Stolen (eBook)

CHAPTER ONE

The lorry was an antique. It rattled and swayed as it moved along the dirt track through the jungle. The men in the back were lined up like dominoes, ready to be knocked over with each pothole, root or rock they hit. They winced and groaned as the thread-bare tires hit another big rut and shot them off their wooden bench.

Each man wore faded green army fatigue pants, stained white t-shirts, heavy soled boots and square hats that kept their faces out of the sun for part of the day. None of them were military but these were the clothes given to them to do the work. They did not complain because no one would listen. They sat stoic as their journey took them deeper into the bush where no smart, white man would ever venture.

The men on the open end of the truck slouched away from the dust that was being kicked up by the thin tires. It was always believed that the rain fell constantly in the jungle. It was not so. There was a rainy season which was creeping quickly upon them and then a drier season that was safer for travel.

This day had taken them from the mountains where the crop had been harvested and into this dense jungle where they would unload the lorry onto a riverboat heading downstream. The trip was already five hours long and most of the men were ready to get out and shake out the knots in their sore muscles.

The landmine buried in the road hit the truck with so much force, the entire vehicle was lifted off the track. Fire bloomed upwards and attacked the men with such relentless fury that most were dead before they could scream for mercy. The two men in the very back were thrown free. The man on the left sailed through the air, his arms flailing, legs running as if he could control his flight. His body hit head first into a huge tree, snapping his neck and killing him instantly. The man on the right was also thrown high and far. His body sailed off the truck and into the heavy undergrowth. He was impaled by stiff shoots of bamboo and long thorns, pinning him to the ground as if he was a fly on an examination board. The sticks shot through his right thigh, his left abdomen and his right shoulder. He screamed in pain as the jungle took him captive, crucifying him to the earth.

Trying to escape the torment that surged through his body, he attempted to roll over. The sharp, wooden shoots held him down. Laying back, he took a deep breath and stared at the canopy of leaves and foliage above him. It seemed from a great distance he heard a few guttural cries from the men he had been beside. They gradually faded away and only the crackling of flames of the burning lorry remained.

Finally, even that disappeared and the staked man could hear the incessant noises of the jungle. A small animal nearby snuffling in the grass, a cacophony of birds calling from the trees and insects buzzing around his face and the blood from his wounds.

He lifted his left arm and grabbed the bamboo shoot that had impaled his shoulder. At first he tried to break it off, but that only started new blood flowing and an agony like white-hot fire searing down his arm. Placing his hand under his armpit, he attempted to lift his pinned arm upwards. The cry that erupted from his lips was primal in its essence of pain and he lay back panting like a trapped, wild animal.

Tears tracked down his dirty cheeks, and he sucked at the salty liquid that hit his lips. Closing his eyes, he realized how hopeless and helpless this fate had left him. He wondered about his friends in the lorry and whether any of them had survived. Seven months ago he had his entire life before him as if he were on a throne beckoning it to come forward. Now, he was dying in the jungle, and no one knew where he had gone.

Male voices woke him. Without thinking, he tried to sit up and yelped in pain as the spikes held him in place. He groaned and then tried to cry out for help. Craning his head toward the sounds of feet pounding the vines, leaves and bushes, he raised his free arm and once again croaked out for help. His voice was so quiet, he knew they would not hear, so he tried to manufacture some spit in his mouth and swallow it to loosen his vocal cords. Again, he called for help. Again, it was too soft for the men to hear.

The language they spoke was Spanish and sounded urgent and angry. One voice stood out above all and it was demanding and commanding. They continued to beat the brush all around him, and he couldn’t understand why they had not found him.

His left hand pushed around the damp leaves hoping to find a rock or a branch that he could throw to grab their attention. His head swiveled in a vain search for anything he could toss. Moist leaves, coiled vines and more bamboo shoots and thorns were all that he could find.

