Jon Merz - Vicarious

My gut tells me he will head for either French Guyana or Venezuela next. One of my guides has secured a small plane and we fly today into a small town named Curanya to see if I am right.

4 April

Curanya turned out to be wrong. As soon as we touched down, I knew he would not be there. I would have thought such a port city would certainly hold some allure with its bands of rogues wandering the docks.

I was wrong.

We fly to Caracas.

12 April

Two bodies have turned up. A rapist I am told and a suspected child molester. Both of them have ceased their evil in this world, but is that evil gone now, or merely pooling in some unholy reservoir of hatred?

And where does he keep it? How does he transport these evil souls? He must have some extraordinary means to convey them, but I’m at a loss to determine how.

Sent a letter home to Margaret. I miss her so. But I would not wish her here. The danger is too great. Hunting demons is better left to those of us too foolish to know any better.

21 April

No news for days and then a corpse outside the city this morning. I got a chance to examine the body myself, granted by the county examiner who allowed me a few seconds with the dead man in exchange for some much needed supplemental income.

Touching the corpse, I half expected him to wake up and speak to me, such was the state of health he radiated. And yet, dead. Surely if the pilot is removed, the vessel will no longer function. Such is the case for those who meet this demon.

Is he moving again? I fear it so.

I have spoken to the locals who tell me of a place one hundred miles outside of the capital. It is a place they say reeks of evil. An old temple dedicated to the gods of the dead. A place of sacrifice and slaughter so many years back.

I feel a pull to this place and fear I must follow it. The journey is hard, through miles of uncharted jungle. Still, we have managed to find a guide who says he knows the way. Whether he does or not remains to be seen. There are many in this part of the world who would simply say so and then rob or kill you at first chance.

And to think, I used to fear the demon only.

25 April

The journey has been truly horrendous. If this be the route to hell it is paved with peril at every instance. Pervez, my loyal companion, took ill with dysentery on the first night of our journey, forcing us to pitch camp at half the distance we had wished to cover. Our guide, however, proved useful in procuring certain medicinal plants which have enabled Pervez to regain his strength in the days since the initial onslaught.

We walked ten miles the next day, each of us hacking through tube vines, reeds, and Savannah grasses with our machetes. I’m sure the chink chink chink sounds carried further than we could have known. I dislike the idea of the jungle knowing we are coming.

27 April

We met a small band of Puchito Indians who live in the jungle and do quite well of it apparently. They stand a good foot shorter than a normal man, their brown skin painted with white stripes. Their heads are shaved save for the shaman who wears a mop top of black coarse hair. We enjoyed a meal at their village, whereupon the shaman appeared before me and squatted at my feet. Without a word, he simply looked at me and then cast a pile of chicken bones on the ground. His spindly fingers probed each one, clucking off a succession of strange noises. He then spoke quickly to our guide who told me he saw death in my future. Furthermore, we were then asked to leave the village immediately for fear that the death would come for them as well.

Such a forecast does not sit altogether well with me. I must be honest. We are in a part of the world where the line between superstition and reality is hard to discern. And given that I am tracking a demon in the employ of Satan himself, the prognosis has left me concerned.

But I will persevere.

1 May

The temperature in the jungle is a humid ninety degrees constantly. Rain soaks us on a daily basis and I have taken to following the cues of our guide who wears one set of clothes throughout the day which are always wet. At night he changes his clothes — this set is dry and protected from the elements by being wrapped in a cloth bag that is then placed in a haversack.

I was doubtful it would work, but to my delight it does. And I enjoy sleeping in dry clothes much more than wet ones.

We have drawn closer to our destination. All told we have traveled half the distance. Not as fast as I would like, but the jungle grows so thick in places we are forced to cut around for hundreds of yards sometimes.

4 May

Interspersed with the heat and humidity, we have begun feeling strange cold winds at night. Our guide has also become much more apprehensive. He prays constantly. Not just to Jesus, either. I have seen him offer up small pieces of our meals to some unknown benefactor perhaps. I hope his gods are strong. They will need to be.

6 May

Pervez is ill again. He runs a high fever that has left him delusional. And even the medicinal plants our guide gathers will do him no good. I fear he may die if the fever does not break soon. He drifts in and out of a stupor, calling out “Diablo” over and over again.

My own fear is rising as well. I pray God grants me the strength to see this mission through. Else I fear we shall all be suffering.

8 May

Pervez died during the night last. His hand went cold in mine as a sharp strong gale blew into our camp. The wind was so fierce it scattered our fire. Pervez slid away from us, embraced by death. I pray the Lord take him into his blessed house and keep him well.

We buried him by the foot of a hill, marked by a grove of trees. We prayed over his grave for some time and then marched on.

I am now alone with the guide.

Loneliness is constant.

10 May

Our progress has been swift these past two days. We crossed a raging river, flush with mountain snow come down from afar. Haritu the guide says we will be at the temple within three days if we are able to continue our current pace.

I wish his news cheered me. But it does not. As we have grown closer to the temple, something very tangible seems to be haunting us in this jungle. I have felt eyes on us. I have heard voices. Whispers. And the cold winds that are strangely out of place here sweep in on us at the weirdest times. Once while I prayed in the morning and just after we had settled down to sleep. That time, a particularly strong gust tossed a blazing log out of the fire circle. Haritu had to quickly stomp it out or else it would have turned the jungle into an inferno.

11 May

Haritu is having second thoughts. I can see the fear growing in him and I am a poor choice for stirring any reservoir of courage he might have. For I feel my own bravery wavering in the face of reaching our destination soon.

I want nothing more than to turn around and head back to Caracas. I want to go home and see my beloved Margaret again.

But I cannot. God has directed me here. I feel compelled to see this through to the end.

Whatever end that may entail.

12 May

I have seen the temple.

Haritu guided us to the edge of the clearing that stands before the overgrown walls. Perhaps I was expecting something grander in size. But it is little more than a mausoleum-sized artifice carved out of the rock of the side of a mountain. It overlooks some type of small river that runs colder than any water we have crossed so far.