A Spoiled Pet
A Spoiled Pet
When the virus first reared its ugly head, experts predicted that it would cause over a million deaths in the United States alone. Consequently, international travel got shut down, hospitals had to set up temporary morgues, most people wore masks and did their best to keep a safe distance from one another.
But, hope emerged when a vaccination for the virus was approved and implemented. As the summer months brought in a heatwave—it appeared that the worst was over—that life was finally returning to ‘normal.’
Still, the world economy had been hit hard by the pandemic. Thus, when the numbers of infections stabilized, a push was made by a collection of large corporations and rich countries to reinvigorate the economy.
For my part, I was lucky enough to maintain stable employment, housing, and health during the crisis. I worked at home for a large and successful tech company in the California Bay Area. Throughout the months of lockdown, my salary remained the same, but my expenses decreased. So, after having been cooped up for months I took the extra cash and departed on a motorcycle tour of South America.
As I entered Patagonia—my second leg of this adventure—reports began to surface that a vaccine-resistant strain of the virus had emerged in the favelas of Brazil and possibly the slums of India.
Society was slow to react; no one wanted to return to lockdown, no one wanted to believe the news. There were so many conflicting reports during the viruses first go about that the reputations of many traditionally trustworthy networks and politicians had been tarnished. People were waiting to see if we were going to be plunged into another quarantine.
Then, three days ago, as I was walking through the crowded city streets, a beggar crossed my path some 50 yards in front of me. His hands were plum purple and an egg yoke yellow crust surrounded his eyes. His cough was as loud as an automobile accident and he spat out thick bloody mucus.
The moment I saw him I knew I was staring into the face of the virus. The sight forced me to abandon my plans for the day, turn around, and stock up on groceries. As a precaution, I decided to wait things out indoors until the data began rolling in.
During my time self-quarantining, I read up on the history of pandemics and infectious diseases in an effort to understand the context of my situation. I was alarmed to find how many similarities there were between the Spanish Flu of 1918 and our current pandemic. For starters, both diseases are highly infectious, airborne and deadly.
When the Spanish flu struck, initial reports relegated the potent strain of influenza to secondary importance. Partially because the symptoms and mortality rates fell in line with the seasonal flu. But mainly, because the Wilson administration was hellbent on keeping information that it saw as counterproductive to the war effort out of the media.
Then, that summer, the rates of infection dropped. It was speculated that like many diseases, the Spanish Flu simply couldn’t cope with the heat. That it had run its course and the worst of it would remain behind us as nothing more than a historical footnote.
It could hardly have been known that somewhere in Europe the virus had mutated. The adapted influenza now needed less than 24 hours to kill a healthy human being in the prime of their life. The rapid movement of troops throughout the world exacerbated the pandemic. Fevers spiked, patients' nasal passages hemorrhaged, the dark purple of suffocation clouded their faces and some eventually met death by drowning from fluids trapped in their lungs. When all was said and done, the virus killed more than 50 million people—proving to be more lethal than The Great War itself. The majority of these deaths occurred in the winter of 1918 during the second wave of the virus.
Similarly, the Ebola outbreak in West Africa began with a low number of cases in a relatively contained geographical layout. In early 2014, the WHO and CDC went into Liberia, Sierra Leone, and Guinea to support the countries for a few brief months. Then, in June of 2014 the outbreak was deemed ‘relatively small’ and despite ongoing transmission and pleas for additional assistance, the groups virtually vanished, paving the way for the virus’s far more deadly second wave to begin.
Further, from the Athenian Plague to H1N1, history demonstrates again and again that viruses' second waves are more compromising than their first. Society's fight or flight mechanism only lasts so long. As soon as we begin returning to collective homeostasis, the virus strikes like a boxer who sees his opponents lowered guard.
When I wasn’t reading about the history of epidemiology, I was doing my best to keep up with the re-emerging viruses spread and death toll. Images on my phone indicated that the illness could be identified by a new symptom. Specifically, people with the mutated disease were losing their teeth in a gruesome fashion.
Within a few days, the numbers from all around the world showed that the airborne illnesses rates of infection were almost identical with it’s rates of mortality. These same reports warned that there was less than 10% containment. A panic set in. Nations closed their borders while their citizens made runs on banks and grocery stores alike.
