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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 the nape of my neck—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.
7
WINTER
Jungle archeological expeditions are boring.
This morning, I followed the vanguard on the first trip inland toward Area X. And, well, if nothing else, now I understand why Logan is so worried about the expedition failing. It has been a punishing ten-hour day of hacking through vines and branches. And we must’ve covered two, three miles tops. We had to wrestle every inch of the dense vegetation, chopping our way in with the machetes.
I didn’t do any actual pruning, since I was documenting the day with photos, but some machete-chopping would have at least broken up the monotony of walking behind the guys at a snail’s pace while they waged war on the jungle. Plus, Tucker has forced everyone to wear gloves. And not just any gloves—thick, black, scuba-diving ones that are apparently state-of-the-art to deflect thorns and prevent cuts. Unfortunately, wearing neoprene gauntlets makes pushing the little buttons on my camera super awkward. So, even my favorite activity has turned into a hassle today.
Tonight, the morale around the dinner table isn’t the best. But at least the food is as good as Tucker promised. He cooked freeze-dried mac and cheese, and I can honestly say I wouldn’t have been able to tell this wasn’t made from scratch if he hadn’t warned me beforehand.
“Are you sure there’s no easier way in?” Logan asks Archie for the third time since we sat down to eat.
I can’t help but roll my eyes for the poor Viking. If Satan is usually insufferable, Satan in a bad mood is a new shade of hell on Earth.
“Dude, I’ve flown the drone in every direction,” Archie patiently repeats. “From above, it all looks the same. Sorry, no shortcuts.”
