Alter Page 3

  I see her small face, twisting up in pain. I see her childhood robbed. I see her innocence shattered. As a father, I want to protect her from pain, not become the source of it.

  “Damnit,” I say, barely able to hear my own voice over the rain. So I shout, “Damnit!” and it does nothing to help me feel better.

  The rain keeps me motionless for two hours, and then, all at once, it disappears. The transition from dark gray clouds to bright sun is seconds, and the temperature rises as quickly, turning the jungle into a sauna.

  I stand to strike out again, heading nowhere in particular, and my feet squelch with water.

  I close my eyes, take a deep breath and let it out slowly.

  Being saturated is uncomfortable, but not dangerous. Walking with soaked feet is another story. Macerated skin, which has absorbed water and become more fragile as a result, is prone to blistering. Even a thirty-minute walk could result in a bevy of painful blisters. But when macerated skin dries, it’s robbed of natural oils and often cracks open. In both scenarios, the resulting wounds can become infected. And if that happens, it’s not just my feet that will be affected.

  Self-recommendation: dry my feet. Dry my shoes. Put on fresh socks. If the comforts of civilization were an option, I’d suggest salve to restore oils. But that’s not going to happen. In my case, I just need to make sure my boots and feet stay dry from here on out.

  Dry feet in the rainforest…

  I sigh and feel thankful that the boots aren’t waterproof. Contrary to shoe-seller marketing, there’s no such thing as a completely waterproof shoe or boot. Water will find its way in, whether it be through the sock, or via the skin’s pores. Non-waterproof shoes allow water, and air, to flow. While this might mean wet feet sooner, it also means dry feet sooner. Time is the key factor in avoiding blisters and cracks.

  Unable to move, I retrieve my poncho and lay it out on the sodden earth, using it as a thin, nylon rug. I remove my shoes and socks, confirming that my toes are both exceptionally pale and wrinkled. I lay the shoes and socks out, and then remove my clothes to drape over the tall root system. Drying in the humid air will take time. It might not even be possible. But somewhat dry is better than feeling like a sponge.

  Being nude feels liberating for a moment, but shame drives me to don my spare pair of black boxers. Just in case rescue comes sooner than expected. I sit on the poncho and survey my gear. I know what the backpack holds, but the satchel is a mystery. I’m not even sure which pilot it belonged to.

  The leather, like me, is swollen and soft. But the buckle and strap holding the top down is tight, and the zipper beneath is still sealed. Sorry, I think to the dead and eaten pilots, and then I pry the satchel open.

  “Huh,” I say.

  The contents at the top—a foil-wrapped meal and a water bottle—are not what I expected, but they’re certainly welcome. I place the food and water aside and dig down further. There’s a notebook, its pages partially full of Portuguese writing that I can’t read. It could be notes about flights or a novel, for all I know. But the pages are dry and will make good kindling in a place where everything else is wet.

  I pluck a Zippo lighter from the satchel next. Its brushed metal has been etched with a pot leaf. I open the cap, give it a flick and feel a touch of relief upon seeing a strong flame. I close it quickly, nervous about using its fuel.

  A flannel shirt lines the satchel’s bottom. It’s dry and at least two sizes too small for me, so I pull it out, intending to use it as towel. But when the orange, brown, and white plaid fabric emerges and reveals what was hidden beneath, I forget all about my wet feet.

  There are four objects lying at the bottom of the bag. The first is a brick of what can only be marijuana. I pull out the plastic-wrapped bundle and smell it to confirm my theory. Definitely marijuana, which some doctors are still opposed to, but I think it provides an opportunity to heal, stop pain, and free people from opioid addictions the medical community created. I haven’t actually smoked it myself, and this amount is likely illegal in most parts of the world, but I have no moral objections to it…on its own.

  The rest of the satchel’s contents put it in a different light. The first is a smaller pack of white powder, which I assume is cocaine. Enough of it to sell for a significant profit. I can’t think of a way to test it without getting high, so I open the bag and discard its contents into the soil. I would hate to be rescued only to be arrested.

