Jamie Freveletti - Running from the Devil
“First you put down your weapons, order your men to do the same, and lay face-first on the ground.”
“No!” The cords stood out on Rodrigo’s neck. Mathilde made a groaning sound. Her eyes rolled back into her head as her throat convulsed.
Emma pointed at Mathilde. “You’ll look like her in twelve hours, Rodrigo. Put down your weapons. If you don’t, you’re a dead man, because I refuse to go.”
“You will die, too, if you don’t make it.”
“If you don’t put down your weapons, then I know you will track my friend the minute I leave here. Either you put down your weapons or I don’t go. It’s that simple. But decide quickly, Rodrigo. We’re wasting time.”
The remaining guerrillas gathered around Mathilde, wide-eyed and silent. Rodrigo gave a sharp order.
The men looked at one another, confused. Emma assumed that their confusion stemmed from the nature of the order. Rodrigo bellowed the same order. This time the men jumped to obey. Their guns rattled as they were dropped, one on top of another, in a pile. They unbuckled their ammunition belts and removed the weapons strapped to their ankles. They lowered themselves to the ground, face-first.
Emma turned to Rodrigo. “Now you.”
His face was red, his lips pressed tight. He tossed his machete at her feet, so close that she had to jump back to avoid being cut. He lowered himself to the ground.
Emma recovered Rodrigo’s machete. She went to the pile of weapons. Unloaded each one and took the three ammunition belts.
Emma retrieved her backpack next to the fallen Mathilde. The woman no longer convulsed. She was dead.
Emma pried the lipstick tube out of her clenched hand. She tied up each man. Rodrigo was last. He glared his hate at her. Emma didn’t flinch. As she tied him, she bent closer. Her face was only inches from his.
“The next time you mess with me, you die. You’ve been in over your head this entire time, Rodrigo, deeper than your small brain can comprehend.” She stood. Waved at the man they called Manzillo.
“Let’s go. We don’t have much time.”
“Manzillo!” Rodrigo shouted to the farmer, who stepped forward. He spoke in Spanish so the American lady wouldn’t understand him. “Show her the way to the Lost City. Get back here as fast as you can. After she gives you the cure—kill her.”
51
THE PATH TO THE LOST CITY WAS STEEP AND ROCKY, BUT AT least it was clear. Emma didn’t need a machete to navigate it. She ran in long strides, working her way up the mountain. She settled into a race pace, but she knew she wouldn’t sustain it for twelve hours. She was too hungry, thirsty, and tired. Manzillo ran next to her, huffing and puffing. In the distance came the baying of hounds. Louisiana State was back with his bloodhounds. She remembered Mathilde saying that Rodrigo had called the Americans. They must have discovered him bound and tied and were mounting a search for her.
After an hour of running, she came to a fork in the path. Manzillo stopped.
“Which one goes to the Lost City?” Emma said.
Manzillo pointed to the left. “There. But I no longer come with you.”
“What about Rodrigo? Who will take him the antidote?”
Manzillo shifted his gun higher on his shoulder. “I don’t care. He is the devil. I will not help him live only to watch him kill again. If you want his life on your shoulders, then you take him the cure. But know this, lady, if you save him, then many more people will die. This is the way it is with Rodrigo. You will have these other people’s death on you.”
“Kill one to save many?” Emma said.
Manzillo nodded. He pointed to the path. “Go that way. There are no more forks.” He turned and trudged away.
Emma took a swig of the liter bottle in her backpack and resumed running. As she ran, she racked her brain to try to remember how many water crossings remained between her and the Lost City. When she’d made the hike the year before, she had started from a different location. Now she estimated that she was more than halfway there, much closer than the six hours Rodrigo had estimated. During the initial trek she thought she navigated seven or eight water crossings. At this height she might have two left; one would be waist-deep. Perhaps a water crossing would dilute her scent enough to make the dogs unable to track her, but she doubted it. Besides, it wouldn’t take much for her trackers to figure out that she was using an existing trail. They had to realize she was headed to the city. If they knew enough to hunt her, then they knew why she was in Colombia.
The rains came, turning the track to mud. She sank ankle-deep, pulling each foot out with a loud sucking sound. The run became a slog at a sloth’s pace. The mud forced her to exert more energy than straight running, because of the strength needed to free each foot from the mire. The rain created its usual drumbeat noise, canceling out the howling dogs. This drove Emma’s adrenaline higher. She hated not knowing how far they were behind her. The rains subsided. Emma strained her ears to listen for the howls. They were there, in the distance. Softer. The rains must have slowed them down, too.
