Pray for Darkness: Terror in the Green Inferno by James Michael Rice Page B

homemade weights, hooks, flies, and lures made of rubber, wood, and metal. Though the once-gleaming barbs of the hooks had since dulled with oxidation, a few of the lures retained the glamour of their former glory; bright splashes of red, green, and blue. Felix picked up a medium-sized lure—similar in size and shape to the bowl of a serving spoon. The lure, which was painted a loud, unnatural green, was adorned with a few small, brightly-colored feathers that helped to give the little fish the appearance of having a tail and also acted as a stabilizer in the water.
    Turning the lure in the light, he examined it for defects. This was his favorite and most reliable lure, and it conjured up his crowning achievement as a fisherman: the memory of the time he once landed a massive pirarucu . Better known to the foreigners as arapaima , the fish was more than six feet long from nose to tail and had weighed well over two hundred pounds. Felix had been a younger man back then, and still packed with the hard muscles of youth, yet it had taken well over an hour before he was able to land his mighty prize. In the end, it was worth it though; he had triumphantly returned to the village with his trophy, and those who were present still spoke about it from time to time. The story usually began with Did you ever hear the story about the giant pirarucu that Felix caught? It was the largest one I ever saw, bigger than any man in the village. Big enough to swallow a child…
    Felix’s fishing glory had taken place long before the waterways became polluted, before the river was wrought with sport fishermen who were too unskilled to use handmade lures and rods on the more elusive fish. In those days, the giant fish were still seen with some level of frequency, and it was always a wonder to cast one’s line or net into the river and await what luck or fate might bring you. That was part of any fisherman’s attraction to the sport—that sense of mystery, that climactic moment just before some unknown thing from down there was wrestled to the surface for human eyes to behold. Of course, for the local people, nourishment was always a priority. Nowadays, one was lucky to catch something that was even big enough to eat, maybe a bass or a catfish, let alone one of the giants. Were there still monster fish out there? Felix thought so, though their population was steadily depleting. Much like the jaguar and the puma, the river giants had pushed farther into the jungle to seek safety from the humans who hunted them. Felix doubted he’d catch such a fish this evening, but one could always hope.
    Well, something was better than nothing. One species that he was still able to catch with some regularity on this stretch of river was the pacu , a strange fish with flat, humanlike teeth, which were used for eating nuts that dropped into the water. Though not as tender as the pirarucu , the pacu was still very tasty when pan-fried. Maybe tonight the spirits would bless him with good fishing. He fluffed up the feathers a bit and then added a little clump of brown stuff to the hook. The brown stuff was a mixture of saliva, ground Brazil nuts and seeds, combined with a little bit of fish oil—his secret weapon against the pacu .
    After stringing up the lure, Felix carried the rod to the end of the dock. He flicked his wrist and the line shot out. With a small plop, the bobber breached the surface ten or so yards away and then popped back up to be carried another twenty yards downstream in the swirling current. Satisfied with his cast, Felix pulled the bottle of beer from his pocket, twisted off the cap, and drank. The sun crouched low on the horizon, and the river was a dark mirror. In the reflection, he had to squint to see the bobber, which created its own little wake on the surface. He had almost finished his beer when he caught a glimpse of a dugout canoe drifting toward him from the upstream bend of the river. He squinted into the gloom, trying to see if