Fever by Autumn Archer
1
“I’ll secure the samples,” Bruce, my eco mentor and guide, yells over his shoulder. Thin framed glasses slide down the bridge of his narrow nose, unprotected by a sopping tarp hat. “They’ll be safe in the trunk.”
A corrugated leaf the size of a hand slaps my face as we battle the undergrowth and ramble over tree roots, trudging through mushy earth. If his coordinates are right, our campsite is close by, nestled in a clearing. I’m spurred on by the promise of dry clothes and a safe bed.
We pitched our tents in the middle of the Amazon rainforest, skirting a riverbank. It’s a temporary base where we monitor endangered flora like the weird looking rafflesia flower. As scientists, it’s our mission to study the Earth's oldest living ecosystem and work toward preserving the natural habitat.
Being used to the colder climate of Scotland, I’ve struggled to acclimate to the sticky air. The first few days were an exciting, sweaty adventure. A week later, my hand-washed undergarments are drenched beneath my clothes and I’m ankle deep in swampy, decomposing microorganisms.
I’m trying my best to keep up with Bruce’s mountain goat agility, but I’ve got shorter legs by a good few inches. The soles of my boots slip and slide, making it harder to match his pace. He bounds ahead, disappearing beyond expansive tree trunks and dense foliage.
A bolt of lightning brightens the dank lower level, where fan shaped palms dominate with deep green leaves. The constant buzz from millions of insects competes against a whooping howler monkey call.
Another bright flash dazzles my vision. A third zap cracks like a whip, followed by a sinister rumble as if heaven is falling down around us. It drowns out every distant holler and hoot. Wood splinters. The scent of charred bark permeates the stifling atmosphere. Rainwater gushes, and the earth below me vibrates like a bomb has exploded.
In one careless step, my boot wedges in twisted tree roots. My surprised squeal echoes like a wild mating call as I hit the forest floor, breaking twigs on my descent. No matter how hard I struggle, it’s a losing battle.
“Bruce!” I scream, jiggling and squirming. “I’m stuck.” Craning my neck, I search for my colleague in the thin beam of light projecting from my headlamp. “Bruce!”
The only way to escape is by untying the lace and wiggling my ankle free. With a grunt and a heave, my foot pops out. The force knocks me sideways. I tumble over the solid roots, catching my cheek on a jagged thorn. A sharp slice travels from my ear to chin, instantly stinging. Blood blends with raindrops. Damp hair clings to the cut. Muddy debris covers my hands, but Bruce is too busy protecting our work to notice. The lightweight shirt secured around my waist doubles as a towel. I wipe off the dirt, sucking in through my teeth as I dab the burning cut on its reverse side.
With one hiking boot on my left foot and a thin sock on the other, I clamber back to camp. Flashes of electricity strobe the polycotton tents—what’s left of them. A grand old tree taller than a skyscraper gave up its post, landing in the middle of our temporary lab. As it toppled, the trunk annihilated smaller trees in its wake, completely wiping out our sleeping quarters.
The more ground I cover, the less shelter there is from the storm. A deluge of rain plummets from the heavens. Blinding lightning bolts illuminate the catastrophic ruin, highlighting one half of Bruce’s body trapped beneath a horizontal tree.
My heartbeat swerves from pumped to hysterical. A shower of goose bumps floods my bare arms. It all happened so quickly. An hour ago, we were hunting for a fairytale-like mushroom flower with red petals, and the next, a crackling squall brewed, chasing us back to shelter.
“Bruce!” I bolt across sodden ground, skidding to my knees.
I’d rather not witness his pulverized skull or broken lenses painted in gore or my friend's squashed torso—but he’s lit up under torchlight, bloody, compressed and unmoving.
Cicada’s click, chirping louder when I can’t locate a pulse in his limp wrist. There might be a chance he’s alive. A slim one at that, but it's a small percentage worth fighting for—if the darn kapok tree wasn’t longer than a bridge and wider than a lift shaft.
On thorough inspection, I begrudgingly accept that Bruce’s brain no longer sparks brilliance. Even if his ribs hadn’t imploded and his lungs were still freely expanding, it wouldn’t alter the fact his wonderful mind has shut down.
The guy was pushing his early forties, only nineteen years my senior. What Bruce didn’t know about the ecosystem wasn’t worth knowing.
We met a few years ago, after I graduated as an ecologist and joined his laboratory. He had this trip organized months before I started working there, giving his assistant, Fergal, the coveted invitation.
It’s been a lifelong dream of mine to cross the globe and visit the Amazon rainforest. I’m the studious one who traded movie nights for controlled experiments and a fiancé for tiny beasties. I’ve been aching to visit this wild paradise ever since I was thirteen and my father told me there are more trees in the Amazon than stars in the Milky Way galaxy.
