. The satellite is way out of range, but …”

Matt stomped away and managed to pull almost everything from the pack as he dug through it. At the bottom he found an unopened pack of Trojans. “Be prepared, huh?” Disgusted, he went to fling them out into the jungle, then paused. That might be worse, he thought. “Asshole.” He pushed them back to the bottom, punched the packet once, and pulled the slim technology pad from its folder.

“Here you go.” He flung it Frisbee-style to the big bodyguard.

“Careful.” Kurt frowned as he caught the slim computer, and Megan scowled up at him.

Matt mouthed what?, then turned to watch as Kurt switched the device on and called up some data images. He tapped at some more keys and located a small red dot in a sea of endless green. “This is us, as of about twelve or so hours ago. We’re still around the same area now.”

“May I?” Megan took the small screen and then clicked one of the dropdown menus to see what options he had. “Okay, good.”

She flicked over to 3D view and tilted the image, so they were looking at the landscape from slightly to one side.

“I knew it.” She showed them the results.

Kurt’s head blocked Matt and Carla’s view, and they had to jostle to see what Megan had found. She pulled down the menu again, found the geographical contour lines, and added them to the image. Distorted blue lines appeared all over the green landscape. For the most part they were spread wide, indicating little change in the landform, but toward one section the lines started to bunch, just a few miles from the small red dot. She pulled the image back a few hundred miles.

Matt saw it. “Oh my God.”

“Yep.” She pulled back another few hundred miles, and there it was — the lines were forming gigantic contour rings.

“Impact crater.” The land looked to be consistently flat up close, but in fact, there was a significant depression, and not all that gradual. The crater’s wall formed a barrier, possibly only a hundred feet high and less than that across, before it fell away to the floor of the geological depression. The crater wall was steep, almost vertical on both sides — high, but potentially climbable.

Matt slapped his thigh. “Unbelievable. You are good.”

She turned and grinned. “Not just a pretty face, huh?”

“What is it?” Kurt grabbed the pad and turned it around. “What am I looking at, some sort of hidden valley or something?”

“Bigger. Valleys are small — this thing looks to be twenty miles across, easy. But you’re right about it being hidden.” Matt pointed at the screen right under his nose. “That, sir, is a crater; possibly hundreds of millions of years old, and exactly what we are looking for.”

Megan nudged Kurt in the ribs and took the small screen back, looking again at the display options. She found the thermal imaging, and started to check for variations. Sure enough, the temperature inside the crater was a few degrees cooler than outside. “Only a few degrees, but something in there is keeping it shielded. Could be a water source … a big water source, like a lake.”

“It’s like a different landmass; an island within a continent, where the flora and fauna could be sealed off from the land out here — like some perfectly preserved game park.” Matt zoomed in. “And I’d say that the nearest edge of the crater is about five miles …” he turned and pointed, “… thatta way.”

Matt had spent the last fifteen minutes updating Steinberg, and correlating their discovery to his recent translations. When he was finally able to break away from the producer, he wandered back to their small campsite. The group had been instructed to pack light, preparing to travel fast and minimally encumbered in search of the crater wall.

He didn’t know why Steinberg couldn’t have gotten the information from his trusted bodyguard, although Kurt had made himself scarce recently. Coming back, he saw Carla and Jian in conversation, close to where his and Megan’s gear was stacked but not stowed away. He saw that Megan hadn’t quite finished — distracted by some new wondrous thing, he guessed.

He looked around. “Hey Carla, where’s Megan?”

Carla looked up briefly and shook her head. Jian did the same. Matt circled the small area to where John and Joop were sharing a joke with Moema. “Hey guys, have you seen Megan?”

Joop nodded. “Maybe ten minutes ago; she and … she, went to look at something in the jungle.”

John wouldn’t look him in the eye. Matt felt a funny fluttering of trepidation in his stomach. “Okay. Ah, which way did they go?”

He was greeted by silence. Matt saw that Carla had ambled closer, her hands in her back pockets. He turned to her. “Well, I’m assuming Kurt was with her … which way?”

Joop shook his head. Carla spoke. “Forget about it Matt; she’ll be back in a minute or two. Get ready, we’re leaving soon.”

He swore softly, feeling his face go hot from embarrassment. He doubted they were just looking at something in the jungle, and he doubted anyone else thought that, either. He crossed to his pack, thinking through the dozen or so things he felt like doing to Kurt. Matt pulled the unnecessary items from his pack, lightening his load, and dropped them to the ground for later retrieval — this would be their secondary base camp.

It only took him a few minutes. He eyed Megan’s chaotic mess. “You can do your own.” He straightened and looked out at the jungle, suspicion growing with every passing second. He continued to mumble softly. “Nice one, taking my girl on a jungle date — think you’re pretty hot shit down here, don’t you?” He saw that Kurt’s pack was neat, but open for a change — his mind whirled.

Matt looked over his shoulder at his fellow travelers and, seeing that they were absorbed in their own tasks, moved quickly to the big guide’s pack. He dug down, deep, to where he had seen the pack of condoms.

He felt stupid, paranoid, and like a jealous teenager. His hand closed over the small box, and he immediately recoiled in shock. The new packet was now open.

He dropped the box as his heart sank, and he backed away, feeling an unfamiliar mix of humiliation and defeat.

Matt was by himself, back with the totems, when he heard Kurt and Megan come back into the Ndege compound. He looked back down at his notes, but couldn’t concentrate, didn’t see them. Instead, he saw his girlfriend in a hundred different acrobatic positions with Kurt. He felt ill.

