We eat a quick meal of brown rice and chicken Pad Thai at the only establishment that serves food in this tiny village of about five hundred souls. The town is built mostly of wooden huts, with dirt roads and only a few brick buildings, one of which is our warehouse. In this kind of landscape, our depot stands out more than I’d like. But it’s a small price we have to pay for the safety of having our equipment stored behind secure walls. Honestly, we don’t have any reason to suspect anyone of shady dealings, but, to stay on the safe side, Dr. Boonjan and I have agreed we have to always assume the worst could happen and stick to our group, talk to as few people as possible, and keep a low profile.
At least, that was the plan.
Unfortunately, by the time lunch’s over, news of our arrival has reached the locals. The moment we leave the restaurant, Winter somehow manages to have every kid in town following her around like ducklings. The photographer has a smile for everyone, and I swear she’s taking a portrait of every single street urchin. And I’m not suggesting she should be mean to the children, but at least she shouldn’t encourage them. Our escort is quickly turning into a mob. So much for not attracting attention.
Archie bumps shoulders with me. “Try not to look so pissed, it’s only kids.” He winks at me. “They’re not going to take out machine guns and rob us blind.”
I scoff. “Yeah, because that never happened.”
“That was South America, man,” Archie says. “Compared to Narco-state, this is Switzerland.”
“Let’s hope you’re right,” I say grimly. Before I snap, I busy myself with more practical issues.
I walk toward Somchai, who’s standing next to a small herd of mules and horses, and hand him a bowl to-go of Pad Thai. While we ate, he’s been arranging our convoy for the last part of the trip to base camp.
For lack of better spots, we sit on the dirt road while he eats.
I let him gulp down a few forkfuls before I ask, “How’s everything coming?”
“All set, Dr. Spencer,” he says. “The mules are loaded, and the horses saddled. Nice animals.”
“Okay, so we’re good to go?”
Somchai quickly finishes his meal. “Ready whenever the crew is ready.” His gaze drifts to the wide plaza in front of the warehouse where Winter is still entertaining the small kids, and he gives me a cheeky thumbs up.
I shake my head. So, now, all I have to do is rein in the photographer.
Lucky me.
I consider sending Tucker or Archie, but knowing them, and starting to get to know her, she’d probably rope them into posing for even more pictures with the locals. But if we want to reach our destination and build our camp before dark, we don’t have a minute to spare.
On my way to her, I stop next to Archie, saying, “Call Dr. Boonjan and the military guys. We’re ready to go.” Then I sigh and walk into the middle of the plaza, prepared to receive grief. “You should wrap this up,” I tell Winter. “The horses are sorted and we need to hit the road.”
She gives me a polite look, and I almost expect her to comply with my request at once. But then her eyes shift to the caravan, and quickly back to me, the friendliness gone. “No one’s mounted yet.”
Always so confrontational. “Yeah, well, we’re all mounting now, so”—I make a wide gesture toward the waiting beasts—“whenever you please.”
“Okay,” she says curtly. “I’m taking another few shots and I’ll be right there.”
Sure, because the thousands you just took clearly aren’t enough.
I bite my tongue and say nothing. I only nod and walk away, careful not to shake my head or give any other sign she’s rattled me. Miss Pain-in-my-ass Knowles is making a point of not doing as she’s told just for the sake of it. But if I’ve understood her game, and I have by now, I’m fairly certain she won’t be late. She’ll wait just enough to annoy me, but not so long as to be the last one on horseback.
Women; what a dreadful species!
True to expectations, our darling photographer asks Somchai to assign her a mount not ten minutes later. Our local fixer chooses a beautiful silver mare for her, whose white mane is only slightly lighter than Winter’s braided platinum-blond hair. I can’t help but stare as the woman gracefully hops on the mare and settles in the saddle as if she’s done nothing else but horse riding her entire life.
Archie comes up behind me, and I don’t need to turn to confirm he’s watching the scene with as much awe as myself.
He slaps one arm over my shoulder, and, like the devil he is, he whispers in my ear, “And now the Khaleesi fantasy is complete.”