  A bundle of cash—American dollars—is next. I flip through the bills and guess there’s at least $5000 in hundreds. I put the money beside the brick of marijuana and remove the last two items—a handgun and a spare magazine. I have no idea what kind of weapon it is, or what caliber bullets it fires. I know very little about weapons, and am generally opposed to people carrying them like we live in the Wild West, but out here…it brings a smile to my face.

  In a land where more than a few of the denizens would be happy to make a meal of me, the ability to kill from a distance will keep me alive and out of digestive tracts. It could also help feed me. I count thirteen bullets in the magazine. Assuming the magazine already in the weapon is loaded, that’s twenty six bullets.

  Feeling a bit safer thanks to the satchel’s contents, I feel bad judging my pilots, but can’t help myself. When they’re not ferrying doctors or tourists, they could be running drugs, or weapons. Or both. They were both kind men, to me at least, but I’m sure the company they kept was questionable at best.

  What if there were more drugs on the plane?

  The question comes from the recesses of my mind, but quickly moves to the forefront. What if there is a hidden compartment? Or drugs in the tires? Or in the seat cushions. If that’s the case, then maybe someone will come looking for the plane.

  I glance down at the dumped cocaine. Crap. Then I look to the bundle of cash. That should cover it.

  And it changes my plan, at least for now. I’m not going to walk aimlessly, I’m going to wait, near the plane, and hope someone comes looking. Of course, that means I have to find the plane again and with my footprints erased by the storm, that’s easier said than done. But for now…I’m going to rest, and relax. I look at the brick of marijuana, the notebook full of paper, and then the lighter.

  I even have munchies…and my body is aching.

  Screw it, I decide, and I set about rolling a joint for the first time, hoping it will do as much for my emotional turmoil as for my physical pain. Like any good doctor, I know the solution to any malady isn’t found in symptom treatment, but in diagnosing and eradicating the cause. Anything else is just a temporary solution. But right now, it’s better than drowning in the knowledge that, walk or stay, I’m likely never leaving this place.

  5

  I’ve never been high. Never been drunk. The idea of losing control didn’t sit well with me.

  Didn’t.

  Past tense.

  Lost in the Amazon rainforest, I’m feeling pretty good. Not about my chances of rescue, or even my survival, but just life in general. You know, like, life. It’s all around me, like never before. The birds calling out. The monkeys. I think they’re monkeys. I saw some of them high above a few minutes ago. And they had tails. So, I think they were monkeys, because monkeys are primates with tails.

  Anywho, wait. Do apes have tails? Are there even apes in the rain forest? Yeah, there are, but not this rain forest. Not in South America. Not unless someone brought them here.

  I gasp and cover my mouth. That’s how the gorillas can be saved. Why hasn’t anyone thought of that? Bring the gorillas here, let them do their thing, bingo-bango, the population recovers in a jungle so big that poachers don’t matter.

  Of course, there are hunters here. And even worse, logging companies slashing and burning the world’s most important landscape, but still, gorillas could make a comeback here. I’m sure of it.

  But maybe the monkeys wouldn’t like that?

  They didn’t seem to like me, especially when I joined in with their hooting. T
hey all kind of stopped and craned their heads toward me. They didn’t say anything, because, you know, they’re monkeys, but I got a strong sense of ‘Who the hell do you think you are?’ from them before they high-tailed it out of here.

  Can monkeys ‘high-tail’ it? I think that phrase stems from deer. Because they raise their white tails when they run, confusing predators. But the monkeys here have prehensile tails.

  That’s a funny word. “Prehensile.” I laugh. “Pre-hen-sile… Prensile. Pretzel. Pretzel tail!” I snort as I polish off the cold pork sandwich from that satchel.

  Oh man, I am high.

  A laugh bubbles up from deep down. I don’t curse. Not even in my head. Not much, anyway. I’m not really sure why. I think I just never wanted to slip up and offend anyone, especially on the job, or at the pantry, or at home, which pretty much covers the majority of my time on planet Earth.