Emma turned a corner and came upon an indigenous village. Round huts with conical, pointed thatch roofs sat in a semicircle. Several women cooked over an open fire while two children played in the dirt near them. All stopped and stared at Emma. One woman gave a sharp command to a child of about ten. He took off, running. He entered a hut on the far side of the village.
Within seconds, Emma was surrounded by men and women. She remembered the village from her trek the year before. She was close now. Close to the place that these people held sacred.
A wizened man stepped out of the farthest hut. Long white hair hung down his back. He held a large staff as a walking stick. He wore the trousers of the same burlap material that all the villagers wore, with a rope belt. The villagers parted to allow the man to walk toward Emma. When he reached her, he stared at her, saying nothing. His dark eyes held concern and the wizened look of a man with the knowledge that comes only from many years of living.
“I’m in trouble. I need your help.” She put her hand in her pocket. Fingered the rosary there. She pulled it out and started worrying the beads between her fingers while she watched the old man. He said nothing. Far off in the distance came the baying of the hounds. Emma worried the beads faster.
“They want the poison I can make from the special plant I found in the Lost City. The one with the black berries. I made it by accident and refused to give it to them. Now they are hunting me.”
The man said nothing.
“I must reach the Lost City. But I don’t know if I can make it. I haven’t eaten and my legs are weak.”
The old man gave an order. A younger man, dressed in the burlap pants of the indigenous but sporting expensive black Wellington boots, stepped forward. From a pocket he dug out a woven pouch. He handed it to the old man. The old man upended it. Several coca leaves fell into his palm. He waved at another young man, who stepped forward with a gourd. The young man opened the top of the gourd and used a stick to pour powder onto the leaves. The old man rolled the leaves between his palms. He held the resulting roll out to her.
For the indigenous people, coca was sacred. It figured in their religious rituals as well as their daily lives. They also used it to maintain energy. While chewing coca, they were able to work long hours without stopping or eating.
Emma knew that the man believed he was offering her a gift of great value, greater than food. She didn’t want to insult him by refusing, but she was wary of going near it. During her trip the year before, she’d been careful to avoid any contact with it.
Emma knew exactly how it worked its magic. How it changed exhaustion to exhilaration, suppressed appetite, and helped control altitude sickness. What areas of the brain it affected to alter its chemistry. How its effects then dissipated, leaving the person who used it feeling bereft, depressed, and drained. How those people who were unlucky enough to get addicted started on an endless cycle of lesser and lesser highs, with deeper and deeper lows, until they felt trapped in a soul-depleting hell. Like the man who’d driven his car into Patrick’s. The autopsy revealed that the man had both alcohol and cocaine in his system. He’d been drinking the alcohol to “unwind” after a long night fueled by coke.
As a chemist, Emma had access to pure cocaine, as well as any other controlled substance she might have needed for her research. This access made her cautious. She had never tried cocaine.
She knew what the man held in his hand was fresh and unprocessed. This was coca in its pure form. If she chewed the leaves, it would release its energy-elevating power for hours, much longer than any food she could eat.
The old man held it out to her as an offering. Emma stood there, her breath heaving. She needed the immediate boost it would give her. She wasn’t sure how it would interact with the poison that she knew was filling her system, but she assumed the chemical reaction wouldn’t be good. It would likely accelerate the poison’s effects as it juiced her bodily functions. She didn’t know how much more quickly it would allow the poison to kill her, but she knew she wouldn’t get to the Lost City without it. And if she didn’t get to the Lost City in time, she was dead anyway.
“What do I do?”
The young man took another set of leaves from the pouch, added the alkali, and put the leaves in his mouth. He chewed, opening his mouth wide and closing it, exaggerating the motion to show her what he was doing.
She reached out, put the leaves in her mouth, and chewed. The coca had a pleasant, pungent taste. Her mouth became numb in seconds. She swallowed and her saliva tasted bitter. She coughed, choking on the acrid liquid. Emma felt the drug’s effects almost immediately. She could feel her body start a low hum. She nodded to the old man.
“Thank you,” she said.
