Then, in a jungle in Bolivia, I died.
You will know me as Zero. Such is the name that history has bestowed upon me. Zero the Destroyer, Great Devourer of the World. That this history shall never be written is a circumstance of ontological debate. What becomes of the past when there is no man to record it? I died and then was brought to life, the oldest tale there is. I arose from the dead, and what did I behold? I was in a room of the bluest light—pure blue, cerulean blue, the blue the sky would be if it were married to the sea. My arms, legs, even my head were bound; I was a captive in that place. Scattered images lit my mind, flashes of light and color that refused to gather into meaning. My body was humming. That is the only word. I was to learn that I had just emerged from the final stages of my transformation. I had yet to see my body, being inside it.
Tim, can you hear me?
A voice, coming from everywhere and nowhere. Was I dead? Was this the voice of God, addressing me? Perhaps the life I’d lived had been not so worthy, and things had gone the other way.
Tim, if you can hear me, lift a hand.
This did not seem too much for God, any God, to ask.
That’s it. Now the other one. Excellent. Well done, Tim.
You know this voice, I said to myself. You are not dead; it is the voice of a human being, like you. A man who calls you by name, who says “well done.”
That’s it. Just breathe. You’re doing fine.
The nature of the situation was becoming clear. I had been ill in some manner. Perhaps I had suffered seizures; that would explain the restraints. I could not yet recall the circumstances, how I had come to be in this place. The voice was the key. If I could identify its owner, all would be revealed.
I’m going to undo the straps now, okay?
I felt a release of pressure; triggered by some remote mechanism, my bindings had surrendered their hold.
Can you sit up, Tim? Can you do that for me?
It was also true that, whatever my ailment was, the worst had passed. I did not feel ill—quite the contrary. The humming sensation, which originated in my chest, had enlarged to an orchestral, whole-body vibrato, as if all the molecules of my anatomy were playing a single note. The sensation was deeply, almost sexually pleasurable. My loins, the tips of my toes, even the roots of my hair—never had I experienced anything so exquisite.
A second voice, deeper than the first: Dr. Fanning, I’m Colonel Sykes.
Sykes. Did I know a man named Sykes?
Can you hear us? Do you know where you are?
A hole had opened inside me. Not a hole: a maw. I was hungry. Deeply, madly hungry. Mine was the appetite not of a human being but of an animal. A hunger of claws and teeth, of burrowing in, of soft flesh beneath the jaws and hot juices exploding upon the palate.
Tim, you’ve got us pretty worried in here. Talk to me, buddy.
And just like that the gates of memory opened, releasing a flood. The rain forest, with its steamy air and dense green canopy full of hooting animals; the stickiness of my skin and the omnipresent swarm of insects around my face; the soldiers, scanning the trees with their rifles as we walked, their faces streaked with jungle paint; the statues, manlike figures of monstrous form, warning us away even as they called us forward, summoning us deeper into the heart of this vile place; the bats.