He sighed. Forget about being chased by a Kraken beneath the Antarctic ice, or a giant missing link on the Black Mountain. This was different, this hurt in ways that went beyond the physical.

“Get, your pack. We’re moving out soon.”

Matt spun, and saw Kurt standing behind him with a toothy grin.

Matt just glared. Kurt waited a few seconds, and then jerked his thumb over his shoulder.

“Come on, Professor. Time to get physical. Come and help your future wife.” He grinned again.

The sarcasm and suggestive tone were too much for Matt. “Why don’t you just fuck right off, asshole?”

“What? Hey.” Kurt pulled back. “What’s up with you?”

Matt got to his feet, and before he knew it, found himself right up in Kurt’s face. “Are you deaf as well as dumb, huh? I said fuck off, before I …” Matt’s anger, frustration, and humiliation took over. He threw a roundhouse punch that only managed to complete half its arc before the big man jerked sideways, moving way too fast for someone his size. Kurt’s retaliatory punch hit Matt square on the jaw, and then the lights went out.

The party moved forward in a single file. The path they followed was heavily overgrown, although it was probably only a few days or week since the Ndege had stopped using it. The jungle’s insatiable hunger for open ground was matched only by its tenacity, clinging to every thread of material or patch of bare skin.

The humidity crushed down on them, adding weight and years to their frames. After an hour, the track broadened briefly, and Megan caught up to Matt.

“That looks like it hurt.”

Matt didn’t try to respond — doing so would send a deep ache from his teeth to his ear.

“Hmm, a lot of deep thinking going on — everything okay?” She nudged him.

He kept his eyes on the ground as he walked, mumbling in return. He could feel her watching him as he continued to ignore her, feeling her gaze intensify. He glanced up briefly and saw that her smile had dropped away.

“So what’s up?”

He spun around, the accusation on his lips, but he couldn’t bring himself to speak the words — not now, not here. He knew that the last thing the group needed was a couple of kidults fighting over bruised egos — well, one bruised ego, anyway. He turned away, flinging words over his shoulder.

“Nothing.” He sped up, leaving her behind, regretting it almost immediately.

He came up next to Moema, hoping to distract himself by practising his language skills, but the small man seemed agitated and on alert. His eyes were round and his shoulders hunched.

“Okay?”

“Okay?” Moema echoed, clearly not understanding his question.

“Sorry, I meant are you feeling okay? You look … concerned.”

Moema straightened. “I’m not scared.”

Matt nodded and waited. Moema put his head down and walked on for a few seconds, then looked up at Matt and at the treetops hundreds of feet overhead. His eyes came back to Matt, the worry still visible. “Can you not feel it? Smell it?”

Matt inhaled deeply through his nose. Amongst the ever-present odors of the jungle, he could smell the pervasive sweetness he had detected back at the camp. He nodded.

“I can smell something sort of sweet. Do you know what it is?”

Moema shook his head. “I don’t know, but it is getting stronger … and I feel like the ghosts of the Ndege are with us.” He gave Matt a crooked smile.

Matt just raised his eyebrows, knowing not to make light of the man’s suspicions — or his superstitions. He knew Moema was doing his best to put on a brave front, but he undoubtedly believed that the spirits of the dead tribe were walking with them. And in the Amazon’s dark center, not all spirits had a reputation for being friendly.

Moema looked up at Matt again. “I don’t think I am happy I came now.” He put his head down, walking quickly and leaving Matt behind, clearly signaling that the conversation was over.

“Making friends again?” Megan and Carla were walking just behind him and had obviously been watching.

Matt spoke softly. “He’s scared.”

“Oh great … of what?” Megan’s voice carried a hint of sarcasm.

He still couldn’t look at her. “Don’t know. Maybe just his superstition, but one thing he’s right about … that damned smell is getting stronger.”

“Thank God it’s not just me. Phew. That is one cloying odor.” Carla blew air out through her lips, as though to disperse the sickly-sweet smell.

“Well, I reckon we’ll find out what it is soon — we must be getting close to it.” Megan sniffed loudly.

“Sooner than you think …” Matt stopped suddenly, causing the women to collide behind him.

The group fanned out. Kurt was standing off to one side with Steinberg looking around.

“That is some barrier.” The path they had been following simply ended at a wall of thick, woody vines covered in crimson flowers. Every inch of the knotted canes was covered in thorns — some as large as a finger, some the size of hairs. They all looked sharp enough to pierce even the toughest clothing, let alone skin.

Matt leaned forward. “There’s your smell … the flowers. Any ideas?”

Carla leaned in closer, examining one of the formidable canes. “Never seen anything like it.”

“Moema, have you seen this before?” Matt noticed that the guide had dropped back a pace or two.

Moema turned around slowly, his face pale. “No, I have never seen or heard of this plant anywhere in the jungle.” He shrugged. “But I have never been this deep into the Gran Chaco before.” He turned back to the vine wall. “It is as my grandfather said: the wall of thorns and the tiny fists of blood.”

“It’s so quiet.” Megan looked around. “There aren’t even any bugs.”

“Strange.” Jian joined them. “I noticed the same thing. No insects. The Amazon should have hundreds per square foot, but there’s no sound and no movement.”

“These flowers are beautiful. I’m going to name them …” Megan reached out to grasp the neck of one of the open crimson blooms. “I christen thee …”

Matt reached out. “Don’t.” In his haste, he bumped her.