The horse ride through the jungle is far more pleasant than being jostled around inside a car. Atop my beautiful mare—Duang Jan, which means “moon” in English—I don’t feel the fatigue, and the hours pass quickly. I’ve missed riding, and even when my calf muscles get stiff from lack of practice, I have the best time.
In LA, I always find excuses to not go riding. I’d forgotten how both calming and exhilarating it is to sit on top of a horse. The slow, repetitive rhythm that lets our postures mold one to the other and lets our spirits soar together. When I get back home, I’ll find a good riding school and enroll in regular trail rides. I owe it to myself not to forget again how powerfully beautiful it is to mount these creatures.
My granddad from my mother’s side taught Summer and me how to ride. Pops owned a farm, and when we were kids we’d spend most of our summers in Indiana, sometimes inviting Lana along. But since Pops passed, we haven’t visited. No reason to. My grandmother was too old to run the ranch on her own, so she moved to Pasadena to be closer to my mom. That was years ago, and today’s the first time I’m back on a horse since then. Definitely too long.
I’m enjoying myself so much that, when we reach the targeted camp area, it feels too soon. My heels are still prickling to give Duang Jan a little push and get wild on a gallop together. Pity the trail never became wide or straight enough to allow us to race the wind. If it did, I wouldn’t have been able to behave. I smirk, imagining Logan’s face if I had suddenly taken off at a gallop. Satan would’ve probably thought I’d lost control of my horse and freaked out, maybe burst a coronary. It would’ve been worth the resulting lecture just to see his expression.
Anyway, the road kept getting narrower, steeper, and more treacherous the farther we advanced, so no chance of a gallop anywhere. Likewise, the jungle became denser with every yard forward, so much so that when we stop, the area doesn’t seem all that hospitable or suitable to build a camp. Yeah, there’s the tiniest clearing where we could set up the bigger tents—supplies tent and gathering area—but otherwise, it looks like each individual tent will have to be scattered around where the gaps between the trees allow for enough space.
I jump off my beautiful companion and caress her muzzle.
“You’ve been a good girl,” I tell her. “A very good girl.” I tether her reins to a nearby tree trunk.
Behind me, everyone dismounts as well.
Logan and Tucker begin confabulating at once, their voices loud enough to carry over.
“We should get the gathering tent up first,” Logan suggests.
“Yeah,” Tucker agrees. “And as soon as it’s up, I want to brief the group on safety.”
“Good idea,” Logan says. “Let’s be quick about it, then.”
And quick they are. I barely have the time to gather and check all my photographic equipment before the tent is up. Tent… the structure is more of a sheltered, open area: four poles holding up a blue tarp ceiling that’s also secured to the trees above, creating a sloping roof. Underneath, they’ve assembled a foldable table and chairs. It’s the perfect spot to have a meal or hold a meeting.
“Everyone,” Logan calls for attention. “Please gather around, Tucker has a few important announcements.”
We all sit around the table—I’m across from Logan with Archie to my right, while Tucker is standing at the head of the table on my left.
“All right, people,” Tucker says. “Before we finish setting up camp, I want to stress some basic camping-in-the-jungle safety tips.” He sets one foot on the folding chair and leans forward on his bent knee. “First off: undesirable jungle buddies. You can bet the undergrowth around here is teeming with bugs, insects, scorpions, snakes, and spiders. Some venomous, other with bites so painful they’ll make you wish to cut a limb off instead of enduring the pain…”
Tucker takes a long pause to ensure everyone’s paying attention. “We’re equipped with the most common antivenoms and state-of-the-art medical supplies, but we don’t know every species that crawls this jungle, and a helicopter would take hours to reach us. So our best bet to stay alive and unhurt is not to get bitten.”
That seems a little dramatic. I mean, even when I visited the Borneo rainforest, our guide at the time wasn’t half as worried as Tucker. I look around the table to check if everyone else is taking this speech seriously. The soldiers seem mostly unconcerned. Dr. Boonjan, though, has visibly paled. Somchai is sporting his signature cheeky grin. And Logan… is staring “pay attention, woman,” daggers at me.
