Running from the Devil ec-1 Page 3

  A surprising amount of cargo survived the plane’s ill-fated landing. Four guerrillas went to work emptying the suitcases, removing anything valuable. They took laptop computers, jewelry cases, and cameras, but left most of the contents scattered on the ground. Clothing, toiletries, shoes, and hair dryers littered the runway.

  One passenger fell to his knees from heat and exhaustion. Rat Face pushed off the Jeep he leaned against and sauntered over. He barked an order in Spanish to a nearby comrade. The soldier grabbed the passenger by the arm and dragged him back to the circle, dumping him facedown in the dirt. The other passengers stayed frozen, staring at the prone man, fear on their faces.

  The guerrillas pointed to another passenger sitting in the circle. They untied his hands and pushed him toward the discarded cargo. He joined the others, which Emma now dubbed the “work crew.” At one point, she watched Wary Man push a suitcase and a silver metal briefcase behind some wreckage when the guerrillas weren’t looking.

  The noise of engines accompanied by a cloud of dust came from a road that ran up a hill next to the airstrip. Two flatbed pickup trucks appeared only twenty-five feet below Emma’s perch. They ground to a halt at the edge of the airstrip, the doors flew open, and three men stepped out.

  The first man out of the trucks wore green twill pants and a collared shirt, the sleeves rolled to his elbows. His hair was dark and full, but his face was etched with wrinkles. Emma held her breath as he scanned the foliage in her direction. His eyes held a dead look that frightened Emma with its intensity. She shivered in the heat.

  He pulled on a cigarette as he scrutinized the smoldering airplane. Two men surrounded him. These wore fatigues like the rest of the guerrillas on the airstrip, but theirs looked cleaner, and their shirts were sleeved. They dogged the smoking man’s steps while holding machine guns at the ready.

  Smoking Man strolled to the back of one flatbed, lowered the hatch, and flipped open a laptop computer. Next to the computer sat two large field phones, each in its own individual bag. Both the phones and the computer had some sort of satellite uplink. The man dialed a number and chatted on the phone, stopping every few minutes to consult the computer screen.

  The second phone sat in the corner of the flatbed, next to a mesh bag of apples and a liter bottle of seltzer water. Emma focused on the apples. Her mouth watered at the thought of them. Her stomach growled and her throat burned. She was so thirsty that each swallow felt painful. If she could reach the flatbed undetected, she could take both the field phone and an apple. There were so many in the bag, she doubted the man would notice one less. She would wait until dark to make her move.

  Smoking Man finished with his phone call and waved Rat Face over. Smoking Man pointed to something on the computer screen before indicating the passengers huddled on the airstrip. Smoking Man, Rat Face, and the bodyguards spread out, walking through the people, looking at faces. If a passenger stared downward, the men snapped out an order. The passenger looked up.

  When they reached the end of the huddled group, Smoking Man shook his head at Rat Face. He tossed his cigarette on the ground and strolled over to him. Another conference. This time there was a lot of yelling on both sides. Rat Face indicated the bodies gathered around the plane’s aft section. He walked over and kicked one of the burned corpses. He put his hands in the air and shrugged.

  Emma gasped. That a human being could treat another in such a fashion, even after death, was a matter beyond her comprehension

  Smoking Man barked an order. The guerrillas jumped up and started unloading metal disks from the back of the truck. They carried each disk gingerly, as if it were fine china, not a hunk of steel. Emma watched as they hid these disks on the side of the dirt road, alternating sides in a zigzag pattern. Her heart dropped once she realized that the only road to the wreckage would be booby-trapped with land mines. The entire hijacking now appeared to have been planned with an almost military efficiency. Her hopes of a quick search-and-rescue mission were fast disappearing. The enormity of her situation was sinking in, and along with the realization came anger. She settled back in to watch the proceedings with an eye toward disrupting their plans.

  While the guerrillas unloaded the disks from the first truck, Smoking Man’s bodyguard climbed into the second truck. Emma scrambled to her feet. Her fear of losing the phone and food was so great that, for a brief moment, she almost ran straight to the truck. She caught herself and slid behind the trunk of a large palm. She watched while the truck drove away. Emma closed her eyes and put her cheek against the tree. After a minute she slumped back down to the ground.

