Amazonia

“Where?”

He pointed his arm toward one of the Ban-ali tribesmen who marched along the streambed, a long spear over his shoulder. Impaled upon the weapon were several haunches of raw meat.

“Making dinner?” the Ranger guessed with a shrug.

“But for whom?”

For the entire afternoon, he and Carrera had been making a slow circuit of the village, with Tor-tor at their side. The cat drew many glances, but also kept curious tribesmen at a distance. As they trekked, Carrera was jotting notes and sketching a map of the village and surrounding lands. Recon, Manny had been informed, just in case the hostiles get hostile again.

Right now, they were circling the giant, white-barked tree, crossing behind it, where the stream brushed the edges of the monstrous arching roots. It appeared as if the flow of water had washed away the topsoil, exposing even more of the roots’ lengths. They were a veritable tangle, snaking into the stream, worming over it, burrowing beneath it.

The Indian who had drawn Manny’s attention was ducking through the woody tangle, squirming and bending to make progress, clearly aiming for a section of the stream.

“Let’s get a closer look,” Manny said.

Carrera pocketed her small field notebook and grabbed up her weapon, the shovel-snouted Bailey. She eyed the massive tree with a frown, plainly not pleased with the idea of getting any closer to it. But she led the way, marching toward the tangle of roots and the gurgling stream.

Manny watched the Indian cross to a huge eddy pool, shrouded by thick roots and rootlets. The water’s surface was glassy smooth, with only a slight swirl disturbing it.

The Indian noticed he was being observed and nodded in the universal greeting of hello, then went back to his work. Manny and Carrera watched from several yards away. Tor-tor settled to his haunches.

Crouching, the tribesman stretched his pole and the flanks of bloody meat over the still pool.

Manny squinted. “What is he—?”

Then several small bodies flung themselves out of the water toward the meat. They looked like little silvery eels, twitching up out of the water. The creatures grabbed bites from the meat with little jaws.

“The piranha creatures,” Carrera said at Manny’s side.

He nodded, recognizing the similarity. “Juveniles, though. They’ve not developed their hind legs yet. Still in the pollywog stage. All tail and teeth.”

The Indian stood straighter and shook the meat from his spear. Each bloody chunk, as it plopped into the water, triggered a fierce roiling of the still pool, boiling its surface into a bloody froth. The tribesman observed his handiwork for a moment, then tromped back toward the pair who stared at him, stunned.

Again he nodded as he passed, eyeing the jaguar at Manny’s side with a mix of awe and fear.

“I want to get a closer look,” Manny said.

“Are you nuts, man?” Carrera waved him back. “We’re out of here.”

“No, I just want to check something out.” He was already moving toward the nest of tangled roots.

Carrera grumbled behind him, but followed.

The path was narrow, so they proceeded in single file. Tor-tor trailed last, padding cautiously through the tangle, his tail twitching anxiously.

Manny approached the root-ringed pool.

“Don’t get too close,” Carrera warned.

“They didn’t mind the Indian,” Manny said. “I think it’s safe.”

Still, he slowed his steps and stopped a yard from the pool’s edge, one hand resting on the hilt of his whip. In the shadow of the roots, the wide pool proved crystal clear—and deep, at least ten feet. He peered into its glassy depths.

Under the surface, schools of the creatures swam. There was no sign of the meat, but littering the bottom of the pool were bleached bones, nibbled spotless. “It’s a damn hatchery,” Manny said. “A fish hatchery.”

From the branches spanning the pool overhead, droplets of sap would occasionally drip into the water, triggering the creatures to race up and investigate, searching for their next meal. Tricked to the surface, the beasts provided Manny with a better look at them. They varied in size from little minnows to larger monsters with leg buds starting to develop. Not one had fully developed legs.

“They’re all juveniles,” Manny observed. “I don’t see any of the adults that attacked us.”

“We must have killed them all with the poison,” Carrera said.

“No wonder there wasn’t a second attack. It must take time to rebuild their army.”

“For the piranhas, maybe…” Carrera stood two yards back, her voice suddenly hushed and sick. “…but not everything.”

Manny glanced back to her. She pointed her weapon toward the lower trunk of the tree, where the roots rode up into the main body. Up the trunk, the bark of the tree bubbled out into thick galls, each a yard across. There were hundreds of them. From holes in the bark, black insects scuttled. They crawled, fought, and mated atop the bark. A few flexed their wings with little blurring buzzes.

“The locusts,” Manny said, edging back himself.

But the insects ignored them, busy with their communal activities.

Manny stared from the pool back to the insects. “The tree…” he mumbled.

“What?”

Manny stared as another droplet of sap drew a handful of the piranha creatures to the surface, glistening silver under the glassy waters. He shook his head. “I’m not sure, but it’s almost like the tree is nurturing these creatures.” His mind began racing along wild tracks. His eyes grew wide as he began to make disturbing connections.

Carrera must have seen his face pale. “What’s wrong?”

“Oh, my God…we have to get out of here!”

6:30 P.M.

Inside the cabin, Nate sat hunched over the laptop computer, numb and exhausted. He had reread many of his father’s journal notes, even cross-referencing to certain scientific files. The conclusions forming in his mind were as disturbing as they were miraculous. He scrolled down to the last entry and read the final lines.

We’ll try tonight. May God watch over us all.

Behind Nate, the whispery sweep of the cabin’s door flap announced someone’s intrusion.

“Nate?” It was Professor Kouwe.

Glancing at his wristwatch, Nate realized how long he had been lost in the laptop’s records, lost to the world. His mouth felt like dried burlap. Beyond the flap, the sun was sliding toward the western horizon as the afternoon descended toward dusk.