My heart jolts in my chest at being caught absent-minded. So I concentrate back on Tucker and vow not to let my attention wander again. Maybe he’s being overcautious, but this is still important stuff to know.
“So, how do we avoid bites?” Tucker continues. “I’ve provided each of you with a powerful insect repellent; you must apply it all over on a regular basis. Spray your clothes with it, even. And cover up as much as you can, especially after dusk.” He fans the air near his face. “Looks like we’ve gotten lucky, as there aren’t too many flies around during the day. But you can bet as soon as the sun goes down, bloodsuckers of all sizes will want to join the buffet, so don’t leave any skin unprotected. Use the repellent.”
I wrinkle my nose; the spray he provided us stung my nostrils when I smelled it. I’m not letting that chemicals-ridden concoction touch my skin. Don’t need a rash, thank you very much. I’m sure my lemongrass spray will—
“Even you, Winter,” Tucker’s words cut directly into my thoughts. “That natural spray of yours is not nearly powerful enough, and you don’t want a case of Dengue fever to prove me right. Understood?”
Morosely, I nod, and stare back daggers at Logan as if to dare him to show even the slightest sign of amusement. His face is composed in a too-neutral expression, and he’s not looking at me. But I can tell Satan is dearly enjoying me being told off.
“For the same reason,” Tucker continues, “I’ll spray the perimeters of your tents twice daily. But you must keep the flaps closed at all times—both the internal mosquito netting, and the external rainfly when you sleep. If during the day you want to leave the rainfly open to avoid the tent turning into a sauna, the mosquito netting must still be sealed, always.
“At night, before you go to bed, you must carefully inspect your sleeping bags before getting in. And don’t even think of leaving your boots scattered outside your tent. Find a couple of wooden stakes, plant them in the ground, and use them to store your shoes upside down to avoid any unwanted guests crawling in during the night. Each morning, always give your footwear a good shake before you put your boots on, just in case.”
I shiver at the thought of putting my foot in a boot, only for my toes to find something crawly and pinchy inside. Eww.
“If bugs’ bites sting and can transmit diseases,” Tucker says, relentlessly carrying on with his terror speech. “A snake bite can turn you into a dead man—or woman—walking right away. So wear your snake gaiters at all times, no matter the hour or where you’re going or for however short a journey. Better safe than sorry. Also, if you find an obstacle in your path, don’t you ever just walk past it. Go on top first, check what’s on the other side, and only then move ahead. Snake fangs can cut through your boots’ leather like a knife slicing through butter. Same goes for where you put your hands, be it a branch, stem, or tree trunk—always look before you touch anything. And when you’re moving into the jungle, please wear gloves.
“And last but not least.” Tucker seems to be finally ready to wrap up the talk of doom. “We have drinking water reserves to last a few days. After that, we’ll need to resupply or use the river’s water if a journey to the village is not possible. But never drink river water without boiling or sanitizing it with purification tablets first.” He eyes everyone around the table with an “understood?” scowl before he goes on. “The river will also be our shower, of sorts; we have biodegradable soap that you can use to clean yourselves. But under no circumstances should any of us leave the camp alone. Always pair up, and ask for an armed escort.” Tucker points at our three military men. “Wild beasts could attack at any time, and I don’t care if you have a black belt in karate, you’re still not taking on a three-hundred-pound tiger with your bare fists and living to tell the tale.”
“Hey, pssst,” Archie whispers in my ear. “Wanna be my shower partner?”
“Sure.”
I agree mostly to enjoy the consequent strained pulsing of Satan’s jaw. Logan is so pointedly not looking at us that if he tries any harder, his eyes will roll to the back of his head.
“Ah, yes, one last thing,” Tucker concludes. “The local monkeys seem to belong to a crew of petty thieves. Please leave nothing lying around you don’t want to be stolen, and always seal the supply tent on your way in and out.”
Aha.
Gloating quietly, I turn to Logan once again. Satan’s face has turned even stonier, although a faint blush is creeping up his cheeks.
Ha, ha, ha.
I got mine, but you get yours.