“Ouch!” She jerked her hand back. “Thanks.”

Megan turned her hand over and looked at her fingertips, where a dot of red welled up. “Those suckers are sharp.”

“Sorry, I was trying to warn you. These plants look like they’ve developed some pretty powerful defenses.”

“Well, no need to be so clumsy.” She winced. “Yowch, still stings.” She gripped the base of her fingers and squeezed.

Matt stepped back. “Maybe Kurt can suck the poison out for you.”

“What? Oh, fuck you too.” Megan shook her hand as if it was hot.

“No, looks like he’s fucking you too.”

Megan slapped his face, and then grimaced, holding her wrist as if her hand was broken — but not the one she had struck him with.

Jian whipped a magnifying glass from a pouch pocket and held it up to one of the canes. “Interesting, the thorns have become more erect, and directional — toward us — perhaps in response to our presence.” He leaned in a little closer. “Not good — there is fluid being exuded at their tips. Professor Kearns, I think your comment about defenses is very accurate.”

Megan started to shift from foot to foot. “Jeezus, I’ll say it’s not good.” Megan held out her hand to take another look; her brow creased with concern. The fingertip was purple, and beneath the skin tendrils of red were working their way down to the second joint.

“What the hell is happening?”

Jian’s hand hovered over hers, not touching the skin, just trying to keep her still. He looked through the lens, speaking calmly. “It’s in the circulatory system and working its way along the veins. Any numbness?”

Megan grimaced. “I wish. It’s fucking excruciating.”

The group crowded around, and John pushed his way toward her and grabbed her wrist. He turned to them. “Give us space … now.”

Everyone took a step back. Jian kept his eyes on Megan, but spoke loudly. “Everyone stay back from the thorns, they’re carrying some sort of defensive toxin.”

John lifted her arm, which now looked like it was encased in a purple glove. “Keep this elevated.” He crouched, opened his bag and pulled free a small pellet-like vial of clear fluid with a yellow plastic cap at one end. In his other hand was a pencil-like device, which he loaded the pellet into. He stood, grabbed Megan’s arm again, and in one swift movement jabbed the device into her bicep, above the spreading redness.

“Antihistamine.” When he pulled the pencil back, the tip of a needle could be seen at one end. He tossed it into his bag, and reached up to her face. She flinched.

“Keep still.” John grabbed her head and, using one thumb, pushed one eyelid back, and then the other. “Any tightness across the chest?”

Megan’s lips moved, but nothing came. She staggered. John held her as her eyes rolled back into her head and she fell onto his chest.

“Megs!” Matt rushed in to support her.

“Lie her down.” Matt eased her down, pushing Kurt back as he rushed in to help. “I got this.”

John got down on one knee beside her. “Just give us some air here, Kurt.” He looked at Matt. “She’s in shock. That’s one powerful and fast-acting toxin.”

He felt her pulse. “Going like a train.” Her arm was now red to the shoulder. “It’s moving too fast. Can’t let this get to her heart, or it …” He frowned as he counted her pulse.

Megan started to buck, and froth appeared at the corners of her mouth. “Hold her down!” Matt and John leaned on her as she jumped and bucked for several seconds, then stiffened like a plank of wood, then fell quiet. John quickly leaned forward and listened to her chest.

“Goddammit, her heart’s stopped!”

“It what … it what?” Matt felt himself begin to panic.

The doctor ignored him and spun to his bag. He rummaged furiously for a few seconds and emerged with a long hypodermic needle. He held it between his teeth as he ripped open her shirt, then grabbed the syringe and banged it into her sternum with a thump.

He dropped it immediately, placed both hands on her chest, and started to pump.

Matt held Megan’s hand, talking softly but urgently to her, coaxing her, pleading with her. He felt how dry the small hand had become.

John counted to three, pumping as he went. He counted again.

Matt squeezed her hand. “Come on Megs, don’t do this. Come on.”

Steinberg leaned in over them. “Is she dead?”

“Oh, fuck off.” Carla shoved him away.

John cupped her mouth, leaned forward, and blew air into her lungs. Megan coughed. He pulled her up.

“Water.” He held out his hand and someone put a bottle into it.

Megan gasped, then sipped at the bottle being held to her lips. She lifted one hand to her chest.

“I hurt … all over.”

“Sorry, my dear, CPR bruises … but it saves lives.” John lifted her hand — the angry purple was still under her skin, but the red tendrils had stopped growing up her arm.

“Hmm, interesting toxins. Could be like the Spanish Mala Mujar, or even the cholla cactus. That monster literally throws its spines at you.”

Carla kneeled down and examined the fading stain on Megan’s arm. “What do you think — some sort of cytotoxin?”

John shrugged. “Volatile oils, resins, alkaloids, glycosides — take your pick, any or all — can’t tell out here.”

Matt cradled Megan’s head and helped her sip some more water. She turned slowly toward the doctor, still groggy. “Thank you.”

John nodded, almost bowing. “My pleasure.”

Megan started to get to her feet, Matt under one arm, Kurt suddenly under the other.

Jian tilted his head toward the wall of thorns. “I think climbing the wall is not such a good idea.”

Steinberg and Kurt wandered farther along the base of the thorn wall. Steinberg clasped his hands behind his back and looked up at the colossal barrier.

“Thought it was too easy.” He turned to his bodyguard. “Could we burn it?”

