Savage Invasion

By Alan Dale Daniel

Deep in the Amazon basin hints of danger appear. People go missing, others are found with terrible wounds from an unknown source. A hard working anthropologist in the region is puzzled. Rumors from the Congo River frighten villagers into moving away. In the remote regions of Southwestern China, the People’s Liberation Army has started moving thousands of troops and heavy military equipment into the area, but places a news blackout over the district and will not disclose the reason for the maneuvers.

In Washington, DC, hundreds of analysts watch and wait as information trickles into their domain. The bureaucracy is beginning to awaken to an unknown threat that looms over vast areas of the world. This hurried city of blurry eyed office workers, living and working out of sight of the public, are the brains and sensory receptors of the most powerful people in America. Two of them are buried deeply in the maze of offices that become the centers of the microscopic analysis of events around the globe.

Patsy and Crag will soon be the center of the information flow that means life and death for the world, as a super invader awaits to spring its attack on an unsuspecting humanity. The adversary will not wait long. Both Patsy and Crag suffer personal turmoil and endure an abiding loneliness that may interfere with their perception of the danger. Can the world die because of the loneliness of two people?

Patsy and Crag have to battle one another as well as the unknown evil lurking outside. Will their friends Cheryl and Becky help or hinder the search for answers in an erupting arena of horror? Will nations be pulled apart by the threats that will soon be upon them? The humans of earth are threatened by an enemy of countless numbers. Will they be overwhelmed or will they defend the earth to the last?

The answers await in a traditional story of an invasion of earth, Savage Invasion!

• Language: English
• Publisher: Xlibris US
• Release date: Sep 16, 2022
• ISBN: 9781669829027

Alan Dale Daniel

Alan Dale Daniel was born in Bakersfield, California in 1947. His dad worked in the oilfields while mom kept the household. His brother Charlie was several years older than him. They lived in the tiny area of Greenfield before moving to the city of Bakersfield in the early 1960s. Alan graduated from South High School, in Bakersfield, CA in 1966. His dad died that same year as Alan went off to college. Alan graduated from Bakersfield Jr. College in 1968 with an AA degree. He then went on to his four year degree in History. Alan received his BA in History from San Fernando Valley State Collage, now Cal State Northridge in 1970. He volunteered for the US Marine Corps as a helicopter pilot from 1970 - 1975. He earned his MBA from Pepperdine University while serving with the Marines. After his separation from the Marines Alan attended Pepperdine University School of Law and received his Juris Doctorate in 1978, the same year he passed the California Bar. He worked for the Kern County District Attorney's office and then the City of Bakersfield City Attorney's Office where he reached the position of Assistant City Attorney. Alan retired from the law in 2004 and is now living in the small town of Dayton, Nevada with his energetic wife Lori. Alan published the Super Summary of World History, Revised in 2010; Tracking Ancient Legends in 2013, and Drawings of Hollywood 1920 - 1939 in 2019.

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Copyright © 2022 by Alan Dale Daniel.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the copyright owner.

This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to any actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Getty Images are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Getty Images.

Rev. date: 08/26/2022

Xlibris

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CONTENTS

Arrival

Washington

Indefinite Disclosures

Colombia

Overrun

Suez

Countdown To Doom

Blast Effects

Intruders From The Seventh Portal

The Struggle

The Unexpected

Remembering The Great Alien Ant War

Arrival

Over the open oceans, far from any nation’s boundaries, the invaders came. No radar detected them, no human eyes saw them, and no human knew of their presence. Their capsules were small enough, house sized, and aerodynamic enough to slip sleekly through our atmosphere and into the oceans. The unseen entry of the otherworldly vessels into our seas caused no alarm. Cloaked from ignorant humanity by the ocean’s vastness, the new inhabitants of our world went to work, preparing for a future that did not include beasts, humans, or kindness.

Quite slowly, the intruders moved to shallower waters and mined into the continental shelf of major landmasses just beyond the ocean outlets of major rivers, where rushing water cut deep channels into submerged landforms underpinning the uplifted, dry continental zones. The trespassers quarried their way into the continental landmasses by keeping below powerful rivers leading to vast interiors, relatively uninhabited by humans. The vibrations and pollution from the masses of humanity were easily detected and, thus, urban multitudes were easily avoided by the stealthy newcomers. The tunnels, material debris, and other preparations mixed with the grand rivers’ vast silt-laden alluvial fans and went undetected.

After several underground and underwater bases were established just beyond the mouth of the Amazon, Congo, and Mekong Rivers, the aliens began their long tunnels, following the riverbeds into the interior of Earth’s continents. The Amazon River was their main highway into the rain-soaked interiors of the Amazon basin. The Congo and the Mekong Rivers served as clandestine approaches to almost-uninhabited lands deep within Africa and Asia. The rivers with tightly packed humanity, such as the Mississippi, Rhine, Volga, Ganges, and Yellow Rivers, were avoided.

Following the many sizable tributaries of the Amazon, Mekong, and Congo waterways, the stealthy strangers found their way to heavy tropical forests, replete with triple canopy vegetation, clogged with heavy undergrowth, successfully hiding their endeavors from prying human senses. There, deeply concealed, they began to build large underground bases, grow food, store supplies, erect underground factories, construct weapons, assemble armies, and plan for their seizure of an unsuspecting earth.

