Hell's Gate(60)

MacCready now feared that weapons similar to the guided interceptor that had taken down the recon plane were being prepared to reach out from Brazil. And whatever the specifics of their plan might be, he knew that he had to escape, or at least get this information back to Hendry. Especially now that Bob and Yanni are gone, he thought.

Although it could never make up for the murder of his friends, he took some satisfaction in the knowledge that the Germans had suffered their own casualties at the hands of the draculae. Just as important, he knew that these deaths had made Wolff and his pals extremely eager to learn the real identity of the creatures, a fact that was currently keeping him alive.

At this point, what harm would come of identifying the phantoms to his enemies? It was the sort of information that he could barter safely in the hope of completing his mission, in time to prevent them from completing theirs—whatever that is. In a horrible run of misfortune and tragedy, this had indeed become a bit of good fortune.

Up ahead, the front half of Wolff’s group had stopped beside a river. It was about forty feet wide and although the water appeared to be no more than waist-deep, the current was moving at a fairly dangerous clip.

He could see that the two local guides, who had gone ahead of the group several minutes earlier, were already standing on the far bank. One of them was using his bow to point out a presumably safe path for Wolff and the others to follow across the boulder-strewn waterway.

One by one, the members of Wolff’s hunting party hoisted their packs higher and waded in at the indicated spot, soon leaving only MacCready and his hulking escort to bring up the rear.

MacCready scanned the far bank. He found it odd that the second guide had moved to a position slightly upstream from his friend and the continuation of the trail.

What’s this guy up to?

The Indian stood on the rocks and waited until the Germans were distracted by the precarious crossing, then he let loose a stream of his own.

Nice move, MacCready thought, his gaze tracking from the arc of urine to the place where Wolff’s men were making their way across the stream. He slowed down just enough to avoid a shove into the current from the hulk, allowing time enough for the end results of the guide’s “private salute” to pass downstream.

MacCready had waded about halfway across when unexpectedly one of the soldiers approaching the far bank began screaming and thrashing about violently. Everyone else froze for a moment, but just as quickly weapons were drawn and each man scanned a section of tree line for signs of an ambush.

Meanwhile, the weight of the stricken soldier’s pack had flipped him onto his back like a turtle, allowing MacCready and the others to see that he was clutching at the front of his pants. The man began to float downriver.

Before the soldier could drift very far, though, Colonel Wolff shouted something and two men splashed over and intercepted their frantic comrade. Grabbing him under the arms, the pair staggered the last ten feet to the shore. There the screaming man immediately fell to the ground and began tearing at the buttons of his field pants.

Instinctively, MacCready checked to see if the sudden commotion might have sidetracked the SS sergeant. As expected, the giant had maintained not only his distance but also his concentration.

The American gave Schr?dinger his best “who, me?” and continued across the river. When Mac emerged from the water, a small crowd had gathered around the agonized soldier.

As MacCready watched, two Germans forcibly held the man down while one of the guides drew an obsidian blade from a leather scabbard. Not surprisingly, the screaming man became even more terrified as the knife-wielding Indian moved toward him with a menacing grimace. Then, in one swift motion, the guide slit open the soldier’s pants, but not the soldier himself. There followed another blur of movement and this time the man’s underpants were sliced open. Immediately the group seemed to take a collective step backward, but their retreat had nothing to do with modesty or embarrassment. To everyone present it appeared as if the screaming man was wrestling with his own penis.

“Es ist in meinem penis!” the man screamed, and a moment later those standing close enough (too close, actually) got a look at exactly what the man was wrestling with.

Even MacCready got a glimpse—just long enough for him to see that the tail section of a tiny fish was protruding from the soldier’s besieged beanpole.

“Es ist in meinem penis!” he screamed again, his eyes wide, imploring someone to help—at which point, one of the man’s friends did step forward; but as he did so, the fish gave a violent wiggle. As the would-be rescuer watched, the visible portion of the creature seemed to shorten considerably and it worked its way another inch further upstream. Now only the wriggling tail fin was exposed.

Colonel Wolff stepped away from the chaotic scene and addressed the guides in Portuguese: “Qual é aquela coisa?”

“Ele é um candiru,” one of them replied.

“Oh shit,” MacCready muttered, though apparently not quietly enough.

The colonel spun toward him. “What?”

“I’m pretty sure he said it’s a candiru.”

“And what is this . . . candiru?”

“A parasitic catfish, Vandellia cirrhossa.”

“A catfish?”

“Yeah, they usually attack larger fish, latch on to their gills, then feed on the blood pumping through them. Very messy eaters.”