For Those Who Worship The Sun: Rise of the Zombie

By James Michael Rice

"This is definitely going to be in my top ten for this year's horror!"
-- Ursula K. Raphael of Zombiephiles.com

Early explorers called it the Green Hell, and for good reason. Consisting of more than a billion acres of untamed wilderness, the Amazon jungle is a place of fragile beauty... and unspeakable danger. When Ben Sawyer and his friends embark on an adventure tour in a remote section of the jungle, they plan on having the trip of a lifetime. But when their riverboat captain is murdered, leaving them stranded, their dream vacation rapidly tailspins into a nightmarish battle for survival.

Something sinister has been watching them, stalking them under cover of darkness. Something that will not allow them to leave the jungle alive...

***This is the uncut version of the novel, complete with more than fifty additional pages. This version is for those who appreciate a slow-burn horror story. An abridged version of this book appears under the title Pray for Darkness.***

• Language: English
• Publisher: James Michael Rice
• Release date: Dec 1, 2013
• ISBN: 9781311970732

James Michael Rice

James Michael Rice is the author of Rebel Angels, A Tough Act to Follow, The Still, and Pray for Darkness (previously released under the alternate title For Those Who Worship The Sun.) He grew up, and has spent most of his adult life, in Southeastern, Massachusetts, near the epicenter of a paranormal playground known as The Bridgewater Triangle. He recently appeared in the award-winning film The Bridgewater Triangle documentary, and also appeared on the Destination America episode titled "America's Bermuda Triangle" (#ABTriangle).His experiences hiking, fishing, and camping in the Amazon Jungle later spawned the idea for Pray for Darkness, which is an abridged version of his original novel For Those Who Worship The Sun.

Book preview

Prologue

They embraced the darkness and they cursed the light.

As the sun flung itself upon the edge of the world, spilling its dying light across the treetops, they emerged like insects from their nests and slowly picked their way through the trackless jungle. They moved as a single organism, silent as the shadows, ears tuned to the smallest sound, eyes focused only on the ground in front of them. Nothing else mattered but that one step, the next step, as if the world did not exist beyond those few precious inches of terra firma.

Soon the sun disappeared as though forever, leaving only a scarlet smudge across the horizon—like the last remaining evidence of a violent crime—before it too was consumed by the encroaching darkness. A scattering of stars poked holes in the evening sky and the shadows crept in, quickly gathering with confidence beneath the towering canopy. All at once the jungle sprang to life.

Trees stretched toward the heavens, and the tangled undergrowth seemed to crowd in closer, hemming them in on all sides—formidable walls of green that trembled with the susurration of insects, the fluttering of birds. Overhead, the high-arching branches overlapped to form a dense quilt, creating the illusion of a second sky; pitch-black and threaded with the silver light of the moon. Trickling down through the foliage into the murky depths below, the moonlight separated the shadows, projecting corridors and pathways where none existed, as if taunting them with the possibility of escape. As their eyes grew accustomed to this grand deception, they negotiated the treacherous underbrush with care, ever mindful of the hidden dangers that surrounded them. The jungle was teeming with life—most of it beautiful, much of it deadly. It was an accepted risk that a single bite or sting could spell a death sentence for the hapless victim.

Pushing on through the night, they drank water from vines to slake their endless thirst and foraged for Sachamani blossoms and fruit to appease their nagging hunger. It seemed they had always lived this way, or perhaps it was simply easier to believe that this was so. Easier to believe they were anything but human—with hopes and dreams and intricate lives that existed thousands of miles away from here. But the jungle knew nothing of such complexities, for its rules were simple: there were no rules. For each living thing in this savage land—from the smallest sprig to the most cunning predator—every moment was a constant struggle for survival. Here, amongst the whirring insects, squawking birds, and bickering monkeys, humans were stripped of their status quo, reduced to little more than a rare delicacy on the biological menu.