  Ten minutes later, the flatbed truck reappeared and resumed its spot at the edge of the strip. The bodyguard jumped out. There sat the second field phone, the mesh bag of apples, and the bottle of water.

  The passengers worked in the heat, the discarded cargo grew to a mountain, and Smoking Man inhaled his cigarettes. Sweat soaked through Emma’s clothes, causing her to itch, and her arms and legs started to ache as her body emerged from the shock of the crash. Her hunger grew, becoming a living thing that she found harder and harder to ignore. Her stomach growled and her head pounded. A fly buzzed in her ear and she batted it away.

  The guerrillas stopped to eat. They fed the passengers, handing them reddish brown strips of some sort of smoked meat and flattened bread made out of corn or maize. Emma closed her eyes while the group on the airstrip ate. She was so hungry that watching them made her weak. The entire crew was massed on the far side of the strip, concentrating on eating. Emma decided to make her move.

  She shoved her pack under the bush. She crouched over and worked her way through the trees, keeping low. She focused on her feet in order to avoid stepping on twigs. The thick bed of rotted leaves and soft earth served to muffle her footsteps. While she was grateful for the soundproofing, the sheer density of the jungle made it difficult to move without slapping through branches or rustling through plants, and the leaves were slick underfoot.

  She crab-walked for almost a hundred yards, taking pains to move up the side of the mountain. She twisted her body sideways to slide between branches of a palm, and placed each foot down toe-first to minimize sound. She stopped thirty feet above and to the right of the vehicles. The truck with the apples sat on the other side of the truck that contained the tarp. They were lined up next to each other, five feet from the edge of the tree line. To reach them, Emma would need to step out into the open, climb over the first truck’s flatbed into the second’s, grab the apples and phone, and retreat back the way she came.

  Rivulets of sweat poured off her. It ran down her face and soaked under her arms. Her heart raced. She took several deep breaths to try to regain some composure. She cast a glance at the guerrilla group. Rat Face, his men, Smoking Man, and the bodyguards, all stood in a semicircle with their backs to Emma. She could hear the sounds of their voices rising and falling. Emma needed to get to the truck before they finished with their conference.

  She plunged down toward the flatbeds. While she tried to move as quietly as she could, she didn’t want to spend the time it would take to move through the brush in silence. Her world coalesced into one goal: reach the truck.

  She slipped on the wet leaves, but was able to catch her balance at the last minute. She was twenty feet from the flatbed, then ten feet. Now she didn’t bother watching for sticks. Her need for speed trumped any concern about noise. She closed the gap to the tree line. She reached the edge. Now she was five feet from the truck. No time to waste. She lowered to the ground. Took a deep breath and crawled into the open.

  The sun hit her back full blast. Within seconds she began overheating. Her heart raced, the pounding blood sounding loud in her ears. She worked her way to the first truck’s rear. She crouched behind the wheel well. She cast a glance at the airstrip. The passengers remained huddled in a large group, between her and the now-conferencing guerrillas. They stayed in the same position they were in two minutes ago. Only one looked at her.

&nbs
p; Wary Man stared, a look of astonishment on his face. They locked eyes. He turned his head to look at the guerrillas, still in a circle. He turned back to Emma, shook his head slightly, then cocked it to the side, as if to tell her to get back into the trees. But Emma wasn’t about to quit now. She frowned at him, shook her head, and mouthed the word no. Wary Man frowned back at her with a look full of frustration.

  She rose until she could see over the side of the first flatbed’s walls. It contained only the tarp, and the sides matched that of the flatbed containing the prize. She needed only to scurry across the first flatbed to the second. The unused field phone sat in the corner farthest from her along with the apples. She’d have to crawl into the bed to reach them.

  She stepped onto the wheel well and swung a leg over the side. She stepped onto the truck’s bed and lowered herself back into a crouch. She crawled to the opposite side on all fours. Her foot hit the large rolled tarp. It moved.

