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Back Jungle Up Save as PDF
Chapters (63)
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  63. Author’s Note

Twenty seconds later, there was a loud explosion. Andy’s entire body cringed. A flood of birds flew from every tree nearby. The jungle went into a thirty-second frenzy.

“I hope they didn’t hear that at the village,” Darnell said.

Andy doubted that was possible. The jungle was one enormous pair of headphones. It amplified sounds close by, but far-off sounds were muffled by the thick foliage.

“Where the hell is he?” Darnell asked a minute later. “You think he blew himself up?”

“Maybe.”

It was another long minute before Vern emerged from the thicket of green. He had a wide-eyed look on his face. His maroon hat, which Andy had never seen him without, was gone.

“Sounds like they work,” Darnell said.

“Um, yeah,” Vern mumbled.

Andy couldn’t help but notice that Vern had his GPS out.

Why is he marking the coordinates of the area?

“How many more of those thingies do you have?” Darnell asked.

Vern laughed to himself and then said, “Four more.”

≈

For the next thirty minutes, they moved swiftly through the jungle. The iPad kept its signal and the three red dots held steady in the same location.

When they were within a quarter mile away, they came to a sweeping river.

Darnell came to a stop. “Look.”

Andy’s eyebrows knit together as he took in the spear sticking from the tree trunk.

“Keep your guns up,” said Vern. “They could be anywhere.”

Andy swiveled his head, peering left and right. The villagers could be five feet from him, and he wouldn’t see them. And if someone did jump out, would Andy even be able to shoot him? He hadn’t even been able to kill a deer during his brother’s bachelor party hunt. How was he going to shoot a human?

The three of them had just started up the hill, when Andy heard a series of squeaks. He turned, glanced around, then up.

Hanging from a thick branch, reaching an arm out toward him, she squeaked twice more.

It was Camila.

56

56

tribal village
august 23, 4:14 p.m.
days since abduction: 18

I was having a hard time getting comfortable. But I suppose when you’re sitting on the hard earth with a six-inch-thick pole in your crotch and your arms and legs zip-tied together on the opposite side of the pole, that’s to be expected.

I slid my wrists up the pole as high as I could—about eight inches above my head—and brought my arms down as quickly and violently as possible. But aside from the heavy black plastic cutting into my raw wrists, nothing happened.