Only Brooke Harlow found herself rejecting this unspoken duplicity, and her mind had begun to wander again. As she walked, she fantasized about hot showers and cool bed sheets and Wendy’s cheeseburgers—the latter so vivid she could almost feel her teeth sinking into that warm, soft bun, could almost taste the sweetness of ketchup and the tang of pickles on her tongue. Ironically, she had never really cared for fast food, but the mental image of the calorific treat reminded her of the world she had left behind, and it awakened such a painful longing within her that she could think of little else. As her mind sharpened on the imaginary burger, a single tear escaped the corner of her eye and tumbled slowly down her face. Tracing the smooth curve of her cheek, the teardrop dangled precariously from the end of her chin, a tiny jewel sparkling in the moonlight until at last it descended into darkness and the foreign soil beneath her feet.

She wasn’t crying, not yet, though there was a part of her that wished she could. She thought it might actually feel good to cry, to release all the emotions she was holding inside. It was a risky proposition; one she was not willing to take. When it came right down to it, she was afraid. Afraid that once she let those raw emotions out, she would not be able to control them, to rein them back in. Out here, she knew, such a lapse of control could get a person killed—could possibly get all of them killed.

Now a new image swirled before her eyes, one that was far less pleasant than her fast food fantasy. She visualized herself curled into the fetal position on the jungle floor, screaming until her throat was raw, until the screams petered out into a lunatic’s laughter. It occurred to her that she was already treading dangerously close to the edge of her sanity and that it would not take much to push her into the abyss. She could not afford to lose her composure, not now, not here. Besides, what would Ben and the others think? With this in mind, she resolved to clear her head, to stay focused on the placement of her feet as the cordon pushed on through the night.

Sometime later, the sky opened and the rains came. An eerie hush fell over the jungle as creatures big and small retreated to their secret hideaways. Only the six nocturnal humans continued to roam, for even as they flirted with starvation and delirium, they knew their only hope of survival was predicated on movement. Little breezes stirred beneath the canopy, shaking the foliage and flinging gusts of rain in every direction. Water pooled in the low-lying areas, and the soil, naturally spongy even during this, the dry season, soon became a kind of sludge; a jelly-like mud that threatened to suck the boots off their feet. With this newfound hazard, their progress—already impeded by the dense mats of underbrush—slowed to a near-crawl.

Brooke was walking on autopilot, lost in her fantasies, when a hand suddenly clamped over her mouth and pulled her down to the soggy ground. She dropped her spear and flailed wildly, attempting to counteract gravity. Instinct told her to kick and claw and scream, but her assailant had anticipated this response—his other arm snaked around her, thin but strong, pinning hers uselessly against her chest. She could feel his tight cords of muscle flexing as he held her fast, rendering her helpless.

After a moment, the panic dissipated and she allowed her body to go limp. Sensing her complacency, he relaxed his hold on her, but the hand that covered her mouth remained. It was small and wet and smelled vaguely of the earth.

Don’t move.

Ernesto’s voice was barely a whisper, his mouth so close she could feel the stir of his breath against her cheek. Breath that smelled acidic and coppery, like blood. The smell of fear, she thought. Ernesto knew the jungle better than any of them, and it unnerved her to think that he of all people was afraid of something—afraid of anything at all, for that matter. She sat without moving, straining her ears to listen but hearing little beyond the rhythmic beating of her own heart.

Wait—

Something was moving through the underbrush. She had not noticed it before, would not have noticed it at all were it not for Ernesto and his extraordinary senses. Whatever was out there moved with such calculated patience that she had at first mistaken it for the sound of raindrops plinking down through the foliage. It was only after the thin arms hastily forced her to crouch on the wet ground that she could differentiate the rhythm of the footsteps from the white noise of the rain.

One by one, the others came to a clumsy halt and hunkered down beside her. One of the boys pressed against her, seeking her warmth. Judging by the weight and slender musculature of the body, she was certain it was Cooper. Yes, Cooper. She remembered how he and Janie had fooled around at the bar

(in a different life)

on their first night at the Amazonia Lodge, and the memory touched her heart with an icy finger. She couldn’t really say how she knew it was him. The boys were more or less the same size, each one different in appearance and personality, but their frames were otherwise indistinguishable in the darkness. Even so, she felt fairly certain it was Cooper pressing against her right now, and she would not have minded his warmth were it not for the fact that he was shivering all over—or trembling, she reasoned, he could be trembling—so violently that it occurred to her, in a brief moment of panic, that he might be experiencing some kind of seizure. Thankfully, the tremors soon abated, and she could feel the rise and fall of his chest as his lungs labored against the soupy air.

