Jamie Freveletti - Running from the Devil

“I don’t believe you.”

Emma waved her bound hands at Mathilde. “What’s not to believe?”

“I mean about us. We have not touched the poison.”

“I told you, it’s in the air. You just can’t see it. And don’t tell me that you don’t believe. You were there when the Americans came looking through the hostages. You wanted to know why it was so important that they find me? Well, now you do. They’re arms traders. They’re looking for the poison to sell on the black market.” Emma watched comprehension dawn in Rodrigo’s eyes. He thought a moment.

“The Lost City is a six-hour walk from here. We cannot get there and back in twelve hours.”

“We only have to get there, not back. I’ll make the antidote once we arrive.”

“I tell you, we can’t go there. The path runs through Cartone cartel territory.” Rodrigo shrieked the words into Emma’s ear.

Mathilde started convulsing. Rodrigo shot a look at her, jerking on the ground. He was sweating. Emma could smell his fear. She sought a way to calm him down, to reassure him before he exploded.

“You’re wrong,” she said in a patient voice. “We can go there. We’ll pay the protection money. That’s what the tourists do. That’s what I did when I went there last year.”

“I told you, I can’t go there. It’s Cartone cartel territory. They’ll kill me on sight.”

Now Emma understood. “But I can go there. I have gone there.”

“The cure. Now.” Rodrigo pushed the machete again. Emma felt a sting. A line of warm blood ran down her neck.

“What you are demanding is impossible. I told you, I need to go to the Lost City. You can stay here. Send one of your men with me. They weren’t close enough to be affected. Have one walk with me and another one waiting on the path. The fresh man can run the antidote back to you in time. Or come with me. Perhaps the Cartone foot soldiers will not see you.”

“The soldiers line the path to the Lost City. You will not see them, but they will see you, and for sure will know me,” Rodrigo said.

“Then you must send someone with me to run the antidote back. Decide now, Rodrigo. You need to release me, quickly.”

Rodrigo stayed still, breathing hard. After a moment, he lowered the machete, cut through the ropes binding Emma’s arms, and stepped back.

“So. Go. But do not double-cross me. You have eight hours. I’ll find your friend, and each hour you are late, he will lose a piece. First his left arm, then his right.” Emma didn’t doubt that Rodrigo would track Sumner.

“First you put down your weapons, order your men to do the same, and lay face-first on the ground.”

“No!” The cords stood out on Rodrigo’s neck. Mathilde made a groaning sound. Her eyes rolled back into her head as her throat convulsed.

Emma pointed at Mathilde. “You’ll look like her in twelve hours, Rodrigo. Put down your weapons. If you don’t, you’re a dead man, because I refuse to go.”

“You will die, too, if you don’t make it.”

“If you don’t put down your weapons, then I know you will track my friend the minute I leave here. Either you put down your weapons or I don’t go. It’s that simple. But decide quickly, Rodrigo. We’re wasting time.”

The remaining guerrillas gathered around Mathilde, wide-eyed and silent. Rodrigo gave a sharp order.

The men looked at one another, confused. Emma assumed that their confusion stemmed from the nature of the order. Rodrigo bellowed the same order. This time the men jumped to obey. Their guns rattled as they were dropped, one on top of another, in a pile. They unbuckled their ammunition belts and removed the weapons strapped to their ankles. They lowered themselves to the ground, face-first.

Emma turned to Rodrigo. “Now you.”

His face was red, his lips pressed tight. He tossed his machete at her feet, so close that she had to jump back to avoid being cut. He lowered himself to the ground.

Emma recovered Rodrigo’s machete. She went to the pile of weapons. Unloaded each one and took the three ammunition belts.

Emma retrieved her backpack next to the fallen Mathilde. The woman no longer convulsed. She was dead.

Emma pried the lipstick tube out of her clenched hand. She tied up each man. Rodrigo was last. He glared his hate at her. Emma didn’t flinch. As she tied him, she bent closer. Her face was only inches from his.

“The next time you mess with me, you die. You’ve been in over your head this entire time, Rodrigo, deeper than your small brain can comprehend.” She stood. Waved at the man they called Manzillo.

“Let’s go. We don’t have much time.”

“Manzillo!” Rodrigo shouted to the farmer, who stepped forward. He spoke in Spanish so the American lady wouldn’t understand him. “Show her the way to the Lost City. Get back here as fast as you can. After she gives you the cure—kill her.”

51

THE PATH TO THE LOST CITY WAS STEEP AND ROCKY, BUT AT least it was clear. Emma didn’t need a machete to navigate it. She ran in long strides, working her way up the mountain. She settled into a race pace, but she knew she wouldn’t sustain it for twelve hours. She was too hungry, thirsty, and tired. Manzillo ran next to her, huffing and puffing. In the distance came the baying of hounds. Louisiana State was back with his bloodhounds. She remembered Mathilde saying that Rodrigo had called the Americans. They must have discovered him bound and tied and were mounting a search for her.

After an hour of running, she came to a fork in the path. Manzillo stopped.

“Which one goes to the Lost City?” Emma said.

Manzillo pointed to the left. “There. But I no longer come with you.”

“What about Rodrigo? Who will take him the antidote?”

Manzillo shifted his gun higher on his shoulder. “I don’t care. He is the devil. I will not help him live only to watch him kill again. If you want his life on your shoulders, then you take him the cure. But know this, lady, if you save him, then many more people will die. This is the way it is with Rodrigo. You will have these other people’s death on you.”

“Kill one to save many?” Emma said.

Manzillo nodded. He pointed to the path. “Go that way. There are no more forks.” He turned and trudged away.

Emma took a swig of the liter bottle in her backpack and resumed running. As she ran, she racked her brain to try to remember how many water crossings remained between her and the Lost City. When she’d made the hike the year before, she had started from a different location. Now she estimated that she was more than halfway there, much closer than the six hours Rodrigo had estimated. During the initial trek she thought she navigated seven or eight water crossings. At this height she might have two left; one would be waist-deep. Perhaps a water crossing would dilute her scent enough to make the dogs unable to track her, but she doubted it. Besides, it wouldn’t take much for her trackers to figure out that she was using an existing trail. They had to realize she was headed to the city. If they knew enough to hunt her, then they knew why she was in Colombia.

The rains came, turning the track to mud. She sank ankle-deep, pulling each foot out with a loud sucking sound. The run became a slog at a sloth’s pace. The mud forced her to exert more energy than straight running, because of the strength needed to free each foot from the mire. The rain created its usual drumbeat noise, canceling out the howling dogs. This drove Emma’s adrenaline higher. She hated not knowing how far they were behind her. The rains subsided. Emma strained her ears to listen for the howls. They were there, in the distance. Softer. The rains must have slowed them down, too.

Emma turned a corner and came upon an indigenous village. Round huts with conical, pointed thatch roofs sat in a semicircle. Several women cooked over an open fire while two children played in the dirt near them. All stopped and stared at Emma. One woman gave a sharp command to a child of about ten. He took off, running. He entered a hut on the far side of the village.