Amongst the spreading anxiety, I waited too long to act. By the time I was attempting to make arrangements for a flight out of the country, I was too late; the last commercial flight had departed the previous morning. It was impossible to reach the ambassador. As a last resort, I drained a good portion of my savings account to secure a seat on a private jet leaving first thing in the morning from a small airport in the neighboring province.
I left that night in a frenzy. After abandoning almost half of my luggage in the hotel room I took my beautiful orange and black 1997 Triumph Tiger for one last ride. The roads were nearly empty as I sped through various government checkpoints, paying hefty bribes to guards along the way. Finally, with the moon still high in the sky, I reached my intended destination.
I was the first to arrive at the small airport for the flight. In pre-dawn solitude, I remembered the water proof journal my mother had passed onto me before I departed. I was afraid that if I fell asleep before the plane's arrival, that my slumber would last through boarding and I would be left behind in South America. I began writing the previous pages in part to collect my thoughts but mostly in an effort to fend off exhaustion.
Ⅱ
After the sun rose, I was greeted by the two pilots. Later, the other three other passengers arrived. They looked like manikins from an REI outlet, dressed head to toe in all the newest North Face and Patagonia gear. We hardly spoke. I had fashioned a bandana into a makeshift mask and when I saw the others, I pulled it tighter to my face.
Then, when we were in the air, I sunk into my chair and felt a great sense of relief. Not knowing if I was going to be able to get on the flight, I had prioritized food over clothes and countless other gifts and trinkets that I’d collected during my trip. After taking off, I ate a late but sizable breakfast. With a full stomach, I began to feel drowsy, closed my eyes, and fell into a dreamless sleep.
I awoke to intense turbulence and a sound that reminded me of the last noise that ever sputtered out of my grandfather's 1985 Mercedes station wagon. It whistled and popped then screeched and wailed more like an animal in pain than a malfunctioning machine. The eyes around me were full of dread. Fear rippled off the other passengers' bodies like heat waves off desert sand. Things finally clicked for me when oxygen masks dropped from the overhead compartments and we all began scrambling to substitute them in place of the cloth that already covered our faces.
Someone to my left shouted, “It’s the Brazilians. They're shooting us out of the sky. Look out my window at the smoke.”
I cannot confirm or deny this allegation. When I looked out his window though, I did in fact see a dense trail of smoke dragging behind our airplane. I also noticed the Jungle below us; It couldn’t really be that close, could it? Before I could answer this obvious question, the plane lost all stability and I was thrust head first against the interior of the jet. The blow knocked me out cold.
It's true of many fatal drunk driving accidents that the only survivor will be the intoxicated individual. This is because the alcohol in their system causes their bodies to ‘go limp’ on impact. A cruel fate indeed. The only explanation I can conjure up for my life remaining intact is that sustaining a concussion had a similar effect on my body as our plane collided with the Amazon's canopy.
When I awoke, there was a large cut over my right eye and my head throbbed like I’d been drinking nothing but tequila for days on end. Additionally, my entire body was sore, particularly my lower back which felt like it was full of hot fiberglass. When I first came to, my recollection was slow and my surroundings baffled me. I sat in painful confusion until the memories took shape on the stage of my imagination.
Impulse directed me to check my phone. The clock read 6:40. It may have been off by a time zone or two but judging by the position of the sun in the sky I doubted that it was dramatically out of line. I switched the device off of airplane mode. Predictably, I couldn’t access 5G. I decided to power my phone down with the battery at about 50%. No point in letting it drain away while it was useless.
Our aircraft had crashed into the tree-line of the Amazon Rainforest. What was left of it was stuck there, still suspended in the trees. Somewhere along the way the back half of our small jet had been severed from the front. I eased over to the opening left by this cut and looked down to the earth. We were easily one hundred feet in the air.
I checked the pulses of the others—nothing. The metal of the cockpit had been so mangled that it was impossible to even reach the pilots. I yelled out anyways but the lack of a response confirmed a strong feeling within me that they too were dead.