A sharp snap came from the right, near his feet, and he jerked toward the sound. A young man, dressed in a grey uniform with a rifle strapped across his back, stood before him. His deep brown eyes stared at the man pinned to the earth and surreptitiously glanced back at the jungle path.

“Help me.” The injured man whispered.

The young soldier lifted a dirty hand and placed his index finger toward his lips. Shaking his head, he motioned silence and then took a step backwards.

“No.” The trapped man pleaded, his free arm reaching toward the young man.

Again, the soldier shook his head and then quickly turned around and hurried back toward the dirt track. He never looked back nor did any alarm go up around him that he had found a live victim. It was as if there had never been an encounter.

The crucified man tried to cry out again, but he had no voice. It was dried up and gone as the harsh heat of the day sucked all fluid from his body. The sun was high overhead and beating down, stealing all his juices as if he were in a desert, not jungle. It was so hot. He was so thirsty. Why had the soldier abandoned him?

When he woke again, it was dusk. There was a definite coolness to the air as the sun drifted below the horizon. The humidity still clogged the air with its wetness, but the stifling heat lifted from his body as if a blanket had been tossed aside. Dragging his head off the leaves, he stared at the sharp pieces of wood that held him stationary. Around each of the wounds was blood soaking his t-shirt. Around his abdominal wound were several large black ants attacking the blood. He watched in fascination as their front pinchers plucked greedily at the liquid. They were so large that their bodies had five sections and each leg was over an inch long. They had blunt horns on top of their heads, and their front legs were covered in fuzzy, yellow hair.

At first, he didn’t feel their sting but, as they worked at his bloodied white t-shirt, several caught part of his skin and the pain was horrible. He viciously swatted at them, sending them back into the dense foliage. Two caught on to his hand and stung again before he shook them loose. The poison raced into his body, and it was as if he was walking barefoot on hot coals. Sharp agonizing pain ate at him and his arms dropped down, paralyzed from the ant’s venom. He tossed his head back and forth and once again tried to lift himself from the dangerous ground. The bamboo shoots would not relinquish their hold and more blood leaked from his three wounds. Slowly, he lost consciousness and as night took hold, he gladly reached out toward the black oblivion beyond the deep pain.

It was deep into the night when he woke again. Shivering uncontrollably, he tried to move his left arm to warm his body that was moving into deep shock. The pain from the large ants had dissipated, but he still felt sluggish and his mind was blurry as if he needed glasses and had none.

Suddenly, there was a panting from off his right side and he craned his neck to see what large animal was near. He croaked a warning cry and waved his left arm to try and deter the small cat. The body of the feline was compact and muscular, its square head leaning toward the smell of blood.

His shooing motions only brought a low growl from the cat’s mouth. He kicked out his left leg and hissed at the sharp pain as the bamboo barbs moved in his wounds. The small cat lowered his body and inched forward, sniffing at the metallic smell of blood in the air.

“Get away!” The man grunted, his voice a raspy whisper.

He fisted his left hand and shot it at the encroaching animal. It came up short but made the cat spring back. Laying his ears back, the feline hissed, his mouth showing sharp, white teeth. Keeping his fist ready, he watched as the cat turned his head and growled deep in his throat.

Then, without preamble, the cat pounced onto the chest of the pinned man and dropped his head, mouth open toward the vulnerable neck of the human. The man screamed hoarsely and rammed his fist into the animal’s gaping mouth.

The fangs bit viciously into his palm and fingers and worried the flesh for several seconds before bounding off the prone human. The cat tried to pull the arm across his body, but the man pushed his fist further into the animal’s mouth and flung his arm back and forth, literally lifting the small cat off the ground.

The cat released its biting hold and backed away. His tail whipped back and forth in anger and frustration. Standing for a long minute, then pacing back and forth several times, the wild feline finally determined his next move. With a low growl and hiss, he turned and disappeared into the undergrowth.

The man cradled his bloodied hand against his chest and heaved an anguished cry of pain. Every part of his body ached and roared with the injuries. Why had he fought the cat?...