This Green Hell Read online

  Greig Beck grew up across the road from Bondi Beach in Sydney, Australia. His early days were spent surfing, sunbaking and reading science fiction on the sand. He then went on to study computer science, immerse himself in the financial software industry and later received an MBA. Greig is still involved in the software industry but still finds time to write and surf. He lives in Sydney with his wife, son and an enormous black German shepherd. This Green Hell is Greig’s third novel, and he is currently working on his fourth.

  Also by Greig Beck

  Beneath the Dark Ice

  Dark Rising

  THIS

  GREEN

  HELL

  GREIG BECK

  First published 2011 in Macmillan by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Limited

  1 Market Street, Sydney

  Copyright © Greig Beck 2011

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, scanning or by any information storage and retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publisher.

  National Library of Australia

  Cataloguing-in-Publication data:

  Beck, Greig.

  This green hell/Greig Beck.

  9781405040495 (pbk.)

  A823.4

  Typeset by Post Pre-press Group

  Printed by McPherson’s Printing Group

  Papers used by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd are natural, recyclable products made from wood grown in sustainable forests. The manufacturing processes conform to the environmental regulations of the country of origin.

  These electronic editions published in 2011 by Pan Macmillan Australia Pty Ltd

  1 Market Street, Sydney 2000

  The moral right of the author has been asserted.

  All rights reserved. This publication (or any part of it) may not be reproduced or transmitted, copied, stored, distributed or otherwise made available by any person or entity (including Google, Amazon or similar organisations), in any form (electronic, digital, optical, mechanical) or by any means (photocopying, recording, scanning or otherwise) without prior written permission from the publisher.

  This Green Hell

  Greig Beck

  Adobe eReader format

  978-1-74262-649-9

  EPub format

  978-1-74262-651-2

  Online format

  978-1-74262-648-2

  Macmillan Digital Australia

  www.macmillandigital.com.au

  Visit www.panmacmillan.com.au to read more about all our books and to buy both print and ebooks online. You will also find features, author interviews and news of any author events.

  For the martyrs of the River Plate, and all the other men and women of belief, who marched out into an exotic and dangerous world … and then simply disappeared from the pages of history.

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thank you Lucy Sherriff – geeks truly will inherit the earth, and to Lawrence, Rob and the US GEO for allowing me to share some of their research. To Kathleen, Cory and Brad – my biggest supporters … and critics! To my publisher, Cate. And finally to my editors, Joel and Nicola – wordsmiths, interrogators, and counsellors, I thank you.

  Hell is not hot, or cold.

  Nor is it deep below ground, or somewhere in the sky.

  Instead it is a place on Earth filled with sucking bogs,

  disfiguring diseases and millions of tiny flesh-eating creatures.

  Hell is a jungle, and it is monstrously green.

  PROLOGUE

  It had travelled for a billion years.

  Exploded from its cold, black world by a massive meteor strike and scattered in a spray of diamond-hard matter throughout the universe.

  Different-sized fragments would arrive at different times; some many millions of years before others. Some were folded deep below the primordial earth; others perished under a toxic sunlight.

  It didn’t matter. It had travelled for a billion years. It could wait a billion more.

  ONE

  North-east Paraguay River, 1617

  Father Juan de Castillo looked up from his journal, his eyes drawn once again to the small church being erected in the clearing. Only months ago the local Indians had cut the land from the jungle, and already the building’s foundations were laid. A deep and solid basement had been sunk into the black loamy soil and now the workers were dragging heavy stones into place from one of the few quarries on the banks of the Rio de Paraguay. At this rate the church would be finished in a matter of weeks – days even.

  Father Castillo smiled as a small girl ran up to drop an exotic flower on his table, scampering off before he could thank her. She stopped at the edge of the clearing and stood on one leg just under an enormous fern frond, watching the young Jesuit with large chocolate-coloured eyes. The priest picked up the flower and twirled it between his thumb and forefinger – it looked like a large blue star with a triple stamen of the brightest vermilion.

  ‘Bello– beautiful,’ he said, loud enough so she’d hear.

  He lifted the flower to his nose and recoiled with disgust; it smelled like rotting flesh. The girl giggled, clapped her stubby little brown fingers and disappeared into the deep green of the jungle behind her.

  The Jesuit went back to his notes, describing the flower, its odour and characteristics, and then drawing the face of the girl, spending considerable time shading in her large dark eyes as best he could with his charcoals and ink. He used a sleeve to wipe his face, which was covered in insect bites. It was only mid-morning and already his body was slick with perspiration beneath the heavy black cloth of his robes.

  He squinted through the rising morning steam to the clearing where his travelling companion, Father Alonso González, was on his knees polishing the huge bronze bell that awaited its home in a church tower that, so far, existed only in the Jesuits’ imaginations. Father González was in his sixties but still tall and vigorous, the only sign of his age visible in his thick, square beard, which had a swathe of grey at his jawline.

