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Back Whirlwind Save as PDF
Chapters (95)
  1. Title Page
  2. 1
  3. 2
  4. 3
  5. 4
  6. 5
  7. 6
  8. 7
  9. 8
  10. 9
  11. 10
  12. 11
  13. 12
  14. 13
  15. 14
  16. 15
  17. 16
  18. 17
  19. 18
  20. 19
  21. 20
  22. 21
  23. 22
  24. 23
  25. 24
  26. 25
  27. 26
  28. 27
  29. 28
  30. 29
  31. 30
  32. 31
  33. 32
  34. 33
  35. 34
  36. 35
  37. 36
  38. 37
  39. 38
  40. 39
  41. 40
  42. 41
  43. 42
  44. 43
  45. 44
  46. 45
  47. 46
  48. 47
  49. 48
  50. 49
  51. 50
  52. 51
  53. 52
  54. 53
  55. 54
  56. 55
  57. 56
  58. 57
  59. 58
  60. 59
  61. 60
  62. 61
  63. 62
  64. 63
  65. 64
  66. 65
  67. 66
  68. 67
  69. 68
  70. 69
  71. 70
  72. 71
  73. 72
  74. 73
  75. 74
  76. 75
  77. 76
  78. 77
  79. 78
  80. 79
  81. 80
  82. 81
  83. 82
  84. 83
  85. 84
  86. 85
  87. 86
  88. 87
  89. 88
  90. 89
  91. 90
  92. 91
  93. 92
  94. Also by DAVID KLASS
  95. Copyright Page

I look up. It’s hard to imagine that in that canopy so high above us mammals are hanging upside down. Suddenly the air is split by outrageously loud shrieks.

Ernesto smiles. “You won’t see howler monkeys either, but you can hear them. They’re the loudest land animals. Their screams can be heard three miles away—the only living things that can make a louder sound are blue whales.”

The monkey screams fade into the chirping, twittering mélange of jungle sounds. “And you won’t see the bats or the snakes or the birds—you might catch glimpses of them, but you could live here your whole life and not see most of them. But they’re all around us. Millions of them. Entire and unique species of them.” His face tightens as our truck grinds to a stop. “But they won’t be for much longer.”

“Why?” I ask. “Why have they brought us here?”

Ernesto looks like he’s about to answer, and then he just shrugs. I don’t think he can bring himself to tell me. I guess I’ll learn for myself soon enough.

The guards who took us from the prison appear with their guns held at the ready. My fellow captives and I are taken off the two trucks, released from our handcuffs, and handed large red metal cans. I can barely carry mine—it must weigh a hundred pounds.

“What’s in the can?” I whisper to Ernesto.

He looks too miserable to answer. But then, taking pity on me, he gives me one last piece of advice. “After it starts, run behind the trucks to the plane. That’s your only chance.”

42

42

The guards direct us to start walking and pouring.

I tip the red metal can and immediately have my answer. Gasoline. The thick and noxious stench of refined crude seems out of place here—it conjures up fleeting images of gas pumps and car engines, and contrasts oddly with the green jungle all around us, and the intense natural aromas of the trees and flowers.

The guards direct us to empty our cans in designated areas, almost as if we’re following some sort of pattern or master plan. When my can is finally empty, I’m handed another one, and then a third. My arms ache with the work, and the smell makes me queasy. But I’m even sicker with a dreadful premonition of what is about to happen.

I douse the trunks of great old trees and the outer layers of impenetrable thickets and I swish gasoline on verdant flower beds and tangles of vines. Finally, the gasoline is all gone.

We hurry back to the trucks, which have been turned around in our absence so that they now face down the path we rode up on, toward the river and the plane.