So, when Fergal took a tumble down a mountain during a hike and broke his leg a week before their departure, Bruce handed over the itinerary to me. For a second, I thought he’d change his mind when I nearly burst an artery with excitement. The shy and reserved scholar turned a deep shade of beetroot when I flung myself at him like a human missile, screaming like a crazy loud piha bird.
Without warning, my dream trip has pivoted, taking a harsh turn into hell.
Fear licks at my skin. The heightened awareness focuses my attention to dark drips diving from my jaw. I’m deserted in the jungle, alone, except for dangerous wildlife and a fresh cadaver.
The camp is approximately twenty-odd miles from civilization. A helicopter dropped us off last week and won’t be back with rations for another month, at least. We had constant contact with the lab back home, sharing environmental data and biodiversity discoveries. From what I can see, every single case study is obliterated, and our high-tech equipment destroyed.
My eyes sting with tears. Salty from sadness and wide with desolation. I sniff back a whimper and clutch his lifeless hand. “I’ll get you out of here, Bruce. Whenever I find someone to help.”
He deserves a proper burial with his family back home on the Isle of Skye. That’s if I survive the night and find a way out of the tropics alive.
Climbing over the woody bark, I drop to the other side and rummage through the saturated wreckage. Thankfully, the flare gun is still in its case, but the tree smashed the radio transmitter to smithereens, and the only laptop in sight is submerged in murky mush.
Metallic bitterness seeps into my mouth. The stench of blood catches in the moist air. I sense danger circling, see curious eyes surveying, and a growl sounds too close for comfort. Fully understanding my life is at risk, I snatch the flare gun before scampering to find more essentials.
My spare clothes are inaccessible, buried under masses of beige material trapped beneath the toppled tree. In a hurried panic, I locate one of Bruce’s bucket sized trail shoes and a light raincoat. With shaky hands and fast gasps, I shove my foot inside and shrug into the jacket. Pocketing the orange flare gun, I drag a broken camp chair over to the opposite side of the trunk to Bruce and perch on the drenched fabric. Hauling a short section of loose tent over the top of my head, I hunker down for the night.
It makes more sense to hide out under a skiff of shelter than hurtle into the woods, tired and unprepared. Hypnotizing plops land overhead until the rain finally passes. My belly growls for dinner, and my heart hurts knowing Bruce is behind me, muted and cold.
The last point I remember is a shivering fantasy where I hug my mother and father, then I jolt awake to a racket of gossiping macaws. My legs tingle from being huddled up, and my muscles are stiff. The gash on my cheek burns, congealed and sticky. When I lift the heavy curtain, a sphere of blinding orange burns fresh cantaloupe-colored rays through the lush green jungle.
Steadily straightening, I stare at the devastation surrounding me. There’s not much to salvage. Our rations are scattered. Tinned tomatoes poke out of the ground, which I’d happily tuck into if I had something sharp to cut into the metal.
A haunting cry warns of an imminent threat. I heave myself on top of the horizontal trunk, scanning the periphery, and then roll off the other side in an undignified manner. Now is not the time for decorum or dignity.
I have to find help. To leave camp and not look back at the sickening reminder of death. If I trek along the riverbank, it should eventually lead me to the village we flew over in the helicopter. It’s a long shot without a digital map and on an empty stomach, but I have to at least try.
From stifling sunrise to sticky sunset, I follow the muddy river and swat irritating mosquitoes. My lips are dry even though my matted hair is damp, and my spine slick. I’m slowing down, exhausted and surpassing shock. Sprigs crunch underfoot. Dense undergrowth heaves with life. A nasally snuffling pricks up my hearing.
I freeze, holding my breath as a spotted jaguar strolls down to the river’s edge only a few feet away. Holy hell, it's impressive and terrifyingly massive. If I were behind a glass screen, shielded from deadly jaws, I’d be in awe of its lithe beauty, however I’m unprotected, bleeding, and potentially its next big meal.
My feet itch to run. To climb a tree and hide until the next sunrise. Instead, I crouch down and shuffle backward, veering into the mouth of the rainforest where I’ll blend into the shadows. The jaguar lifts its head to the sky, sniffing the air before releasing a powerful roar that reverberates in my skull, whipping up the forest energy.
I’m going to die here. This is how Iris Kitson will meet her ultimate end. Torn apart limb by limb. Fought over by predators. Devoured until I’m a measly carcass. The rip-roaring boom stills. Repeated birdsong rivals the crickets’ sounds. A flash of light brightens the canopy, leading me deeper into the tangle of vines.
This is no longer a quest to find civilization.
It’s a prayer to the ecosystem I endeavor to protect.
Save me.
