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“Yeah, you’d better sleep now, Golden Boy,” she says, still caressing his hair. “And don’t try anything stupid when you wake up.”
“You mean something dumber than climbing above a thorn bush?”
“Yup, like trying to get up or walk on your own. You’re on bed rest for a few days, all right?”
“Yes, Mom,” he replies.
And a breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding leaves my lungs. Nothing in this interaction reeks of sensuality. It’s affectionate, but not sexual.
Winter stands up again, and I jerk my chin toward the other side of the camp.
We head that way and, in the shade of my tent, I ask, “You really think he’ll be okay?”
“If he takes it easy, yeah, he should be.”
“Wouldn’t it be more prudent to send him home?”
“Unless you can fly a helicopter out here to pick him up, I don’t see how. Walking is out of the question, as is sitting on the back of a mule. And even if he somehow were to reach the village without tearing all his wounds open, the Jeeps’ backseats don’t have enough room for him to lie down comfortably.”
“No, you’re right. I’m just worried. Archie isn’t the best at not being able to do things on his own.”
“You’ll have to make him accept our help. The stitches should be solid, but it won’t take much for them to burst if he tries something stupid.”
“Okay, I’ll make sure someone always stands discreetly by his side, at least for the next few days.”
“Are you stopping the search in the meantime?”
“No, I can’t afford to stall, not even for a day. Archie took enough aerial surveys to find a way around the rock wall. Tomorrow morning, I’m setting out with Somchai and Dr. Boonjan at first light. We’re close now. With a bit of luck, we could reach Area X by nightfall. Tucker will stay behind and take care of Archie.”
“Good.” Winter nods. “’Cause I’m coming with you.” She says it with such finality, I know there’s no point in arguing. “I want to be there when you find the city.”
9
WINTER
The trek the next day is hard. With the first stretch of jungle inland already cleared of vines and undergrowth, Logan is setting a punishing pace. I swear he’s doing it to provoke me. To force me to ask for a break or for him to slow down, most likely to tell me that if I can’t keep up, I’m welcome to go back to the camp and wait there.
Fat chance!
If today’s the day we finally reach the gold city, I won’t be left behind. I’ll be damned before I miss capturing the moment. Finding a legendary lost civilization in the jungle won’t be career-making only for Logan. We’ll be the first humans to set foot in the forgotten place in over a millennium. My pictures will be the only photos of it. The news of the discovery is bound to blast through every information network in the world: newspapers, magazines, newscasts, websites… My shots will appear everywhere. I’m going to be famous.
Right! You’re not shaking me off, Satan.
I can already pictureNational Geographicasking me to be a regular correspondent. I’ll set up a pop-up gallery in LA to display the best shots, and the exposition will become such a raging success, it’ll move to New York next, then London, Paris, Milan…
As eager as I am to reach that level of international recognition, first comes the hard part. The camera equipment is heavy on my shoulders and it’s weighing me down. I shrug, readjusting my backpack to cut my aching trapeziuses a break, and trudge forward. Thank goodness Somchai and his mule are carrying the rest of the supplies: sleeping tents, water reserves, and Logan’s mysterious archeological tools.
As the morning progresses, things get worse. Leaving at dawn, if not fun, at least spared us the worst of the heat. But now, three hours into our little stroll through the jungle, the temperature has become insane. Even if we’re not standing in direct sunlight, the humidity trapped beneath the canopy makes it hard to breathe. It feels like walking through solid air. The moisture clings to my clothes, mixing with sweat so that everything I’m wearing—down to the socks in my boots—is damp. Even though I’ve tied my hair back in twin French braids, small tendrils have escaped and stick to my forehead regardless of how many times I push them back. Not to mention I have to hike through this hell of a place wearing gloves and Kevlar leg warmers—the snake gaiters.
I get the need for the gaiters, I really do, even if we haven’t spotted a single venomous snake since we’ve arrived, but I can’t stand the gloves anymore. I peel them off my hands and let my skin breathe some well-deserved air.
Gosh, I really hope today is it. That there’s a shiny golden city waiting for us at the end of this hike. I wouldn’t want to start over tomorrow. Heck, I probably wouldn’t be able to even if I wanted; my legs would not carry me. Tramping through the deepest, darkest parts of the Thai jungle is not my idea of a good time.
I’m so over the forced march that when, twenty minutes later, Somchai suddenly stops at the head of the column, I almost sag to my knees with relief. A wall of tangled vines and branches is blocking the road ahead. It appears we’ve reached the end of the cleared path. If we have to start hacking our way through, I can finally rest a little and let the boys play with their machetes.
Smith and Carter, our militia escort, take the first shift and start hacking at the tangle of vegetation, slicing through the thicket in short order.
There’s only the five of us today. Dr. Boonjan wasn’t feeling well this morning, a stomach bug or something, and he remained at the base. Tucker had to stay back to care for Archie. And Montgomery is with them to guard the camp.
