Here's a short story I wrote. I call it:

bush dreams

1.



Richy lumbered out of the guesthouse and made his way to the dusty jeep, sleep still hiding in the corners of his eyes. It was too early and he itched all over. He regretted giving into the others who opted for saving a couple bucks by staying in a room without mosquito nets.

The guide drove them out for hours, deep into the bush, until the sun had risen well over the horizon and they began to sweat. Vegetation seemed to spring up nearly everywhere in that part of the world and the further the guide drove them away from the village, the more the huge plants encroached on the trail, making it abundantly clear where they stood in the importance of things.

Somewhere along the ride Richy fell asleep, and when he awoke the jeep was stopped and the guide was outside standing in a bright patch of sun. The path came to an abrupt end at the mouth of a large ravine. Between the two bare rock outcroppings, a long, wide bridge made of bamboo slats and vines swayed in the breeze. They tested it with their weight, and it seemed to be sufficient to their standards. The guide mentioned he had driven across it once before, so they piled back into the jeep and rolled slowly onto the bridge. Once the full weight of the vehicle hit the slats, creaks and whines howled from the labored vines.

“You sure this is gonna hold?” Gomez asked, peering at the river below.

“Sure,” said the guide after a too-long pause, “as long we’re fast.”

About halfway across the kilometer-long expanse, the jeep rolled to a halt as the party realized a particular detail that somehow eluded them while on land—an entire section of the bridge was missing slats.

“Wait here,” said the dark skinned guide. He got out and walked to the edge with one hand on his hip and the other rubbing his longish, messy brown hair.

“You sure this guy knows where he’s going?” Tom said.

“Better. I paid a lot of money for this information,” Gomez said.

“I’m sure you did,” Tom said with a sneer.

“Oh, I suppose you know better?”

Tom just shrugged. There was tension in the car where there wasn’t any before, though it was not yet 11am. Richy was reminded what a bad idea it was linking up with this crew. He’d done solo trips before, but for some reason the trip over land from Caracas was a lot rougher than he thought. He hadn’t anticipated how dodgy the roads were for solo travelers, not only because of the locals but also because of ruthless fellow prospectors. He met Gomez and George in some backwater village and agreed to go trek with them a bit, not knowing Tom was also part of the package…

“You got a smoke?” George asked.

“Piss off,” Tom said.

“Come on, I saw you have a whole carton.”

“Exactly. I have a whole carton. You should have planned ahead. 7-Eleven’s haven’t exactly made it to this part of the Amazon yet.”

Richy popped the driver’s seat and got out. He walked up beside the guide and carefully peered over the edge. Fifty meters down, the river was a nest of brown snakes winding around sun-bleached rocks.

“What do you think?” he asked the guide.

The man said nothing, narrowing his eyes and pointing with his chin. Richy followed his gaze down far below to where the rocks of the riverbank disappeared into the heavy foliage. Nothing seemed out of the ordinary.

“What…” Richy began, then spied a thin vein of smoke coming out of the trees. He followed it down to the roof of a camouflaged makeshift hut. Richy scrutinized the structure and saw that a series of ropes ran from the hut all the way over to the rock wall on the far side of the ravine where it was engaged with some pulleys. The ropes then sprung from there, over the tops of the trees, and terminated at another set of pulleys on the bridge near where they were standing.

The ropes suddenly sprung to life and Richy jumped back as if a jungle insect just landed on his shoulder. He peered back over the edge and saw a small platform slowly creeping towards them via the rope and pulley system.

The guide’s long strides brought him to the back of the jeep in an instant, where he opened the hatchback and pulled out a sawed-off shotgun.

“Whoa…what’s going on, Rich?” George said.

“Who’s down there?” Richy asked the guide.

“Mmm. Bandits.”

“Bandits?” Tom said. “Fuck, Ricardo, I thought we told you to take us by the safe road. Safe road—comprende?”

He shot a glare at Tom that would have turned porridge to stone but didn’t say a word as he slammed the hatchback shut.