  Emma nearly screamed her surprise. The tarp wriggled again and the edge fell away to reveal the frightened face of a boy. He had a bandanna gag in his mouth, and his dark eyes were wild with fear. The tarp fell farther away to reveal that he wore the same faded T-shirt and camouflage pants as the other guerrillas. He appeared to be no more than sixteen years old. Emma took a quick look over her shoulder. Smoking Man yelled at Rat Face, jabbing a finger at him for emphasis. All of the guerrillas watched the argument raging between the two men.

  The boy pulled his hands out of the tarp. They were tied with a rope. He made frantic noises while he shoved his hands at her.

  “Shh!” Emma hissed at him. The noises stopped. Emma reached around his head to yank at the bandanna’s knot. The old, dried cloth resisted. Emma’s blood pressure shot up even higher. She could feel her panic rising. She took another look back at the guerrillas. Now they were nodding, as if they’d reached an agreement. The conference wouldn’t last much longer. She took a quick look at Wary Man. He craned his neck to see over the truck’s hatch. This time he shot her an urgent, questioning look. He swung his head around to check on the guerrillas.

  Emma switched her attention from the bandanna to the rope tying the boy’s hands. He didn’t need to speak, he just needed to be able to get away. The rope knot came free quickly.

  The second his hands were free, the boy swung his legs out of the tarp and began working on yet another rope wrapped around his ankles. Emma helped him. She glanced sideways at the guerrillas. She wanted to see what they were doing but was unwilling to take her eyes off the task at hand. The guerrillas stepped back, and two turned. Their conference was over.

  “Faster!” Emma said.

  The boy nodded, never removing his gaze from the rope. Tears ran out of his eyes and fell on the rope as he and Emma scrabbled at the knot. Emma cast one long look at the field phone and apples sitting in the second truck. They were only a few feet away, but they might as well have been a mile. She would never reach them and get back into the trees undetected. She returned her attention to the knot binding the boy’s feet. It came free. In an instant the boy was up. He leaped over the truck’s side. Emma leaped after him. She thudded onto the dirt and pitched forward onto her hands. The boy ran into the tree line. Once in the shadows, his camouflage pants made it appear as if he’d disappeared, like smoke.

  Emma ran forward to follow him just as a capybara burst from the foliage three feet in front of her. It ran straight at her. She pivoted to avoid it, and her feet flew out from under her. She landed on the ground, hard. She watched in horror as the small animal shot toward the circle of passengers.

  The capybara barreled past Wary Man. A woman shrieked at the sight of the flat-faced rodent about the size of a small dog. The bodyguards spun around at her screams. They raised their assault weapons into firing position. Wary Man shot to his feet and stepped between the men and Emma on the ground, using his body to block their view. He pointed at the animal shooting toward the tree line. The bodyguards trained their rifles on the little beast, tracking it across the strip. Emma scrambled backward on her seat, fighting her way back into the safety of the trees, all the while keeping her eyes on the guerrillas.

  The capybara veered sideways, making a play for the forest and safety. One bodyguard took aim and fired. The capybara flew into the air before landing on its side. It twitched once and then stilled.

  The guerrillas applauded the shot. The second bodyguard slapped the first on the shoulder. Emma inched backward until she was once again far enough in the trees to work her way around to her backpack. She sat down next to it and buried her face in her hands.

  Smoking Man barked an order and his entourage climbed into the pickups. The engines kicked to life, and Emma watched the trucks as they drove up the road, zigzagging to avoid the scattered metal disks. Emma wanted to cry as she watched her only possible link to the outside world inch slowly away.

  The rat-faced guerrilla blew a whistle. His soldiers lined the passengers up, front to back. They marched into the forest, led by two passengers who hacked at the dense foliage with machetes. Wary Man glanced once at the place where Emma had fallen before he turned to follow the others.

  They left the clothing, airplane, corpses, and Emma behind.

  7

  EMMA LAY FACEDOWN IN THE DIRT AND LET THE TEARS FLOW. She cried for Patrick, for her, and for the dead people that lay all around her. The familiar feeling of despair washed over her. For the last year, since Patrick’s death, raging anger and debilitating despair had been her constant companions, sucking her will to live.