Kurt’s mouth turned down and he shook his head. “Too wet. Also, fire might not destroy the spikes, but just harden them.”

Steinberg grunted and looked skyward to the tree canopy hundreds of feet overhead. “Couldn’t get a chopper in here even if we wanted to.”

“They wouldn’t even see us,” Kurt said.

“Kurt, bring me all the spare batteries. I’m going to try something.” Steinberg spun on his heel.

The heat was oppressive, and it was only late morning. By the afternoon, it would be like a steam bath, and there were no showers to wash away the grime and grit. Already Matt could feel pimples coming up along his jawline. He pushed his long hair back off his forehead — for the first time in years, he wished he had a crew cut.

He sat with the group around the edges of a small clearing they had made by flattening out the soft grasses and fronds. Their clothing was dripping wet, but they had mostly stripped down to the minimum; the lack of insects meant they could safely remove clothing without applying an odious coat of tropical-strength insect repellent. Even Megan sat in just her bra and shorts, her arm still discolored from her encounter with the stinging vine.

The odor of the blooms was ever-present, filling their nostrils and invading their consciousness. They simply sat and absorbed it, rested, and waited.

Steinberg entered the clearing and waited at its edge until Kurt joined him. They spoke briefly, then the big bodyguard came to the edge of the group and planted his legs.

“Well, it’s pretty obvious that we can’t climb the wall.” He paused, looking at each of them. “We can’t cut it away, burn it, or pull it free. We can’t get a chopper to drop us over the edge — we think the thorn wall might extend up into the canopy over the crater, meaning we’d be dropped right friggin’ into it.”

Matt stood, interrupting the theatrical delivery. “So, the bleeding obvious — we’re back to where we started. We need to find the water.”

Almost disagreeably, Kurt nodded. “Yeah. If that’s how the Ndege went in, then that’s how we have to follow.”

Just behind him, Steinberg fiddled with a small silver box with extra power cells bound to it. He looked up. “About two hours.”

Kurt turned and nodded his acknowledgment. “If the natives used the water to pass through the vines, and maybe under or through the barrier wall, then it has to be close — this is where the trail led us. So we have two options — left or right. We break into two scouting teams — myself, Joop, and Jian on one, Matt, Carla, and Moema on the other.’

Megan got to her feet, but Kurt shook his head. “Sorry Megan, you rest. Dr. Mordell’s orders.”

John nodded gravely. “And I get to keep you company.”

Kurt looked at his watch. “We’ll travel an hour out, and then turn back. If we don’t find anything the first time, we’ll take a late lunch, then set out in the afternoon for a longer search.”

John cleared his throat. “Obviously, you need to stay well back from the thorn barrier. It might also be a good idea to keep a keen eye as you travel, in the event that it extends into the jungle. It nearly killed Ms. Hannaford with a single spike. Multiple punctures with more of the toxin introduced into the system would undoubtedly be fatal.”

No one spoke; no response was needed.

They packed in silence — just some water, and a single-dose shot of both adrenalin and antihistamine in the event of a spiking. Not much of an armory, thought Matt.

Kurt took the left path; Matt and his team went right. They hacked a new trail at least ten feet farther back from the wall. Matt started out with the blade, but knew that in a few minutes he’d have to hand it over to Carla, who quickly surrendered the blade to the wiry little native. Though Moema was of smaller stature than even Carla, his strength and stamina surpassed the combined efforts of the other two.

They worked together like a machine. Matt would hack a central hole through the growth of about six feet. Carla would step through it, chopping away the vines and fronds at ground level, and then Moema would take over to blister through about twenty more feet.

Progress was slow — about a foot every one to two minutes — and it wasn’t long before Matt held up his hand, breathing like bellows, face burning from exertion, and shook his head. “I’m beat. I need a break.”

They sat together on the trail they’d made, leaning back against the thick greenery. It was like being in a green cave; silent, except for their breathing or the occasional drip of sap from some severed plant stalk. Matt sipped water, and spoke with his eyes closed.

“How long have we been going?”

Carla looked at her watch. “Forty-five minutes, give or take. We’ve got to head back in fifteen.”

Matt sat forward, his head down, just in time to watch a huge drop of perspiration fall from the tip of his nose.

“How far did we get — a mile?”

Carla snorted. “Maybe a hundred feet. I’m thinking unless Kurt found something, we’ll be back out again this afternoon.”

Matt groaned, feeling the ache across his chopping arm and shoulder.

Moema got to his feet. “It’s not a problem for me; I will take over.”

Matt shook his head. “No, no, I’ll be okay. Just give me another minute.” He looked up and grinned. “And Carla is just getting her second wind.”

Carla held up her arm, flexing her muscles, then lay down on the slashed grasses and fronds.

Matt laughed softly. “Maybe another couple of minutes.” Carla gave him the thumbs up. He sat watching her for a second or two, thinking it had been a while since he saw her try to make contact back home.

“Any luck getting through to the office?”

It was Carla’s turn to groan as she pulled herself up into a sitting position. She lifted her canteen and sipped.

“No, still getting a lot of static. I’ve been thinking about that. When I started out doing fieldwork with the CDC we did a job assisting with a cholera outbreak in a small place called Vredefort, in South Africa. The whole town was inside a massive two-billion-year-old impact crater. Even after that amount of time, the rocks were still magnetic — the asteroid had a huge iron content. It even caused our watches to run slow.” She turned to him. “So, if this is a crater, then maybe it’s the same deal.”