Where’s Ben? Brooke knew it was probably just wishful thinking, but she thought she could just make out his silhouette in the darkness, crouching a few yards away: the well-defined shape of his shaved head, the aristocratic nose, and strong, square jaw. She even imagined she could see the flash of his ocean-blue eyes as they reflected a sliver of moonlight. Eyes that were at once intelligent, wise, and full of compassion. It was impossible to think of anything bad while looking into those eyes.

Thinking about Ben helped her to focus—anything not to think about Janie. It was much too soon to think about Janie. The rain stopped as abruptly as it had arrived, as though someone had closed the valve on a sprinkler system. One moment there was a hissing torrent, the next, nothing but the tapping of residual raindrops passing through the canopy to the jungle floor. All other noises also seemed to stop, if in fact they had ever really been there at all. Maybe it was just the rain all along? Or an animal—a few of those cute little squirrel monkeys, perhaps? A wild pig? Brooke measured the time by the metronomic tapping of the raindrops. Her silent count reached sixty before her mind began to wander again. Sixty raindrops. Sixty seconds. An eternity wrapped inside a minute.

They waited in darkness, seeing nothing, hearing nothing except the dripping water. A strange stillness settled around them, as though the jungle was holding its breath. After a time, the hand that was cupped around Brooke’s mouth withdrew itself. The stillness gave her pause to think and, though she at first resisted, it allowed her to wonder what had become of Janie. A collage of images flickered through her mind’s eye: Janie at Machu Picchu, laughing as she struck a sexy, defiant pose for the camera, her breasts thrust forward, her hands on her hips. Janie putting back tequila shots at Molly’s, the local dive back in Palo Alto. Janie’s piercing scream as she was dragged away from camp, the scream reaching a shrill crescendo before it was abruptly cut short and Janie Castellano was no more.

Beside her, Cooper was shivering again. She reached down and found his hand. Like a child, his fingers curled instinctively around hers. Her touch seemed to calm him, and the shivering gradually subsided. Several minutes passed, and no one dared to move or speak. Brooke was beginning to think that Ernesto had been wrong for once, that maybe what they’d heard was nothing more than an animal, some critter foraging in the underbrush. Then, as the clouds shifted and the moonlight trickled down through the treetops, Cooper dug his nails into her hand.

There, he whispered, pointing.

Brooke followed the direction of his outstretched finger. Just ahead, the underbrush gave way to a small clearing. A furtive movement between the trees caught her attention, and at last she glimpsed what had been stalking them. Were it not for their strange, drunken gait and misshapen heads, she might have mistaken them for humans—one of the lost tribes she had read about on the Internet, perhaps. But no human she had ever seen moved like that… Because they’re not human, she realized. Her mind seized these words and repeated them like a chant:

Not human. Not human. Not human.

Somehow, in a forbidden corner of her mind, it seemed she had known this all along.

One

Early explorers called it the Green Hell.

This was Auggie’s salient thought as he gazed in quiet trepidation at the monstrous walls of jungle that surrounded him. Clutching his camera to his flimsy chest, his small eyes studied the landscape with keen interest. Consisting of tangled underbrush and vines that hung like coils of concertina wire from the towering treetops, the forest looked virtually impenetrable; an unbroken rampart of green that went on and on as far as the eye could see. Even from the relative safety of their slow-moving boat, the sight of it made his head swim.

Leaning over the rail, he caught a glimpse of his reflection skimming along beside him on the dark water, so close he could almost touch it—a perfect mirror image of his own face, right down to the narrow stump of a chin and the slightly protruding ears. What would happen if we sank? he wondered. Tightening the straps on his lifejacket, he imagined the foul caress of that murky water on his skin, his stomach roiling at the thought of all the unknown creatures that lurked beneath the surface. They were at least three hours from Puerto Malaka, which itself was little more than a collection of shacks and dusty streets—to even think of it as a town was being overly generous. If something were to happen to them out here… Auggie shivered in spite of the heat. You can do this, he told himself. Show them you can do this. In truth, he had little choice. They had come too far to turn back now.

After all the months of planning, here they were, floating down one of the world’s longest rivers in what amounted to little more than a glorified canoe with a lawnmower engine. If someone had told him this was all just some crazy dream, he would have embraced the news without question.

