บท 55: HEART OF DARKNESS
'WE STOP HERE.
Now you walk.' West had instructed Raoul, the mustached guard, to lend them one of four open-top jeeps parked in a smaller clearing just north of the research center.
Mowen had told Purna, Sam, and Logan that the route to the Kuruni village had been formed over the centuries by the passage of feet, not vehicles, and that it would therefore be narrow and uneven, but passable.
When Purna had asked for directions to the village, Mowen had surprised her by saying there were many paths, and that they would quickly get lost without him.
'But it's too dangerous for you to come with us,' Purna said. 'There's sickness in the village.' Mowen grinned and patted his chest.
'I not get sick,' he told her. At first, she wondered whether he was immune like the rest of them, but when, after a stop–start journey during which they had to get out of the jeep a dozen times to hack a path through the dense vegetation, he cut the engine and instructed them to walk, she realized he meant he had no intention of getting too close to the action.
'How far is it?' she asked. He raised his hands as if the distance was negligible. 'Less than one hour.' 'And you'll be here when we get back?' He nodded.
'Yes. I wait.' Purna hesitated, and Sam knew she was debating whether to issue a warning about what would happen to him if he let them down. However, in the end, she simply said, 'OK. Thanks, Mowen. See you later.'
They began to walk, flies and mosquitoes buzzing around them, their journey accompanied by the ever-present chorus of birds and insects.
Although Sam was pretty sure they'd hear if one of the infected came crashing towards them through the undergrowth, he wondered how aware he, Purna, and Logan would be if the regular cannibals started to stalk them.
This was their natural habitat, after all, and for all Purna's training and athleticism, the three of them were little more than prey out here. Their guns might give them a certain amount of reassurance and authority, but Sam couldn't help but think it was a false comfort.
He'd seen those old Tarzan movies as a kid and knew how easy it would really be to bring them all down.
A bunch of curare-tipped blowpipe darts in the backs of their necks, and that would be it. Something else that concerned him was the time factor.
With the sun still high overhead, it was easy to forget that it was now late afternoon. Sooner rather than later, therefore, it would start to get dark.
If it took an hour to walk to the Kuruni village and an hour to get back, it would be early evening before they rejoined Mowen at the jeep, by which time the sun would be sinking rapidly towards the horizon.
Although Sam really didn't like the thought of being stuck out in the jungle at night, he kept his fears to himself.
There was no point expressing them until the possibility became a reality.
He hoped everything would work out OK, in which case they could bed down at the research center tonight, head back to Mowen's village with the vaccine in the morning, then get the trader to take them all out to the prison.
With any luck, by lunchtime tomorrow, they would be sitting in a chopper and heading away from this messed-up place.
The first indication they were nearing the village was when they heard the faint jabber of raised voices beyond the screen of vegetation ahead.
Purna glanced back, gesturing at Sam and Logan to move quietly, then crept forward, her body bent in a crouch.
For a minute or more the sounds rose and fell, as if carried by the faint warm breeze that intermittently rustled the leaves of the plants around them.
Then they began to consolidate, to acquire substance.
Now, although none of them could understand the words being spoken, Purna, Sam, and Logan could tell the voices were full of fear and urgency, and that underpinning them were the familiar heart-sinking snarls and moans of the infected.
When the quality of the light lancing through the gaps between the fleshy overlap of leaves became more piercing and less green, they knew they were reaching the edge of the jungle. Purna glanced back once again, perhaps simply to reassure herself her companions were still close by, then she bent down and carefully parted the leaves with both hands so they could all peer through them.
More by luck than judgment, the gap she had made framed a perfect tableau of what was happening in the village.
At the end of a long, dusty street lined with conical hive-like huts of mud and grass, was a cluster of mature trees, which marked the boundary between the far side of the village and the continuation of the jungle.
Perched in the branches of the trees were at least a dozen people, the shadows cast by the fleshy-leaved branches reducing them to little more than bobbing-headed silhouettes.
Their voices, calling to each other, could clearly be heard.
They were quarreling voices, full of anxiety and anger; voices bordering on, and occasionally spilling over into, panic.
The reason for their distress was obvious. Gathered at the base of the trees, reaching up to scrabble and claw at the trunks, or simply at the air, were dozens of the infected.
They were clambering over one another in an effort to get closer to their potential prey, though fortunately, they seemed unable to coordinate their thoughts enough to climb the trees themselves.
However, without help, it would surely only be a matter of time before what now appeared to be the minority of Kuruni people still unaffected by the virus succumbed to thirst or hunger or simple fatigue and fell into the clutches of the ravenous hordes below.
From the evidence, it appeared that events here had suddenly and shockingly come to a head, and that after years, perhaps centuries, of living with the virus, the balance of the scales had tipped and the dead – perhaps through sheer weight of numbers – had instigated some kind of bloody, albeit mindless, coup.
Aside from the few villagers who had had the luck and foresight to head for the only safe direction – straight up, into the trees – it was obvious that the Kuruni tribe had been decimated by the attack.
Between the edge of the jungle where Purna, Sam, and Logan were crouching, and the trees providing temporary sanctuary for the survivors at the far end, was a scene that resembled the aftermath of an explosion.
Dozens of mutilated bodies were lying in pools of blood along the dusty street, many of them missing limbs, or with their flesh stripped down to the bone or their stomachs ripped open and their entrails exposed to view.
Most were permanently and mercifully dead, their remains crusted with fat and feasting flies, though there were a few that had been resurrected by the virus and were now wriggling pitifully in the dirt, trying desperately to re-animate bodies that were damaged beyond repair. Sam swallowed, his mouth dry, his mind reeling at the sight of this fresh atrocity.
'Fuck me,' Logan whispered. 'Guess we
're a little late, huh?' 'We still have to help those people,' whispered Purna. 'We can't just leave them up there.' 'I hear ya,' Sam whispered. 'But how?' Purna was silent for a moment, her eyes restless as she took note of the terrain ahead and their available resources.
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