Chapter 12.
George looks at me, perhaps it's because he has an audience and he’s used to working alone; he's ambivalent. He looks at me like he wants to ask for advice, or he doesn't know how to tell me that I have offensive body odor. I shouldn't, I bathe religiously in mud every few hours to keep the mosquitoes at bay. Lucky for us, the roar of the rapids below drowns out their ever present tinny hum.
“SOCCCOORROOOO!”
Now I gotta deal with this noise. Sheesh.
"George, what do we do? Do we investigate? Or do you think it's a trap?"
"Could be a trap."
"Soc-soc-SOCCCOOORRRRROOOO!" comes from below.
"Screw it. That sounds to me like somebody's in trouble," I say. I start making my way down before George can stop me.
I'm no hero, I'm just curious. I make my way down to the river's edge, serpentine like. I zigzag just as we came up the hill, trying not to disturb any vegetation. George meets up with me about half way down, only he's crashing through the jungle.
We both make it to the river's edge. I nearly trip over the canoe, we hid it so well. Out in the middle of the river, barely visible in the moon light is a guy clinging to a big tree trunk. He doesn't see us; he screams his anguished cry for help.
"SOCCOooorrRRrrrO!"
Only now, it's like he's given up the ghost. To be honest, I have little sympathy for the guy. Even I could kick that log to the edge of the river. Maybe he's weak, so he gets bruised up going over some rapids. No biggie. Stupid people.
"Sink or swim, eh George?"
George is staring at the man. He lifts his Stetson off his head, and squints hard. "Si, his one of the men I no fulfill obligation for."
"How can you tell?"
"All the shouting he does."
"Oh," I say. "What do we do, George?"
"Let me think," he takes off his hat off and pulls at the brim, fidgets, turns the hat in circles. "Hola, Amigo? Can you swim to us?"
The man, thin, a real rat, clings to the log. "I cane swim!"
"What he say?" I ask.
"He says he cane swim," answers George. He cups his hands, "Amigo. Let go of log, the current, it take you over the falls."
"The falls?" I ask.
"Si, down there, water fall, two hundred feet drop," George answers. "Amigo. You no have much time. You must let go and swim."
"I cane. My arms. They are bound to the log!"
I feel a big bear paw on the small of my back. I’m a wallflower being asked to dance.
"Senor, you must go to him," George says to me.
"Me? Why me? You're the stronger guy."
"I keep lookout, it may be a trap."
"OK, OK. I see how it is with you. First up the ladder, first to hide from the jaguar. Last one to go save an amigo. Bounty hunter. Meh!"
I take the canoe out, wondering if sniper fire is going to light up in the trees on the far bank. I get up to the log. The rat’s hands are bound, just like that zombie that was hiding under the canoe earlier. Also tied to the log are three bloated zombies. Each one is bound around the arms and necks, their legs wiggle every time they get dunked under water.
"What's your name, Amigo?" I ask.
"I am known as Scarface, so you should fear me." He has a large white scar across his face, his left eye white and hideous looking under it.
"Oh ho ho! Look who's calling the shots with his hands tied. You’re about to go over a water fall. Well, you should fear me, because I'm about to go back ashore. Adios, Amigo."
I start to turn the canoe around, when he says, "Wait. Wait Senor. It is I who is in debt to you if you save me."
"You owe me? For what? I haven’t saved you yet."
He thinks for a minute, "Cigarettes?"
"I don't smoke.”
George calls from the shore, "What is the hold up, Senor?"
"I'm just settling him down, George, don't get your panties in a bunch."
Scarface says, “Riches. Money. Women. Drugs?”
“You deal in drugs?” I ask.
“You want? Por favor, Senor-“
“No, I just thought…the big guy over there says you’re a slave trader. I shouldn’t really get mixed up in saving your kind. But then again, I don’t wanna get mixed up in not saving your kind.”
“Name it, Senor. Anything, please, untie me.”
“Hey, you ever heard of Rumpserperg?”
