Dick Stivers - Amazon Slaughter

"Nah. Watch them," Lyons argued. "Sometimes for thirty seconds or a minute or two minutes, they've got their backs turned. Or they're off the deck. I chance it, I move fast..."

"Hey, Hardman One, wise up," insisted Gadgets. "Just 'cause you're brave don't mean you won't die. If you come up short, if they see you, they got you. We can't chance it, not even to help those farmers. Besides, you'd be down there with the crocodiles, and you're wearing your lizard-attracting lotion."

"I do it," Lieutenant Silveres told them.

Blancanales shook his head. The lieutenant continued.

"Listen to me, Yankee. If they see me, they will see this uniform. They will think I'm with that traitor, Gomez."

The warm river water closed around him. Slowly, silently, Lieutenant Silveres slipped through the reeds and the marsh grasses, his hands clawing into the slime. He pressed his belly into the mud, bending his back to keep his face above the surface. As the muddy water deepened, Silveres moved faster, digging his boots into the bottom, pushing through the shallows.

A hundred lights streaked the river. Reflected from the gently waving surface, the rusted paddle steamer became a shimmering white dream ship resplendent with electric jewels.

Silveres watched the sentries crossing and recrossing the decks. Staying in the darkness and mud of the shallows, he watched for a chance to swim to the steamer. The sentries carried their automatic rifles loose in their hands, ready to fire, ready to end his life.

A few minutes before, the talk of death had not seemed real. He had volunteered with full consideration of the risk. But he was thinking then of death in the abstract, as only a word.

Now he thought of the other night when the Cuban put the pistol to his head. But death had been an abstraction that night also. After the mercenaries had ambushed his men, killing two, capturing him and the seventeen-year-old private, the lieutenant had not felt fear. Shock numbed him. He endured the beating and torture because he did not believe the scene real. His mind did not accept the reality, therefore he escaped the very worst of the pain. When the Cuban put the pistol to the head of Guerimo, the teenager who hoped to own a long-distance truck, who wrote love letters to five girls by hand-copying one letter five times, only then had the lieutenant snapped from his trance. He tried to reason with the Cuban. The flash of the pistol seemed a crime beyond belief. Tradition and pride did not allow him to beg for his own life. He thought of nothing, waited for the nightmare to end at the end of the pistol pointed at his head.

Watching from outside the Indian camp, the gringos and the Chicanos who rescued him believed him brave, fearless. But they did not know the truth.

Now, lying in the warm slime, he felt fear. It coiled inside him, writhed in his bowels. His body waited for his mind to command action, but he did not move. He watched the Asian mercenaries pace the deck.

A woman sobbed. From one of the cabins, the cry rose and fell. She shrieked, pleaded. Then silence came abruptly. Then laughter burst out.

Lieutenant Silveres knew he had more than bullets and a quick death to fear. Perhaps they would capture him again. No, not again. He could not, he would not be captured again. He could not hide within his shock again. He would die first.

Brave words. He lay in the marshy shallows of the Mamore because of his brave words to the gringos. But he did not move. Fear whipped within him as his imagination gave him images. Death by bullets. Death by knives. Death by pliers to his genitals.

Fear stopped his breathing. He forced his lungs to suck air, forced his chest to expel the air. His body was immobilized with fear. He concentrated only on breathing.

Several Asians stepped from the paddle-wheeler to the helicopter tethered to the side. The blades spun, a whine rising as the engine warmed, the blades becoming a blur. Water sprayed in all directions.

Now! Now the sentries would not see him. He touched the flap securing the Italian pistol. Would it fire after minutes under water? He checked the flap of the thigh pocket carrying the hand radio. Would he lose it as he swam? Would the plastic protect it from the river's water? No time for more thoughts, no time for more fear. Silveres kicked against the mud, stroked desperately through the muddy water. He took a last look at the rotting ship's decks. The helicopter's rotor storm sprayed muddy water everywhere.

He sucked down a last breath and went under the water, swimming with all his strength, scissoring his legs again and again, trying to gain every possible yard before his lungs forced him to the surface.

A pain seared his leg. Another hit his ribs. So this is how bullets feel, he thought. But he didn't stop. Perhaps he could live if he reached the hull of the steamer, perhaps he could kill the mercenary before the mercenary killed him. The lieutenant feared death like never before. Fear made him strong and fast. Fear of death made the pain in his lungs nothing.

The Cambodian watched the helicopter of Commander Chan Sann soar away. Spray drifted in the air for seconds, misting around the bulbs on the upper rails. Water covered everything. The Cambodian resumed his circuit of the lowest deck, wiping the river water from his automatic rifle.

He did not like the rifle. A Heckler & Koch, it weighed more than a Kalashnikov. The recoil jarred his slight body. The incomprehensible mechanics of the bolt confused him. He wished he could carry a Kalashnikov.

The woman his friends had in the cabin screamed again. He stopped at the port of the cabin and peered in through the louvers.

Some of his friends held her while each in turn took her. Soon his turn would come. He thought of the years after the Victory of the Proletariat in his province. He'd had all the village girls. It had been good to be a soldier then. Chan Sann said the Chinese Wei Ho talked of a World Victory of the Proletariat. The Cambodian smiled. Then he would have all the girls of the world.

A hand grasped the railing. The Cambodian started away from the louvers to gaze at the hand. It was wet with water and blood. He heard gasping. Something fluttered against the hull. He snapped off the safety of his G-3. He advanced as one of the Brazilians dragged himself up and over the railing.

Water and blood flowing from his uniform, the Brazilian slapped at his body. A silver thing flashed and twisted in the glare from the lights. The Brazilian hit at the thing again and again with his hand.

Piranha! The Cambodian lowered his rifle and stared at the fish flopping on the deck. He studied the mouth of the piranha. He saw bloody, needle-sharp teeth. He had never seen one alive. What a beautiful creature!

Lieutenant Silveres ignored the pain from the last piranha still clamped to his back. The predator was twisting and shaking, trying to rip away a mouthful of flesh and cloth. He saw the Asian sentry smiling at the piranha dying on the deck. Glancing fore and aft on the walkway, he did not see any other sentry.

Praying the pistol would fire, the lieutenant slipped it out of its holster and thumbed back the hammer. With no more sound than a fist against flesh, the slug punched through the Asian's skull. The dead man fell to the deck. The bullet bounced off the warped planks of the deck, clattered against the cabins.

A man laughed. Watching the single lighted cabin on the deck, Silveres gripped the pistol, then reached behind him to jerk the last piranha from his flesh. Warm and slick with his blood, the fish wriggled from his hand. It flopped on the deck. Silveres crushed it with his boot. He grabbed the sentry's corpse by one arm and dragged it from the walkway. The man's G-3 scraped on the planks.