Before the sun fell into the jungle and the world became dark, I formulated a plan. I figured that under any normal circumstances I would do my best to stay as long as I could with the jet. Most people in survival situations get found within the first 24 hours. But, those are under normal circumstances. My best guess was that with the world going haywire because of the virus's second wave, no one would be looking for me. Believing otherwise would be a self-destructive delusion. For all intents and purposes I needed to operate using the guiding axiom that I was alone.
I settled into the logical conclusion that I would have to find my own way out. I searched through the dead passengers' possessions, trying to gather as much food as possible. I also got a compass, Swiss Army knife, extra water bottle, rain jacket, pack of cigarettes and a lighter out of the scavenging. When I found out that the bottle had a built-in purifier I smiled for the first time since our plane had gone down. Along with those supplies, I raided the plane's stash of food and water. Once I put it all together, I estimated that if I rationed it out wisely, I’d have enough food to give me four or five day’s worth of stable energy.
Again, I brought out the rainproof notebook in order to catalogue all of the supplies I had gathered. I listed everything in the back, and once I’d completed that task I began to journal.
Looking back over the supplies, I realize that I could theoretically survive on a lot less. Unfortunately, I don’t have many survival skills in my back pocket. I’m from the City, I barely know how to fish. If my life comes down to having to build a long-term shelter or hunt and gather for myself, then I doubt I’ll make it out of here. Even if I managed to surprise myself, what would be the end game? Stick to one place in the jungle like a hermit for God knows how long? Absurd. The way I see it is: if I don’t walk myself back to civilization before my food runs out, then I would only have succeeded in prolonging the same fate as my fellow passengers. I’m better off using my energy while I still have it.
In the morning, I’m going to take a bag of essentials, repel to the basin of the Amazon and start walking east. I’ll walk east as far as I can until I get bit by a snake, eaten by a jaguar, or stumble upon a river. If I get to water I’m going to do my best to stay close to the river while moving in one direction.
Watching the setting sun splash shades of coral pink into the jungle sky inspires a sense of dread in me. The knowledge of a coming night hardly allows me to admire its beauty. Darkness swallows me and my shelter like a cold ocean wave.
Bugs in this forest are unbearable. The things I would do for a bottle of deet are unmentionable. All shapes and sizes of horrible creatures are constantly crawling over, buzzing around and biting into every available surface of my epidermis. Thus far, they are my great nemesis.
Flustered by malice towards my enemies, I searched the bags again—no spray anywhere. Desperate, I decided to light a cigarette and walk through the cabin with it. I’ve never been a smoker, maybe a few puffs after a night of drinking, but I’ve never smoked a whole one to myself. Usually, I find the smell repulsive, but when the scent of the smoke managed to repel the bugs for a few hours, I kissed the cancer sticks and even went so far as to thank their creator.
The jungle around me is loud and alive. I’ve nearly scared myself into convulsions sitting up here and imagining every possible threat to my life. I inched my way over to the back of the plane so that I could see the full moon and milky way illuminating the sky. Not only am I gazing upon more stars than I’ve ever seen, but my position in the canopy allows my vision to reach a great distance. It is, in one sense, stunning, even awe inspiring. In another sense, it’s terrifying; as far as I can see there are no man-made lights.
Stress induced insomnia punctuated much of my first night in the jungle. I did however, manage a brief but eventful sleep. I dreamed of being with my father in his 2002 blue Toyota Tacoma. I had the heaters all the way up on my bare feet and could see snow dusted mountain-tops from my passenger side window. We didn’t exchange words but I was comfortable in the dream.
When I woke up, it was still dark and cold in the Amazon. Worse still, a buzzing swarm of devils had returned. I prayed out loud, asking God to please allow me to return to what my sleeping mind had constructed. There was no reply. Maybe I was being tested, I thought. I threw on some more clothing in an attempt to combat the temperature. If I was going to survive in full exposure to the elements, I’d need something to keep me warm and something to keep me dry.
