[Entombed Left Hand Path 320 Kbps
Everardo Laboy
Tell nobody I am alive. I cannot be clear enough on that point. Do not try to find me after I have left. Please. All I ask is that I be allowed to live what life I have remaining in obscurity and anonymity.
Perhaps you will have read reports of my disappearance or death, constructing wild theories of violence at the hands of Kalapolos tribesmen, or a lack of adequate supplies or preparation. I can only wish my hubris had been so mundane.
The ancient ruins, the statues, hieroglyphics. The sheer unrivaled beauty of it all. Through the trenches and the mud of the Western front, it was the thought of Z that kept me going, whispered promises of discovery. The remains of an ancient city, utterly lost to time and hidden somewhere near the Xingu River.
I retreated in defeat, resolved to return to Dead Horse Camp at a time when I was truly ready. That time was five years later, in 1925, and I honestly believed that this time I was going to find Z. I was more prepared, and crucially, I planned not to go alone.
The Xavante, whose territory we were entering, were said to be violent and distrustful, making a large expedition unwise, so I instead brought my son Jack on board, as he had been traveling with me before, and I trusted his instincts almost as much as I trusted my own.
It was Raleigh that suggested that we proceed alone after we left Dead Horse Camp. I had ensured this time we would be well-provisioned. We had horses, dogs, mules, and a pair of local labourers, who had agreed to act as our guides. But on our arrival at the camp, Raleigh dismissed them, and started to move all of our supplies onto only a few of the animals.
Without a word, he took off into the jungle at a dead run. Myself and Jack, startled for a moment, quickly followed. Raleigh was quick, but the uneven jungle floor and terrain made moving difficult, so we were able to keep him in sight until he stopped short.
When we met the second expedition, it seemed like I was the only one surprised. There were almost a dozen of them, fitted with cold-weather outfits and ice-breaking equipment, and they seemed to take no heed of the thick, humid heat of the jungle. They greeted us like old friends, and Raleigh began to ask them what they had found, how their search was going, how many had made it.
I tried to say a few words, but by this point I was so disorientated, so out of step with whatever path the expedition was treading, that even if they could hear me, it was clear they had no intention of listening.The leader of the second expedition, a man in a thick seal-skin coat, was talking excitedly about their progress, about their hunt for the Northwest Passage, and I realized with a start that this man was John Franklin, famed polar explorer, whose ships, the Terror and the Erebus, had been trapped in the ice and lost in northern Canada. The crews had disappeared, and many believed that they had resorted to cannibalism.
We were briefly fourteen people, but then the things that had been following us attacked in the night. I awoke to screams and gunfire, the scents of blood and death. Something more cunning than a jaguar tore through my tent, teeth eager to find my throat. And it was only my paranoia, at the other members of the expanded expedition, that had kept my revolver close enough that I survived the struggle.
When it was over and the beasts were dead or driven off, I heard a sound that chilled me more than the vicious screams of the predators: The blood-drunk cheering of the survivors, a sound of triumph, elation, and cruelty. There were six of us left, and I reloaded my pistol before I returned to my bed.
And now the very trees seemed to be fleeing us, branches and trunks bending away as we passed, save for those that sharpened themselves and stretched towards us. There were things moving through the trees now that looked at first like men, but they did not move like them. Their mouths never opened, but I knew there was something dreadful about them.
Two of the figures pinned to the trees screamed in pain. They had no tongue, no distended belly filled with stolen blood. But no one seemed to notice, or if they did notice, no one cared. In the joy of the hunt, they had been seized. And that was that.
The supplies had run out days ago, and it was becoming clear that zeal will only sustain you so far, as one or two of the group began to falter and fall from exhaustion and hunger. They were simply left behind.
The most painful part was Jack, who would spend hours walking beside me, telling me of all the wonders we would see, all the delights we would be part of, when we finally found It. Or caught It. Or killed It. Whatever It might have been. Broke my heart to see what I had done to him, to know where my path had set him.
I have been careful, though. Nobody knows I am alive, and I desperately wish to keep it that way. I am sure, deep within myself, that what Raleigh Rimmell hunted out in that jungle he will never find. He can never find.
(exasperated laugh-sigh) Arresting them. I hated the handcuffs, the, the click. It meant the chase was done, the hunt was over. Satisfying, on a good day, sure, but moreish. I never really wanted it to be over.
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