Behind them, the shaman let out a piercing cry.
Nate swung around.
The Indian, his eyes wide with terror, backed away. “Do not bring the cursed here! You will call the Ban-ali upon us!”
Jorgensen tried to restrain the man, but even at his age, the Indian was wiry with muscle. He slipped out of the Ranger’s grip, fled to one of the dwellings, then, using a hammock as a ladder, scrambled to the encircling roof of the shabano.
One of the Rangers raised his rifle.
“Don’t shoot!” Nathan called.
“Lower your weapon, Corporal,” Waxman ordered.
The shaman paused atop the roof and turned to them. “The dead belong to the Ban-ali! They will come to collect what is theirs!” With these final words, the shaman dove off the roof and into the surrounding jungle.
“Go fetch him,” Waxman ordered two of the Rangers.
“They’ll never find him,” Kouwe said. “As scared as he is, he’ll vanish into these jungles.”
The professor’s words proved prophetic. The Yanomamo shaman was never found. As afternoon closed toward evening, Kelly ensconced herself in a corner of the shabano and worked to discover what had killed the tribesman. Nate took Captain Waxman and Frank over to the tree with the carved directions left behind by Gerald Clark.
“He must have written this just before being captured,” Frank said. “How awful. He was so close to reaching civilization, then was captured and imprisoned.” Frank shook his head. “For almost three months.”
As they returned to the shabano, the rest of the team prepared to set up for the night: lighting fires, setting up guard shifts, preparing food. The plan tomorrow was to leave the river and to begin the overland journey, following Gerald Clark’s trail.
With the sun setting and a meal of fish and rice being prepared, Kelly finally left her makeshift morgue. She settled to a camp chair with a long, tired sigh and stared into the flames as she gave her report. “As near as I can tell, he was poisoned by something. I found evidence of a convulsive death. Tongue chewed through, signs of contracted stricture of spine and limbs.”
“What poisoned him?” Frank asked.
“I’d need a tox lab to identify it. I couldn’t even tell you how it was delivered. Maybe a poisoned spear, arrow, or dart. The body was too macerated by the carrion feeders to judge adequately.”
Watching the sun set, Nate listened as the discussions continued. He remembered the words of the vanished shaman—they will come to collect what is theirs—and pondered the massacre up the nearby trail and the disease spreading here and through the States. As he did so, Nate could not escape the sinking sensation that time was running out for them all.
Nine
Night Attack
AUGUST 14, 12:18 A.M.
AMAZON JUNGLE
Kelly woke from a nightmare, bolting up from her hammock. She didn’t remember the specifics of her dream, only a vague sense of corpses and a chase. She checked her watch. The glowing dial put the time after midnight.
All around the shabano, most of the others were asleep. A single Ranger stood by the fire; his partner was guarding the door. Kelly knew another pair patrolled outside the roundhouse. Otherwise, the rest were snuggled in their hammocks after the long, horrible day.
It was no surprise she had nightmares: the massacre, the ravaged body she had examined, the ongoing tension. All of it overshadowed by the ever-present fear for her family back in Virginia. Her subconscious had plenty of fodder to mull through during her REM sleep.
Yesterday’s evening report from the States had not been any cheerier than the lunchtime update. Another twelve cases had been reported in the U.S., and another three deaths—two children and an elderly matron from Palm Beach. Meanwhile, across the Amazon basin, disease and death were spreading like fire through dry tinder. People were barricading themselves indoors or leaving cities. Bodies were being burned in the streets of Manaus.
Kelly’s mother had reported that so far no cases had yet arisen among the research team at Instar. But it was too soon to say they were out of the woods. The newest data, gathered mostly from cases in the Amazon, where the disease had a longer track record, suggested that the incubation period could be as short as three days or as long as seven. It all depended on the initial health of the victim. Children with poorer nutrition or parasitic conditions became sick faster.
As to the cause of the disease, a bacterial pathogen had been firmly ruled out by the CDC, but various viral assays were still continuing. So far, the culprit had not yet been identified.
Still, even as grim as the report was, there was worse news. Her mother had looked pale as she had spoken over the satellite link. “We now know that the transmission of the disease can be strictly airborne. It does not require physical contact.” Kelly knew what this meant. With such ease of transmission, a pathogen like this was one of the hardest to quarantine. And with the mortality rates so high…
“There’s only one hope,” her mother had said at the end. “We need a cure.”
Kelly reached to her canteen beside her hammock and took a long slow drink. She sat for a moment and knew sleep would not come. Moving quietly, she climbed from her hammock.
The guard by the fire noticed her movement and turned toward her. Still in the clothes she had worn yesterday—a gray T-shirt and brown trousers—she simply slipped on her boots. She pointed toward the entrance, wanting to stretch her legs but not wishing to disturb the others sleeping.
The Ranger nodded.
Kelly walked quietly to the shabano’s entrance. Ducking through, she found Private Carrera standing guard.
“Just needed some fresh air,” Kelly whispered.
The female Ranger nodded and pointed her weapon toward the river. “You’re not the only one.”
Kelly saw a figure standing a few yards down the path by the river. From his silhouette, Kelly knew it was Nathan Rand. He was alone, except for two Rangers positioned a short distance upriver, easily spotted by their flashlights.
“Keep a safe distance from the water,” Private Carrera warned. “We didn’t have enough motion sensors to secure the perimeter and the river.”
“I will.” Kelly remembered too well what had happened to Corporal DeMartini.
Walking down the path from the roundhouse, Kelly listened to the jungle hum of locust song, accompanied by the soft croaking of countless frogs. It was a peaceful sound. In the distance, fireflies danced in the branches and zipped in graceful arcs over the river.
The lone spectator heard Kelly’s approach. Nathan turned. He had a cigarette hanging from his lips, its tip a red spark in the night.