stop to rest, so I was certain I could catch them. Still, October is Colombia's rainy season, and during that rainy season, there's not a wetter place on Earth. All I wanted was to turn around – to find some nice, secluded spot on the beach and watch the waves roll in off the Caribbean through the bottom of a bottle of beer. Which is exactly what I intended to do, just as soon as Varela was dead.
Woody ropes of liana hung low over the forest floor – clawing, scratching, winding themselves around my weary limbs as though they might at any moment retreat with me into the canopy, the rare unwary traveler too delicious a morsel to pass up. It was ridiculous to think, I know, but even the plant-life in the Amazon has a vaguely predatory air – from the strangler figs that choke the life from the mighty kapok trees, to the thick mat of green moss that blankets every surface, always probing, searching, feeding. By the light of day, the jungle wasn't so bad. But as the last gray traces of sun dwindled in the western sky and the brush around me came alive with the rustling of unseen beasts, panic set in. My heart fluttered. My spine crawled. The bitter tang of adrenaline prickled on my tongue. My lips moved in silent prayer – a useless habit – and I quickened my pace, pressing onward through the darkness.
I never even saw the embankment coming.
One moment, I was slashing through the underbrush, the jungle pressing in against me, and the next, there was just a queasy, terrifying nothing. It was like scaling a flight of stairs in the dark only to realize there's one fewer than you remembered, except in this case, my lead foot never hit ground.
I pitched forward. My arms pinwheeled, and my blade clattered to the forest floor, forgotten. I fell for what seemed like forever. Then I slammed into the side of the embankment so hard it knocked the wind out of me, and snapped my jaw shut on my tongue. My mouth filled with blood. My lungs seared as they begged for breath that wouldn't come.
And still, I wasn't done falling.
I tumbled down the steep, muddy slope, clawing frantically at every fern and rain-slick root, but it wasn't any use. I tried to dig in my heels, but one of them caught on something hard, and instead of stopping I hinged forward, somersaulting. End over end I bounced, every inch of my borrowed frame erupting in white-hot pain.
Then, suddenly, all was dark and still and quiet. I was lying face-down in two feet of muddy water, its vegetal stink invading my nose, my mouth, my very pores. Arms shaking, I pushed myself upward, gasping as my face cleared the surface of the muck.
I was at the edge of a broad, shallow stream, which blurbled a delicate melody as it passed along its rocky bed. Behind me, the embankment jutted skyward maybe thirty feet, more cliff-face than hill. From the dense bramble of exposed roots and the relative lack of greenery, my guess was it was the result of a mudslide, and a recent one at that. Not that it mattered much to me either way. I mean, a fall's a fall – and besides, I was way more interested in the fire.
It couldn't have been more than fifty yards downstream, nestled in a rocky crook on the far bank of the riverbed. The fire itself was lined with river rocks, and a makeshift spit of branches stretched across it, upon which roasted a goodly hunk of meat. Whoever'd chosen the spot knew what they were doing – the canopy was heavy there, providing shelter from the rain, and the stream supplied ample drinking water; the natural depression of the land hid the fire from view of anyone passing by above. Were it not for my fall, I would've walked right on past and never been the wiser. I allowed myself a smile as I pondered my sudden turn of fortune.
Though it had been days since I'd last eaten, and the aroma of cooking meat had set my mouth watering, I forced myself to hold my ground, counting to one hundred as I listened for any indication that Varela's men had seen me. I heard nothing but the growling of my stomach, and there was no sentry in sight. Given what I knew of Varela, the lack of perimeter guards was surprising, but maybe he believed the jungle to be protection enough from me. He had no idea how wrong he was.
I approached the stream at a crouch, suddenly grateful for the deepening twilight and the thin layer of mud that together served to obscure my approach. Water leeched into my boots as I crossed to the far bank, mindful all the while for any whisper of movement that might indicate snake. With Varela finally within my grasp, the last thing I needed was to tangle with a deadly coral, or have this meat-suit squeezed to death by an anaconda. I might not be too fond of this job of mine, but I'd still rather be predator than prey.
Twenty yards out, I knew that something was wrong. There was no idle chatter, no rustle of fabric – no sound at all from Varela's camp, save for a low, persistent buzzing, like a dentist's distant drill. From behind a massive kapok trunk, I hazarded a glance. Several men, their backs to me, were silhouetted by the fire, but all were still as death. I watched them for a moment, wondering if this was perhaps some kind of trap – a dummy camp set up to lure me in. Then I realized where the buzzing was coming from, and I knew this was no trap.
I stepped clear of my hiding place and wandered into the camp. The buzzing here was deafening, and up close its source was clear. The entire place was swarming with insects – millions of them – all fighting for their share of the feast laid out before them. The corpses of Varela's men teemed with them – from tiny flies and gnats to massive, iridescent beetles the likes of which I'd never seen, all attracted by the scent of spilled blood and dead flesh, still too faint for my meatsuit's nose to recognize. I counted seven men around the fire. Five of them were riddled with bullet-holes, and abandoned among them was a Kalashnikov assault rifle, its action open, its clip spent. Each of the dead men carried a Kalashnikov of their own, strapped across their backs as if they had been at ease when they'd been attacked.
By the look of the other two, I'd say those first five got off light.
The first of them lay face-down a few feet from the fire. His rifle lay beneath him, as if he had been holding it at ready when he was attacked. No doubt this was the sentry I'd been listening for. It looked to me like he'd come running to help his buddies when the shooting started. An admirable reaction, to be sure, but apparently not the smartest play. I rolled him over with the toe of my boot. His neck flopped like a wet noodle, and his head lolled to one side. A crushing blow from a rectangular something-or-other had caved in his nose and made tartare of his face – all meat and teeth and glistening bone. A glance at the abandoned Kalashnikov confirmed the gunstock was to blame; it was caked with blood and bits of flesh. Whether the blow had been enough to snap his neck, or his assailant had done it afterward for good measure, I couldn't say.
'What the fuck
The last of the bodies lay spread-eagled on the forest floor. His hands and feet were staked to the ground with knives no doubt scavenged from the belts of his dead companions. His shirt lay open at his sides, exposing his mutilated chest, now crawling with all manner of bugs. Unlike the sentry, his face had been spared, though I suspect that was more for my benefit than for his. His eyes were clouded and glassy, and his features were twisted into a rictus of pain, but still, there was no mistaking that face.
Varela.