Matt nodded. “Makes sense. We need a stronger signal then. I saw Steinberg has a Zubion940 — a bit more grunt there.”

“Yeah, right. I reckon he’d rather see me inside another giant snake than help. Things will be fine back home. My colleague, Francis Hewson, is one of my best — he’ll keep things under control.” She looked down at the ground for a moment. “But I reckon he’ll be hoping we come back with some answers.” Her face became serious. “Or we may not come back to the same place we left.”

She looked up at him, and seemed to think about what she had just said. “Yep, he’ll keep it under control.”

She brightened. “So, speaking of being under control … are you?”

“Huh, under control, me?” He turned to her, confused.

“I mean, everything okay … with you, and, you know?”

“Megan? Oh, sure.” After a minute, he shrugged. “We’re not married, you know.”

“Of course not — modern woman, huh?”

“Maybe. Look, Carla, she’s free to do what she wants. We’re good friends, and …”

“Well, when she was hurt, you looked like you were about to have a breakdown. You might be doing your best to fool yourself, but it won’t work on me. Just good friends? Pah.” She smiled knowingly. “Give her time, and just relax a bit, okay?”

“She’s not really my girl, she’s …” He let his words trail off, then simply nodded.

Moema, who had been sitting to one side, patiently waiting for them to recover their energy, got to his feet and rolled his shoulders. “Bit more cutting now?”

“Yep, good to go.” Matt got slowly to his feet and held out a hand to Carla. She got up just as slowly, and he stretched, feeling the tightness across his back and neck. If they came out again this afternoon, he reckoned he’d be bedridden tomorrow. Bedridden, he thought, and almost laughed. What bed?

Moema started to slash away at the green wall at the end of the tunnel they had carved out of the green tangle. Sap flew into the air, causing Carla and Matt to stand well back. Matt sucked in a deep breath; he’d take over again in another minute. He turned briefly to look back along the way they’d come, and sighed with relief; at least it’d be a quick trip back.

The return trip was as easy as they expected, and in just a few minutes they were back at their entry point. Megan sat cross-legged with John, but got to her feet when she saw Matt. She smiled, and seemed about to go to him, when the look on his face stopped her. She turned to Carla instead.

“Anything interesting?”

“Nothing but sore muscles.” Carla rubbed her arm.

John stood and took her hand, guiding her to a mound of vegetation he had fashioned into a soft seat. She smiled her thanks and sat down, exhaling long and slow. He bowed in return.

Moema and Matt stood, dripping perspiration, in silence. Matt could feel Megan’s eyes on him. He nodded at her.

“How’s the arm?”

“Arm? My arm’s okay.” She waited, still watching him.

“Good … good.” He could feel Carla watching him, and felt like a jerk, but he wasn’t ready to give up just yet. Ego is a dirty word, as the Skyhooks once sang. The awkward silence stretched on.

Suddenly they heard something crashing through the jungle toward them. Matt spun around.

“Someone is coming — fast.” Moema pointed to the other green tunnel, which Kurt and his team had opened.

The big bodyguard slowed as he came down the path he had created. When he got to the clearing he stopped and bent over, hands on knees and blowing hard. He looked up, grinning.

“We found it.”

Following Kurt’s broad back, they stepped out into a clearing roughly fifty feet across. At its center was a black pool of water, still as glass. It was an almost perfect circle, tree roots snaking into its depths, shaded above by the impenetrable green canopy.

“Looks deep.” Megan flipped a small white stone into its center. The stone shimmered for a few seconds as it dropped, becoming indistinct and then disappearing from view.

Kurt knelt and flipped open his backpack. He fished around for a second or two and retrieved a glow stick. He bent it in the middle until it made a cracking sound and began to glow a brilliant yellow-green. He threw it in after Megan’s stone. It sank — five, ten, twenty feet, then became a glowing dot, which also faded away.

Kurt grunted. “Looks deep because it is deep. I think it’s a sinkhole — got to be a cave somewhere down there.”

“Great, a cave, and full of water, too.” Matt felt his stomach lurch. He’d had experiences with caves he’d rather forget. Things lived in caves — big things. He was several feet back from the edge, but he leaned forward carefully, as if his toes were on the rim, and stared down into the blackness. In the heat and humidity of the jungle, the cool water should have been tempting, but black water, silent and deathly still, conjured up images of something lurking below. Unseen, but watching — waiting for them to step in.

“Smells funny.” Megan bent down, her nose almost to the water. “Hard to detect, being so close to the thorn wall, but it smells like a cross between rosewater and iodine.” She reached forward.

“Stop.” Megan froze, cringing at the sudden command. In the quiet space, devoid of the normal jungle noises and enclosed by towering trees and fern fronds, the sudden sound made everyone stare at Carla.

“Just wait. The water does look tainted; it could be the flowers, or the thorns and their poison that’s permeating it. Could be as toxic as battery acid. We need to do tests.”

Steinberg’s face screwed up tight. “Oh bullshit, Ms. Nero. We already know the Ndege used to dive into it.” He turned to his bodyguard. “Kurt, drink some.”

Kurt’s eyes went wide and his mouth fell open as he turned to the movie producer in horror. Steinberg nodded firmly, and then motioned to the water.

Carla shook her head. “We know the Ndege dove into water, but not if they dove into this water.”

“Oh for God’s sake, there’s freakin’ tree roots in it. Kurt …” He jerked a thumb at the water.

Grumbling, the big man stepped forward and got down on one knee, staring into the depths.