***
When we’re finally dismissed, I ask if I can help with anything, but Logan seems to have had enough of me and tells me a flat no.
Somchai, who, to the contrary, is nice and unprejudiced, comes next to me and asks, “Want to help me with the horses, Miss Knowles? You have good hand with animals.”
“Sure,” I tell him, happy to have something to do besides hating Satan. “Show me what I have to do.”
He brings me to where he has herded the beasts—far enough from the main camp the smell of their droppings won’t reach us—and explains to me what to do. We water and feed the animals, and then Somchai demonstrates how to tether them to each other so they’ll be forced to walk one in front of the other, single file. The technique is pretty straightforward, and we make a quick job of tying all the beasts together. Tomorrow, he’ll escort the horses and mules, except for one, back to the village. It wouldn’t make sense for us to keep the animals on the premises and have to feed and water them every day. But we’ll keep a mule in case equipment needs to be moved between here and Area X once we reach it.
I retrace my steps to the main camp… and stop dead in my tracks at the scene before my eyes. Logan, Archie, and Tucker have all removed their shirts—so much for staying as covered as possible—and are pulling one tent up after the other. I get why they’d want to risk bug bites and work bare-chested. In the late afternoon, the atmosphere is sweltering and, even shirtless, a thin layer of perspiration covers their backs, making them all shiny.
I try to resist, but quickly give in. Grabbing the ever-present camera dangling from my neck, I stealthily snap a few shots of my sweaty, muscular colleagues. Then I check the results on the small screen on the back of the device, and chuckle to myself. These pictures would look great on an erotica novel, probably one called something like: “Taken in the Jungle by the Three Archeologists.”
Bad me. I shouldn’t have these thoughts about my colleagues. But it’s impossible to remain impassive in front of such a display of manliness. Even quiet, shy Tucker has a body to be reckoned with. He’s less buff than the other two, but still ripped. Where Logan and Archie have Gerard Butler in 300 body types, Tucker is all Spartan Michael Fassbender—he starred in 300, I swear, only Fassbender wasn’t that famous at the time and nobody recognized.
Still, my gaze can’t help but linger on one back in particular. Maybe because I already know what hides beneath the pants, or maybe because the devil must always disguise as attractive—to convince people to sell him their souls and stuff. But I can’t tear my eyes off Logan. That is, until Archie turns, catches me ogling them, and winks.
Blushing tomato red, I scurry away and claim one of the already-raised tents as my own. Settling myself in and moving all my gear should keep me busy enough, and hopefully keep my mind off half-naked, evil archeologists.
***
Unfortunately, with only a foldable cot, a sleeping bag, and my camera equipment to bring in, it doesn’t take me long to furnish the tent. Also, Tucker wasn’t kidding about the inside turning into a sauna. Even if it’s past five p.m., and with the umbrella of leaves above our heads preventing most of the sunrays from filtering through, the heat is still strong enough to turn these four nylon walls into a sweat trap. So, I fold back the rainproof layer and leave only the mosquito netting to allow as much air recycle as possible.
Outside, I string up a clothesline. If we can bathe in the river, I expect the stream can be used to do laundry as well. I choose two trees at the right distance and hang a nylon wire between them. Then, I’m pretty much done setting up, and am already bored. No matter the tiring journey, I’m bursting with all this extra energy. No doubt due to the excitement of being in an unfamiliar place in the middle of a brand-new adventure. I’ve been on archeological trips before, but never one that involved a discovery of the unknown.
I peek around the camp to check what everyone else is doing. Satan, thankfully, is nowhere to be seen, and neither is his sidekick, Archie. But Tucker—his shirt on once again—is working just across from my tent, setting up the camp’s kitchen.
Oh so innocently, I stroll over to him. “What’s for dinner?” I ask.
“Tonight, I’m cooking from scratch. Vegetarian Pad Thai,” Tucker says, screwing in place the legs of the portable stove he’s assembling. “But don’t get used to such a Michelin star treatment.”
“Why not?”
“We could buy fresh veggies at the village, but from tomorrow on it’ll be mostly ‘boil in a bag’ food and lots of rice.”
