Monday, January 29, 2007
Infil
They always smell the same, don't they? Rot, that ancient rotting smell with mildew and decay and heaven knows what else. The log in front of me, nose height, was covered with small brown mushrooms, and they did not look particularly tasty. Again, I moved - the third time in about ten minutes as I gained approximately ten inches of terrain which brought me half past the log, my legs still in the underbrush. The sound of the rain high in the canopy filtered itself into areas where the steady streams of water came down, contrasting to the light patter I heard a hundred feet above. I could still hear the cicada buzzing merrily away about 4 meters to my left, so I took the initiative and pulled my legs past the log, careful not to disturb the mushrooms and so leave a mark of my passage.
The ridgeline seemed no closer. I was not pleased to watch the spider approximately the same size as my fist approach my left hand. Would he sense the heat, even though the hand was covered in mud and below that, green greasepaint? Worse, what if the spider mistook my hand for a mouse, and attacked? I waited for what seemed like an hour, and after getting hit by a fortuitous raindrop, the spider struck out casually for my shoulder, where the neck met the collarbone and was much darker and damper. He carefully tucked himself along my carotid, and as he got comfortable I could hear the soft scritching noises of his legs on my collar. This was definitely turning into a below-average experience. Looking around, I very slowly rolled over onto my back and the spider, not enjoying the wide open space, skittered off my shoulder, over my ear and into the moldering leaves.
Finally, I gained the ridgeline. Very carefully, I raised the hooded field glasses and took in the village. There were at least fourteen guards visible, carrying an assortment of rifles, mostly Eastern bloc Kalashnikovs, although I noted one of the guards was carrying what appeared to be a 12 gauge shotgun. The patrols were sparse, and as I had read three days ago, not professionally trained. The men were mainly hired thugs, narcotraficantes on the next to lowest rung. I could now smell the cooking fires, which had been extinguished and were still smoking softly in the rain. There were people milling about, and most of them were headed into a run-down greenhouse that had been painted brown so no light could get in or out.
The report said his nickname was "Ocho". He had only seven fingers left, local legend said that he had lost three of them in a machete fight as a teenager, but purportedly sported a male member of some renown, hence the nickname. He was not visible at the moment, and I infinitesimally moved back from the ridgeline into the jungle to await the late afternoon.
The ridgeline seemed no closer. I was not pleased to watch the spider approximately the same size as my fist approach my left hand. Would he sense the heat, even though the hand was covered in mud and below that, green greasepaint? Worse, what if the spider mistook my hand for a mouse, and attacked? I waited for what seemed like an hour, and after getting hit by a fortuitous raindrop, the spider struck out casually for my shoulder, where the neck met the collarbone and was much darker and damper. He carefully tucked himself along my carotid, and as he got comfortable I could hear the soft scritching noises of his legs on my collar. This was definitely turning into a below-average experience. Looking around, I very slowly rolled over onto my back and the spider, not enjoying the wide open space, skittered off my shoulder, over my ear and into the moldering leaves.
Finally, I gained the ridgeline. Very carefully, I raised the hooded field glasses and took in the village. There were at least fourteen guards visible, carrying an assortment of rifles, mostly Eastern bloc Kalashnikovs, although I noted one of the guards was carrying what appeared to be a 12 gauge shotgun. The patrols were sparse, and as I had read three days ago, not professionally trained. The men were mainly hired thugs, narcotraficantes on the next to lowest rung. I could now smell the cooking fires, which had been extinguished and were still smoking softly in the rain. There were people milling about, and most of them were headed into a run-down greenhouse that had been painted brown so no light could get in or out.
The report said his nickname was "Ocho". He had only seven fingers left, local legend said that he had lost three of them in a machete fight as a teenager, but purportedly sported a male member of some renown, hence the nickname. He was not visible at the moment, and I infinitesimally moved back from the ridgeline into the jungle to await the late afternoon.
# posted by Crom @ 18:41 