“Don’t, Kurt … please.” Megan shook her head, and mouthed don’t again when he looked up at her.

Matt snorted. “Freedom of choice — let him.” He felt Carla’s glare burning the side of his face.

Kurt grinned and winked at Megan, then stabbed a hand into the watery depths. He frowned, and fished around just below the surface for a few seconds, before slowly pulling his hand out.

“This gets better and better.” He held up a small object — gold. Megan rushed over, followed by Jian and Joop, while Matt and Carla waited on the other side of the pond.

Steinberg, the shortest, was crowded out at the rear. He raised his voice. “Let me see that.” Kurt hesitated for a second or two before tossing the object to his boss.

Steinberg snorted in appreciation. “Looks old — an alligator maybe.”

Curiosity got the better of Matt and he wandered over, staring hard at the item. It was certainly a piece of gold, thumb-sized, and only slightly crusted with minerals. It had a long, dragon-like face, round eyes and a tongue lolling in the typical ancient Indian style.

“Alligator? No … something much more fearsome than that. I think it’s Quetzalcoatl, the feathered serpent god.” Matt held out his hand to the movie producer. “May I?”

Steinberg tossed it to him, and Matt grabbed it and held it close to his face, examining the fine detail.

“Beautiful. This little guy has been around for about two and a half thousand years. Both the Incas and Aztecs had a similar deity. Quetzalcoatl was a feathered serpent, a flying reptile, even a dragon, and was the symbol of death and resurrection.” He looked across to Carla.

“He traveled to Mictlan, the underworld, and created a world, our world, from the bones of the previous races, using his own blood … and skin.”

Carla nodded her understanding, and Matt tossed the small idol back to Steinberg.

“Feathered serpent, you say? Funny, that’s sort of what we’re looking for.” Steinberg threw it back to Kurt. “Keep it.”

Matt saw that Moema was frowning so deeply that his brow was nearly touching the bridge of his nose. He looked like he was about to challenge Steinberg’s gift-giving, and Matt thought he’d better try to intervene first.

“Um, Mr. Steinberg, that object could be part of the missing treasure of the Incas. You can’t give it away. It belongs to the people here.”

Steinberg’s eyebrows lifted. “Missing treasure?”

“Well, yeah. Legend has it that after the fall of Vilcabamba — the last hidden city of the Incan empire — the ruler at that time, Atahualpa, ordered his people to carry the last treasures of his empire off into the jungle so that the Gold-Eaters — the Incan name for the Spanish invaders — could never feast on their wealth. They’ve never been found.”

Steinberg looked engrossed as he listened, and soon smiled. He turned to Kurt and nodded.

Matt suddenly realized that mentioning treasure in his attempt to appeal to the man’s altruism was probably the wrong tack to take. Wonder if it’s too late to mention a curse, he thought, glancing briefly at Moema, whose teeth ground behind his cheeks. His frown deepened when Kurt polished the small idol on his chest, grinned, and stuck it in his pocket.

“By the way, the water’s fine.” He sniffed his fingers and shrugged.

Carla was scooping some into a couple of small vials. She shook one and lifted it to stare intently at the swirling residue, then tucked them both into her kit.

“So, what now? The breathing bags?” Matt pulled one of the Ndege’s skin bags from his backpack and let it unfurl.

Steinberg looked up from the small silver device he was tapping away on, shaking it. “Piece of shit.” He pressed a few more buttons, then smiled at Matt.

“Be my guest, Professor Kearns. But I’m not keen to place my lips over something that’s probably crawling with some type of disgusting disease.”

“It was measles, and we’re all safe. I only brought one.” He tossed it to Kurt. “Probably your man’s job to be first.”

Kurt looked at it with disdain, then his eyes lifted to Matt. “Me? Dive in there, with a bloody giant animal’s testicle sticking out of my mouth? Don’t make me laugh.” He turned to Steinberg. “Boss?”

Steinberg looked quickly at the small silver box he held. “A lot of distortion now, but in five minutes, put a flare up.” He looked up at the dense canopy. “Maybe a few, just to be sure.”

Carla shook her head. “It’ll never make it.”

Kurt lifted a flat metal case from his pack just as the electronic device pinged in Steinberg’s hand. He nodded to Kurt.

Kurt opened the case, which contained a stubby revolver and half a dozen fat, copper-jacketed shells. He loaded a plug into the flare gun, and stuffed the rest in his pocket, then looked up, firing at the spot where the branches appeared to be thinnest.

The flare sped away, rising over a hundred feet, before striking the thick branches overhead. It pinballed around for a few seconds before exploding in a burst of orange light underneath the canopy. Matt and the group were brilliantly lit up in the semi-gloom as it fell back to earth.

Kurt wasn’t put off. His expression grim, he mechanically reloaded and fired, reloaded and fired, and then again twice more. Two of the four shots managed to punch through the dense canopy and disappeared from sight. Almost immediately, there was an answering series of pings on Steinberg’s communicator.

“Take cover folks, we got incoming.”

They hugged trees, just as a tea chest-sized box crashed through the leaves hundreds of feet overhead, and thundered off huge branches on its way to the ground. Matt marveled at their aim — a few dozen feet to the west and it’d be on the thorn wall.

A second or two later, the box pounded into the thick underbrush. It didn’t explode, but Matt could feel the dull thump beneath his feet as it hit the soft, loamy soil. Kurt charged off, and everyone else followed.

Matt nodded with admiration. “Good aim — the pilot, I mean.”