Little was left on the surface for humans to discover. The few travelers who might venture onto territory above the alien tunnels were discouraged or destroyed. The invaders found that odd noises and strange visions frightened the ancient tribes living deep in the jungle, keeping them away and causing scary tales of ghostly danger to circulate, frightening more people away. Noxious gases that burned human eyes and sharply stabbed at human nostrils drove everyone off, modern or ancient. With little effort, those humans living near the alien improvements were driven away, along with curious outsiders. It was over fifty years from their first descent, but the aliens were now considering how to start their ultimate expansion. The alien masses had grown to enormous size, acclimated to Earth, overcome Earth’s bacteria and viruses, and adapted to breathe the air. Could the blue planet be theirs?

Extraterrestrial leaders—still ensconced deep underground, well below ocean floors and riverbeds—became aware, and then alarmed, by humanity’s technical advances. The outsiders detected new atomic weapons of immense power, better aircraft, and improved combat gear for individual soldiers. It became obvious that human military engineering and scientific discovery were accelerating. The longer the clandestine assailants waited, the more power humanity would accumulate. The ultimate fear among the complex intelligence planning the assault was that humans would somehow unite.

Over the more than one hundred years the interlopers had been watching and inspecting the human creatures and their activities, there was always ferocious divisiveness. Language kept the humans divided, along with skin color, history, ritual, religion, exchange methods, increasingly different cultures, and, most of all, different political and social philosophies. The humans killed one another in group conflict, killed one another in solo activities, and killed themselves by taking great risks with their lives. So far, nothing had brought the earthlings together. Nonetheless, as the power of their weapons increased, some humans might see an advantage in worldwide cooperation to prevent worldwide obliteration. If humans united on any significant scale, Earth would grow into a formidable foe. A divided humanity would make conquest much simpler.

After they contemplated the people of Earth for decades, alien minds calculated humanity would divide itself further if the pressure of annihilation came upon them. Under alien assumptions, a high percentage of certainty developed that humanity would turn upon itself like blood-excited sharks even as they were being slaughtered. It happened often before. They found out through intense focus on the earthlings’ languages much about Earth history. The aliens discovered that when the Islamic religion had threatened Christian Europe, many Christian monarchs formed alliances with the Muslims to overthrow Christian kingdoms they competed against. The same had occurred numerous times in Earth’s short history. Alien computations forecast it would happen again as their invasion began to crush the planet’s inhabitants. The aliens must kill every human on the planet. Even if some were kept for slaves, they must all die within a few years from conquest. Their ideas and actions must not be allowed to spread to the alien’s kind. There was little chance of this, but no chance at all would be taken.

Imperturbable intellects decided to engage humanity promptly before they could develop even more powerful weapons of destruction or somehow stumble into unity. From deep below the continental shelf off the Amazon River, the various otherworldly directives were sent. The enciphered wireless messages flowed instantly up the adjacent tunnels to the Amazon basin. High-pitched pulses, randomly arranged and sent through the deepest part of Earth’s oceans, traveled to the giant underground main bases at the mouth of the turbulent rivers, alerting other alien colonies throughout the world to finalize preparations. The onslaught on Earth was about to commence.

- - - - - - -

Jane Goodman, PhD, was working in the dense jungle of the South American Amazon basin, and probably for a little too long. The short scrawny lady with muscles of steel became isolated, plus viciously antisocial, through her chosen profession of anthropology. The fifty-two-year-old woman with sweat-soaked clothes trekked to the Amazon basin nearly two years ago in search of a great discovery, one that would put her distinctive character and name in with those of anthropology’s greats. It had not happened, at least not yet; however, if hard work could bring it about, then Jane Goodman would accomplish her goal. Since Jane was only four feet nine inches, slogging long distances through the dense, damp rainforest wasn’t an easy task. Because most of the natives were much taller, they could outdistance her on daily treks to the ancient ruins that captured her life. In spite of the heat, Ms. Goodman—as she demanded everyone call her, rather than Dr. Goodman—wore a similar uniform to the digs every day. Trousers, baggy in the legs but not elsewhere, a long-sleeved white shirt, sports bra (also white) and French Army boots, made mostly of treated dark green canvas, comprised her daily dress. No jewelry adorned her hard muscular frame, and no makeup touched her skin, now leathery from the tropical sun and endless sweat. Short clean light-brown hair fell down from an old beat-up LSU Tigers baseball hat. Unfortunately, the amazing heat had damaged her hair beyond easy repair. Although her fingernails were torn down by aggressive digging in the unforgiving soil covering the valuable carcasses at the ancient ruins, she kept them fairly clean by nudging the dirt out with a folding knife she carried in her back pocket. Her trousers fit rather tightly over her rear, disclosing the presence of the knife to anyone who might glance at her tightly muscled butt, but few made the effort.

Jane was misanthropic by nature, and the isolation and lack of attention by her colleagues in the faraway USA worsened an already gritty nature. Although she spoke the native language the village inhabitants seldom visited her modest residence, known as a hut to the outside world. They liked her because of her soft melodious voice and overall kindness in spite of her otherwise demanding ways. All she thought about was working and keeping her computer functioning in the damp environment. Unbeknownst to Jane, a crude fact was stalking her. She was on the frontlines of a war.

A commotion arose in the small band of people living out of civilization’s path. Dr. Goodman paid no attention until a young man disturbed her brainwaves.

You come and see this, the youngster asserted in his Amazonian tongue through her open window. My father badly hurt.

Jane arose quickly from her wicker chair and ducked under the low doorway into the well-shaded lane to the village. The dirt path to the rural settlement’s forum was only a few feet wide, the rest of the landscape being consumed by the jungle. In moments, Jane could see the youngster’s father lying in the damp clearing surrounded by homogeneous low and narrow native huts plus several wide-eyed locals.

