This Green Hell

SEVENTEEN

‘Señora Weir! It is the padre, he is back!’ Tomás shifted his weight from foot to foot, looking as though he wanted to scamper over to the tall priest like many of the other men were doing.

Aimee couldn’t blame him. The Paraguayans were devout, and after what Tomás had seen in the isolation cabin, she wasn’t surprised he felt he needed a spiritual top-up. By now, all the men would probably be delighted to attend a mass and have an opportunity to pray for anything that would get them home. Or, at least, get them anywhere but here.

She watched the priest enter the camp — there was something about the way his body moved, unnaturally fluidly, that made her feel uneasy. Or maybe it was the way he spoke that gave her the creeps, lowering his jaw just enough to allow the words to dribble out from behind his beard. The priest sighted her and stared for a few seconds before turning back to talk to the men. Aimee could have sworn that one of his eyes remained on her as his head turned, acting independently of the rest of his body. She recalled the same effect the last time he had visited the camp.

The light was fading now, and some of the men moved around the edges of the camp lighting small fires to give comfort from the coming dark. They, too, stopped what they were doing and wandered over to Father González. He moved from group to group, nodding and listening as he went, sometimes reaching out to take a hand or touch a man on the head as though giving a blessing. Aimee could tell by the way the men reacted that he was winning them over. If he said to them, we are all leaving, they would all follow and she would be powerless to stop them.

At last, González made his way around the camp to appear in front of her, his hands tucked up into his sleeves. ‘I wish to take the men back to my church so I can conduct a mass for them,’ he said. ‘You are welcome to join us, señora Weir.’

I knew this was coming, she thought. And then: That’s odd, he didn’t ask where Francisco or Alfraedo are, or whether he should consult with them.

‘I’m sorry, I can’t let the men leave the camp, Father. This area is in quarantine, and you are putting yourself in danger by being here. I suggest you wait until the medical specialists and their armed escort arrive shortly, then we can decide where and when it’s best for you to hold your mass. I’d hate you to be held personally responsible if any of the men leave while they are sick. Leaving now would also cause the men to invalidate their work contracts.’

Aimee kept her gaze steady but she was bluffing. She thought the men would go with him if he asked, and be damned their pay and the medical specialists. But as González remained silent, she thought that perhaps he hadn’t realised that yet. She decided to press her case.

‘I’m the senior science specialist here and it’s my call, I’m afraid. You see, Father, men are still dying, and until we know more about the disease that is killing them, everyone in the camp must remain under quarantine. You wouldn’t want the men passing anything on to your other parishioners, would you?’

She could hear Tomás translating for the men gathered behind the priest.

Gonzáles turned to them himself and spoke in Spanish in a clear, strong voice. Tomás again started to translate, this time for Aimee.

‘Only the God can forgive your sins, and He will hear your voices loudest on hallowed ground. Only He can comfort you, and heal you, and save you.’

The priest turned to Tomás and put his finger to his lips before continuing with his speech to the men. Tomás immediately stopped his translation and froze in what looked to Aimee like fearful indecision.

When González had finished his little sermon, he glided closer to Aimee. Though she was tall, he had to bend slightly to come close to her face. Aimee could smell his mouth. The breath of a carnivore — the revolting thought came out of nowhere.

‘You are right, Ms Weir. The sick must stay here and be tended to. But all others will come to my mass. That is my call, I’m afraid.’ His bearded cheeks briefly pulled up in the semblance of a smile.

The entire camp had now gathered to witness the exchange. So here it is, Aimee thought. She had a decision to make. If she said no, there was a high probability the men would go anyway and her authority would be the only thing to evaporate in the humidity of the Paraguayan jungle. Or she could agree to let them leave…temporarily. After all, she expected — she hoped — it was only for a few hours. She agreed.