The motorized canoe, or peki-peki as it was called by the locals, was large enough to accommodate twelve people, equipped with two long benches that flanked the interior, one on the starboard side and one on the port, and a canopy for shade. Today there were four passengers in all, two on each cushioned bench, sitting slightly apart from one another to better distribute their weight. This did not include Felix the driver, who did not have the luxury of a cushion or even a proper seat. He sat perched on the stern with one hand resting on the tiller and one brown leg dangling over the rail, his dusty bare foot hovering just above the water. He was a stocky man with a shock of curly black hair and a face like a pug, and he was exceptionally friendly to the three Americans despite the fact that he didn’t speak a word of English.

Without warning, the high-pitched whine of the outboard motor dropped several octaves, and the bow settled into the water as they drifted forward at a near-crawl. This sudden deceleration, combined with the dissonant warble of the motor, sent unexpected waves of panic through Auggie. Why were they slowing down? Was there something wrong with the engine? Auggie looked back and saw their guide, Ernesto, chatting with Felix, who was nodding and pointing a stubby finger at something upstream. Ernesto, looking pleased by whatever the driver had told him, raised his binoculars and began to scan the distant shore.

Auggie followed the guide’s line of sight to a narrow strip of beach where the sand was fringed with evenly spaced palm trees, each one similar in thickness and height. A sudden breeze stirred the jungle and the palm trees danced seductively, their bright green fans skimming the sky. The beach, with its sturdy palms and virgin sand, conjured images of some tropical paradise, and Auggie half-expected a group of scantily clad exotics to come sashaying out of the jungle, carrying trays of frozen piña coladas. Closing his eyes, he could practically smell their sun-kissed skin and taste the coconut and rum of their tropical libations. Amused by this fleeting fantasy, he opened his eyes and stole a glance at Ben, who was sitting sideways with one leg up on the bench, his strong jaw jutting out over the rail as he relaxed on one elbow.

Ben Sawyer’s tattered Red Sox hat was flipped around backwards, and he was smiling at some private thought, eyes squinting hard against the midday sun. Auggie watched him for a moment, trying to guess what he was thinking. Why is he smiling like that? wondered Auggie. I’m tired, hungover, and scared out of my mind, and he looks like he’s having the time of his life. That was the one thing Auggie hated most about people: they all wore masks. No matter how well you thought you knew someone, there was no earthly way of knowing what really went on inside a person’s head.

It’s amazing, isn’t it? Auggie said, raising his voice above the whine of the outboard motor. All these beaches?

Ben turned his head slowly, the ghost of a smile still dimpling his cheeks, and regarded Auggie with his intelligent blue eyes. Auggie was leaning toward him eagerly, blinking in the dappled sunlight as he waited for an answer.

Funny, Ben said in that strange, slow cadence that made people hang on his every word, I was just thinking the exact same thing.

Relief spread across Auggie’s face. Encouraged by the exchange, he inched closer, resting his elbows on his knees as though ready to receive or deliver some profound secret. I never would have imagined, he said, that out here, in the middle of nowhere, you’d see something like that. It sort of reminds me of the Saco.

I hear you. Ben nodded thoughtfully. I’d love to bring a few beers, set up a beach chair, and just kick back and chill out for the day, you know?

Auggie opened his mouth to agree but quickly reconsidered. Eh, not me. You never know what might come crawling out of the jungle… His voice trailed off as the words caught in his throat. Still, he could not control the compulsion to continue. Besides, he went on with a dry chuckle, with my luck I’d probably get eaten by a jaguar or something, rare as they may be.

"Shit, with your luck, needled Ben, you’d probably be swallowed whole by an anaconda."

Shoulders stiffening, Auggie shrank away from his friend. Dude, come on. Don’t even say that. Seriously. You know those things freak me out.

Ben studied Auggie’s face. The blotchy complexion. The deeply furrowed brow. The sucked-in lips, which seemed to have lost all their color. Auggie was genuinely terrified. Only it wasn’t just the idea of snakes that terrified him, it was everything—the river, the jungle, and whatever else lay ahead for them. Ben Sawyer knew all these things, and though he tried to resist the urge, he couldn’t help but mess with him a little.