Arriving at the wounded man, she quickly grasped that his injuries were utterly odd. She was looking at a single large wound on his left side just below the ribs. It looked like a roundish hole had been punched completely through his body, although it was far larger in the front than the back. She ran her hands around the surface and determined the hole was very clean at the front, but it felt as if it was ripped out in his back. It was larger than a spear would make, about five inches across in the front, she estimated.

What happened? she softly questioned the wounded man, but his agony was too great to allow a reply.

Does anyone know what happened? she asked the gathering crowd as loudly as her soft voice would allow.

There was no answer.

Please someone tell me what is going on. I have to know to help him! she pleaded.

An older barefoot man spoke in English, He came like this from northern jungle, he said, pointing down a very narrow path into the deepest undergrowth. Many not return from that path, he stated factually.

Jane looked at the shoeless old man in disbelief. She had seen him in the village since her first days here some two years ago. He never seemed to age. The old fellow’s name eluded her, but his stature was elegant, and he stood about six feet four inches, even as old age bent his frame. He was always leaning on a long spear topped with a flint-edged blade, handmade in a process termed knapping. Knapping was an ancient blade-making skill dating back to the Old Stone Age. His hair was completely white, and it clashed with his burnt umber skin. The man’s sharp eyes peered through her as if she were glass. Looking at his wrinkled skin, Jane guessed his age at eighty to ninety. There wouldn’t be much the old man would not have seen in these jungles.

I didn’t know anyone had died in this village, Jane replied.

No one has died, said the old man. They just go away.

Jane’s quizzical look seemed to encourage the white-haired fellow to continue.

Some people go down paths to the great river, but they do not return. Late in the night, sometimes we hear distant screams, but we know not who makes the screams. It may be the gods, it may be people, and it may be spirits of the lost souls of long ago, he said with his voice hardly inflecting. By my own and old knowledge, I tell you this. Many years have passed since I first heard the screams, but the sound forever with me.

I’ve been here for months and months, and I’ve never heard this, Jane’s voice was tinged with skepticism.

You hear little. Your ears deaf and eyes blind to jungle whispers and wisps. Your mind not native mind, he said with a tone of judgment. You go off in sunshine to your fallen stones, but they go opposite direction from deep jungle paths villagers take. You reappear from your old stones at day’s end tired and eat little. You sleep the sleep of the foreigner—deep and dead. Nothing disturbs you. In night, your door closed and bolted, your windows barred, your head buried in the sack you sleep upon. The poison you put in yourself at night push you into the valley of death you call sleep.

Jane was stunned by what he knew about her closed-door activities.

The tormented man cried out again as his back bent with pain and eyes flew wide open with what was surely terror. A tiny knot of women brought him clear water in a small wooden bowl. They splashed it onto his face and spilled a little into his deep now-silently-screaming mouth. Then he stiffened. With his mouth and eyes unnaturally wide open, nostrils expansively flared, and neck muscles coiled steel-cable taut, he died.

It was only then Jane noticed his hands were pushed out in front of him, as if he was trying to hold something away. She then became aware of narrow but deep gashes all over his shoulders and head. Jane thought the wounds went unnoticed because of the garish, great wound in his guts.

He’s been torn up! she cried. What … who … could have done this?

The old man pointed to the sky but said nothing.

We will mount a guard, another man said, and go for help to the authorities.

Jane muttered agreement in unison with the throng.

Jane Goodman was not a medical doctor, but her PhDs in physical and cultural anthropology had required committing massive amounts of anatomical knowledge to memory. She was convinced the immense crater blown into the native’s body was from something not uniform in structure—that is, it wasn’t round from one end to the other. She thought it tapered rather quickly over its length, something like a large but stubby rhino’s horn. And some kind of animal attacked his upper torso, perhaps after he died. She knew animal wounds from many a year in the wilds, but everything was unrecognizable in spite of her extensive knowledge.

As she went to bed that night, Jane added a little extra dose of her antianxiety/sleep drug acquired by her friends so long ago in America. Most people knew it as doxepin, and it was taken by mouth.

What could it be? she thought. How many have not come back? What screams—or whatever—was the old guy talking about?

As she succumbed to the not-so-modern marvel of drug-induced sleep, she determined to examine the area for signs. What else could she do? She did wonder if the university and the group funding her Amazonian stay would countenance this detour. Maybe she wouldn’t have to tell them. Just say work was continuing and reports would follow. If she did find something interesting, she could just post it on her blog. They would never know, she decided in her drug-addlepated path to dreamland.

After their arrival some days later, the police determined the native had been killed by an animal but listened closely when the villagers told them others had not returned from trips to the mighty river to their north. In fact, the mighty river was a small tributary of the Amazon, but it was still about a hundred yards across in places. Compared to the Amazon River, it wasn’t so big; but compared to other local rivers, it was quite large. The police gleaned all they could from the local village dwellers, discussed the problems with the case, and decided a trip to the great river was required. The police were quickly approached by the taunt PhD, who spoke to the small uniformed group with an air of authority granted only to American females.

I would like to volunteer my services to your expedition, Dr. Goodman explained to the police. The tall native police captain, obviously in charge of the excursion, didn’t look impressed.