The old man stepped forward. He reached out and touched Emma’s hand holding the rosary. His hand felt rough but warm as it closed over hers. She stopped her fingers’ compulsive movements on the beads. He held her hand in his palm, stroked her fingers open, and removed the rosary. He placed it over her head like a necklace. When he was finished, he stepped back, nodded once, and waved her toward the trail.
She took the hint and started running once more.
Emma reached the Lost City late in the afternoon. Clouds hovered over the site. A heavy mist blanketed the area. She heard thunder in the distance.
The entrance to the city began with twelve hundred stone steps. To the left, another flat stone had a crude map etched into it. Emma started her climb, moving as fast as she dared on the slippery stairway.
Her heart raced. Blood coursed through her veins at an alarming rate. She could hear it pulsing in her ears. She felt short-winded. She knew it wasn’t from the run, despite its grueling nature. She’d run much farther and faster before under worse conditions. It was the cocaine combining with natural adrenaline produced by the run that was overloading her system. Her nose started to bleed. Large dollops of blood fell onto the stones. She used the bottom of her shirt to wipe it away. She was halfway up the steps when the poison started to kick in.
It began with small convulsive movements in her leg muscles. Her right thigh began to twitch. Just a little at first. Within minutes, the entire length of her leg began to spasm. She struggled to control the leg in order to place it in front of her. She lost her footing on the slick stone. She tumbled four steps down. She rose again, fighting her convulsing leg in order to move forward.
She no longer heard the hounds howling behind her. But within seconds of having that thought came the beating sound of a helicopter’s rotors. She didn’t have to speculate as to its destination. She knew it was after her.
She made it to the top of the stairs and collapsed on the plateau. The Lost City lay before her. It consisted of several flat stones raised from the ground in staggered progression, each one covered in green moss. They looked like individual stages. Mist shrouded the area, clinging to the trees and drifting through the open spaces. She needed to find the leaves growing around the third platform.
She limped across the flat plateau. Her leg continued to spasm, flailing out of her control. She hopped on the remaining leg to the platform and the prize.
The plant was there. Several grew at the platform’s base. It looked like a common weed, with the exception of the small black berries sprouting from the top, like flowers. She fell to her knees. Her bad leg refused to bend, so she sat down, leaving it straight. Her leg bounced on the dirt as she sat there. Like it had a mind of its own. Emma did her best to ignore it.
She ripped two plants out of the ground, shook off the dirt from the roots, and shoved the plants into the tin bowl from her backpack. She hobbled over to the trees to find firewood. Her right arm started shivering, her biceps twitching. She used her left hand to collect the wood. The helicopter sounds grew louder, but whether they were close or still far, Emma couldn’t tell.
By the time she’d collected enough wood to build a fire, her entire right side was convulsing. Hopping on the left leg was no longer an option. She started to crawl back to her backpack and her pot, dragging her twitching leg in the dirt. Thunder boomed above her, the noise echoing through the trees. She fought down the panic that accompanied the sound. She needed to start a fire and make the antidote before the rains came and doused everything.
She piled wood in a small pyramid. It was damp, but so old and sun-dried that Emma didn’t think burning it would be a problem. She pulled dry grass from the base of the platform and tucked it around the wood. She fumbled in her backpack to find her silver lighter. She flicked the top open, but had a hard time focusing on the roller piece long enough to light it. After a couple of tries she managed to start a flame. Emma sat there twitching, watching the fire ignite. Shooting pains started in her right leg. Her right arm jerked up and down, and now her left thigh started to spasm. Only her left arm remained calm. She used it to pull her liter bottle of water from the pack, filled the pot with water, placed it on the fire, and sat down to wait.
By the time the water was near boiling, Emma’s entire body was jerking. She was sure she looked like a victim of St. Vitus’ dance. She focused on removing the pot from the fire to allow the liquid to cool. In her disintegrating state, this simple act became so difficult as to be impossible. She clenched her jaw to stop her teeth from chattering. After taking long, deep breaths, she managed to knock the pot off the fire without spilling its precious contents.
The thunder crashed above her now, interspersed with flashes of lightning. Fat raindrops began to fall. Through the noise she heard the helicopter approaching. Emma decided to drink the liquid hot. Once the muscles in her throat began to spasm, she wouldn’t be able to swallow. She put the scalding rim to her lips and drank. It burned all the way down. She drank half the pot. It took all her strength to hold it steady. When she was done she lowered it to the ground like it was fine china. She lay down by the still-burning fire while the rain fell and the thunder crashed.
