Alter

  ALTER

  By Jeremy Robinson

  Description:

  Stranded in the Amazon rainforest, a lost man fights for survival and discovers that the root of evil doesn’t just reside in the world’s darkest corners, but inside the hearts of all mankind.

  Dr. Gregory Zekser is on a mission to visit the furthest reaches of the Amazon, providing medical aid to recently contacted tribes. As a general practitioner and food pantry director, his life in Massachusetts can be chaotic, but serving people is what he does best, and he doesn’t mind sacrificing his personal life to help others, at home or half way around the world.

  But any hope of returning home to his wife, daughter, and comfortable life are eradicated when the small plane carrying him back to civilization plummets into the unknown depths of the jungle. Swallowed by endless green, with both pilots dead, Greg struggles to stay alive in a world that wants to infect his body, suck him dry, and eat him whole. Ravaged by illness and dehydration, and stalked by a ruthless predator, Greg’s life teeters on the edge of oblivion until a scream lets him know that he is not alone.

  His first encounter with an uncontacted tribe ends in death—the first of many. Driven to the brink of madness, and then beyond, Greg finds himself caught up in a feud that existed before his arrival, but will only end with his death—or his enemies’.

  International bestselling author Jeremy Robinson, the master of taking creative and original concepts and fusing them with realistic and emotive characters, explores the depths to which a man can descend, and what it takes to climb back out.

  ALTER

  Jeremy Robinson

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  Table of Contents

  SURVIVAL

  1

  2

  3

  4

  5

  6

  7

  8

  9

  10

  11

  12

  13

  14

  VENGEANCE

  15

  16

  17

  18

  19

  20

  21

  22

  23

  24

  25

  26

  27

  28

  29

  30

  31

  CATALYST

  32

  33

  34

  35

  36

  37

  38

  39

  TRANSFORMATION

  40

  41

  42

  43

  44

  45

  46

  47

  48

  49

  EPILOGUE

  A NOTE FROM THE AUTHOR

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  ALSO by JEREMY ROBINSON

  For the voices in my head.

  SURVIVAL

  1

  A tree branch is the first thing I see upon waking. Normally, such a mundane thing wouldn’t garner a second glance, but as my eyes adjust to the shifting light around me, I focus on the twisting limb slicing through the air in front of me. The bark is smooth, as far as bark goes, like the hide of some hairless mammal. A hippo, perhaps. A few green leaves add color to its heathered gray surface.

  As the branch grows larger, I stop seeing the bark and the leaves. All that remains is the limb’s kinetic potential.

  A sound like screeching brakes drives home the limb’s murderous intent. The Cessna’s two pilots’ high-pitched screams reveal the state of their unpreparedness for what comes next: eternal supernatural life or nothingness. As my own scream builds, I realize I have yet to fully contemplate the issue myself. I’ve always been so focused on the plight of the here-and-now that I never really gave much thought to what comes next. Probably why I never finished that novel I started.

  The branch shatters glass, its ancient strength hewing through the small plane’s metal frame.

  The impact drowns out my voice.

  But my fear is not just for myself. My heart aches for Gwen, who will lose her husband. And for Juniper, who is still so young she won’t be able to remember me when she’s grown.

  A prayer to no particular deity flits through my mind as the sinister branch cleaves the pilots in two, popping their lungs and silencing their screams.

  Take care of my family. Protect Gwen and Juni—

  The end comes before I can finish.

  I feel the bark on my face, its rough surface scratching, more like sandpaper than skin. And then the world bends and shifts. Light becomes oblong. Disorientation swallows me whole.

  This is what it feels like to die, I think as distortion consumes me. Is this my soul slipping away? Or the last surge of chemicals numbing my mind, now that it’s been separated from my body?

  Then gravity reasserts itself.

  I’m still in the plane.

  Still strapped into my seat.

  Still looking at the branch, now just inches from my face.

  The limb stopped the plane, and is now lodged inside it. My face had brushed against its surface when my forward momentum came to a sudden stop, but the branch was unable to complete its murderous mission.

  I have been spared.

  Warmth drips onto my face, drawing my eyes back to the branch. A line of ants, carrying leaves down the tree, have had their progress stalled by rivulets of dark red.

  Blood. The pilot’s blood. It’s pouring out of his torso’s lower half, still strapped into the front seat above me. I can’t see the top half. Red and white tendrils of his insides hang down like slick vines.

  Above him, through the ruined windshield, a luminous jungle canopy shimmers in hues of yellow and green, and through the leaves, the blue sky.

  We’re not being held aloft by the branch. We’re hanging from it, tail down. The plane must have swung down after stopping.

  I need to escape.

  But I’ve never been good at climbing, or anything else remotely physical, and the door appears to be fused to the branch. If I open it…

  “Focus,” I say, my voice quivering with fear. ‘Observe, deduce, formulate, and react.’ Those were the words my father often spoke to me as a home-schooled child. He was my mentor, teacher, and role model until he died. I’m not sure his personal scientific method of dealing with problems makes complete sense, but I’ve always understood the gist of it. Slow down. Think things through. Come up with a plan and see it through. If I survive, I’ll probably teach Juniper my own version of the lesson.