  “But not now!” I say with a grin. “Now it’s just me and the monkeys, and maybe the gorillas someday. So, shit, shit, shit, shit, shit, and a happy fuck-a-doodle-do.”

  I’m not sure how long I’ve been here, in my little alcove, and I don’t really care. I’m fed and comfortable, laid out on my poncho, surrounded by curtains of clothing hanging from the tall roots that remind me of that wall in Game of Thrones, but made of wood instead of ice.

  “Winter is coming,” I say with a chuckle before having an imaginary sword fight with The Mountain.

  Gwen hates Game of Thrones. Honestly, I’m not sure why I enjoy it. All the swearing, and gore, and nudity, and general focus on the depravity of people, usually isn’t my thing. I think I’m hoping that, in the end, good will win out even though the odds of that happening seem insurmountable.

  “Oh, shit. Oh, damn.” My hands squeeze the sides of my head. “What if I miss it? What if I’m here when it ends? I can stream it.” My heartrate slows. “Oh, thank God, I can stream it. No spoilers, though.” I point to the low hanging branches above me, from where the small monkeys scrutinized me. They’re gone. I know that. But I can still see them, like a residue on reality. “No spoilers!”

  I’m not just high, I’m really high.

  This was a bad idea. The thought comes and goes like the breeze. I know it’s a bad idea, to be out of my head in such a dangerous place. I just don’t care.

  Because the pain is dulled.

  My body feels good.

  And the agonizing thoughts about Gwen and Juni, and the imaginings of my fate have faded into a psychedelic background, replaced by profound realizations about the universe, and for the first time ever, a questioning of my place in it.

  “What if,” I think aloud, “someone traveled beyond the edge of everything? What would be there? Just nothing? Would the vacuum of space end? Or reverse? Maybe God is there? Or, ohh, maybe you’d just end up on the far side of the universe, and have to make the whole trip over again. Or maybe there is no end to the universe. What does that say about the Big Bang? If the universe is expanding, there has to be an end, right? But maybe it’s expanding faster than anyone can ever travel, and if you could travel that fast, by the time you reached the end, the Earth probably wouldn’t exist anymore, because of Einstein, and then what would be the point, right?”

  The monkey that arrived during the middle of my monologue, chewing on something that’s crunchy on the outside and gooey on the inside—a bug, or fruit—critiques my theory by releasing a streaming fecal stew.

  “Well, what do you think is beyond the universe’s edge?”

  The monkey goes rigid, its head whipping toward a series of high-pitched squeaks.

  “If you’re going to shit on my ideas, you could at least—”

  The monkey leaps away.

  “Fine,” I shout. “We’ll see how you like it when the gorillas move in! They know sign language, you know!” An image of signing gorillas getting frustrated with stupid monkeys sets me laughing.

  Those were warning calls.

  “Pfft. They’re just afraid of thinking for a change.”

  Something is coming.

  A predator.

  “I ain’t got time to bleed,” I say, laughing. “Because I’m a sexual Tyrannosaurus.”

  My smile falters when the head of a snake slips around the root wall, and flicks its forked tongue in my direction.

  “Did I say you could taste me?”

  The snake slithers further out, its body tapering out to the width of a candlepin bowling ball. How much further can constrictors expand? I’ve seen photos of snakes that have swallowed farm animals, and on occasion, people. But I think those are anacondas. “My anaconda don’t want none, unless you got buns, hon.”

  The snake turns toward me, not because of my poorly sung Sir Mix-a-Lot, but because that flicking tongue smells something tasty. I don’t think it’s me. I’m pretty sure all the blood was washed away in the deluge. And if it was following the scent of blood, it would be more interested in my clothing.

  My eyes widen. It’s after my pork sandwich. I look down at the foil wrapping and the few nuggets of pork it still holds. I pick up a piece and toss it toward the boa. “Here you go, buddy.”

  The chunks of meat sail past the snake. The third biffs its forehead and bounces away. The snake flinches back, as the rest of its body slides into view. At least twenty feet long.