The small shelf came on level with the bridge and the guide grabbed the empty canvas bag resting there.

“How much?” Richy asked.

The guide kicked at a chunk of mud on the bridge with boots so weathered they probably had names. Some fell through the slats and Richy watched as it tumbled helplessly through the air before plunging into the watery onslaught. The guide just shook his head slightly.

“What happens if we don’t pay? I mean, can we just go back?” Richy said. They both turned around, and at the mouth of the bridge two ugly Indians sat on short brown horses with automatic weapons cradled in their arms like infants.

The guide was unmoved by the sight. He sniffed and wiped at his nose with the back of his hand, making no eye contact. “Out here, people disappear all the time,” he said.

The wind picked up and Richy heard a long, fractured roll of thunder not far off. The guide threw the shotgun over his shoulder and peered at the darkening sky. “Get money from your friends. They won’t wait long.”



2.


“A bribe? You got to be fucking kidding me, man.” Tom slouched deeper in his seat and pulled out a Camel Light.

“That’s what he said,” said Richy.

“You know what,” Tom said lighting up, “I bet this fucker is in on this shit. I bet this is just a set up. You know, he sees a couple gringos come up here…fuck that, man. We got snowballed. Let’s turn this piece of dog shit around and head back to the village.”

“The bribe is to go back,” Richy said, pointing at the two Indians at the mouth of the bridge. The guns looked like AK-47s to Richy, but the only point of reference he had for saying that was the movie Platoon.

“Shit. We’re trapped,” Gomez said.

They argued over how much money would be appropriate in the way unworldly 18-year-olds might, though they were all practically 30. When they came to a decision, they handed the sum over to Richy in a pile of local notes and a few American dollars. He went back to the guide and showed it to him.

“Do you think this will be enough?”

“Let’s hope so,” the guide said and stuffed it into the canvas bag on the shelf. He tugged the rope and the shelf began to descend, operated by unseen hands inside the hut. It started raining very hard, and they got back into the jeep.

“Can we go now?” asked Tom.

“No,” the guide said eyeing the armed horsemen in the rearview mirror. “These people can be very unreasonable.”



3.


After what seemed like an eternity, the men on horses still unmoved, George noticed that the shelf had returned to bridge level again. In a flash, the guide was out of the jeep. It was raining even harder than before, and seeing the guide go as far as the edge of the bridge and back made him become misty and unclear, like a ghost disappearing in fog. He got back into the jeep and inspected the canvas bag—it was empty.

“Who are these guys?” Tom asked the guide. “You know them? Are these your buddies or something?”

“No,” said the guide, then explained that this type of thing was not uncommon. “It could be much worse. They could have just killed us, then taken your money.”

After a long, heavy silence, the group pulled out the rest of the cash they had. Tom prodded the guide with his fist. “What about you?” he asked. “You got anything?”

The guide just shook his head slowly, not meeting anyone’s gaze. Then he took a cheap metal watch off his wrist and put it in the bag. Gomez and Richy protested that he should just keep it, but the guide didn’t respond and made no move to remove it from the bag. Gomez put some marijuana in that he had bought in the village a few nights before.

“Nice, Gomez. Let’s hope they’re potheads,” Tom said.

“Fuck off, man!”

The guide opened the jeep door and the sound of the rain slapping against the bamboo slats filled the vehicle. He put the bag on the shelf and pulled the ropes.

When he returned to the jeep, the noises began. It started with a snapping, springing sound. Richy couldn’t see where it was coming from, but the clattering of bamboo bouncing off rock confirmed it was something coming off the bridge.



4.


Ages past. The singing of the snapped vines holding the bridge together came more and more frequently, and with each sickening twang, another nerve in each one of them wound a little tighter. A musty male smell filled the jeep. The boys swatted at mosquitoes and moved side to side restlessly.

The rain had lightened a bit, but it was still coming down in buckets. The rush of the swelled river was now loud as a waterfall, and overpowered the wet slap of rain on the bridge slats.