González didn’t say thank you; he simply turned away and threaded back among the crowd, touching a man here and there on the shoulder and speaking to him softly. Those he passed without touching dropped their heads slightly and Aimee guessed the priest had deemed them unfit to attend the mass. When he reached Tomás, he touched his shoulder too. Aimee was confused: the men he had left behind looked no different healthwise from those he had chosen to take with him. She couldn’t see any biological reason for the choice, other than the men he had selected looked younger and slightly larger than those he’d left behind. With the exception of Tomás, she thought. Strange. Can he tell who’s infected?

The camp quickly cleared as the men followed the priest into the jungle.

Tomás remained where he was, watching them go. ‘I can go to the next mass, señora Weir,’ he said and looked away shyly.

Aimee nodded. ‘Thank you, Tomás. Thank you for staying with me. Umm, tú eres mi amigo.’ She smiled at him and put her hand on his shoulder; the physical contact as important for her as it was for him.

While they talked, neither noticed that one of the workers who had been refused the mass crept out after the long train of men.

Felipe found it hard to follow the group as twilight turned to darkness. Soon it would be pitch black until the moon rose and threw some shafts of silver through the jungle’s green ceiling. He didn’t think he was that far behind — maybe a few hundred feet — but it was difficult to hear the men as sounds were gobbled up by the normal noises of the jungle. Broken twigs, small depressions in the mud and other signs of humans passing were soon swallowed by the night. Felipe scampered ahead blindly and hoped he was on the right path.

He felt he had been travelling for hours when at last he broke into a broad clearing and saw the last of the men being herded into a small stone building that was almost totally engulfed by a mighty tree. Felipe sprinted, although he wasn’t sure what he would do when he got to the door. The padre had not chosen him, and he was afraid the holy man would be angry. But then again, his mother would be even angrier if he didn’t pray in the house of God when he had the chance. Even if the priest just allowed him to sit in the doorway, he would feel better. Of course he will permit it; he is a man of forgiveness, after all, he thought.

When Felipe got to within a few feet of the church, he heard a strange grinding noise and saw an enormous slab of stone slide across the doorway. It didn’t swing or close like a normal door; rather it seemed to be lifted from the inside and jammed across the entrance. He leapt up the steps, ducked underneath the sheet of hanging roots and placed his hands on the cool stone. He had missed his opportunity. He placed his forehead against the stone and was about to pray anyway, when he heard faint sounds.

They became louder — voices — were they praying? No, they were screaming. Although muffled by the thick stone, the absolute terror of the wails was clear. He made out more and more voices, along with dull thumps, as though bodies were being thrown against each other. What could it be? Were the men fighting among themselves?

Felipe banged his fist against the stone, but knew the small thud wouldn’t be heard over the din on the other side of the huge block. He stepped back and placed both hands against its flat surface and pushed, but the mighty stone must have weighed several tons and probably would have take five men to shift. He was about to shout again when there came a deep roar from inside the church, an inhuman sound like nothing he had ever heard. Felipe felt his skin prickle. He backed down the steps — tripping over the last few and landing on the dry soil.

Santa Madre de Dios, the padre and all the men must be trapped inside with some beast from the jungle.

He heard more screaming, but nearer than before. Is that me? Be quiet, he thought, and closed his mouth to shut it off. His legs felt like rubber as he tried to run. He fell and crawled for a few seconds before getting back to his feet.

He was at the tree line when another sound rolled across the clearing — the deep grind of the stone slab being hauled from the doorway. Felipe didn’t turn; he knew what it meant. Whatever was in there with the men was now free.

He sprinted blindly into the jungle, and straight into the mossy trunk of a tree. He scrambled groggily to his feet, one of his arms dangling uselessly after the impact. He was dazed and his face felt wet; he licked his lips and tasted blood. Despite his injuries, he knew he had to keep moving. To stay meant meeting whatever it was that had roared like a hundred demons and made the men scream in terror. He staggered a few more feet, not knowing where he was, hopelessly lost in the dark.

He just had time to notice that the jungle around him had fallen silent when a large hand closed on his neck. At last, Felipe remembered to pray.