Jungle
Matthew Ryan Fischer
How many days had they been in the jungle? Between the vomiting
and liquid diarrhea, Mario had forgotten. He was pretty sure the Hepatitis vaccine
had failed. That, or his water purifier. The heat was unbearable. The rain
never seemed to stop. Even with constant rain, they were so close to the
equator, Mario felt a constant sunburn on his neck and cheeks.
“Jon, what are we doing here?”
“Standing guard.”
“No, I mean it. What are we doing? This is going on forever and
there’s no reason to be here.”
“We’re being paid. Man gets what the man pays for.”
“I’m dying out here.”
“You’re not dying. You’re just a little under is all.”
“If they were going to dig, they’d dig. If someone was going to
stop them, they’d stop them. We cleaned the villages out. The man bribed the governor.
If anyone was going to come stop him, it would have happened. All we’re doing
is sitting in the shitty mud and rain and catching malaria.”
“You don’t have malaria.”
“You don’t know what I have. I don’t know what I have. I haven’t
eaten in a week. I can barely drink anything.”
“Calm down, Mario. Rick will be here soon. You can go back to the
tents and get some sleep.”
“The tents are soaked and smell like piss. People are pissing in
the tents rather than wander out ten feet into the jungle. What does that tell
you?”
“That nobody likes getting soaked in the rain.”
“That’s fucking right. This shit sucks.”
Mario’s dreams were full of blood and images of machetes. He
watched as one man has his hands chopped off. Another had his hand crushed by a
hammer. Mario, for his part, defending himself, smashing one man against a
rock, but he was no match for the shadow with the machete.
When Mario awoke, he didn’t know if it was day or night. Days were
basically twelve hours long all year long at the equator. It could have been
early morning or night, but he couldn’t tell. How long had he slept? Was he better?
His head was still warm. His stomach was silent, but hunger had not returned.
It was impossible to tell yet what would happen once he ate.
He ventured out of the tent, but found no one else at the base
camp. Mario wandered back towards the construction site where no construction
ever actually occurred. The site was eerily quiet.
When he found Jon, Jon was on the ground with a shovel sticking
out of his chest. Rick and Barry were still missing. Mario pulled his gun, on
high alert, when he heard a moaning behind him.
Slowly he turned.
Jon was standing, shovel protruding from his chest. He moaned like
a wild animal. Mario took a step back, unsure. Jon took a step forward. Then another.
Mario yelled at him, told him to stop. He begged him to stop. But Jon just took
another step. He didn’t seem human anymore. Didn’t seem alive. Mario issued
warning after warning until he felt he had no other choice.
He fired his gun.
Jon slumped, but the shovel hit the ground first, and kept his
body up. Slowly, Jon’s weight leaned more and more into the shovel’s handle.
The shovel cut deeper into his chest. His body slumped lower. Eventually he
slipped and fell to the ground. The shovel fell the other way.
Mario almost threw up.
What the fuck happened here, he wondered. And where were the others?
Jon was moving again. His body convulsing, twisting and turning.
Mario wasn’t sure if Jon was alive, or if there was some last gasp
of seizure as the last of his neurons fired.
“I’m sorry. I’m so sorry.” Jon was his friend. Mario hated that he
had to kill him. Jon was his partner. His friend. Jon was—
Jon was moving again. Trying to get up off the ground.
Mario fired again, then turned and ran for one of the vehicles.
“Fuck this,” he screamed. No paycheck was worth this. Mario ran
and tried to forget the image of Jon’s broken and twisted body, dead and
disfigured, but still fighting for life.
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