Amazonia

Bodies lay sprawled everywhere: on the trail, in the woods, some draped halfway in the stream. Men, women, children. All Indians from the look of them, but it was difficult to say for sure. Faces had been chewed away, limbs gnawed to bone, entrails ripped from bellies. The carrion feeders had made quick work of the bodies, leaving the rest to flies, other insects, and burrowing worms. Only the diminutive sizes of the corpses suggested they were Yanomamo, the missing villagers. And from the number, probably the entire village.

Nathan closed his eyes. He pictured the villagers with whom he had worked in the past: little Tama, noble Takaho. With a sudden burst, he rushed off the trail and hunched over the stream. He breathed deeply, fighting in vain the rising gorge. With a sickening groan, his stomach spasmed. Bile splattered into the flowing water, swelled by the recent rains. Nate remained crouched, hands on his knees, breathing hard.

Kostos barked behind him. “We don’t have all day, Rand. What do you think happened here? An attack by another tribe?”

Nate could not move, not trusting his stomach.

Private Carrera joined him, placing a sympathetic hand on his shoulder. “The sooner we get this done,” she said softly, “the sooner we can leave.”

Nathan nodded, took a final deep breath, and forced himself to climb back within view of the slaughter. He studied the area from a few steps away, then moved closer.

“What do you think?” Carrera asked.

Gulping back bile, Nate spoke quietly. “They must’ve fled during the night.”

“Why do you say that?” Kostos asked.

Nate glanced to the sergeant, then nudged a stick near one of the corpses. “A torch. Burned to char at the end. The village took flight in full darkness.” He studied the bodies, recognizing a pattern to the carnage. He pointed an arm as he spoke. “When the attack came, the men tried to protect the women and children. When they failed, the women were a second line of defense. They tried to run with the children.” Nate indicated a woman’s corpse deeper in the woods. In her arms rested a dead child. He turned away.

“The attack came from across the stream,” Nate continued. His hand shook as he pointed to the number of male bodies piled near or in the stream. “They must have been caught by surprise. Too late to put up an adequate defense.”

“I don’t care in what order they were killed,” Kostos said. “Who the hell killed them?”

“I don’t know,” Nate said. “None of the bodies are pierced by arrows or spears. But then again, the enemy might have collected their weapons after the attack—to conserve their arsenal and to leave no evidence behind. With the bodies so torn apart, it’s impossible to tell which wounds are from weapons and which from the carrion feeders.”

“So in other words, you have no damn clue.” Kostos shook his head and swung around. From a few steps away, he spoke into his radio.

Nate wiped his damp forehead and shivered. What the hell had happened here?

Finally, Kostos stepped forward, raising his voice. “New orders everyone. We’re to collect a body for Dr. O’Brien to examine—one that’s chewed up the least—and return it to the village. Any volunteers?”

No one answered, which earned a mean snicker from the sergeant. “Okay,” Kostos said. “I didn’t think so.” He pointed to Private Carrera. “Why don’t you take our fragile little doctor back to camp? This is men’s work.”

“Yes, sir.” Carrera waved Nate to the path, and together they continued down toward the village. Once out of earshot, Carrera grumbled under her breath. “What an ass**le…”

Nate nodded, but truthfully, he was only too glad to leave the massacre site. He couldn’t care less what Sergeant Kostos might think. But he understood Carrera’s anger. Nate could only imagine the hassles the woman had to endure from the all-male force.

The remainder of the journey down the trail was made in silence. As they neared the shabano, voices could be heard. Nathan’s pace quickened. It would be good to be among the living again. He hoped someone had thought to light a fire.

Circling around the shabano, Nathan approached Private Eddie Jones, who stood guard by the entrance. Beyond him, limned against the water, a pair of Rangers was posted by the river.

As he and Carrera reached the roundhouse’s door, Eddie Jones greeted them and blurted out the news. “Hey, you guys ain’t gonna f**kin’ believe what we fished out of the jungle.”

“What?” Carrera asked.

Jones thrust a thumb toward the door. “Go see for yourselves.”

Carrera waved her rifle’s barrel for Nate to go first.

Within the shabano, a small congregation was clustered in the roundhouse’s open central yard. Manny stood somewhat to the side with Tor-tor. He lifted an arm when he spotted Nate, but there was no greeting smile.

The voices from the others were raised in argument.

“He’s my prisoner!” Captain Waxman boomed. He stood with three Rangers, who all had their weapons on their shoulders pointing at someone out of sight behind the group of civilians.

“At least remove the cuffs on his wrists,” Kelly argued. “His ankles are still bound. He’s just an old man.”

“If you want cooperation,” Kouwe added, “this is no way to go about it.”

“He’ll answer our questions,” Waxman said with clear menace.

Frank stepped in front of Waxman. “This is still my operation, Captain. And I won’t tolerate abuse of this prisoner.”

By now, Nate had crossed the yard and joined them. Anna Fong glanced to him, her eyes scared.

Richard Zane stood slightly to the side, a satisfied smirk on his face. He nodded to Nathan. “We caught him lurking in the jungle. Manny’s big cat helped hunt him down. You should have heard him screaming when the jaguar had him pinned against a tree.”

Zane stepped aside, and Nate saw who had been captured. The small Indian lay in the dirt, his ankles and wrists bound in strips of thick plastic zip ties. His shoulder-length white hair clearly marked him as an elder. He sat before the others, mumbling under his breath. His eyes flicked between the rifles pointed at him and Tor-tor pacing nearby.

Nate listened to his muttered words. Yanomamo. He moved closer. It was a shamanic prayer, a warding against evil. Nate realized the prisoner must be a shaman. Was he from this village? A survivor of the slaughter?

The Indian’s eyes suddenly flicked to Nate, his nostrils flaring. “Death clings to you,” he warned, in his native dialect. “You know. You saw.”