I am not certain we require an anthropologist for solving a crime, he said in perfect English. The police captain was tall and handsome, with tightly curled black kinky hair and dark-brown skin. The athletic man had obvious muscularity, was dressed in a kaki Western-style police uniform with creased trousers and a crisp uniform shirt complete with insignia and cap. Jane could see the uniform was once impeccably pressed and starched although it was now partially soaked with sweat. The relatively tall native stood at six feet two with close-cropped especially black hair and gleaming black eyes. His stance was totally erect yet not overly stiff. While he appeared to be quite formal, he did not give an air of snobbery. He must have learned who Jane was from the locals.

Plus, he continued, we have a medical doctor to assist us in evaluating any deceased we may come upon. We are quite prepared, the captain intoned with an impressively resonant voice.

Yes, said the intensely sun-toned hater of mankind, but a second opinion never hurts, and I am not going to cost anyone anything. I can keep up with anyone hiking, I have a lot of jungle experience, and I know a little about this area since I have been here many months. What was your name?

Well, said the cautious captain, we may be going out several times. We have many trails to search. It might take weeks, and that would take you away from whatever important work you are engaged in at the moment. And you would be the only woman—unless we take a few local women for luggage bearers … which I think we might. And you can please call me Nate. All the English speakers call me Nate.

What difference does it make that I’m a woman? Jane interjected briskly.

This isn’t America … Miss—

Dr. Jane Goodman, PhD, anthropology, both cultural and physical.

Yes, Jane, please forgive me, but in this part of the world, women and men are viewed differently. Men and women are not the same here in the Amazon. Women take a different place in these rural areas. Men have separate roles. Those roles are not mixed. Believe me when I tell you it will be difficult for you to fit in.

Don’t worry about me, came her flat reply.

But I must. I am, or will be, responsible for everyone under my charge. Everyone must see eye to eye, work together, fit with the others. Outsiders will not be able to do this. Really, please consider our position. And I frankly do not see your use in our investigation of this matter.

"My university is spending a good deal of money here with the expedition I am currently on. We buy supplies at top prices. We hire people to excavate. I hire guides and buy food. My university may consider pulling out if I were to report I was making no progress on my work," Jane spoke in a hinting tone of one talking down to another while carefully maintaining the air of at least partial respect.

Please reconsider, Nate asked again.

I will be ready to leave at any time, Jane summarily informed the tall black gentleman as she walked away.

Watching her go and noting the pocket knife on her tight rear, the captain shook his head slowly from side to side. His California education let him recognize when he was dealing with a stubborn feminist American, and he realized this person was most stubborn. She would go and be a pain every step of the way, he thought. Politics, he mused, they infected everything.

- - - - - - - - -

Crag Rude felt lousy. Washington DC was a bad place in summer weather, and he was feeling crummier and hotter than usual, even though his small office was air-conditioned. At sixty years and four months, he was feeling older—much older—than his chronological age. Mr. Rude—unmarried, five feet eleven inches, obese, and a below-average dresser—was every inch an established Washington bureaucrat. Crag was clean shaven with close-cut hair, and his suit today was a dark gray with lighter pin strips. He wore black wingtip shoes, old but well-polished. He was good at writing reports and an excellent researcher. Nonetheless, in recent years, he had become a complete outcast. Since he was a gun-toting conservative who had supported people akin to President Trump in his much younger years, the new milieu of Washington liberalism irked him. And he didn’t keep his mouth shut.

In due time, Mr. Rude was confined to a small office, studying miscellaneous detritus of cast-off issues for any Congress person—make that staff person—who made a call. From the number of fathoms to the ocean bottom where Malaysian Flight 380 disappeared to the height of the Pyramid of the Moon in Mexico, he was the man to call. Unfortunately, for Crag, his office reflected his immaterial position. It was hardly larger than fifteen by fifteen feet, like a bedroom in a suburban lower-class tract house. The ceiling was eight feet above the floor, but the office next door had a ceiling height of over twelve feet. Storage, Crag had been told, was the reason. One large duct was routed through his area, and it impeded his airspace by about twelve inches. The entire office was painted an off yellow and reminded Crag of a faded newspaper from 1920. He thought he saw just such a newspaper used for insulation when the maintenance staff replaced an overhead florescent light that had failed some years back. He didn’t know how old the building was, and he refused to research it.

His furniture was solid steel and painted a light gray to match his moods. The floor was carpeted to match the hall, which was a construction-quality carpet, quite thin, and glued to the floor. It was a mottled light- and dark-gray masterpiece of depression. Crag had posted three pictures on the wall, and they all contained colorful birds in spring settings with puffy white clouds floating in the background. The frames were old fence wood. The cheerful birds and rugged wood looked very out of place in Crag’s austere drunk tank of an office.

The sixty-year-old had not been sleeping well of late. He did not drink, despised drugs, and hated doctors; but he was on a dozen pills for his blood pressure and other associated ailments, and every pill had awful side effects. Fighting his way through the morning, the oft-foggy Mr. Rude swilled strong black Folgers coffee—so strong you could walk on it, his mom used to say—while hoping for an interesting assignment. At times the brain fog helped as he was nearly everyone’s whipping boy because of his detachment from the gulag SS that ran the government these days.