  My attention turns to the plane’s ruined front end.

  Past the branch, and the bodies, the windshield that no longer exists is my path to freedom.

  Fingers fumble over metal made slick from blood. I try to ignore the gore. I’ve never seen its like before. But its surprising warmth and pungent old metal scent pokes me with white-hot reminders. When a drizzle of syrup-thick liquid traces a line across my chin and ends at the confluence of my lips, I yank to the side, but I’m held still by my restraints.

  “Why can’t I get it off?” I shout to no one, and then scream and thrash, lost in a moment of abject horror.

  Movement silences me and draws my eyes upward.

  Like a snail emerging from its shell, the pilot’s insides curl out of his torso.

  “No, no, no.” The words are spoken with a flutter.

  While the branch drew a scream from my lips, the hot innards of another human being splashing across my outstretched palms, and then my body and face, sends me into convulsions. I vomit the fish from lunch into the mess, twisting and pulling and slipping through coils of what I know are intestines, despite having my eyes crushed shut.

/>   I heave again, and this time the roar of my expulsion has a kind of doppler effect, fading into the distance as my stomach lurches up. For a moment the pressure of gravity reverses.

  By the time I realize the branch is missing, the plane covers the distance to the ground. Metal shrieks along with my cough of pain, expelled by the jarring impact. As the second pilot’s insides begin stretching out for me, I’m granted mercy at last.

  The plane’s front end angles forward and then falls, coming to rest at a forty-five degree angle on the forest floor, as though we’d landed—poorly.

  A heavy silence fills the cabin. In it, I can hear the hiss of leaves high above, the wind sifting through them. And then, birds. And insects. And other things I can’t identify. My voice joins the living chorus a moment later, blubbering unintelligible noises as I struggle with the seat restraints again.

  Slow down, some part of me drowning in blood manages to gurgle.

  I turn my full attention to the buckle trapping me in a slick prison. My fingers slip over the button every time I try to press it. It was hard to remove when it was dry, a fact that had once given me assurance that it wouldn’t come undone before I wanted it to. But I had never envisioned this scenario.

  Pushing with both thumbs, using equal force against each other, and down, I depress the button. With a click, the seat belt retracts.

  Freedom brings fresh waves of panic. My fingers slip over the door handle three times as I groan and croak, my breaths coming in uneven gulps. When the latch finally stops fighting me, I push on the door.

  Bent metal resists.

  Repulsion-fueled outrage draws a scream from my throat, loud enough to once more silence the nearby wildlife, and scratch my throat.

  I kick the small door hard, again and again. My bones and muscles protest, but I hammer away until the door swings open.

  Like a birthing horse, I slide from the orifice, bloodied, panicked, and confused as I fall a foot to the earth. I mewl like a wounded animal, thinking nothing coherent. I just want to be held. To be comforted. To know I’m going to be safe.

  But I get none of those things.

  Instead, the jungle calls out, reminding me where I am, reminding me that while I’ve survived the crash, death still looms.

  “Good intentions or not, the depths of that dark jungle are no place for a man of your…physical abilities,” Gwen told me upon hearing my plan to provide medical support to the tribal peoples of the Amazon. “There are plenty of people in the world that need help, including places with electricity and running water.”

  Her points were valid. Are valid. I’m lanky, have poor endurance, and am prone to insomnia, but just because something is hard doesn’t mean it shouldn’t be done. We’ve led a privileged life, and will continue to do so after my three-month stint is done. Giving back to the world that’s given us so much is the right thing to do. And I believed I could have a real impact on people’s lives. Healing in the Amazon is often mixed with superstitious folklore and questionable hygiene. Modern medicine cannot just heal people, it can transform lives. Entire communities.

  In hindsight, I should have listened to her, but even she couldn’t have predicted my first tour of the jungle I intended to make my temporary home would end in disaster.

  Lying on my back, gore congealing on my clothing and skin, I stare up at the dancing canopy. Pinpoints of light twinkle through the endless green twilight, but I have been cut off from the sky. There’s not even a hole to mark the plane’s passage. I’ve been swallowed by a great beast, and will be slowly digested by its sweltering insides.

  I roll to the side and vomit once more.

  When I push myself up, stiffness—in my muscles, and from the drying blood—nearly keeps me down. Muscles quiver and spasm. Adrenaline is wearing off. Shock is setting in.

  Unsteady legs hold me aloft, but I’m forced to cling to the now wingless plane. In every direction: jungle. Twisting trees. And vines. And leaf-littered ground, alive with marching ants.

  I should have never come.

  Don’t give in to despair, I tell myself, and I try to channel my father’s calm, problem-solving nature. “Show me the way home.”

  I’ve spent less time pondering the existence of ghosts and spirits than I have a supernatural creator. My job is to prevent death, usually through prescription drugs and ointments. I don’t get paid to think about what happens when I fail.

  Desperate times, I suppose.

  If my father still exists in spirit form, can traverse the astral plane and hear his son’s voice, maybe he can do something to help? Impart some wisdom from beyond the grave? Maybe redirect someone’s path toward me?