  She lay on the ground and thought about Patrick. The way he read the Financial Times on the train to work, his brow furrowed in thought, and dropped a dollar in the guitar case of the blind musician playing on the subway platform. How he kept his apartment stocked with the tea she liked even though it cost a fortune and he thought it tasted like grass. How he’d keep an eye out for unusual plants when he traveled on business and once even carried them home to her, pressed between the pages of a book, only to be stopped at O’Hare Airport by the Department of Agriculture when their sniffing beagles sat next to his briefcase.

  His death had sent her into a tailspin with an intensity that shocked her. Her anger knew no bounds. As far as she was concerned, God had let Patrick down, and her rage threatened to consume her. Some days were so gray that she wondered if the fog would ever lift. Even her move to sunny Miami Beach, with its sparkling sea and bright Art Deco colors, had failed to revive her love of life.

  The only way she found to quiet her mind was running. In this, she excelled. While Emma’s daily life was marred with a depression so deep that the antidepressants prescribed by her doctor were rendered useless, she found she could channel the despair into her running. When Emma ran, she focused on her muscles, the path, her heart rate, her hydration, her caloric intake, and her distance. With these concerns foremost in her mind, the despair stayed at bay. Emma channeled her rage and used it to fuel her legs to greater speeds. Her single-minded focus allowed her to breeze past others who had collapsed in the dark hours of the night on the eightieth mile of a hundred-mile race. Emma threw away the pills and trained more and more each week.

  But now she was having periodic bouts of uncontrolled crying. It was just like the first days after Patrick’s death, when she cried for two days without stopping. She felt as though all the small gains she had managed these past months had been wiped away in one horrifying minute.

  An hour ticked by before Emma felt the darkness lift. It took another half hour after that for her to feel brave enough to leave the safety of her hiding place. She hauled herself upright, wiped her face on her sleeve, and started to move. She skirted around the nose of the plane, cowering in the shadows it provided. A glance showed her that nothing remained of the first-class cabin but wreckage and twisted metal. She avoided looking in the cockpit. She didn’t want to know what happened to the pilot with the smooth voice that never shook, professional to the end.

  She rooted around
the tree line by the nose and found useless debris and charred bodies, many still strapped into their seats. The stench of the dead permeated the air. It was a good thing that she hadn’t eaten in a day, because she would have thrown up at the sight of the dead. As it was, acid saliva was all she tasted.

  A food cart, blackened and bent, lay on its side about thirty feet from the edge of the landing strip. Dead bodies surrounded it. The bodies created a macabre maze that Emma would have to navigate to reach the prize. Once there, she would have to work on the cart while the bodies kept her company. She forced herself to think about survival.

  Emma took careful steps over the bodies of three passengers. She turned her eyes from their faces and did her best to focus on the goal of reaching the cart. Two more bodies lay on either side of the metal box. She stepped over one’s leg, and this step brought her flush up against the box. She had no room to maneuver, however, without moving the other body out of the way.

  It looked to be a man, badly burned. She nudged it with her toe. It rocked but didn’t move far enough to give her any room. She tried to push it again, but it again rocked and fell back into position against the cart. In a fit of exasperation and gnawing hunger, Emma bent her knees, leaned the small of her back on the cart, bracing herself against it, and put one foot on the corpse. She shoved it as hard as she could. It rolled over one complete rotation before stopping a foot away.

  Emma grabbed the door of the cart and yanked it open. Food packets tumbled out. She pounced on them. Her hands shook as she sorted through the scorched packets. She fought with one, trying to pry the aluminum lid off the shallow plastic container that acted as a plate. She ripped it open and looked inside.

  The plastic plate had melted onto the food and then hardened into one congealed mess once it cooled. Emma couldn’t tell where the plastic ended and the food began.

  Oh no. I need this food, Emma thought.

  She tossed the ruined plate and grabbed the next one. Same congealed mess. She grabbed a third, also inedible. She clawed at a fourth. This time when she removed the foil she found an intact filet mignon, side salad, and baby carrots, all nestled in their own little sections.