Jon Evans - Swarm

I didn’t answer.

“ Understand ?”

I nodded, slowly.

“Good.”

“If they catch us, do you think they’ll kill us?” Actually saying the words brought the stark desperation of our situation home to me again. I couldn’t believe that such a question was actually germane to my life.

“Maybe. I don’t know. They might take us hostage, like the FARC. They’ve had some people in the jungle for fifteen years. Former senators, police chiefs, military officers. Two Americans would make for pretty good bargaining chips.”

“I’m Canadian.”

“Oh, well, never mind then, they’ll just waste you on sight.”

I smiled grimly.

“No. I don’t think they’ll kill us. They probably won’t even mistreat you too much, is my guess.”

“You said they’d cut my dick off and make me eat it,” I pointed out.

“That was sort of… speculative incentivization.”

“Nice phrase.”

“Thanks. I mean, who knows. You’re a Canadian civilian, a man. You might be tortured to death, you might be treated OK. Depends on what kind of animals they are. Me, an American, a DEA agent, a woman… I’d really rather not find out what kind of entertainments they might have in store if they catch me alive.” I didn’t even want to think about it. “So I don’t intend to let that happen. Don’t get defeatist. We’ve still got a strong chance. You might be back in your girlfriend’s arms tomorrow.”

The idea of being with Sophie in our warm safe bed was so piercing, and so different from the awful and agonizing reality of my situation, that I wanted to cry.

“What about you?” I asked, eager to change the subject. “You got a boyfriend waiting for you?” A thought occurred to me. “Or a girlfriend?”

“No. No boyfriend.” Lisa sighed. “Lately I’ve been kind of married to my job. I don’t know. The older I get, the angrier I get.”

“At who?”

She shrugged. “Us and them both. Our crazy drug laws and the dealers who live off them. Fucking vampires. My mother, when I was a kid I saw her go from occasional user to addict, and they just fed off her, they bled her dry, body and soul. You know what it’s like to have your mother bringing tricks home? To have them trying to make nice to you after, while she’s still in her room crying?” Her voice was steely with ancient fury. “No. Of course you don’t. You grew up in a nice nuclear family, didn’t you. I can tell. Lucky you. You know what the hard part is, sometimes? Not shooting them when I bust them. Especially when they’ve got weapons and I could claim it as self-defence. No one would investigate, even if they knew. It’s always so tempting. It’s all they deserve.”

I didn’t reply.

“You don’t agree, huh?”

I quoted Tolkien: “Many that live deserve death. And some that die deserve life. Can you give it to them? Then do not be too eager to deal out death in judgement.”

“Easy for someone like you to say,” she said savagely, and immediately winced. “Sorry. Didn’t mean to snap. I’m just kind of end of my tether here.”

“Understood. No worries. Me too.”

“Anyway, I like Clint Eastwood’s take better. ‘Deserve’s got nothin’ to do with it.’” She rose to her feet. “Come on. The rain’s easing up. We better get moving.”

But we didn’t get far.

Three waterfalls fell like pale and graceful veils down a rocky cliff. The pool of water at their base drained into a wide river that was fast but smooth, with only a few whitewater eddies. A tangle of driftwood the size of a tractor-trailer had formed where the pool met the river; logs swept over the waterfall had caught up on several large boulders there and accumulated into what looked like a roc’s nest, or the biggest game of Pick-Up-Stix ever played. Something had carved a weird muddy hollow the size of a pickup truck into the grassy riverbank next to the logs.

“You think we can cross that?” I asked doubtfully, looking at the jumbled bridge of trunks and branches. It didn’t look stable.

To my relief Lisa shook her head.

“Maybe we can go behind the waterfall,” I suggested. “In fantasy novels there’s usually a secret tunnel that leads to the dragon’s lair or something.”

She gave me a worried look.

“Don’t worry, I’m not delirious, I’m always like this,” I assured her.

“Oh. Well. No, I don’t think so. But there’s a ford, or a stepping-stone bridge, or something, at the trail crossing. Where we saw the horses, from the ridge.”

I looked downstream and inwardly cringed at the thought of bushwhacking through yet more jungle. But it didn’t seem we had a choice -

“Wait,” she said thoughtfully.

I waited.

Eventually she said, “I don’t think time is on our side. Sooner or later they’ll find us. Probably sooner. We can’t count on another rescue attempt. They probably figure we’re already dead. If we don’t do something to change this game, we’re going to lose it.”

She turned and looked at the untidy heap of logs that spanned the river.

“You just said you didn’t think we could cross that,” I objected.

“I’m not talking about crossing it.”

“Then what?”

“I think we should make a raft.”

I stared at her, then at the logs, then at the fast-running river. It was wide and deep as far as we could see. But beyond, especially when it merged with that first river – I thought of that whitewater, those jagged rocks, and shivered. If it was like that we would be lucky to survive two minutes.

“I know,” she said. “It’s a desperate choice. But I think we’re desperate.”

“Speak for yourself. Me, I’m way past desperate.” It was intended as a joke, but it didn’t come out that way.

“We’re in this together. If you say no, I won’t do it. But I think it’s our best shot.”

“You think they won’t see us on a raft?”

“Not if we go at night.”

“Jesus Christ,” I said, appalled.

She waited.

“I feel like I’m on Survivor,” I muttered. “Except they decided to spice up this series with guns and UAVs and fucking murderous Colombian drug cartels. So it’s build a raft and sail down the river of doom in the middle of the night, or keep wandering through the jungle hoping they don’t find us, is that it?”

“Pretty much.”

I took a deep breath. It occurred to me that this could be the biggest decision of my life. But, I reassured myself, on the other and far more likely hand, we were probably screwed either way. “Fuck it. If ‘twere done when ‘twere done, then ‘twere best ‘twere done quickly.”

“Meaning what exactly?”

“Meaning,” I said, “let’s go surfing.”

The raft was surprisingly easy to build. Between the logpile and the jungle we had a whole cornucopia of building materials, and Lisa’s knife was sharp. We used vines as ropes, but our faith in them was limited, so we cannibalized most of our clothes into strips to strengthen the knots.

Beneath her T-shirt she had several tattoos: a Celtic knot on her lower back, a skull around her navel, flames on one shoulder and a bird of prey on another. I examined her revealed body with unconcealed curiosity; we were way past any physical modesty. It looked sculpted out of metal, wiry verging on gaunt. The abdominal muscles beneath her skull tattoo belonged on a magazine cover, if their scrapes and scratches were airbrushed out. We were both covered with nicks and bruises, whole landscapes of contusions.

“I was a punk,” she said, noting my look, “and then I was in the Army.” She grinned. “You think these tats are bad, you should see the ones you can’t see yet.”