My bad, Ben said, fighting hard not to smile. I mean, if anything, you’re far more likely to be eaten alive by piranha. I hear this river’s full of them, by the way.

That’s just a myth… Auggie shook his head in denial and made yet another imperceptible adjustment to his lifejacket. They hardly ever attack people.

And let’s not forget the tarantulas. Eyes brimming with mischievous humor, it was all Ben could do to keep himself from laughing. They grow as big as… as big as Dobermans out here.

The joke now apparent, a smile slowly crept across Auggie’s long face. It was the kind of unaffected, childlike smile that seemed to show every tooth, warping his features almost beyond recognition.

As big as a Doberman, huh?

Ben looked back at him, grinning. Shit. I should’ve said Chihuahuas.

Auggie chuckled. You realize tarantulas can’t kill you, right?

Maybe so, Ben conceded, and his blue eyes danced above his crooked smile. But I still wouldn’t want one of those nasty, hairy little motherfuckers to bite me.

The two boys laughed heartily at this simple joke, exhilarated by the spirit of adventure and the potential dangers that awaited them. Now Auggie understood why Ben had looked so pleased. It was the moment itself that pleased him. After so many months of plotting, planning, and anticipating, they were finally here, wherever here was, somewhere deep in the heart of the Amazon River Basin. Auggie could hardly wrap his head around it.

Their past vacations, though conceived through a group effort, were mostly based on cost and convenience: a long weekend spent drinking their way up and down Bourbon Street during Mardi Gras; a seven-day, island-hopping cruise through the Eastern Caribbean; the annual hiking and whitewater rafting trips in Maine—all of them tidy little adventures, brief distractions from the mundane. This year’s vacation, if one could even call it that, had been Ben’s idea, likely torn from the dog-eared pages of some obscure travel guide. He had called them together one Sunday night to share some beers at his little apartment in Bridgewater under the pretense of watching a football game. Once there, Ben had sprung his trap, showing them the maps, pamphlets, and pages of information he had downloaded from the Internet.

Aren’t you guys ready for a real adventure? he asked them, tapping his finger on an ink-smeared map of South America. Look, the way I see it, we only have a few more years to live it up. Four or five years from now we’ll all be thirty, and before we know it, we’ll be married and have kids and shit. In the meantime, I think we should start knocking a few things off our bucket lists. We’ll see places none of our friends have ever seen. Machu Picchu, Nazca, the Amazon…

Auggie wrinkled his nose. Isn’t South America supposed to be kind of dangerous? He looked to Cooper for support but there was none to be found. Cooper had retreated into his own head, chewing on a thumbnail as his bright eyes studied one of the brochures.

No more than anywhere else in the world, Ben insisted. So we’ll rough it a little. So what? Someday we’ll be telling our grandchildren about this trip. C’mon, what do you say?

Auggie chewed his lip and shook his head uncertainly. I dunno. What about another cruise? he asked hopefully. We had such a good time…

Ben flashed his winning smile. Don’t get me wrong, the cruise was a blast. But we can take a cruise anytime. We’re still young; we have to take advantage of it while we can.

Okay, fine. But does it have to be there? Auggie pointed a slender finger at the map. I mean, what the hell are we supposed to do in the jungle anyway? What about England, or Ireland, or someplace like that? I heard the countryside’s really nice this time of year…

Ben turned to Cooper, whose brow was furrowed in concentration, his lips moving soundlessly as he read the descriptive text. Hey, Coop, what do you think?

At length, Cooper finished reading and tossed the brochure onto the cluttered coffee table. He stretched his lean body across the couch, laced his hands behind his head, and smiled at the ceiling. Count me in.

Auggie threw up his arms in resignation while his two friends exchanged a conspiratorial nod, a kind of mental high five. And just like that, it was settled.

On the face of it, the idea seemed ludicrous. Cooper never seemed to have any money and, with the exception of that one Caribbean cruise, none of them had ever traveled to a foreign country. As was his way, Ben persisted until everyone was on board with the plan. From booking all the necessary flights and accommodation to scheduling their appointments at the Tropical Disease and Travel Clinic for a plethora of exotic vaccinations, and finally, organizing a group shopping trip at REI for all the necessary travel gear—Ben planned everything to the last detail.