Steinberg shrugged. “The chopper was having trouble getting a fix — magnetic distortion everywhere — so I had them drop half a dozen. Fucked if I know where the rest ended up.”

Kurt and Joop dragged the box back to the edge of the pond, and the bodyguard took his longest knife from its scabbard and hacked at the rope. Matt recognized it from his time in Antarctica; it was caving rope, strong and elasticized — perfect for binding a box that would be dropped from several hundred feet.

Kurt threw the ropes to one side, flipped the catches up and lifted the box open. Matt, like the rest, crowded in, curiosity overcoming his antipathy toward Kurt.

Inside, there was a top layer with foam packing material cut into perfect shapes for the cargo. Eight strange-looking helmets nestled in custom-made compartments. Matt leaned forward — full face masks, with a small canister set on the side of the Perspex faceplate — individual breathers. Kurt lifted one free, and touched a small stud on the side. Immediately, a bright light came from a coin-sized LED bulb embedded on the brow ridge. He threw one to Matt.

“This one can be yours … if you can pull yourself away from the thought of wrapping your lips around that big ball bag.” He winked.

Matt felt his face go hot, but he ignored the barb, and instead studied the helmet. Steinberg clapped his hands.

“Good. Light lunch first, and a rest — and then we explore.”

Matt sat with Megan and ate some of the dried mystery meat, along with some local vegetables that Moema had found. There was awkwardness between them now.

“How’s the hand … and finger?”

She lifted her wrapped hand and looked at for a second before carefully unwinding the bandage. Matt could see that most of the redness was gone, but there was a small, crusted black hole at the tip of her finger, where the thorn had pricked her. The skin looked dead.

“Yecch.” She flexed her fingers, examining the wound. “Not nice. Imagine falling into those thorns — even if you survived, which is unlikely, you’d look like a walking pincushion.”

He nodded. “I bet the Ndege knew about those thorns, and I bet they also had some sort of remedy for the poison. We lost a lot when they were wiped out.”

She looked toward the massive wall covered in thorns. “And I bet they knew exactly what’s behind that crater wall.”

He picked up a small round pebble and tossed it into the dark pool. “What else could they have told us, and shown us?” He sighed. “Passed into history, extinct — and probably only weeks before we got here. It’s a damned shame.”

“Yeah, that’s what usually happens when one advanced culture meets another that’s less advanced — one ends up losing everything. It was obviously why Atahualpa hid his gold from the Spanish.” She gave him a crooked smile, then reached out to take his hand and squeeze it. “Nothing you could have done.”

He smiled back, and took his hand back. Her smile dropped. She looked down at her hand and squeezed her finger. A small drop of clear fluid appeared in the crusted hole.

“Hmm.” Megan rewrapped her hand. “Hope it’s okay to get this thing wet.”

“What? No way — forget the finger, you just suffered a heart attack and had a needle jammed into your chest. You are not going deep-sea diving. Forget it.”

“Diving in a pond, you mean.” Megan’s eyes narrowed. “So now you care?”

Carla, who had been resting nearby, groaned and wandered over to where the doctor was chatting with Joop.

Matt watched her go, then turned to shake his head. “Megan, even forgetting about the possible dangers we might encounter, if it’s a deep dive, the pressure alone will stress your circulatory system.”

Matt looked over at the doctor, trying to get John’s attention.

“Hey!” Megan grabbed his arm and wrenched him around to look at her. “I don’t know what the hell’s the matter with you lately, but don’t you fucking dare try and stop me. I’m going.”

Matt spluttered, seeing the volcanic glare and the determination on her face. “I’m only—”

“You’re only acting like a prick. Who are you?” She got to her feet.

“Wait.” He brought his hands together in a praying motion, almost begging her. “At least not on the reconnaissance dive this afternoon. That way, we can judge the depth. Let’s at least find out what we’re in for.”

She ground her teeth, and he reached out to touch her leg. She stepped back.

“We’ll see.”

Matt was fairly fit, and a good swimmer, and since he had discovered the relationship between the bird and the water, Steinberg had designated him Kurt’s dive buddy for the first swim. By then it was about three in the afternoon, and already the sun was dipping a little in the west.

Steinberg had only just returned to the group after swearing loudly at his phone for a while. It seemed that something, either electronic or human, wasn’t obeying his instructions.

The semi-gloom around the pool was stickily oppressive, but Matt still couldn’t find the enthusiasm to step into the cool water. By now he and Kurt had stripped to their shorts. Matt was fit and in decent shape, but Kurt’s shoulders bulged with power and were crisscrossed with old scars, testimony to numerous adventures — or maybe a taste for S&M. He glanced at Megan and winced, shaking the thought from his head.

Kurt looped his belt around his waist, and paused to lift his huge hunting knife from its scabbard. He pulled a condom from his pocket, opened the seal, and rolled it down over the handle. He noticed Matt looking at him.

“Old jungle trick — keeps the pommel and its contents dry.”

Matt felt his face go hot. He looked at Megan and caught her watching him, but she turned away before he could smile. I’m an asshole, he thought.

“Just a quick reconnoiter. If there’s a way through, check if it’s negotiable, and then return. Capiche?” instructed Steinberg.

“Ottenuto,” Matt played along with Steinberg’s kitchen Italian. Steinberg just looked blank.

Ropes were wound around their waists and Kurt put the facemask on his head, pushed up on his forehead. He looked across to Matt, all business now.