With my dream fading into the backdrop of memory, I abandoned the prospect of sleep and made use of myself by working on a makeshift rain shelter. I took two large Patagonia duffel bags and completely emptied them out. Next, I zipped one to the other so that they were attached at the midsection. When the rain fell, I’d stick a prop in each corner of the construction and crawl under it like a roof. My uncle is an architect and would probably be ashamed to even associate with me after seeing that it was the best I could come up with. Still, I sincerely hoped that it would be able to keep me dry.
Ⅲ
I shivered on in the moonlight until Helios and his fire darting steeds broke into the eastern horizon and began their daily trek across the sky. As soon as day came, I ate a protein bar and drank two plastic bottles of water that I didn’t have room for in my bag.
There were vultures circling above me. They must have been waiting for my departure to begin their breakfast. I took one last look at the ruined interior of the crashed plane, secured my equipment, and began to climb down to the forest floor. This descent was no easy task. I’d had a pull up bar at home during the virus’s first wave and subsequent quarantine. Luckily, my arms were probably the strongest they had ever been. But, the technique used in climbing down a tree was something else entirely. In my limited indoor rock climbing experience, I’d only ever gone one way—up. Once reaching the top, I would give my harness a little pull, jump down, and let the ropes do their job.
That wasn’t going to work in this instance. I moved slowly, sometimes it was necessary to fit my fingertips into small grooves of bark, other times I was wrapping both arms around the tree and sliding down—tearing skin off my forearms and inner thighs in the process. My injured back screamed out in pain and my shoes and pack didn’t make things any easier. I thought about dropping the bag, but reasoned that if an animal got into my food I’d be better off just jumping out of the trees and letting my final moments be the fall. My muscles burned, the mosquitoes feasted on my defenseless body like an all you can eat buffet and sweat crept into my eyes and slicked my grip.
When I got within a safe distance I jumped to the earth, fell to my knees and bowed my head like a muslim praying to Mecca. I was sabotaged by an onslaught of emotions and sobbed in the dirt.
I didn’t have time to feel sorry for myself though; I stood up and greeted the new day. I threw both arms above my head and embraced my victory. ‘I can do this,’ I repeated to myself as a rush of euphoria surged through me, ‘I can do this.’
The humid air was almost as thick as the jungle floor’s shrubbery. It was significantly dimmer on the ground then it had been in the canopy. I brought out my compass, found east and started walking. After about a hundred feet of pushing my way through plants, spider webs and hanging vines, it became obvious that any prepared person would have brought a machete; the swiss army knife I had taken wasn’t going to be of any assistance in this realm. Luckily, I hadn’t gone too far from the crash site where I knew I could find large pieces of metal strewn about in every direction. Just the short walk back alerted me to one of the jungle’s many dangers, namely, that it all looked the same. Already disoriented, I chalked it up to a lesson learned. Even though I only planned on heading in one direction, I decided it would be a worthwhile precautionary measure to mark the trees with a large X every couple hundred feet.
Back at the crash site, I picked up a hunk of warped metal that looked more like the grim reaper’s scythe then a proper machete. I started back on my journey and my mind drifted from daydream to daydream. I had conversations with family members who manifested in my imagination and somehow found the words to tell them things I had never been able to in person.
I also ran through less pleasant possibilities. I began to fear that rummaging through the possessions left over from the plane crash had gotten me sick. I worried that the cut above my eye would get infected or that I would contract malaria from a mosquito. Eventually, I relegated all of these possibilities; if I were going to die at this point, it didn’t matter how it happened. I don’t know why out of all the people on that plane I alone survived, but I was going to die some day, one way or another. What did it matter whether it was the virus that got me, a snake in my sleep or a car accident upon my return to society? Everyone is afraid to die, but worrying about it all the damn time never did anyone any good either.
Besides, there was a storm darkening the sky behind me. I was wasting my time and energy by addressing these indirect threats to my survival when exposure could lead to hypothermia, which could kill me before the virus rotted my teeth out.
Thus, despite the day being far from over, I decided to prepare for the oncoming night. I hung my duffle bags from a tree and used two branches as poles for the bottom two corners. This way, the structure sloped down at an angle and would hopefully not collapse under the weight of any rainfall. Once I cleared out my area I started trying to make fire, but everything was damp and the clouds were moving in quick. I felt completely at a loss. I backed away from trying to make fire and started surrounding my structure with palm fronds. If fire wasn’t going to be a possibility then I needed to work extra hard to keep the rain out.