“What’s ‘boil in a bag’ food?”
“Freeze-dried, pre-made meals that you boil to rehydrate.”
I make a pretend-gag face. “That sounds awful.”
“It isn’t, trust me. If I hadn’t told you, you would’ve never guessed.” Tucker fixes in place a three-sided windscreen to shield the burners. “Plus, with packaged food, we can have as much variety as we want.”
“Yeah? Like what?”
Tucker scratches his forehead. “Off the top of my head, we ordered coconut curry beef, pasta primavera, beef stroganoff, chili, chicken lasagna, peanut curry shrimps, stew, spaghetti bolognese, mac and cheese, fettuccini Alfredo, chicken piccata, corn chowder… You name it, we have it.” He sighs regretfully. “Except for blueberry pancakes.”
“Why don’t we get pancakes?”
“Logan thought they’d be excessive.”
“What’s for breakfast, then?”
“Protein bars, but I stocked all the most delicious flavors—and coffee, of course.”
I sulk. Blueberry pancakes sound a thousand times better than all-flavor protein bars. No surprise Satan doesn’t love pancakes; he probably doesn’t care for marshmallows in his hot cocoa either, and—oh, gosh, is he one of those black coffee drinker types?
I grimace. “Please tell me we have creamer.”
Tucker winks at me. “Regular and vanilla.”
I let out a relieved breath. “Thank you! And you’re right, this is the most variety I’ve had compared to any other jungle trip.”
“Told yah. Plus”—he wiggles his fingers at me—“I add magical finishing touches to every dish. And if not restaurant quality, freeze-dried food is still better than consuming only cold meals, like we did on our first expedition together.”
“Okay, Gordon Ramsay, you have the benefit of the doubt.” I smile. “So, besides being a ‘boil in a bag’ chef extraordinaire, what else do you do when you’re not on a field trip?”
“I’m an accredited guide at Yosemite, so there’s a little of that, then I organize camping trips for kids, and I teach rock climbing on the side.”
Ah. The mountain climbing explains the lean, ripped physique.
“How many expeditions have you been on with Logan and Archie?”
“This is our fourth.”
“How long have you known them?”
“Three years.”
“How did you guys meet?”
“They came to one of my climbing lessons.”
“Who’s Tara?”
“Logan’s ex—No, wait! You tricked me into revealing that info.”
I bat my lashes and make an angelic face. “I asked a question, you answered.”
Tucker scowls. “You got me comfortable, then fired a million questions at me, and when I was on a roll answering, you asked the one question you knew I wouldn’t answer otherwise.”
I put my hand to my chest. “Okay, guilty as charged. But you brought her up in the first place, and I had no choice, no one tells me anything, I feel left out.”
“Listen, Logan is my friend, besides being my boss, and he wouldn’t want me to gossip about Tara—”
“Why not? She dumped him?”
“Yes, but that’s not—” I can’t hide a little smug smile, and Tucker catches me and gasps. “You did it again! You tricked me into saying more than I should have. What are you, some secret CIA interrogator in disguise?”
“Relax. If you’re not going to spill the beans about Tara, I’ll go ask Logan directly.”
I backtrack a few steps, but Tucker gently grabs my arm. “Please don’t, he’s just about getting over her.”
“Why? Was it an awful breakup?” I ask sweetly.
Tucker flares his nostrils and shakes his head. “You’re like a hound that’s picked up the scent of the fox.” He sighs. “Is there any chance you’ll let the topic drop if I don’t tell you?”
“Not one,” I say.
“Why?”
“For starters, you’re making such a big deal out of it, now I definitely need to know.”
“But why? What difference does it make to you?”
“I’d like to learn a little more about the people I have to spend weeks alone in the jungle with.”
“You’re not asking me about Archie’s past relationships.”
I scoff. “Oh, please, the guy has ‘never been in a serious relationship and not interested in one’ written all over his face. Am I wrong?”
Tucker seems about to retort something, but then deflates. “No, you’re right.”
“And anyway,” I continue. “I’m asking about Tara only because you implied she’s part of the reason Logan is so fastidious about this expedition.”