“Ready?”

Matt nodded and the big bodyguard held out his fist for he and Matt to knock knuckles. Matt recriprocated, the shared danger overriding any residual coolness between them. They stepped into the pool at the same time.

It was cool. Matt knew it was probably about seventy-five degrees — it was just that it felt cooler, given the sultry ambient atmosphere out of the water. He waded in farther, to his knees, then his waist, then stopped and looked down. The rock platform at the edge suddenly fell away into nothing. He felt his stomach lurch at the thought of something down there, staring up at him. His mind played tricks, creating shadows within shadows; monstrous tentacles moving in the depths, eager to clutch at him, to squeeze the breath from his body, and rip the flesh from his bones. This was made worse by the knowledge that beasts like that really existed.

They’re not here, they’re not here, he repeated silently. Matt shuddered, then shook his head quickly to throw off the disturbing thoughts. He looked across to Kurt and nodded, then took a deep breath before pulling his mask down, fiddling with the breathing canister, and switching on the small light. He could feel his heart racing as he sucked in fast breaths, wasting his oxygen.

“Professor Kearns.”

Matt stepped back, momentarily alarmed.

Joop waved. “Don’t forget to repressurize your ears if you go deep.” He made a show of pinching his nose and blowing his cheeks. Matt nodded and mouthed, thank you. He stared into the dark water, feeling his nerves tighten.

“Good luck.” It was Megan. He looked around and she smiled at him … just him. She threw him a kiss with her bandaged hand.

Thank God that was meant for me, he thought. She calmed him. Kurt leaned forward into the water and glided out to the center, seemingly oblivious to any danger. He floated on his back, waiting for Matt.

Matt allowed himself to fall forward into the water. He kept his face down, allowing his light to penetrate the depths. His breathing was loud in his ears as he hovered over the bottomless void. He could see he was at the center of a huge stone column that fell away into a nothingness that his ineffective light did nothing to penetrate.

Minute particles drifted across the beam of light, but except for a slight reddish tint to the water, it was extremely clear. The small motes floated past and then down. As he concentrated, Matt saw that they were being tugged toward one side of the column. He lifted his head and paddled to Kurt.

“There’s a current … deeper down.”

Kurt gave him a thumbs up, and then dove.

Neither of them had swim fins. Matt had to swim hard to keep up with the bigger man, and to fight against the buoyancy that continually threatened to drag him back to the surface.

As they got deeper, the dim light from above quickly disappeared. When they were only a dozen feet below the surface, Matt looked back up to see a mirrory mirage view of his companions at the edge of the water. The bottom was still well out of sight, and he kicked on to catch up with Kurt.

Matt swam toward the rock wall, preferring its partial protection to hovering over the bottomless black pit. He floated for a moment, trying to slow his breathing, and realized he had been unconsciously holding his breath.

He was torn. Part of him, the cognitive thinking part, wanted to know what was down there. Sinkholes were like time capsules. Anything that fell or was thrown in lay undisturbed on the bottom for thousands, maybe even hundreds of thousands of years. There could be all sorts of interesting archeological relics just out of sight. But the more primitive part of his brain rang loud with warnings about what else could be down there. A crawling sensation traveled up his spine.

He followed the rock wall down, running his hand along its sides. It was strange. Some parts of the wall looked hewn, with extraordinary flat surfaces — far too perfect to be naturally occurring geology.

He slowed his descent. The flat surface started to show definite chisel marks, which became recognizable shapes — writing.

With the Ndege gone, Matt could only guess at how the writing had been formed — either underwater or when the level was somewhat lower. He drifted back a few feet to take in more of the message — absorbing the glyphs, images, and impressions. The ancient language was complex, and took skill and patience to unravel.

“Let not … the unclean … pass back to the land of man.” As Matt tested those words against a few other possible translations, he saw that Kurt’s light had disappeared. In a panic he kicked himself downward, following Kurt’s rope into the gloom.

The blackness made Matt feel claustrophobic. He could have been at the bottom of the deepest ocean trench, so complete was the darkness. The small pipe of light from his mask did little to dispel the eerie nothingness surrounding him. His rational mind knew he was no more than twenty-five feet below the surface … the problem was, his imagination was trying to stop him from believing it.

He continued along Kurt’s rope, pausing to repressurize his ears before swimming on. At about thirty feet he was feeling the pressure of the dive, and his muscles were becoming fatigued from the strain of swimming and keeping his body below the water. Kurt’s rope veered toward the wall and snaked its way into a huge horizontal hole in the column, heading under the massive crater wall. Matt paused for a second or two, sucked in a huge lungful of compressed air, and then followed.

He pulled himself along Kurt’s rope, not caring now if he was causing additional drag on the tether. He was over it. The oppressive darkness was making him feel tiny, alone, and extremely vulnerable. Kurt and his rope were the only links to his own world.

Suddenly the rope went taut, and then slack in his hands. Matt’s eyes widened as he realized that Steinberg’s bodyguard had somehow become untethered. Matt had a moment of indecision, wondering whether he should continue, when he realized that he could see something farther along the tunnel… without using his light. There was a tongue of green up ahead. He swam on.

In a few seconds, he saw a shimmering disk above him as he rose to the surface. His head broke through into another humid landscape, Kurt’s rope dangling uselessly in his hands.

Large hands grabbed him under the shoulders and lifted him free. Kurt plonked him on the ground and then stood back and waved his arms in a theatrical arc.

“Welcome to paradise.”