Mr. Rude looked up sadly when the door opened. It was Mr. George Bland, very dapper as usual. George Bland was an unusually handsome fellow, six feet one inch in height, trim, muscular, and clean-shaven topped with sandy blond hair. He was an impeccable dresser, and his shoes had a better shine than most marine recruits. Everything about George screamed quality and intelligence. To add to the already long list of attractive attributes, he was witty, charming, and fun to be around, plus realistically optimistic. Oddly, George liked Crag and wanted him to be a more important part of the bureaucratic team assisting Congress. George wanted Crag’s cynicism turned against the joyful idiots who naturally adhered to every political team running DC. Not just anything the powerful recommended would work, so George needed someone who could clearly assess proposals without letting the political ramifications get in the way. Crag was just that kind of gent. And he knew Crag would not hesitate to tell them they were idiots.

Hey, Crag, things are looking up, old man! he said with mocked joy in his voice.

Riiiight … Crag acknowledged with dripping cynicism.

Look, the election did you and me some good. The Speaker of the House is a Republican now. We’re tied in the Senate. Things in our neck of the woods will be improving. The Nazi overseers are going away now. We can work as we used to … unless and until some new fanatics show up.

George, Crag stated flatly, "those liberal czars ran away because the money ran out. Budget cuts, nothing else. The Republicans are yellow, the Senators will do nothing, just as always, and the president is still a scum-ball Democrat who would rather screw an aide than work. Literally. I think his wife makes interns do her and not just the boys. The VP has her quirks too. They’re all the lowest forms of humanity. In fact, I’ll lay odds they aren’t human—or a thinking part of humanity. I really think our DC upper echelons are devoid of brains. It’s all—and I mean all—power and money and nothing else," Crag said with his usual building anger.

Have some more coffee, Crag! George demanded. Since Bland was Rude’s boss, this was possibly a command.

It’s been bad since LBJ, George, the fat old man huffed, "and it is only going to get worse—much worse! History isn’t lying to us. Nineteen sixty-four was the death of America. Since then, every major index of human advancement has declined. Marriage, divorce, educational achievement from the lowest level to the highest, the number of manufacturing jobs, government debt, crooked elections, crooked FBI, crooked Justice Department, bought-off politicians, off-the-scale government debt, skyrocketing entitlements, swarms of people who entered my country illegally, pressure to conform in speech, attire, what organizations you belong to, who you know—everything went downhill since 1964. Or maybe it was 1963 when Vice President Johnson had President Kennedy assassinated? Who knows exactly? And this is proven in raw data! All the numbers are going the wrong way. The education scores, the divorce numbers, the number of murders in huge cities, all right off a cliff. It’s endless. The entire place is corrupt to its marrow. Everything is rotten. Bribes are more common than a cold. No honest man can get a break around here. You know … you know that." Crag was his habitual self. Angry to start with and anger that grew with each bitter word. Crag had studied history and knew what he was saying. About all Crag did outside of work was read, so he had in-depth knowledge about the subject of history. Few would challenge him on this knowledge because those who had were buried by logic and facts, even though no one’s mind ever changed. Crag found long ago that facts changed no one’s mind. The only real fact was he had given up long ago. He fumed about politics, but that was it. He decided in years past that facts, logic, and history were all meaningless in the world of DC. So he worked and kept away from political agendas.

OK, we have our little problems, but we always muddle through, George corrected him for the millionth time. It is getting a bit better. Look, I have a new assignment. I’m going to be coordinating a task force on Latin America trade, and I think I can get you a special spot on it. We would be working with the new Republican Speaker and his new staff. And guess what? I’ve been told no White House interference because they are not interested in the project. We can make our own recommendations, and I’ll bet someone will listen. George was typically enthusiastic.

Optimist, Crag accused.

But it’s a good chance to get into something that might make a difference. Latin America is a large trading region for the US, and trade from there would help both areas. Jobs, more money, tariffs, and so forth, George smiled as he spoke. It was as if George was selling him an old, noisy, fly-attracting refrigerator.

Look, Crag’s angry voice told George what was coming, I got this job because of a contact I made in junior college. I got a call to DC because this nice fellow knew I was a history major and without work and about to starve. Who needs a historian? At first, it was OK because I fit in with a few of the people. Then Representative Joe Smith, my guy, got defeated by a liberal feminist named Clunker, of all things, who came to hate me. Now that she’s been in for several terms, every time I poke my head up, she tries to chop it off. She’s singed me out more than once. It was a miracle I got to the civil service before Joe the Defeated got flushed. Now, you want me on a high-profile job? Really? Crag was incredulous.

Crag, your elected nemesis, Ms. Clunker ‘the Crapper,’ isn’t going to care. [Representative Clunker was called the Crapper because she was rumored to use numerous enemas to reduce her weight.] Congressional Representative Clunker is on committees that don’t care about trade or South America. You’re safe, George reassured him. And you don’t work for her now, George reminded Crag. You work for me and the entire Congress.

I’ll help … if I can keep it low-key. Really low, Crag cautioned. I can’t afford to lose my only paying job.

Complaining about your salary?

I don’t complain about my salary—never.

Why?

’Cause I don’t need the money. What I want isn’t for sale.

Tried K Street?

No, and I never will.

So, no on K street and yes on the job?

Yes.

"It’s a deal. And look here, I’ve got something for you already. And the new Speaker said you can put aside other projects because this is a high priority for him."

Sounds anything but low-key, Crag grumbled.

Not to worry. I’ll keep your name either out of it or way down the list, he said as he arose and headed for the door. We need someone like you on this, Crag. We need it to be very factual. Kind of cold and right to the point. You’re the best at that. No bull—that’s you, and that’s what we want, George alleged as he cleared out of Crag’s gloomy office.