Then, inspiration struck. I remembered that the moss and foliage higher up in the canopy had been significantly drier. I hypothesised that without full exposure to the sun, the forest floor stayed damp. Soon after, I was back in a tree and could hardly believe what I was doing. But, sure enough, with some brown moss and shaved bark I was able to get a fire going. I looked at what I had created before the rain came down with a unique sense of pride. It wasn’t pretty, but it might just save my life.
I wrote the day down and when the rain began to fall, I tucked my journal away.
Ⅳ
I’d done my best to collect anything that I thought might serve as firewood. It didn’t matter though; the fire only lasted an hour after the sun had set. My miscalculation came in assuming that the rain would fall only in a straight line, so as to be caught by my hand made tarpaulin and roll off into the Amazon basin. What I failed to predict was the strength of the wind that night. Rain didn’t just fall straight down from the sky, it came into my shelter through the palms at every angle. It put my fire out and collapsed my rudimentary structure twice. I thought I had been cold the previous night. What a laughable idea.
Somewhere along the way I conversed with Nature. “The final decision is yours,” I said, “but I am never going to stop fighting for my life.” At this moment, almost as if the forest had heard me, the rain intensified and the sky lit up with a great bolt of lightning. “I am never going to stop,” I repeated.
It seemed to me then that the storm would never stop either. It did, of course, and when I saw the nearly full moon shining through the clouds I thought about making an offer to Selene. Instead, I gave a silent thank you and proceeded to my earthly matters. I had placed my phone and the lighter in a sealed pocket of my rain jacket. Luckily, they had survived the storm. My food and cigarettes hadn’t fared as well. While most of it was packaged, three sandwiches I’d taken from the plane that had become waterlogged. It wasn’t a complete disaster though; as I soon found out, wet sandwiches are still edible.
Then, despite the cold, I managed to fall asleep for a couple hours. Again, I dreamed of my father and myself in his Toyota Tacoma. Again, the heat was running at full capacity and the snow-dusted mountains painted the horizon outside my window. I looked up and over at my father. Was he trying to say something to me? I awoke before I could find out.
The sun was already high in the sky and I was missing a prime opportunity to progress on my mission. Such foolishness made me sick and filled me with anger. I took my scythe and hacked aimlessly at the forest. A ruthless assault of self-deprecating thoughts filled my head. I could not build a shelter, keep a fire lit, or even wake up with the sun.
I headed east again, wet, demoralized and beginning to feel quite lonely. The only positive from the previous two nights was the fact that my water bottles were both full of rain water. Actually, they were so full that they were overflowing.
The abundance of wildlife in this jungle is remarkable. At the same time, my cohabitants put me on edge. If I were still on vacation and my visit to the Amazon was being mitigated through the separation of a guided tour, I’d likely enjoy the wildlife far more. In that scenario strict boundaries would have been established. I am a civilized man coming from the luxury of a lodge and equipped with a boat for escape and a gun for protection. I am in the jungle to observe and enjoy the wildlife. The experience is one step removed from a zoo, the possibility of a dangerous interaction with the wild is present but unlikely. And, with my modern advantages, I stand equipped to emerge victorious from any struggle improbable as one may be.
Still, while I may be civilized in spirit, my current experience has forced me to accept my status as another animal in this jungle’s food chain. Worse, the lack of my modern comforts has left me feeling stark naked. My cosmopolitan disposition is admittedly a frequent source of depression. Evolution has been tricked, I reasoned. After thousands of years in society, man has transformed from a wild animal to a spoiled pet.
I have become so separated from Nature that I consider it hostile to me. In its presence, without protection or means of escape, I tremble with fear from its power. Consequently, the monkeys view me with contempt, the birds sing songs of my misfortune and the bugs chew on me for lunch. The adjustment is difficult to make, and I feel as though something has been taken from me.
Still, if I am to survive, I need to ration my pride wisely. In an attempt to adjust to the circumstances, I’ve made a conscious effort to observe the highways of monkeys when they pass overhead. I was relieved to learn that the great moaning which echoed throughout the forest came from a red and black species of these creatures. I can only imagine how terrifying these noises must have been to the first settlers of this land.