  Of course, if that were possible, we’d all be talking to the dead on a regular basis.

  The sound of approaching feet through brush makes me flinch.

  A chill runs up my back and raises the hair on my neck.

  “Dad?” I whisper, glancing around like I might catch sight of his apparition.

  The footsteps grow quieter, but I have no trouble zeroing in on my rescuer.

  With a pounding heart, I realize that if my father’s ghost had anything to do with this, his goal isn’t to save me, but to bring about our reunion in the afterlife.

  2

  Like all cats, jaguars are curious creatures. Where other animals might flee from the sound of humanity, many feline species are drawn toward the unknown. And the beast of a cat eyeing me from a gap in the low-lying jungle foliage is no different.

  Round yellow eyes lock on to mine, unblinking. I’ve never seen such focus. Its ears are folded back, tight like the rest of its low-to-the-ground body. It moves with such slow fluidity, it’s like watching a nature film in slow motion. I can hear the British narrator in my head, describing how the predator is about to pounce on its feeble prey, pronouncing jaguar as ‘shag-yoo-are.’ If not for the hunger in its eyes and the lack of a barrier between us, I’d find the creature beautiful. The only blemish on its sleek, perfectly made body, is a scar above its right eye.

  I try to mirror the cat’s pace, stepping back, but my body quivers as adrenaline flows once more. A half step is all I make it before bumping into the plane and yelping.

  The cat doesn’t flinch. I suppose it’s accustomed to hearing its prey cry out.

  But why hasn’t it struck yet?

  Before starting on the long path toward being a general practitioner, I was fascinated with animals and very nearly became a veterinarian. Potential income drove me toward healing people over animals, but I’ve never lost my interest in the Earth’s menagerie. I’ve never interacted with a cat larger than a Persian, but I’ve always had a sense that, at the core, all cat species have similar personalities hardwired into their DNA, making them both beautiful to behold, and deadly.

  Back on the plane, when I was sure death was certain and impending, I felt less fear than I do now. I would be, and then I wouldn’t be. But this… The idea of being eaten alive has never crossed my mind.

  But I won’t be alive when I’m consumed.

  That’s why the jaguar hasn’t attacked.

  It’s waiting for me to run. To turn my back. To provide it with a clear path to my neck, which it will grasp in its powerful jaws before breaking my spine. And if that doesn’t kill me, the cat will apply pressure until I’m suffocated.

  Better than being eating alive, but still…

  I risk a glance to the right.

  In the moment it takes me to confirm that the plane’s door is still open, the jaguar takes three silent steps closer, its shoulders pumping like pistons. The cat’s yellow coat and paint-dab spots slide over its body, a living work of dark expressionism.

  When I startle at the movement, the cat slows once more, continuing the game of life-and-death Red Light - Green Light.

  I slide along the plane toward the door.

  The jaguar’s eyes flare. It’s subtle, but I think it recognizes that the structure could separate it from a meal. The creature’s nose twitch
es as it takes in the scent of my dead pilots, whose names I can’t recall. Feeling like a jerk, I continue on my snail’s-pace path to safety.

  We move in tandem, me toward the door, the jaguar toward me. I’m going to reach the door first, needing to cover just another twelve inches, while the jaguar has twice the distance in feet to cover. But that doesn’t mean I’ll be fast enough.

  Catch it off guard, I think. Move before it does.

  That’s my only chance.

  The jaguar leaps forward, as though sensing my plan.

  A high-pitched wail slips from my lips as I dive inside the plane. When I spin around and look back, intending to yank the door shut, it’s clear I won’t have time. The jaguar is nearly upon me. My hand slaps something firm. My fingers clench, and I hurl the object with a desperate roar.

  The jaguar is as taken aback by my sudden about-face as I am. Doubly so, when the improvised weapon strikes its nose.

  With a shrill roar and a few swipes of its extended claws, the jaguar defeats the three-pound human liver. Noting the cat’s distraction, I continue to shout, as much out of self-defense as horror, and then I set about tossing the rest of the pilot’s insides…outside.

  The jaguar backtracks, confused by a prey animal that can shed internal organs at will.

  Lumps of various shades of maroon slap on the rich soil, collecting dry leaves like breading. Loops of entrails thump on the ground, pasta to the meat. A human smorgasbord.

  It feels wrong, offering up a man who was alive just minutes ago, as a meal. But he is dead and gone, and I am not.

  It’s just meat, I tell myself, as I kick the last of the insides out through the door. Then I offer one last roar at the big cat, grasp the door handle, and slam it shut. The door bangs and bounces back open. I leap for the handle, and close it again, this time more carefully.

  The cat’s eyes remain locked on mine through the window, its posture still one of attack. But I’m safe. I’m… My eyes drift to the plane’s ruined front end. There is plenty of space for the jaguar to reach the plane’s interior. But it doesn’t know that. It’s just a cat. The barrier that now separates us—from its perspective—is impenetrable. Well, it doesn’t know that yet, but it will if it tries to assault me through the window.