Crag stood up, walked over to his small window, and looked outside. The sun was emerging from behind a scattering of early-morning clouds. It’s going to be hot and muggy, he thought. And George was lying about the project, even though he was trustworthy. Crag wondered why the soft-shoe dance. If they needed a straight shooter, it was for a scapegoat. Life just sucks, ran through his brain as he mumbled to himself and took a sip of his cold, embittered black coffee.

- - - - - - - - -

Jane Goodman bent over another savaged native victim. He was found by the captain’s expedition to the interior of the murky jungle north of her adopted village. Another tapering hole, she thought, this one just above the belly button surely killed him immediately. She noticed the same deep gashes on the head, arms, and shoulders. The deep gashes puzzled Jane, and the police doctor, one Dr. Samson, had no answers. The wounds were awful, and they cut through bone and tissue like massive scissors. No known animal caused these injuries. Jane and the doctor agreed on that issue.

It was uncomfortably hot in the small clearing in the Amazon jungle basin of Brazil, and the setting sun revealed a set of threatening clouds through the tall forest trees. Yet another spate of rain seemed to be headed their way. The small band of police, their doctor, and their native women cargo bearers had been joined by Jane as they trekked off into the unknown wilderness where old men of the villages said many vanished over the past few months—or was it years? Jane could never get the story straight as the natives told it. The small villages along the way all told of terrors in the green hillsides and legends of death dating from long ago. But how long ago? The people stressed that several had gone away over the past few months but also insisted that the mysterious deaths had been going on for decades or, the old men said, maybe since time itself began.

Jane had also related new stories to Captain Nate, their leader and representative of the outside world. The old man with the knapped flint spearpoint told her before the expedition left for the deep jungle that odd animals had been seen roaming the area. They were animals from territory deeper in the Amazon, he thought. Although the old man had not really traveled beyond his region, he did recognize wildlife that belonged elsewhere. His numerous contacts warned him that many beasts were on the move, but no one knew where. The fleeing creatures avoided areas of human habitation and bothered no one. The old man told Jane it was extremely odd, and he had no idea what was causing the exodus. Jane noticed he did not blame the gods or jungle spirits for the strange wildlife occurrences. She wondered why but never asked. After telling the captain the stories, he asked that she tell no one else. More oddness would not make the natives less nervous, and Nate’s prime directive was to restore a sense of normalcy and safety to the area.

As the trivial group searched for clues along the tiny plant-infested jungle paths dripping with moisture and seemingly festooned with steam, they found nothing until reaching a clearing no larger than a two-car garage in an LA suburb. There, the wide-eyed leaders were led by their scouting teams to three dead men arranged in a tight circle near the center of the open space. Jane and the doctor looked the victims over with growing fright.

These wounds—they are terrible, sighed Jane. This one had the top of his head chopped off, and they all have the upper-body injuries like this one, she stated, pointing to the man she had just turned over. Ghastly. Jane looked as if she might cry.

Don’t know about chopped off, the MD opined. Looks like it might have been done by a giant scalpel. The doctor was rubbing the back of his head as he spoke. His tatty-cut black hair was tussled and matted with sweat and gunk accumulated on the trek to this murderous spot. He glanced about the forest a bit as he lifted one foot and then another in a subconscious dance. The wound isn’t ragged like a saw or a hatchet would make. It is mostly clean. Almost scissor-like. I’ve seen coroner incisions made with less skill. Scary, I say, MD Sam opined.

The doctor was no doubt correct, but his ragged clothes and nervous demeanor did not lend force to his conclusions. Jane also thought she smelled a bit of alcohol on his breath, but after seeing the slaughter in the clearing, who would blame him? Dr. Samson’s dark-gray pants and dingy brown shirt reeked of weeks of neglect. His cartoon-like pith helmet, stained with years of abuse and damp conditions, only added to his air of ineptitude.

Captain Nate spoke up quickly and forcefully. You three men take posts along the edge of the clearing, he ordered, talking to his group of policemen. Doctor, please take some pictures of this. You women situate yourselves behind the guards around the perimeter and help them keep a lookout for anything moving in the bush or along the path. Stay alert! Ms. Goodman, please take as many notes as you can as rapidly as you can. After the doctor finishes the pictures, I intend to retreat to our campsite—and fast.

We need to take at least one of the three with us, Jane intoned. We need proof, and we need more study of the victims.

The people here are tired. We’ve been out all day and for several days before that. More dead isn’t my goal, Nate retorted.

I can carry this smaller one, she said.

You’ll slow us down, and we will leave you! Nate insisted.

OK, came the expected reply as Jane lifted the body over her shoulders.

Sprinkles of rain were hitting Jane’s face as the group began tramping back along the slippery sinuous path leading to their camp some 3 or more miles away. Jane wasn’t doing well. The group was pulling away from her even though she was exerting herself to the maximum. The young captain looked back and stopped. After Jane caught up, he easily lifted the dead man from her shoulders and assumed the same fireman’s carry Jane had adopted.

You look disgruntled, Jane stated in a soft tone.

I am. Dead men are much heavier than they look. They don’t call something dead weight for nothing, Nate informed her rather sternly.

After I look him over some more, tomorrow, I’ll put a report on my website. At least people will immediately know what we’ve found. The investigation will expand. Maybe people will be saved. Jane sounded apologetic.

Getting to camp will be the difficulty, Nate said. Darkness will engulf us prior to our arrival. Jane sensed a real worry in his voice.

I know we will make it, Jane said almost sanguinely.