  I start singing Hall & Oates’ Maneater, and realize that I like movies, TV, and music a lot more when I’m stoned. What other parts of my personality have I been suppressing? “I’m kind of a goody two shoes, old fuddy duddy,” I tell the snake. It’s unimpressed and unmoved by my words. Its long body coils up, jaw flexing.

  Even high, I can tell its warming up for a strike.

  “Really, man? I’m too big to eat.”

  I think.

  But I’m not too big to kill.

  Maybe I should let it? There’re worse ways to go than asphyxiation. Dehydration. Starvation. Infection. They’re all slow and painful. This would be quick, and I’d be dead by the time it tried and failed to eat me. Its bite would hurt, but how long would it take to die? A few minutes?

  “I can’t let you do that,” I say. “I have to at least try to get home. You understand?”

  It doesn’t. The snake inches closer, nearly within range.

  I pull my bare feet back. “Really? Not cool, man. Not cool.”

  I reach out for my backpack, loop my fingers around the strap and start dragging it toward me. The snake redirects its attention to the orange pack, flicking its tongue.

  The handgun is within reach.

  The machete, too.

  But once I’ve got the backpack shield between me and the snake, I reach for the smoldering remains of my notebook-paper joint. What are they called when they’re this short? A roach?

  I don’t really think getting higher will help, though it could make death a little less unpleasant. I just pick it up, wondering why anyone would name it a ‘roach,’ and suck in a lungful of mind-altering smoke. “Weed gets a bad rap,” I tell the snake, coughing out the smoke while deciding to recommend it to all my patients, which could just be monkeys. “I blame Reagan.”

  The serpent doesn’t care.

  Sensing the snake’s building tension, I slide my cross-legged shins in behind the backpack and try to make myself small behind it. I feel like a kid again, hiding from my friends, the king of manhunt once more. I was a master of stealth and concealment. Not that I can hide from the snake. It might not have the best eyes, but it can smell-taste me, and sense my every movement as a vibration in the ground.

  My next inhalation polishes off the roach. Ashes fall to the ground while non-cancer causing—maybe even anti-cancer causing—smoke swirls in my lungs.

  A hiss is followed by an impact that feels a little bit like Rocky just slugged the backpack. I peek over the backpack’s top, eyeing the snake, whose head is three times the size of my fist. Its hooked, needle-sharp teeth are snagged in the pack’s fabric, top and bottom.

  The wide-jawed snake senses
it hasn’t struck anything living. It thrashes back and forth, trying to dislodge itself. A closed-mouth snort launches twin, upside down geysers of smoke onto the snake. It flails harder, more panicked than pissed.

  Doesn’t like the smoke, I decide, and I unleash a long stream of pot fumes into its face and open mouth.

  “Embrace the high,” I say, when the last of the smoke has left my lungs. I follow the sentence with a string of coughs that shakes my body and the backpack, jostling the snake loose.

  The boa snaps back, twists away, and hauls non-ass back into the forest.

  I chase it away with a lazy, “Don’t do drugs!”

  I spend the next two hours talking to myself, and the monkeys, and the snake that left and never came back. About everything and nothing. I can’t remember most of it, which is fine with me, because as it starts to wear off, reality descends.

  I’m still lost.

  Still separated from my family.

  On the plus side, my clothing, socks, and shoes are relatively dry, and the humidity has tapered off a little. I don’t regret turning to marijuana for help. It kept me out of the slough of despond, and its lingering effects are helping keep my thoughts centered on hope and action rather than despair.

  For now.

  By the time I’m dressed and packed up, reality is a little clearer and a lot more depressing.

  “You’ve only been here for a day,” I tell myself, disappointed in my weakness, and already hankering for another mental escape. “Man up and move.”

  I turn in the direction from which I think I fled the airplane, take two steps, and then remember the jaguar. Why was I going back to the plane? Because Matheus might have been in cahoots with drug dealers who would move Heaven and Earth to retrieve their drug plane, which might be laden with a million dollars’ worth of cocaine…or a jaguar.