I set out to study my primate brethren in hopes that they may show me a few survival tricks. Much to my delight, they did me one better. Three or four hours into my trek east I came across a party of monkeys and birds, snacking on the fruits of a mango tree.
I was ecstatic! I learned that the mangoes attached to the tree were not quite ripe enough, and the ones which had fallen to the ground were sweeter. I must have eaten six mangos and packed three for the road. While eating, I continued to observe my primate company. I saw a clever white-faced rascal smiling like a Rastafari as he pushed a twig into a termite mound. It never crossed my mind to eat insects, but I followed his lead with a stick of my own. I snacked on the termites like a child tasting his first bit of candy.
The monkeys also have a strange affection for the long white stem of a particular jungle plant. By affection, I mean that they rub all over each other. My mind must have been in the gutter because my initial reaction to this was that the plant acted as an aphrodisiac. At the time I chuckled, continued to enjoy my mangoes and allowed my mind to drift off into deep space.
Only later in the day did it occur to me that my primate friends may have been using the plant as an insect repellant. Again, the part of my mind which had chastised me for the previous night's failures returned with acidic indignation, saying: “There is a price for your ignorance; if you don’t pay the fee of attention, nature will collect your life as debt.”
Luckily, I was not at the mercy of this brutality for long. “Be quiet,” I responded “do you hear that?”
It was the babbling of a brook, the singing of a stream, the rambling of a river. My ears communicated what my eyes could not yet see; I had found water and my heart swelled with joy. The river shone as if a thousand mirrors were reflecting the sun from its surface. I was tempted to sit at its edge for hours like a Buddhist monk in deep meditation.
Night was approaching. I decided to set up camp near my newfound source of water and this time, I would be more prepared for the rain. I went to work chopping down thick branches and interweaving palm fronds for multiple layers of protection. I gathered twice as much wood for a fire and once I got it started, I went out and gathered some more.
As the sunset sent red, yellow and orange into the sky above the green forest I felt quite good about myself. I ate a small dinner, not out of conservation but because my lunch of mangoes was causing mild indigestion. Truthfully, I am feeling more confident in my ability to sustain myself on the jungle's ample resources.
Filling up this journal provides a brief respite from the Amazon’s loneliness. When I had finished logging the day’s triumphs, I curled up next to my fire. The bugs were at bay because of the smoke and I dozed off into much needed sleep.
That night my dream repeated itself. I concluded that my father was most certainly attempting to communicate. It was almost as if there was a spell over him. His mouth hung slightly open and his eyes couldn’t blink. It was like all his energy was being directed at telling me something but the words were stuck.
Ⅴ
When I awoke, it was raining, though this description hardly seems fitting. It was more as if the complete contents of the sea were falling from the sky. Still, my new and improved shelter seemed up for the challenge and my fire had stayed lit. Briefly, I felt like a real survivalist.
Unfortunately, this feeling didn’t last long. The river which I had camped near was overflowing and I was caught in a flash flood. It happened before I had a chance to calculate my next move. Thankfully, I was already holding onto my pack when I got swept up.
The entire experience was painful. There were logs and rocks crashing into me. At one point my head went under and I got so turned around that I didn’t know which direction the surface was.
What saved me ended up being entirely accidental. I smashed back-first into a massive tree. Instinctively, I spun around, grabbed some of its branches and pulled myself toward the tree like it was a life raft. Once I had a good enough grip, I struggled out of the rushing rapids and began to climb as high as I could into that tree. The rain continued to fall late into the night and the moon illuminated water on all sides of me. At one point, I pulled my phone from the sealed pocket of my rain jacket; the screen showed nothing but darkness. The lighter wouldn’t produce a flame either, though the flint still sparked. I would just have to work harder for fire now.
Below me, the river flowed on at an amazing pace even through daybreak. It looked to be in a rush, almost like it was late for an appointment. I, on the other hand, had no obligations whatsoever, and I resigned myself to staying in that tree at least until the water slowed. I didn’t mind drying off in the sun either. The second half of my night had been quite cold, a theme I was getting sick of.