Tucker looks to the sky. “When will I learn to bite my tongue?” He’s still holding my arm, and now drags me close conspiratorially. “If I tell you, you promise you won’t tell anyone, and that you won’t taunt Logan about it?”
I feel like we’re in the sixth grade. Should we pinky swear? I’m tempted to ask Tucker, but sense it’d be pushing my luck. So, with a solemn face, I say, “I promise.”
“Okay.” Tucker lets me go and goes back to assembling the camping stove. “If I have to be drilled, you might as well help me. Hold this.” He hands me a brackety component while he screws in place more bolts. “So, Tara. She and Logan were this archeology power couple, going on joint expeditions, working in all the best excavation locations, giving cutting edge seminars, all the shebang. They were the darlings of the community. Everyone thought it was just a matter of time before they got married—”
“How long were they together?”
“They met in college and broke up three years ago.”
“You mean, she broke it off. Why?”
“Her career took precedence.” Tucker gestures for me to hand him the bracket and gives me the screwdriver to hold in its place. “The year Logan was awarded tenure at Berkeley, she secured enough funding for a project she’d been researching forever… in Egypt.”
“Aha. A classic long-distance screw-up scenario?”
“Well, not exactly. Logan wanted to make the relationship work. He has only one teaching semester at UCB, so they agreed she’d go to Egypt and he’d join her for the second part of the year when he was free to do his job from anywhere.”
“Then what happened?”
“When his classes were over, Logan went to Egypt as planned, only to return to the States two weeks later, single.”
“Oh. Why?”
“As you can imagine, he’s not super chatty about it.” Tucker pushes a towing handle into the bracket on the grill stand, then pulls on it to make sure it’s locked in place. “But the gist is Tara told him she didn’t have time for love.”
“Ouch,” I say, and scrunch my face. “But what’s the connection between the breakup and Logan being so obsessed with a lost city in the jungle?”
“Ah.” Tucker sighs. “Four months after she broke up with him, Tara unearthed the untouched tomb of Ramses VIII in the Valley of the Kings—I’m talking Tutankhamun level shit. Three years later, and they still haven’t finished cataloging everything they found. There are talks about building a whole new dedicated museum in Cairo…”
“Oh, wait, you’re right. I saw it on the news a few years ago.”
I try hard to remember if a woman was mentioned, but it was too long ago… Even if I’d seen a picture of her, there’s no way I could recall Tara’s looks. And I can’t google her from here. Stupid no-service jungle.
“No kidding.” Tucker scoffs. “That stupid tomb was everything everyone could talk about for months… It still is.”
I make a skeptical face, once it was clear the site was off-limits to the outside press, I’m pretty sure I spent more time obsessing over Brad and Angelina’s divorce.
Tucker sees my expression and amends, “At least in the scientific community.” He picks up the stove’s instructions and searches the components scattered on the ground. “Do you see a rectangular tray thingy?”
I pick up a piece and hand it to him. “Like this one?”
“Exactly that.” He takes it from me.
“What is it?”
“Drip tray,” Tucker says, installing it below the rear of the grill.
Eager to learn more, I return to our conversation. “Okay. So in short, this expedition is a massive, super-petty, ‘back at you bitch’ metaphorical middle finger?”
Tucker can’t hide a little smile before he chides me, “No, it’s so much more than an ex-lovers’ spat.”
“How?”
“Logan is genuinely passionate about his work, and he’s spent years researching the legend of the lost city of gold. He has everything at stake on this trip. Screwdriver, please?” I hand the tool over and wait for Tucker to tell me more. He does. “Logan had to put his reputation on the line just to have the aerial survey taken. The pictures alone cost half a mil.”
My head explodes. “Half a million dollars?”
“Yep. Now, imagine if this turns into a fiasco. He’d be humiliated. And not just in front of Tara, but every single one of his peers.”
“I still believe there’s an element of ‘I see your pharaoh tomb and raise you a lost city of gold’ archeology competition at play here.”
“Maybe.” Tucker grins. “Logan is only human.”
No, he’s Satan.