Did you notice the dead men were armed with spears? the captain responded as blood rushed into his neck, turning it a reddish hue. Did you notice how sharp and well-kept those weapons were? Those six-foot spears would have allowed those men to hold off any single animal. Also, the way they were grouped. Did you see they had gathered themselves into a circle where they were back to back? If the danger were coming from only one side, all of them would have gathered side by side in a line. The attackers were coming from everywhere. That’s why they put themselves into that compact circle, Captain Nate stressed.

It didn’t work, Jane stated monotonously.

You noticed that, did you? Nate retorted.

OK, don’t be an ass, Jane shot back.

Don’t get it, do you? If it didn’t work for them, it won’t work for us. How can we defend ourselves if we are caught on this trail? How will we defend the camp? Nate was emphatic.

We have guns, she stated flatly. Guns will make the difference.

Maybe … maybe you are right, the tall man said, sounding unconvinced.

The troop moved on through the feathery rain and marshaling gloom. Although the rain was light, it wasn’t helping the footing. Time after time, the bearer girls fell and spilled their loads. The police didn’t slip as much because the boots they wore were specially designed for wet, slippery work. The captain never tired even though carrying a man who was dead weight. Nate was powerful and determined. His leadership got them to the camp and under their tents without mishap even though it had grown dark, as anticipated by Big Nate.

Two experienced members of the party had stayed in camp. With unerring proficiency, they knew the rain was coming and set up extra tarps over the tents and built a larger fire. The coffee was on as the tired expedition entered the open area they had chosen for their base. It was on the top of a hillock, where the rocky ground had replaced the lush vegetation. A spare tarp was thrown over the corpse after he was placed on top of a flat rock outcrop within the camp. Jane Goodman thought he looked as if he might be ready for an operation if only he were not located in this soggy clearing surrounded by jungle, tall grass, and close-in, umber darkness.

The rain stopped near midnight. The guards were grateful for that small favor granted to them by the heavens. Every noise caused them to nervously aim their old AK-47s into the darkness, but no one fired. Captain Nate wouldn’t have put up with it.

The next morning, still soaked but safe, the newly organized tribe of technologically modern people began the daily ritual of humans. Backs were stretched, food was cooked, hot drinks were sipped, and talk of the day ahead began. Big Nate, as the captain was often referred to by his troops, had already set up a new perimeter guard and was planning their march to the nearest large village. In spite of Nate’s pressure to hurry, the crew happily chatted as they went about their routines.

Jane’s ritual was different. After a swig of coffee, she was at the body of the victim, cutting away ripe flesh with the doctor shooting photos at her side. The rural MD seemed more interested in what was moving in the not-so-distant greenery. Nonetheless, he was excellent at analyzing the wounds and gave Jane a rather detailed rundown of what must have happened. He thought the men were gripped by the shoulders or upper arms first and then impaled or scalped just after.

It happened very quickly, Dr. Samson said.

Yes, but what? Jane interjected.

Nothing in the wounds, the doctor went on, oblivious to Jane. Most of them seem very clean. Notice the fellow hasn’t started to rot, even in this climate. Kind of amazing. I have a kit to analyze blood toxins. I thought perhaps the people who had gone missing had succumbed to a toxic environment or had been bitten by some venomous creature, maybe a new species, so I brought a few tools that could aid us in the evaluation.

We can remove the liver so we can have a detailed look, Jane suggested. It should give us a lot of clues as to the cause of death, Jane told the MD, still feeling as if the ragged doctor was concealing something important from her. She wondered what he had found out just by living close to the locals for many years. He must know much more than he’s saying, she believed.

OK, the MD agreed, and I’ll also take some of this congealed blood here at the bottom of the wound. I’ll let you know the results of the tests. Not much else I can do here. With that, the tired-looking MD handed over the camera’s photo chip and left.

As the doctor limped off to work in his tent, Jane also moved toward her ripstop nylon abode, stopping momentarily to extract her computer from a watertight case. Once inside her tan shelter, darker because of the added canvas roof over her tent, she went to work, posting a report on her website and sending another off to the university she usually tried to avoid reporting to. The photos of the postdeath corpse cut up one step at a time were enlightening, Jane believed. Although it wasn’t the kind of field work her benefactors would be expecting, it might help save lives. Under the present circumstances, she was willing to risk their wrath and let them know what she was actually doing. Jane normally faced people and problems straight on. This was no different. Everyone had to know what was going on. If millions of people read the results of her investigation, someone would have a better idea of what was happening here in the Amazon. If everyone helped, these odd events would be figured out quickly and with some sanity. Deep in this wilderness, with her mind running wild and fear starting to grip everyone in camp, bad conclusions might result. Cold scrutiny was needed, and the Internet could provide it.

It wasn’t long in coming.

- - - - - - -

Washington

Crag, did you see this report from a Dr. Goodman in the Amazon? George Bland questioned Crag. It’s crazy. Some woman antho type is blogging about monsters in the jungle. She claims something unknown murdered a bunch of the locals. It’s irrational.

What’s this got to do with trade? Crag asked as he stood in front of George’s large desk.

Nothing. I was just perusing various Internet articles on South America for our trade meetings, and this came up. Take a look. I printed it out. The photos are ghastly, George told him.

Whoa! Crag was taken by surprise. These photos are … bad. These poor fellows were massacred. Who could have done that?

Offer me a foretaste! a feminine voice chimed in from the open door.

Hi … Patsy, George said in a bored monotone.