Now sitting in the languidly moving canoe with camera in hand, eyes flitting across the river and jungle in search of the ultimate photograph, Auggie discovered there was some previously hidden part of him that embraced this wondrous and frightening experience. As long as he could make it through the next few days in one piece, he would return home triumphant as the intrepid explorer; full of stories and photographs that would dazzle his friends and loved ones for years to come. Ben had promised them the adventure of a lifetime. So far, he had made good on that promise, and now Auggie felt a stab of guilt for having ever doubted him in the first place.

Auggie clicked out of his reverie as Ernesto came over and sat beside them. Small and slender, his mahogany skin and smooth complexion glowed with a youthful exuberance. From a distance, he might even pass for a teenager, though it was likely he was somewhere in the mid-thirties. Only his eyes revealed an older, wiser man, one who understood the world completely and accepted it as it was.

In his shy, careful voice, Ernesto said, Hey, guys? He seemed to preface any new conversation this way. Hey, guys? Always like that, always in the form of an interrogative. We are going to look at the beach now. The driver, he thinks he saw a caiman.

Auggie quickly powered up his camera and began to scan the riverbank with the telephoto lens. He knew from his research that caimans were a species of South American alligators, and the prospect of seeing one up close was much more exciting than he had imagined it would be. Sand and trees bobbed into view as his hands trembled with anticipation.

Cursing under his breath, Ben quickly rummaged through his backpack in search of his video camera. He was hell-bent on documenting their entire trip, an endeavor that had actually begun months ago with their initial visit to the Travel Clinic, where he had taken great delight in interviewing the doctor about all the nasty, potentially lethal things the jungle had to offer. Now he looked across at Cooper, who was fiddling with his iPod, oblivious to his friends’ growing excitement. Sporting dark Armani Exchange sunglasses, Cooper’s surfer boy hair whipped back from his forehead in long, sun-streaked tendrils as he bobbed his head to the music. Lost in his own little world, as usual. Ben smiled to himself. Even in the deepest jungle, Cooper somehow managed to look as though he had just stepped off the cover of an Abercrombie & Fitch catalogue.

Despite his lingering hangover, Cooper could not think of a single place he’d rather be at the moment. There was something about the jungle, something he could not articulate, even in his own mind, which made him feel at one with the world. Totally Zen, were the words that came to his mind, and that’s exactly how he felt—as though he existed purely in the moment, with no past and no future. Only the past would not let go so easily. Last night’s cocktails oozed from his pores, and behind his eyes the echoes of their revelry beat like a drum. Too many Pisco Sours, too little sleep, and now he was paying the price. To distract himself from this discomfort, he had escaped into his music library, as was his habit, to a collection of songs he had carefully selected especially for this leg of the trip. He watched the river, trees, and wildlife float by like scenes from a music video while Death Cab For Cutie sang about tourists whose hearts burned with the flames of wanderlust. At times the aesthetic perfection of his surroundings gave Cooper pause to wonder if he was actually still in the little hostel back in Cusco, caught in the tangle of some alcohol-induced dream. If not for the crushing headache and the tickle of perspiration dripping down his chest, he might have allowed himself to believe this was so. He was adjusting the iPod’s volume to drown out the gargle of the outboard motor when Ben caught his attention.

Cooper pulled out his earbuds. Huh?

They think they spotted a caiman over there. Ben nodded his chin in the direction of interest.

Cooper’s eyebrows shot up. A caveman? He smiled skeptically, trying to comprehend the meaning of the joke. You’re shitting me, right?

The peki-peki glided smoothly toward the riverbank. Ernesto said something to Felix, and the driver pointed a thick finger toward the nearest shore. Here the river had eroded a section of the high bank, and a row of edge-bound palms bowed at various angles toward the water. Several young palms had already taken the inevitable plunge, pulling a confusion of roots from the unstable soil. As the canoe floated closer, a small caiman, roughly four feet long from nose to tail, appeared on a strip of beach between the fallen trunks. Its hindquarters wiggled as it skittered across the sand and slid effortlessly into the brown water. With one last swish of its tail, it was gone, swallowed up by the murky river.

Cooper had removed his sunglasses to better see the reptile, and the sudden brightness made his eyes water and his head throb even more. After several seconds of blinking and squinting, his gray eyes shot open, wild with amazement. Wow! Did you see that? What was that—an alligator?