“Done,” Tucker announces, screwing the last bolt. “Any other questions?”
“Just one. Why is he so worried? If the satellite images clearly show there’s a city beneath the jungle canopy, what could go wrong?”
“Oh, many expeditions have failed before reaching their target location.”
“Why?”
“Sudden, unpredictable weather, government upheavals, permits rescinded, too many crew members dying off before the destination could be reached…”
“You’re joking?”
Tucker stares me dead in the eyes.
“You’re not joking.”
His gaze drifts down to my unprotected shins. “Didn’t I tell you to wear your snake gaiters at all times?”
I blush. “I thought you meant while we’re exploring.”
“No, I said at all times, and meant at all times. Now go put them on before you become the first member of this expedition who dies off.”
“Yes, sir,” I say as my stomach gives a low growl. “How long before dinner?”
“Now that this baby is up”—Tucker pats the stove—“I’ll be done in no time.”
“You want some help?”
“Nah, you go relax a little… and put those gaiters on.”
***
Tucker proves he’s a wonderful cook with a spectacular Pad Thai. He could give the locals a run for their money.
We eat sitting around the table under the tarp roof, to which they’ve thankfully added mosquito netting walls. Tucker wasn’t kidding; the moment the sun disappeared below the horizon, the camp got swarmed with flying bloodsuckers. They’re vicious, especially the tiny ones that are almost invisible and have a stealthy bite you don’t feel right away, but that stings like a bitch immediately after. One of those stingers was enough for me to cave and soak myself in the chemical insect repellent.
Once my belly is full, the day’s fatigue catches up with me and I’m ready for bed. I say a general goodnight, douse myself in DEET, and brave the short journey to my tent.
The jungle is pitch dark, and the beam of light from my head flashlight—a circular elastic band strapped around my head with a lamp in the middle and another vertical strap crossing from my forehead to my nape—reveals only a few yards of terrain before me. But it’s enough to see where I’m going. Before I get inside the tent, I lower the external layer. The temperatures have dropped, so no risk of getting steamed.
The thin fabric won’t provide much protection if an angry tiger decides to claw her way into my tent, but it gives me a false sense of security.
I’m zipping in place the last flap when Archie’s voice makes me jump. “Hey, Snowflake.”
I turn on him, blinding him with my flashlight. “Don’t you ever sneak up on me like that ever again. You’ll give me a heart attack.”
“Sorry.” He winces and moves out of the direct light. Then, with an apologetic grin, he adds, “I brought you stakes.”
The sweet Viking is holding two wooden sticks in his hands, about one inch thick and two-and-a-half feet long, and he has sharpened one end of each with a knife.
“Oh,” I say. “Are we going vampire hunting? Is that what this expedition is really about? There’s an ancient covenant of the undead hiding deep in the jungle, and our real mission is to exterminate them?”
Archie blinks, perplexed. “No.” He squats down. “These are for your boots.” He picks up a rock and uses it to drive the stakes into the ground. “We wouldn’t want you to get in trouble.”
I’m not sure if by “get in trouble” Archie means with scorpions crawling into my shoes at night, or if he means with Logan catching me not following Tucker’s safety directives. Either way, I’m grateful for my stakes.
“Thanks,” I say, and give him a quick hug once he’s done.
“No problem, Snowflake,” he says, and with a teasing grin, he adds, “And if you get lonely during the night, my tent is two over to your right.”
I jokingly push him away. “And you almost made it ten whole minutes without propositioning me.”
He puts a hand to his chest over his heart. “You can’t fault a man for trying.”
In a mock stern tone, I say, “Goodnight.”
“Night.”
Archie waves and walks away. I watch him go, sensing we’re being observed. The night is too dark to actually see anything further than a few yards, but I can sense a shadow in the darkness watching us and disapproving. Satan is ever vigilant.
Whatever.
I spray the air in front of the mosquito zipper with repellent and then rush in, hoping no insects will dare to follow me inside. I zip myself in and collapse on the cot. Turns out I didn’t need those stakes after all. I’m so tired I pass out fully clothed and still wearing my boots.