It was there in the tree, with my clothes half dry and the river beginning to recede, that I saw the most incredible thing. In the water below me was a pod of playful dolphins. They thrust their whole bodies into the air, chattered amongst themselves and splashed about their playground. Even though I was experiencing hardships, their joy brought a smile to my face. One beast's setback was another's sanctuary.
The dolphins came and went like the colors of a sunset while I was stuck in that tree past midday. The only thing that kept me from falling asleep was a dreadful fear of being attacked by an anaconda. I don’t know when this seed of hysteria began to germinate and I can’t explain why it chose to blossom while I was stranded up a tree in the middle of a flooded river, but it did. Once it entered my mind it quickly took over and I could think of nothing else. I was sure that every rock and stick that bobbed out of the water was a great snake.
But, no man eaters ever came for me. Eventually, the water receded and I made my way to shore without having to swim more than ten feet. I figured that my energy would be better directed towards building an adequate shelter, so I hiked to higher ground and got started right away as opposed to walking for a few hours and scrambling before the sun set. My roof of Patagonia duffle bags had been lost in the flood which made building a fire an even higher priority.
After about thirty minutes of striking my flint into some dry moss I was able to nurture some flames. My shelter wasn’t much to brag about though. Exhaustion likely played a role in what had been a poor effort in putting it together. I wrote for a brief juncture, and I’m reasoning now that since I will probably be woken up at some point in the night by rain, that I should try to get as much as possible sleep by the fire while it was still lit.
Ⅵ
I was greeted again by the familiar dream. My father’s pick up truck was dry, warm and safe, all of which I had taken all of this for granted before entering the rainforest. I looked up at my father whose eyes were wide open, and whose face was twitching. Every part of him was straining to tell me something, to give me a message. Then, the words came out: “Run.” The way he said it was firm and emotionless. It sounded more like the answer to a math problem then the inspiring words I needed to power me through this fiasco.
The two words generated a hundred questions. But, before I could ask a single one, I was being blinded by the fresh day’s sun in my eyes. I could hardly believe it, there had been no rain and small embers of my fire had even made it through the night.
Re-energized by deep sleep, I quickly gathered my things and started heading east, more or less following the bank of the river as I went along. Sometime around midday, after I had eaten a small lunch, I saw a clearing near the river. As I got closer, I began to hope it may be a sign of human life. Indeed, I had actually managed to stumble upon a midsized Amazonian town. I hopped a fence and found myself in a field that had been cleared for livestock. I was in tears as I made my way to the buildings.
I couldn’t have been more than a hundred yards away when out of the urban sprawl appeared a jaguar. It was all muscle and in a full sprint headed straight for me. I looked up at the sky and fell to my knees laughing: “After all that, this is how you want to see me perish?”
What cruelty, I thought as I spread my arms in acceptance of my fate, what absolute cruelty. Then, as I lowered my gaze, I realized that the cat couldn't care less about me. It wasn’t running towards a meal, it was running away from something. The gold and black Jaguar passed by me with fear in it’s eyes. The same fear that I had seen erupting from my fellow passengers as our plane fell from the sky.
I picked myself up off the ground and began to repeat the mantra: “Deep breaths now, compose yourself.” But, I struggled to turn my attention inward. Circling above the buildings were hundreds of vultures. Worse still, the village was eerily quiet.
“Hello?” I shouted, only to hear the reply of my own echo.
“Hola?” The same result. I was beginning to think I was still alone; or perhaps I had stumbled into the town during a festival and the people were gathered in the square.
“Parlez-vous français?” I tried one more time to no avail. Needless to say, I don’t know any Portugese. Still, I kept heading toward what seemed like the center of things. Then, on the ground I began to see scattered teeth.
“Oh God, the virus must have made it all the way out here,” I thought.
Just as this idea crossed my mind, I rounded a corner and saw hundreds of dead bodies piled around a fountain. Their faces were dark purple, there was a yellow crust about their eyes and in every direction there were scattered teeth.
“Run.” I heard my father’s voice and I finally understood. I turned away from the graveyard and followed the tracks of the jaguar. I would gladly take my chances with the forest over this plague.
