'Tomlinson?
Tomlinson was looking at the floor, trembling, refusing to meet Ford's gaze.
'There's nothing we can do now. If we try, Zacul will kill us all. Each and every one of us. You know that.'
Tomlinson nodded slowly, then something broke in him and he began to cry softly. He pulled away from Ford, went to his cot and sat down, his face buried in his hands.
'We'll be okay, Tomlinson. We'll make it. We're all going to make it.' Speaking with confidence, but not feeling it, Ford opened the door of the hut and went outside to sit beneath a tree.
Half an hour later, Tomlinson came out. He looked scraggly and very tired. He stood above Ford, saying 'I really freaked out, man. Sorry.'
'Don't worry about it.'
'It's like a disease.'
'Yeah, well . . . like you said: We all have our quirks.'
'I can't believe shit like this goes on in the world. '
'Every hour of every day it goes on. Someplace. '
'People back in the States don't realize, man. This is like something out of a movie. '
'No. You've got it backward. Life back home is like something out of a movie. That's what people don't realize.'
'You think the kid is dead?'
'I haven't heard any shots.'
'I hope not, man. I really couldn't take that. I'd be ready to cash it in right here.'
What Ford was hoping was that Jake Hollins wasn't hungry, or didn't like fish. . . .
Oscar served them in their hut an hour after sundown. When Ford asked if the general had enjoyed the meal, the chef
straightened himself, saying grandly 'The general can wait while I serve a man who is a true gourmet,' rolling his r's, which gave the French word an earthy sound.
Tomlinson and Ford touched their spoons to their lips and raved about the soup, though they did not taste it. Pleased, Oscar complained more about the bad cooking conditions, made more excuses for the poor food, and got more compliments from Ford.
When the chef was gone, Ford said, 'Don't eat anything.'
Tomlinson stopped with a spoonful of beans in mid arc. 'I thought you said it was just the fish chowder.'
'He could have used the same ladle. He could have poured some of the soup into the rice to spice it up. We don't know what he did. Don't eat anything.'
Tomlinson put his tray on the ground and leaned toward Ford. 'What the hell is in those fish gizzards?'
Ford said, 'You really want me to answer that? Don't you assume some responsibility if you know?'
'Yeah, but I'm not hypocrite enough to refuse to listen now.'
Ford said, 'If that's the way you want it,' and began to scrape the food off onto the ground behind the cots. 'Those kind of fish, puffers, are found in warm waters all over the world. The flesh is okay as long as it's been cleaned properly or if the fish hasn't been injured during its life cycle. But only fools take the chance because the liver, the gall bladder, some of the other viscera contain a crystalline alkaloid. If you eat an injured fish, you get sick no matter how carefully it was cleaned. I've seen it happen.'
'That's all that happens? You get sick?'
Ford made no reply.
Tomlinson pressed. 'You mean you've seen people die, that's what you're saying.' Tomlinson was beginning to slip back into the pattern of shallow breaths again, getting anxious.
'No. I've never seen it. But I watched a physician save three people from dying once. He had the knowledge and he had the right antidote. Without it . . Ford shrugged.
'You're not telling me what I think you're telling me? You're not going to kill all these people, are you, Ford? You know the antidote, right?'
'I remember the name of the drug and the dosage.'
'But what makes you think they have the antidote here?'
'Nothing—I haven't given it much thought.'
'Even if they did, you wouldn't offer it to Zacul.' Stated flatly in disapproval.
Ford opened the door and put the plates outside. 'It's too bad the general forced that doctor off the cliff. He would have helped. In a way, Zacul killed himself and didn't even know it.'
The oil lamp was out but Ford was still awake. They were both dressed, lying on their cots. He said, 'Muscarine. That's the poison. It took me about an hour this afternoon to remember the name. I kept thinking mascara, like the stuff women wear. It's also found in certain mushrooms, only I don't know which kind—the poison, I mean.'
Tomlinson said, 'Next time I read some label with natural herbs and spices, I'm gonna be less enthusiastic.' Then he said, 'Sshhhh. What's that?'
There was the sound of a door slamming and loud voices. There was panic in the voices, and Ford felt the panic vibrate within him, adrenaline mixed with elation. Tomlinson said, 'Someone's coming,' and Ford swung his feet off the cot, waiting.
There was the heavy thud of footsteps outside: not the sound of someone running, but of someone trying to run, dragging his feet and stumbling. Then there was a banging on the door, rattling the whole fiberglass structure. The door flew open before Ford could get to it, and there stood Julio Zacul. The flashlight he carried was pointed at the ground, bathing him in a grotesque light. He wore only pants and his gunbelt, no shoes. His chest made shallow lunges, desperate for air, and he was bent at the waist, his free hand thrown across his bare abdomen in an attitude of pain. His face was contorted, oily with sweat, and his eyes were wide and wild as he said, groaning, 'Something very bad has happened. Something very bad. You are a doctor, no? You must help me,'
When Ford just stood there, Zacul reached out to grab him and almost fell. Holding onto Ford's shirt, he repeated, 'I need help! You are a doctor?'
Ford took Zacul's wrist and pushed the hand away. 'I'm a doctor. So is this man. But we're not physicians.'
Zacul moaned.
Ford said, 'I thought we met a doctor when we were in your stockade. Why don't you get him?'
'No, no, he is gone. He can do nothing.' Zacul's speech was labored, each word an effort. 'I'm sick, can't you see that? We are all very sick. You must have some training. Do something!'
Ford took the flashlight from him and took him by the arm. 'Do you have any medical supplies in camp?'
'Yes. A few. In my quarters.'
'Then take us to them.'
Ford and Tomlinson half carried, half followed Zacul across the grounds. The moon was over the mountains, three-quarters full, and by its light Ford could see that many of the soldiers had left their posts, gathering the way some people gather at car wrecks, fascinated with tragedy but nervous, too, standing in small groups, whispering.
'I am going to be sick. Let me go.' They let Zacul fall to the ground and the soldiers shifted uncomfortably as they watched their general bark at the earth and wipe his mouth with the back of his hand.
Ford heard one of the soldiers mutter, 'See? He is dying. I have heard that some are already dead.' But when Ford looked at the soldiers and nodded, they pretended not to see, averting their eyes.
'Let's go, Zacul. Let's get you inside.'
Zacul and the other officers were billeted in a separate compound, a fenced grounds where a two-story block and wood house was surrounded by several fiberglass huts. Zacul led them into the main building, through a dark room with metal desks and the sharp acidic odor of a printing machine. The next room was much larger, an officers' mess and recreation room. There was a pool table, a bar with cheap plastic chairs, and, all around the room, dozens of candles had been lighted. There was the smell of incense, too; it was like walkipg into a brothel.
