"Our notebooks are complete, Doctor Thornton. They have been for two days. Victor took half the remaining supplies. Let's just go home." Emily sounded as if she were on the verge of tears.
The pleading tone grated on his nerves. They had to leave, he understood that, but that did not mean he had to be happy about it. To have come so close and yet failed. It would be another year, at the soonest, before he could return, and that was assuming his sponsors would fund another trip. He had promised results, and they were not going to be happy when he returned empty-handed. "Fine," he said, rising to his feet. "Pack up as much as you can. We'll leave in the morning."
Derek's and Emily's faces relaxed, and each thanked him profusely, assuring him that this had been the best field ecology trip ever, and that they couldn't wait to get home and tell their families all about it.
Denesh did not appear to share in their joy. He frowned, his eyes fixed on a spot deep in the jungle.
"What's wrong with you?" Emily nudged him. "Lighten up a little."
"Quiet." The tone of his voice silenced everyone in the group. "Something's coming."
Thomas turned to look in the direction Denesh indicated in time to see three figures stride out of the jungle. They were short and stocky, with glossy black hair cut short in the Yanomami style. Their bodies were painted orange-brown with black smudges all over that put him to mind of a jaguar. Each was armed with a stone-tipped short spear and a stone axe. They moved directly toward the camp, their faces blank, and their strides resolute.
"Who are they?" Derek whispered. "There aren't supposed to be any natives in this area."
Actually, very little was known about this region. The area was so remote that it had remained unexplored in modern times. The satellite photos Thomas had inspected revealed nothing but a blanket of unrelenting green.
"I have no idea. They must be from an undiscovered tribe." Thomas shook his head. These men had the general look and build of the natives of this region, but he noticed subtle differences. Their faces were narrow, and their noses longer. He could not discern eye color from this distance, but they were definitely not the brown one usually found here. Curious, he took a step forward, but Denesh stopped him with a firm grip on his forearm.
"Let me do it. I know a smattering of languages from this area. Perhaps I can get them to understand me. If this actually is a tribe that has avoided outside contact, and we can communicate with them, I could write quite the paper on it."
He walked toward them, his open hands at his sides, and spoke to them in a language Thomas did not recognize. The natives neither acknowledged his words, nor broke their stride. Denesh tried again in three other languages unfamiliar to Thomas, and then in Portuguese. Nothing.
The men continued their silent approach, their faces still devoid of emotion. Their movements were not exactly robotic, but were steady and measured, almost military in their regularity.
"They're like zombies," Emily whispered.
Thomas grew more nervous with each step they took. Maybe he too had been spooked by Victor's suspicions, but something was very wrong. His hand itched to take hold of the machete that hung from his belt, but he dared not make any movement that insinuated violence. The results could be deadly.
Denesh gave up his attempts at verbal communication. He dropped to one knee, slipped off his wristwatch, and held it out as a supplicant would a tribute.
The men stopped in front of him. The one in the center gazed down at the wristwatch and then, as casually as a businessman would brush lint off of his suit, he raised his hatchet and brought it crashing down on Denesh's head. The young man crumpled to the ground, blood pouring from his split scalp.
Emily screamed at the sight of her friend lying dead on the ground, and she turned and fled. Derek drew his .38 revolver and emptied it in a wild spurt of gunfire. At least two bullets hit one of the warriors, punching through his chest and spraying gore on the man who strode directly behind him—yet the wounded man did not stumble, nor did he so much as blink. He kept coming.
Derek stood like a statue for a moment that seemed frozen in eternity. With a sudden gasp, he shot a glance at Thomas, and then back to the bloody warriors who bore down upon him, their implacable gazes locked on the frightened young man. Derek shrieked, threw his pistol at the first warrior, watched it bounce harmlessly off his chest, and then fled after Emily.
Thomas felt for his own pistol and realized he had not even bothered to carry it with him today. He didn't own a gun in his "real life," and still was not in the habit of keeping one at his hip. Now he was quickly altering his opinion on the necessity of firearms.
As the silent warriors turned their attention to him, he slid the machete from his belt and raised it in what he hoped was a threatening pose, but they stalked after him, undeterred. His courage draining faster than his bladder, he turned on his heel and fled blindly into jungle.
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THE SENTINEL by Jeremy Bishop