“Aww, you gotta be kidding me,” Gomez said, looking at the shelf as it emerged at bridge level a third time. Richy’s heart sank and he got out to look at the silent hut. There was a menace there, he could feel it, but not a single thing visually confirmed that feeling.

“What do we do now?” George pleaded. “Game over, man.”

Gomez clenching teeth looking at the horsemen and said, “Maybe we can just plow through those guys. You think those guns will work with all this rain?”

“You wanna risk your life finding out, Gomez?” Tom asked.

Gomez turned and went for Tom with both hands, but George held them back and in a moment it was over. Some angry words were exchanged and they fell into silence, sick to their stomachs with fear. The springing sound of snapping vines and creaking slats screamed in Richy’s ears until it was unbearable. Finally, the guide picked up the shotgun and cocked it once, then started up the jeep. He turned it around so they were pointed towards the mouth of the bridge.

“What are you gonna do?” Tom asked, but the guide was silent. He unzipped the plastic driver’s side window, and the sound of vines and bamboo slats creaking filled the vehicle. As if answering Tom’s question, the guide put the jeep in gear and punched it. The rear wheels spun on the wet bamboo for moment then caught, and they hurtled forward, the whole vehicle rattling against the slats. The two riders made their way onto the bridge—their faces masks of aggression, guns still pointed in the air. As they got nearer, Richy could hear the horsemen shouting in a dialect he didn’t understand.

“Ah, hey man, I-I think he means you better stop,” Gomez said, his voice shaky from the vibration.

“Yeah, maybe we should stop,” Richy said.

The guide said nothing, his eyes unwavering. He pointed the shotgun into the air and squeezed the trigger. The blast scared the horses and one of them went up on its hind legs, throwing the rider. Rage lit up the other rider’s face and he raised his weapon to eye level.

“Fuck!” Gomez shouted, ducking his head below the dashboard.

The air was suddenly alive with a barrage of explosions. The front windshield shattered, the whole jeep jolted and Richy was thrown against the back of the driver’s seat. The plank beneath their front tires must have broken, because when he looked up, the vehicle was facing down and he could hear the rear wheels spinning in the air, the engine racing furiously. The guide was leaning against Gomez, a wet, red spot slowly expanding on the front of his shirt.

“Oh God…fuck man, I think I’m hit,” George bleated, the guide’s blood splattered across his face like a Jackson Pollock brush stoke. Gomez pushed the guide’s body off him and tried to open his door, but it was jammed against a broken slat.

The cracking slats sounded like backbones ripping apart and Richy knew it wouldn’t be long before the whole thing gave way. Tom crawled over the backseat and opened the hatchback door. Once he and Richy got out, they looked up and saw the horsemen running to the far side of the ravine, which was skewed at a 45-degree angle. Fuck, Richy thought. This can’t really be happening.

“Run!” Tom shouted, and they started sprinting towards land. They didn’t get five paces before the bridge gave its final, sickening snap and fell away beneath them.



5.


His mind racing, reptilian, Richy struggled to stay conscious. He pulled himself onto a passing rock on the riverbank somehow; feeling like someone else was doing it for him. The pain colored everything he could see and was driving him out of his mind. The screaming wouldn’t stop. Stay awake. If you fall asleep, you die, he said to himself.

He looked down and saw his shinbone was popping through his skin out of the front of his leg. The rock he was resting on was already covered in deep red. A fresh wave of pain came, and he felt faint. He joined the scream, whoever it was, just to keep from going under.

The moment passed and Richy saw Tom laying on the far side of the rushing river, his brains scattered all over a rock like a burst water balloon filled with red wine and ramen noodles. Richy fought to keep focused but the madness was taking over. It’s winning, he told himself, don’t lose it, don’t…but it was too strong. Finally, he resigned, the colors around him fading and wrong.



6.


Night. Richy was lying down in some kind of enclosure. It was too dark to see anything but through the open door the light of a fire flickered, far off, and there was a distant sound of water. He could feel the presence of someone in the room with him and he stirred.

