dark.
* * *
Water surged through shattered windows. Paul caught half a breath before the river knocked him into the backseat.
His head slammed into something jagged, and he was suddenly upside down, underwater, face crushed into the jeep’s roof. The river was a cold fist on his back, holding him down. The sound was deafening—rending metal and breaking glass, the scrape of stone on steel just beneath his cheek as the vehicle dredged the stony river bottom. Then the jeep rolled again, a violent movement, and the rear door flew open, twisted from its hinges—and he was suddenly out, flailing in the water.
He sucked in a lungful of air, trying to stay at the surface.
Gunshots came from behind them, bullets zinging across the water, and Paul ducked beneath the surface. He went deep, letting the cold river carry him. His shoulder slammed into a submerged boulder, knocking the air from his lungs. He surfaced again, gasping. More shots, farther away this time. Somewhere behind him, he heard the jeep slam into a rock. The cold fist of the river carried him forward.
Paul saw James paddling a dozen feet ahead of him.
“James!”
“Here!” came the answer. James coughed and splashed.
Then a moment later, from somewhere behind him: “Paul!” It was Margaret. The jeep loomed close behind, rolling in the frothing water. A battering ram ready to crush anything in its path.
“Stay to the side!” Paul shouted. “Let the current take you.”
But behind Margaret the jeep hit a boulder, turned, wedged itself sideways. Water roared up and over the top, pinning it in place. Margaret kicked away.
Paul kept his feet out in front of him to fend off the rocks. Up ahead, a sound Paul knew. The roar of water, and the river dropped away.
“Jesus,” James said.
There was no time for anything else. James was swept into a narrowing and then was gone, over some hidden edge. Five feet or a hundred.
“Look out!” Paul called behind him to Margaret. He sucked a deep lungful of air, and the river swept him over the falls.
There was no sense of falling, only of being in the grip of the river.
He hit and was pulled deep, spinning upside down. Kicking his way to the surface, he broke free and took a gasp of air. The current pulled him forward.
The river flattened over the next few hundred meters. Trees hung low over the water in a broad green drape, and the rapids slowly died away.
* * *
They dragged themselves out of the dark flow several miles downriver, where a bridge crossed the water. It was the first sign of civilization they’d seen since leaving the camp. For a long while, they lay on the rocky shore, just breathing. When they could stand, they followed the winding dirt road to a place called Rea. From there they took a bus. Margaret had money.
They didn’t speak about it until they arrived at Bajawa.
“Do you think they’re okay?” Margaret asked. Her voice wavered.
“I think it wouldn’t serve their purpose to hurt the dig team. They only wanted the bones.”
“They shot at us.”
“Because they assumed we had something they wanted. They were shooting at the tires.”
“No,” she said. “They weren’t.”
Three nights in a rented hotel room, and James couldn’t leave—that hair like a great big handle anybody could pick up and carry, anybody with eyes and a voice. Some of the locals hadn’t seen red hair in their lives, and James’s description was prepackaged for easy transport. Paul, however, blended—just another vaguely Asian set of cheekbones in the crowd, even if he was half a foot taller than most of the locals.
* * *
That night, staring at the ceiling from one of the double beds, James said, “If those bones aren’t us … then I wonder what they were like.”
“They had fire and stone tools,” Paul said. “They were probably a lot like us.”
“We act like we’re the chosen ones, you know? But what if it wasn’t like that?”
“Don’t think
* * *
Water surged through shattered windows. Paul caught half a breath before the river knocked him into the backseat.
His head slammed into something jagged, and he was suddenly upside down, underwater, face crushed into the jeep’s roof. The river was a cold fist on his back, holding him down. The sound was deafening—rending metal and breaking glass, the scrape of stone on steel just beneath his cheek as the vehicle dredged the stony river bottom. Then the jeep rolled again, a violent movement, and the rear door flew open, twisted from its hinges—and he was suddenly out, flailing in the water.
He sucked in a lungful of air, trying to stay at the surface.
Gunshots came from behind them, bullets zinging across the water, and Paul ducked beneath the surface. He went deep, letting the cold river carry him. His shoulder slammed into a submerged boulder, knocking the air from his lungs. He surfaced again, gasping. More shots, farther away this time. Somewhere behind him, he heard the jeep slam into a rock. The cold fist of the river carried him forward.
Paul saw James paddling a dozen feet ahead of him.
“James!”
“Here!” came the answer. James coughed and splashed.
Then a moment later, from somewhere behind him: “Paul!” It was Margaret. The jeep loomed close behind, rolling in the frothing water. A battering ram ready to crush anything in its path.
“Stay to the side!” Paul shouted. “Let the current take you.”
But behind Margaret the jeep hit a boulder, turned, wedged itself sideways. Water roared up and over the top, pinning it in place. Margaret kicked away.
Paul kept his feet out in front of him to fend off the rocks. Up ahead, a sound Paul knew. The roar of water, and the river dropped away.
“Jesus,” James said.
There was no time for anything else. James was swept into a narrowing and then was gone, over some hidden edge. Five feet or a hundred.
“Look out!” Paul called behind him to Margaret. He sucked a deep lungful of air, and the river swept him over the falls.
There was no sense of falling, only of being in the grip of the river.
He hit and was pulled deep, spinning upside down. Kicking his way to the surface, he broke free and took a gasp of air. The current pulled him forward.
The river flattened over the next few hundred meters. Trees hung low over the water in a broad green drape, and the rapids slowly died away.
* * *
They dragged themselves out of the dark flow several miles downriver, where a bridge crossed the water. It was the first sign of civilization they’d seen since leaving the camp. For a long while, they lay on the rocky shore, just breathing. When they could stand, they followed the winding dirt road to a place called Rea. From there they took a bus. Margaret had money.
They didn’t speak about it until they arrived at Bajawa.
“Do you think they’re okay?” Margaret asked. Her voice wavered.
“I think it wouldn’t serve their purpose to hurt the dig team. They only wanted the bones.”
“They shot at us.”
“Because they assumed we had something they wanted. They were shooting at the tires.”
“No,” she said. “They weren’t.”
Three nights in a rented hotel room, and James couldn’t leave—that hair like a great big handle anybody could pick up and carry, anybody with eyes and a voice. Some of the locals hadn’t seen red hair in their lives, and James’s description was prepackaged for easy transport. Paul, however, blended—just another vaguely Asian set of cheekbones in the crowd, even if he was half a foot taller than most of the locals.
* * *
That night, staring at the ceiling from one of the double beds, James said, “If those bones aren’t us … then I wonder what they were like.”
“They had fire and stone tools,” Paul said. “They were probably a lot like us.”
“We act like we’re the chosen ones, you know? But what if it wasn’t like that?”
“Don’t think
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