Jon Evans - Swarm

She spoke it along with me. We were both panting at first, barely audible, but our joined voices grew stronger.

“I figured you for atheist,” she said, when we were done.

“I am,” I admitted, oddly embarrassed. “But I grew up Catholic.”

“They say there are no atheists in a foxhole.”

“They are of course full of shit.”

She managed a croaking laugh at that.

We didn’t speak again until the sun rose. There were several more sets of rapids, but none as violent as the first. We grew numb, but somehow found the strength to keep kicking. And as the first light of dawn began to stain the earth, we came to rest in a shallow bend, not far from an obviously artificial stepping-stone bridge, from which a trail led onwards into the bush.

We staggered mindlessly up it, past swarming convoys of ants, until we reached two parallel trails of red mud spaced about four feet apart, with ragged grass growing between them like a Mohawk haircut. I was so dazed and detached from reality that it took me several seconds to realize it was a road, carved out by some kind of motorized vehicle. We had reached the network of roads that defines the remit of civilization.

From the top of the next hill we saw concrete walls, tin roofs, and electrical wires, and began to stumble towards them with no thought of safety or secrecy. We were beyond such abstractions. It was just animal survival. And if I had been alone, I probably wouldn’t have survived; I passed out halfway to the town.

The next few hours were hazy and disjointed in my memory, a kaleidoscope of images as I passed in and out of consciousness. Lisa and two darkskinned women splashing water on my face, urgent voices in a musical language I did not understand. Men carrying me in an improvised stretcher made of a big plastic sheet; I wanted to complain petulantly about the rough texture and crinkling noises, but wasn’t capable of speech. The terrifying sight of my own feet, like pulped meat from a slaughterhouse. Lying in the back of a pickup truck as it traversed the world’s worst and longest dirt road, while Lisa hovered over me, wrapped in a thick woolen blanket and sitting on the spare tire, holding my hand and telling me I was going to be all right, even when I turned my head and vomited weakly over her feet. And, finally, what looked like a whole battalion of soldiers waiting at the junction where that awful dirt road finally met pavement.

I screamed weakly when I saw them. In my delirium it took me long seconds to understand that they weren’t the enemy come to kill us.

My next continuous set of memories began in a modern and spacious hospital room. My feet were swathed in bandages, my countless cuts had scabbed over, my bruises were yellowing, and an IV was plugged into my arm. I guessed from the machines’ Spanish signs and labels that I was still in Colombia. Lisa sat dozing in a chair in the corner, dressed in jeans and a T-shirt. Her face was mottled with livid scabs, but otherwise she seemed almost unaffected by our ordeal. A red sun was visible through the window, but I couldn’t tell if it was dawn or dusk.

“Hey,” I said weakly. “Lisa.”

Her eyes fluttered open, and she sat up very straight. “You’re up!”

I had so many questions I didn’t know where to begin. “What time is it?”

“I don’t know. Morning.”

“You’ve been there all night?”

She shrugged as if it was no big deal. “We’re in Barranquilla. Big city on the coast. How you feeling?”

“Fine.” And it was true, I was weak but hale. Except – “How are my feet?” I dreaded and half-expected news of permanent damage.

“Oh, they’ll be fine.” Lisa seemed surprised by my concern. “Mostly just blisters and swelling, there was some infection but that’s gone now. They put some second skin stuff on you, said it was fine for you to walk. It’ll probably still hurt though.”

“How long have I been here?”

“Three days.”

“Whoa. Really?”

“You had an electrolyte balance problem. Like marathon runners who collapse. It was touch and go for a bit, but it turns out you’re tough as old nails.”

“Go me.”

“Indeed.”

“Where’s Sophie?”

“Back in the States. She wanted to come but they wouldn’t let her. Security. Totally unnecessary, you ask me, but the Colombians are embarrassed enough as is. You’re supposed to call her the moment you’re up.”

“When can I go home?”

“Soon as the doctors say. If you’re feeling fine then probably tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow,” I repeated. “Tomorrow sounds good.”

“Want me to get you a phone?”

“Yes, please.”

Her tone had been cordially distant, law enforcement professional to civilian; but she hesitated on the way to the door, came over, took my hand, squeezed it, and said quietly, “Good to have you back.”

I smiled at her. “I’ve got you to thank for it.”

Her face clouded. “You’ve got me to thank for almost dying.”

When she returned and handed me a cell phone – one with a button marked SECURE, I noticed – Sophie was already on the line.

“Hey, you,” she said.

“Hey, you.”

“It’s good to hear your voice.”

“Yours too.”

The words were banal but both our voices were throbbing with emotion.

“They say you’re OK,” she said. “Do you feel OK?”

“Yeah. My feet, I don’t know, I haven’t tried walking yet. But otherwise yeah. I probably look like hell though.”

“You do,” Lisa assured me. I gave her a mock-hurt look. “Sorry. I’ll leave you alone.”

“Who’s that?” Sophie asked, as Lisa departed.

“Lisa. Agent Reyes. She was with me, did they tell you the story?”

“Mostly. You know they sent me back here and wouldn’t let me come see you?”

“Yeah.”

An odd and uncomfortable silence fell. I wondered if Sophie had known we might be attacked in Colombia, courtesy of the secrets she had kept from me.

“I was sick with worry,” Sophie said. “Literally sick. I couldn’t sleep. I’m just, I’m so glad you’re all right, I can’t even express it. I miss you so much already. Come home as soon as you can, OK?”

“They say it might be tomorrow.”

“Good. Good.”

I remembered why we had come to Colombia in the first place. “Did you get anything out of that drone?”

“Yeah. I got away with the control module.”

“And?”

“It’s an Axon.” The brand name Sophie had bestowed upon the neural networks she had invented. “Based on my designs. No doubt.”

I almost said Jesse, then realized that this was a government phone, and we should probably construct our strategy in private first. “Well, we can talk about it when I get back.”

“Yeah.”

Another awkward silence that I didn’t really understand. But then it was a strange situation. Just then I didn’t feel like I understood anything, except maybe, courtesy of the ordeal I had just survived, just how fragile and fleeting and precious life was. Compared to that, Sophie’s secrets suddenly didn’t seem so important – but then, neither did our relationship. It was suddenly strangely easy to imagine life without her.

“OK. I’ll call you when I know when I’m arriving, OK?” I asked, forcing a bright tone.

“Sounds good. Talk to you then.” She hesitated, and then blurted out, as if the words were escaping from her against her will, “I love you, James.”

“I love you too,” I said.

But for the first time in years, I wondered what exactly I meant by that.

“Well?” Lisa asked.

I took an experimental step. “You know what, it’s not bad.”