“Be still,” a voice intoned. “You’ve broken your leg and fractured your hip in three places.” There was something strange about this voice…it was dispassionate, yet oddly familiar, as if he were hearing the voice of his brother from a past life.

Outside, strange lights were flashing. Colors skipped off the walls that he’d never seen before—a spectrum with which he was entirely unfamiliar.

“Wha…what is that?” he asked, half delirious. “Looks like a meteor shower on J-Jupiter…”

“Relax,” said the voice. “It’s the medicine. Just try to sleep.”

Pain raced through his mind like an electrified river rat and the blackness mercifully took over again.



7.


He awoke (hours, days later? He couldn’t be sure) and someone was feeding him warm gruel. Richy ate sparingly. He passed in and out of consciousness, falling out of time, seeing strange people and things walking past the hut.

Night passed, then day, then night again. The strange lights flashed in the sky when it was dark; nameless colors falling like rain on the rough-hewn walls.

“What is that out there?” he whispered to himself, his voice sounding strange and far off. He felt the figure sitting in the darkness, just out of his reach. It didn’t answer him.

With trepidation, he reached down and felt his leg. A hot thread of pain shot up his spine like a trip wire to his brain. The wound was fresh still, but the bone seemed to be back in place.

“Where are my friends?” he said to the faceless voice. He felt strange calling them that, since he had hardly known them. “What happened to them?”

“Who?” the voice said. “You arrived alone.”



8.


It was night again when Richy awoke, but he felt like moving. He shifted his weight, then sat up, swinging his legs over the side of the cot. His leg was tender, but somehow, miraculously almost usable.

“Hello?” he said, searching for the voice, but no one was there. He felt around and found a long stick beside his bed intricately carved with strange runes he did not recognize. He held it up and saw they ran the length of the staff and seemed to almost glow with some unknowable power. He used it to stand up, then slowly moved to the doorway. The bridge and the river were nowhere in sight, but he could hear water rushing in the distance.

There was a clearing in the jungle about 40 meters away. Three creatures stood there, their arms stretched up in the air. They were abnormally large—Richy judged eight or nine feet in height, perhaps taller—and had light beige, almost white hair covering their entire bodies. They wore no clothes. Each had a long, drawn out head, and at the center of the forehead was a single eye. It looked as though they had tusks or something coming from their mouths, too, but Richy couldn’t see clearly at a distance.

From the creatures’ up stretched arms, light emanated in a phosphorescent glow. The light shot into the sky where it played amongst the stars, not unlike pictures Richy had seen of the aurora borealis. The patterns of colors and clouds swirled and danced. The sky was alive but so peaceful, like the shining of a beautiful dream far after one had awoken. Hazy, beautiful clouds of mist and reflection caught the light of the stars and the moon, and twisted them into an ethereal parade across the sky.

Whether the creatures were communicating or simply playing, Richy could not tell. They seemed to be in deep in concentration, their single eyes closed and furry white foreheads deeply furrowed. A low, resonant ohm sound could be heard.

In spite of their strange appearance, the creatures and the ceremony they performed inspired nothing but love and awe in him. He wanted to be part of whatever it was they were doing. He began making his way towards the clearing, but before getting more than a few paces from the hut, he was overcome by an incredible lethargy, as if all his energy had been sucked away simply by leaving the room. His leg began to ache. Though he deeply wished to talk to the creatures, he suddenly found it difficult just keeping his eyes open. Richy hobbled back to his cot as best he could and fell into it, sleep taking him prisoner before his head hit the pillow.



9.


The next day, Richy woke to find himself in a clearing beside a pathway. He sat up and looked around, realizing he was just outside the town he had stayed with the other boys, what seemed like a lifetime ago.

He reached down and felt his leg, which ached faintly. He shook his head, confused, trying to work it all out. Beside him there was a long stick intricately carved with strange runes lying in the grass. He reached out; half assuming his hand would pass right through it.

It didn’t.

Richy smiled and used it to get up. He brushed off his dirty shorts and began walking in the direction of the town, already relishing the thought of telling his friends back home the tale—knowing no one would believe him.