Hello, kid, said Crag with a bit of cheerfulness. He didn’t even look up as he handed over the article. He knew Patsy and adored her pleasing red hair, but other than a casual wave when they passed, he restrained any notice of her.

Patsy Kelly sought a seat as her eyes widened and darted from image to image while taking in the shocking text Crag had supplied.

Patsy Kelley was another longtime worker in the paper mines of the DC bureaucracy, but a very different one. She was forty years of age, four feet seven inches, almost plump by modern standards, one hundred pounds, with great-looking legs, coupled with especially small breasts, which Patsy did nothing to disguise. Her somewhat-high voice matched her diminutive size. Her fanny was tight but larger than she would like under the circumstances. She believed she dressed to downplay that unhappy attribute. Some people compared her to Clara Bow, the It Girl of silent-film fame. It was a poor comparison. Her face could closely match Ms. Bow’s, but the exuberance was absent. The most accurate description of Patsy’s personality came from her hardworking mother, who told potential suitors that her daughter was pinpoint. Exacting, some might say, but not exuberant. As a very controlled, well-educated, moral (she thought), and hardworking person, she withstood frequent misunderstandings. Accused of being cold—in fact, she was anything but cold. Human companionship was one of her most fervent desires; however, the companionship of the opposite sex and close girlfriends was often denied to her because of the exacting nature of her demeanor. Her obsession with pinpoint analysis skewed her language and furthered her air of eccentric aloofness. Many thought she was deeply odd.

Patsy loved to dress in the 1930s styles and believed light gray was her best color. When she popped through the door, she was wearing a pleated clean white dress with a one-inch black belt, black-and-white women’s closed-toe wingtip shoes, a matching black-and-white pearl and ebony bracelet on her left wrist (plastic, of course, but indistinguishable from the real thing), and a light-yellow blouse with a tallish stiff collar. Her red hair was clipped in a shortish cut but poufed out more than a Louise Brooks style. Patsy used no rouge, and only a small amount of makeup, except for a turquoise eyeshadow and an umber eyeliner. Her eyelashes were naturally long, and Patsy thought she didn’t need any help there. She had slightly plucked eyebrows but otherwise very natural. Her mouth would be considered small, and she applied her light-colored pink lipstick to emphasize that endearing trait. Her teeth were a perfect size, neither too large or too small; and the conservative Patsy would not use whitener, but she thought her teeth didn’t need whitening. Patsy’s nails were a light yellow to match her blouse. She looked very sharp and quite precise.

Gruesome … just appalling. This is from the Amazon Rainforest basin? I conjecture regarding whatever slaughtered them, Patsy uttered in her mellow but high-toned voice. She quickly read through the three pages and handed the article back.

What’d paragraph 10 say? George asked.

Her eyes turned up to the ceiling for an instant and then The body was examined by myself and Dr. Samson, a police expert, who determined the victim’s blood contained almost two ounces of an unknown but exceedingly deadly venom. It was also determined—

Enough, intoned George while raising his right hand. Your parlor tricks remain impressive. We all know you can remember anything and read a page of single-spaced text in one glance. Showing off, disgusting. George’s optimism was on vacation.

She read that in five seconds, old boy. It isn’t a trick, Crag responded in a tone scolding George.

I really don’t care, George shot back with an uncharacteristic sharp manner.

It’s amazing … an amazing story, right, Patsy? Crag was making an effort to play peacemaker.

Unquestionably, it is. Whoever organized the carnage, I would circumvent attaining their acquaintance. Patsy was smiling a bit and shaking her head slightly from side to side, dramatizing her incomplete pass arm gestures.

Doubtless, the bodies are quartered with a coroner by now, Patsy said factually as her lightly shadowed eyes moved between Crag and George. It is my supposition the dawn tide will transport supplementary evidence. She smiled just a bit after she paused. Patsy had sensed a tension between George and Crag over her. She appreciated George had no use for her, but she thought Crag was taking her side, at least for the moment. Few people ever openly took her side.

Did you notice the temperature in that place? It’s over a hundred, Crag said.

No, George corrected, it’s eighteen to twenty-seven degrees Celsius. On average.

It says thirty-eight degrees Celsius, right there on the screen, Crag added in.

It’s just extra hot today, George opined.

That’s the Amazon, Crag stated. When it is ever cold in the Amazon?

Movement, Patsy thought, was best at this juncture.

I can stop over tomorrow, she said as she swiftly rose and hastened out the door. Crag’s eyes followed her appealing form every step and sway of the way.

Glad she’s gone, George vocalized with rare harshness.

She’s OK, Crag told George, somewhat taken aback by the uncommon harness of George’s comportment.

That tedious woman hit on me numerous times for the entire first year she was here, George explained. It was almost enough to put a womanizer off his game. Did she really think I was that bad off?

You think every woman hits on you. That’s why you do so well around them, Crag harassed. And she’s anything but dreadful, Crag said in her defense. I mean, compared to the babes you spend your time with, a high school freshman is old. Besides, I understand she backed off years ago. I don’t think she likes you now. Are you sure you didn’t encourage her and then cut her little heart out? Crag was smiling as he aimed his index finger at George.

Joke all you want. She still enervates me. And I do not—repeat, do not—hang around high school girls. Keep that out of conversations, Crag! Those kinds of jokes can get a person in big trouble, especially in my position.

She’s smarter than you, Crag said with a smile.

"No, she’s smarter than you," came an atypically sharp rejoinder.

OK, she is smarter than me. A lot smarter, Crag said in retreat, "but that doesn’t make her someone to avoid. She’s helped me