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“Not funny,” I growl, surprised to find that I’m almost halfway to smacking him with the board I’m eating on.
What the hell is up with me? Yes, the conditions are shit, and yes, I’ve been becoming a bitter old grump in the past few months with everything going on, but I’m here now, finally doing what I love: producing. Or should be soon, at any rate.
“Hold on—there’s pumas here too?” I ask.
“Ah, did I forget to mention?” Russel waves his hand dismissively. “No matter.”
I practically choke on the plantain I’m eating and once again have to resist the urge to give him a good hard board smack. “No matter?”
“Well.” Russel tips his head. “Yes, and no. As long as she doesn’t have any babies around, we should be fine.”
Do not smack him with the board, Greyson.
Instead, I clench my fists as I grate out, “And if there are?”
Russel makes a face. “I suppose we’ll just have to run for our bloody lives, then.”
“Shit.”
“It’s not all bad.” Russel’s smile is almost reassuring as he takes a sip of his manure-stew. “Taste this.”
Despite my frustration, I take a sip, and find myself smiling too. “OK, so you’ve managed to cook an edible stew, and warned me about pumas. Let’s talk strategy now.”
“Strategy.” Russel wiggles his bushy golden eyebrows. “I like the way you say it.” His face sobers up as he leans in to peer at me, hard. “Since what we decide here may or may not decide the fate of not only our lives but the lives of those with us.” A wave of his hand. “But no matter. With my expertise and your… Storm blood, we are destined for success.”
I would glare at him if I wasn’t still reeling from his rapid-fire change of attitude. “Your only faith in me is because I’m a Storm?”
“Nah, I’ve seen you in the field, I know you know your shit by now. Although the Storm name is good luck, yes?”
“In some ways,” I say. “But what about an actual plan? You must have a map of this rainforest, know some locals we can consult.”
“Oh yes, map.” With the hand not spooning stew into his mouth, Russel riffles through his patchwork messenger bag. “Here.”
One look and the small shard of hope forming in me evaporates. “You call this a map?”
Russel fans himself with the map napkin, wearing a vaguely offended expression. “It’s better than nothing.”
This would be funny if it wasn’t real life. “You’ve drawn a blob and labeled it ‘rainforest’.”
Russel sniffed. “If you’ve got a better idea, please do share.”
And so passes the next few hours: I propose ideas, dig for information, and get increasingly pissed off at every turn. There are no locals to help us, no decent maps to consult. Clearly, the only reason Russel even called me over to discuss what to do is because he doesn’t want to be held responsible when this all goes to shit.
Finally, after an infuriating back and forth, and such frustration that I’m actually driven to wolf down some of Russel’s cold mystery stew, I put my foot down.
“We’re going back the way Russel came,” I tell everyone.
“He remembers?” Samantha asks dubiously.
“I did have to do quite a bit of slashing to get here,” Russel says with a sniff back at her.
“Beaches are sounding more and more enticing,” Jorge mutters, almost under his breath.
Clearly, everyone else has picked up on the mood of uncertainty among the leadership. Better not to mention that we have no usable maps.
Seeing Harley’s pointed look—Wasn’t this supposed to be a team?—I clear my throat. “Any questions?”
“Yes,” Manuel says, raising his hand tentatively.
“Yes?” I ask him.
“What if… we fall off his trail.”
“Good point, almost forgot.” I reach into my pack and fish out the spool of ribbon I threw in at the last minute. “We’ll be tying this on trees every so often as we go. That should help. Although I don’t expect to use it.”
“Besides,” Russel cuts in, “my path-finding skills are out of this world. I can get us back to the big fat alligators before you can say ‘big fat alligator’.”
Samantha grumbles something that sounds like ‘big fat alligator’ and the others exchange uncertain smiles. Only Harley looks ready. Time to take this show on the road.
“Right. Any questions? No?” I smile at everyone with more confidence than I feel. “Then let’s get trekking.”
As we walk, I try to believe my own words. Even though, after everything, I’ve come up with a plan that could’ve been brainstormed in five minutes: Go back the way Russel came, following the tramped-out, slashed-down path through the forest. And hoping it’s still there.
“I did survive my way here,” Russel keeps reminding me with a winning grin as we continue along, as if this is supposed to be the greatest endorsement in the world.