Uh-huh. Ernesto nodded. Is white caiman. Just a baby. They are very shy.

Cooper was ecstatic. He slid closer to Auggie. Did you get it?

Auggie was scrolling through the images when suddenly he smiled. He angled the camera so that Cooper could see the display screen. The image showed the caiman in a dramatic pose, one clawed foot frozen in mid-air, hovering just above water. Its mouth was slightly open as though smiling for the photograph, revealing two long rows of pointed teeth.

Great shot, man! Cooper gave him a friendly slap on the shoulder. You’re going to give me copies of these when we get home, right?

Sure, Auggie said, pleased by the compliment. We’ll have to e-mail all our pictures to each other when we get home.

What do you mean?

Auggie’s thin lips moved from one side of his face to the other, finally settling into a puzzled grin. You know… he spoke very slowly, when we get home. We can Dropbox all our photos. Sawyer, too.

Now Cooper blew an imaginary speck of dust from one of the lenses of his sunglasses. I’m shit out of luck, amigo.

Auggie stared at him blankly, unable to decipher the meaning of this strange non sequitur. What are you talking about?

Cooper spread his empty palms out before him and smiled good-naturedly. I don’t have my camera anymore.

Auggie scrunched up his deep-set eyes. He recalled Cooper’s camera, a compact digital Canon PowerShot purchased on a whim during their layover in Newark. That had been what? Two weeks ago? Since then, Cooper had been snapping pictures of everything in sight, even the massive pile of shit with which he had clogged the toilet at the little hostel back in Aguas Calientes, where the water pressure was nil. Despite the fact that he was a lousy photographer (most of his subjects came out blurry or horribly mangled, if at all), he loved taking pictures, and Auggie found it difficult to believe that Cooper—irresponsible, fly-by-the-seat-of-his-pants Cooper—had been careless enough to have already lost his cherished new toy. What do you mean? What happened to your camera?

Bowing his head, Cooper slid the sunglasses back onto his face, and his eyes disappeared behind the black, insectile lenses. It’s gone.

What do you mean, ‘It’s gone’?

Cooper sighed ruefully. It got stolen back in Cusco.

What? Auggie asked sharply. Someone stole your camera? When?

Just as we were getting into the cab last night. Cooper studied Auggie’s bewildered expression with interest. I thought you knew.

Of course I didn’t know that. How could I know that? Why didn’t you say anything?

I was too drunk to chase after the dude, Cooper confessed with a shrug. And we were all having such a great time with those Aussie chicks. I didn’t want to spoil the mood.

Auggie smiled in spite of himself. You’re unbelievable, you know that?

Anyway, Cooper went on, it’s all up here. He tapped two fingers against his temple.

Auggie shook his head and sighed in resignation. He looked to Ben for support, but Ben was busy gathering information from their guide and was oblivious to the bizarre exchange.

—the lodge? Ben was asking.

Ernesto made a so-so gesture with his hand. Mmm… is about four more hours.

What about the research center? How far is that from the lodge?

Frowning, Ernesto’s small mouth grew smaller as he thought. He shouted something to the driver, whose words bubbled back in a rapid staccato.

Ben leaned across to Auggie. What’s he saying?

Auggie cocked his head and listened. Something about the time, I think. He shook his head. I don’t know. It’s way too fast for me, man.

After a few seconds, Ernesto turned back to them. Mmm. Is about same distance…four, five more hours from the lodge to the research center.

The three Americans looked at one another and nodded, settling in for the duration.

An hour later, someone spotted more movement on one of the beaches.

That is a capybara, Ernesto explained, pointing. They are world’s largest rodent.

Roughly the size of a bulldog, the pudgy brown creature sat on its haunches, calmly gazing at them from its muddy bed. Auggie recognized the animal from a documentary he had watched on the Discovery Channel. He raised his camera and snapped off a half-dozen photographs, each one showing the creature from a slightly different angle.

This time, Ben was ready with his video camera. He zoomed in on the unsuspecting creature until it filled the screen. A small brown ear twitched lazily atop its short head, black eyes blinking dispassionately as they followed the upstream progress of the motorized canoe. "Just a few short hours ago, we arrived in the Amazon