Pages from a Journal found in an Open Airport Locker Somewhere Between Manaus and Tefe, Brazil

Pages from a Journal found in an Open Airport Locker Somewhere Between Manaus and Tefe, Brazil

Monday the 21st

We threw it in the trunk of the car. Maybe it was one of the younger ones judging by the size, but even so, it could barely fit. I felt guilty and stupid and filled with adrenaline. I didn’t want to hurt it. I didn’t want to be here. Even with it curled up next to me, I struggled to understand what I was looking at.

I tied its hairy arms and legs. It smelled earthy and mossy and like a wet dog. It was still knocked out from the tranquilizer, but I wasn’t taking any chances. It was Abigail’s idea to put it in the trunk anyway and I knew better than to tell her no, at least not out here, not now. It took forever to drag it back, near impossible. My back is killing me.

Everyone says the Amazon is about as unforgiving a place as you can be, but even that doesn’t do it justice. The jungle is thick and haunted. A maze of twisted vines and whispering shadows. Something always watching. Geckos and ghosts of a thousand moments, both ephemeral and eternal.

Abigail gave me shit for getting blood in the car. I got a text from Mark Stone, our main contact. I told him I think we finally caught one of them. We’d meet him at the Brazilian Army's Amazon military airport. He made all the arrangements for us to get in without a bother. We can make the exchange then.

I’m out of cigarettes again.

Tuesday the 22nd

We’re on our way. It will probably take a day to get there. The road reminds me a lot of Maldonado, a small town a day or two south of here. I still can’t believe we agreed to take this job, even for the money.

“This is our last job this deep out here,” I told Abigail. “You don’t listen to me, I’ve explained why,” she always tells me.

She reminds me again that we aren’t the only ex-military hired down here. It’s a hard living, but a potentially lucrative one.

“Plus,” she says, “Once you cross over into this kind of life, it’s hard to go back to normal things.”

I wonder how she is really doing. I remember she told me once that she wanted to be a school teacher when she was a little girl. Her Dad died when she was small and her mother eventually abandoned her and her younger sister to start a new family in California. Her mom left a note the day she left saying goodbye and that she was sorry and that the laundry was clean in the basement. Abigail joined the military soon after.

She finds my constant writing tiresome and rolls her eyes every time my writing pad emerges from my pocket. It’s my only tether to reality in a place as isolated and lonely as this.

The thing hasn’t moved since we left. The crack in the trunk lid should allow for enough air for it to breathe. Mark wants the thing alive or we don’t get paid.

Wild blueberries are growing along the road. I stopped and picked a few. We’re still staying off the main highway and sticking to the off-roads for now.

Thursday the 24th

It woke up.

It woke up while we were driving yesterday. It got out somehow. It moved faster than any animal I’ve ever seen. I even thought I heard it talk. Or maybe I was just dazed from the crash. It kicked the trunk lid off and jumped on top of the car causing me to swerve into some trees on the side of the road.

The car is fucked.

I think I cracked a rib. It’s the middle of the night. I don’t know where it went. I’m not sure how far from the airport I am or what to tell our contact. My gear is getting soaked from the rain.

Abigail is missing. I need to find her. I hope she isn’t hurt.

Sunday the 27th

Yesterday I went searching for Abigail.

I set out and found a clearing and a fire about five miles from our crash. I thought maybe she set the fire, if even by accident, but I was wrong. It was the thing. It was a trap.

I’m stuck with Abigail in a deep pit in the ground. She’s unconscious, but breathing. I can barely move. I keep trying to wake her. To shield her from I don’t know what.

Monday the 28th

It’s talking to us now. Its voice is a strange harmony of human and animalistic and primordial. Hostile eyes. Its face grotesque, a cruel distortion of human form. Its teeth sharp and uneven. A grin that promises violence.

I’m afraid of what it will do to us. It leaves but tells us it will be back tomorrow.

I’m going to try throwing my journal out over by some nearby trees and bush in case we don’t make it out of this. Maybe someone will find it hidden in there one day. Bring it back. Know what happened to us.

I tilt my head back, the night sky above me, a blue canvas with countless stars. A wave of memory hits me. I remember when I was twenty-three, I wanted to make things right with my father. We hadn’t talked in years. We walked together behind our house across the street to a lake and there was a little gazebo there. We sat and talked. As I told him about my longing to be closer, I began to cry.

He looked up at me and said “I often think about taking my life.”

I didn’t know what to say. We both remained quiet for a few minutes and then we walked back together. On the way back, he commented that the sidewalk was damaged and needed cleaning.