“Rumspringa?”
“Yeah, that’s it. What is it?”
“Take me ashore, and I tell you there.”
“Come on, do me a favor and-“
"Senor," Scarface is stern, "A slave cannot ask a favor, you know this."
It really stupefies me how society can go to pieces, and yet people will cling to obscure rules like kids in a playground making up a game. Only the kid making up the game changes the damn rules every time he's about to lose. Slaves, in case you didn’t know, are not allowed to ask ‘favors’ of anyone.
“You say favor like it’s a dirty word,” I remark.
“Coming from a dirty slave. Si. Eh? Forget it, amigo. Take me ashore, por favor, and your master will never hear of your insult. I promise you.”
"Alright, alright, I'll throw you the rope. You know, for a damsel in distress you really play the part poorly. Wiggle them arms around that branch you’re tied to. Wiggle. That’s it. Forget it. I’ll take the whole thing ashore."
"Si, si, comprende amigo, I will forever be in your debt," he says.
I throw him the rope, "Stow it. Forever's a long time. Hold tight."
He grabs the rope, the zombies tied to the log gasp and gurgle as they spin up for air, then they sink again.
We get to shore, and the first thing George does is untie Scarface from the log.
“Hey George, this guy knows what a Rumspringa is,” I say.
Then he ties Scarface to me.
"What the hell is this for?" I yell.
"For any ideas, Senor. For your safety."
"Scarface, your amigos?" George kicks at the log. The zombies gnash their teeth as they come up for air, like piranha jumping out of the water.
"Si," says Scarface.
“Business, or personal?” George asks Scarface.
Scarface pauses, “Personal.”
"Say your goodbyes, Senor Scarface. Say goodbye to your friends,” George goes to kick down the log.
"Oh Senor George, por favor. Have mercy on their souls. Let me kill them before we send them on their way."
George looks at him suspiciously. "Why you? If you say they are your partners, Si. I can’t let you kill your friends. His not right, Senor Scarface."
"Senor, were these your friends, would you want a hired gun to be the man to send them to eternal peace?"
"I comprende, Senor Scarface. Yet it would be foolish for me to give you one of my guns to shoot them. Perhaps we kick them down the river, and let nature run its course."
"Senor, grant me this wish. Por favor! I grew up with them. Have…have you no friends of your own, Senor George? I kill them with my own gun then."
Before I can comprende what the hell he just said, George has both guns out like Yosemite Sam, leveled right at our heads.
"You know, George," I say, "would it really be in your best interests to kill your one and only slave?"
"I have many slaves, Senor. I am a big man in my village."
"True as that may be, at the moment, need I remind you that there are still four other people upstream there that will be coming downstream tomorrow, and see that you didn't fulfill your end of the, you know, bargain? You need all the hands that you can get here."
Just then I see a muzzle flash come from the back pocket of Scarface. My ears are ringing. The jungle is quiet. George drops like a rock, face first. Thump.
Scarface watches him fall, and smiles. The scar on his face creases his lips into a grotesque sneer.
Jumpy, the scrappy little guard dog that is lying by the canoe comes yipping at Scarface. Scarface s
hoots again from behind his back. Another muzzle flash. A little thump.
"Untie me," he says.
I spin around, and start fiddling with the leather strap that has bound his hands to mine. "Uh, Senor Scarface, now you, you know, I saved you just a moment ago."
"This ain't Thunderdome, Senor."
I untie us both, and he rubs at his wrists, still holding his Beretta. He's very thin, and the gun looks like a giant novelty toy in his hands.
He shoves at the log with his foot, spinning the zombies out of the water. One by one, he puts bullets in their bloated blue faces. They sigh with relief as they each receive the holy sacrament of lead. He kicks the log away from the bank, and starts to walk upstream to his other brothers.
"What about me?" I ask. "Hey, wait a minute! I don’t even know where the hell I am!”
He stops dead in his tracks, and turns.
“Hell,” he says.
He raises the gun. Blackness.