  Castillo slid his eyes from the senior Jesuit to a small group of elderly men sitting half-hidden, in the shade. One sat like a stone and stared back at the him through rheumy, smoke-damaged eyes. If not for an occasional tic in his left eye, the shrunken, teak-brown body would have been invisible among the jungle’s dark shadows. It seemed that not all the Guarani Indians were happy to see the Jesuits – Nezu had arrived a few weeks back – a powerful medicine man from the upper Paraguay River. He locked eyes with the Jesuit and lifted a small gourd with the plumage of a dozen different colourful feathers tied to one end and shook it twice, making a rattling sound, before pointing it at Father Castillo.

  ‘And God bless you too,’ said Castillo softly. He closed his journal, put two fingers to his lips and then touched them to the ornate gilt crucifix pressed into the cover of the leather-bound book.

  He looked up with a smile when he heard a small boy trying to speak in Spanish to his older friend.

  ‘Com … uhhh, como bello … flor de oro, padre.’

  ‘Si, una flor de oro gigante,’ Father González responded.

  Castillo nodded; the boy was right: the bell the older Jesuit was polishing did look a bit like a flower – a giant golden flower waiting to bloom high in a holy tree, he thought.

  He wrinkled his brow and turned his head slightly – there was a faint noise, a whistling, little more than a whisper, just audible above the sounds of the surrounding jungle.

  ‘Allá! Mire, padre.’ One of the children with Father González was pointing a small finger up at
the sky.

  Castillo craned his neck to see beyond the foliage that was shading his table. Cutting across the heavens were flaming orange streaks, like long lines of fire, all heading down towards the jungle. More appeared, until eventually they filled the entire sky.

  The faint whistling had become a scream. The young Jesuit stood and walked a few paces out into the middle of the clearing; he placed one hand over his brow and squinted upwards. Children were laughing and hopping around him in excitement at the strange spectacle, but many of the adults were shouting in alarm, and mothers ran to gather their babies into their arms.

  Castillo could hear the grating voice of Nezu as he rattled his gourd at the sky; he was yelling something about the fingers of Tau reaching down for them. The priest knew that Tau was the local people’s word for the Devil.

  Just as Father Castillo was about to call out to his older colleague for advice, the gleaming bell rang with a loud, deep bong. Everyone froze and looked towards the golden dome.

  Castillo was wondering how the bell could have tolled by itself when the high-pitched whistling ended and something thudded into the ground. Another crash came from one of the huts, a hole appearing in its roof. Seconds later, it burst into flames. A further object smashed into a tree trunk at the edge of the clearing.

  ‘It’s raining stones!’ Castillo yelled to Father González.

  More whistling, this time at a volume that startled birds from the green maze all around them. He saw Father González look up at the noise – in time to catch one of the speeding projectiles in his left eye.

  The old priest fell flat on his back, blood and jellied optical fluid spraying the children who stood nearby. Castillo ran to his friend, gagging as he saw smoke curling from the ragged hole in his face. Father González gasped in agony as steaming fluid pulsed out of the wound and oozed down his cheek; then, thankfully, he shuddered and lay still.

  The fiery streaks across the sky seemed to evaporate, and the strange whistling ceased. All that remained was the sweet smell of burnt meat filling the air.

  Father Castillo sat next to his colleague, watching a girl fan the old man’s face with a large, broad leaf. The slow strokes were almost hypnotic in their pace and tenderness. It had been two weeks and, though Father González continued to draw ragged breaths, he hadn’t woken from his death-like sleep. His once-robust frame had fallen in on itself and his grey face and shrunken cheeks looked incongruous among the bright piles of sweet-smelling flowers heaped around him. The Indians replaced the blossoms daily, but Father Castillo knew they weren’t delivered just as a sign of respect for the old man. From his position next to the bed he could smell the strange odour coming from Father González’s open mouth – raw and rancid. It disgusted him.

  He turned his head at the sound of breaking pottery. The Guarani had been sun-curing the hundreds of flat clay plates that would be used as roof tiles on the church. They were only days away from having a completed structure ready for furnishing and blessing. The massive stone altar had been carved and hauled into position, a task that had taken a full day. A previous block of granite sat discarded – a shallow face, perhaps of Jesu Christi had been started on the stone, but the block had proven far too hard and heavy for the stonemason’s tools so it had been abandoned. It would take nearly every man in the village to remove it. Other priorities now, he thought.

  ‘Padre …’

  Castillo flinched as the girl touched his arm, then placed a pile of clean cloths and a bowl of water on the table beside the bed. It was time to change the dressing over the old priest’s eye. It was strange how he thought of González as an old man now – a few weeks ago he had seemed anything but – however, the damage to his head had seemed to absorb his life force and left him a foul smelling skeleton.

  He carefully unwrapped the damp, discoloured bandage from around the patient’s head. In the noon light, Father González’s tight, grey skin looked almost reptilian. Up close, the vile odour wafting from his open lips was stomach- turning, even for a Jesuit who had endured more hardships than many men had seen in a dozen lifetimes. Father Castillo pulled back the old priest’s top lip – the gums were black and also seemed to be shrinking. His teeth looked strange … longer perhaps, and the tongue behind them lay like a fat, dead worm in the back of his mouth. He couldn’t help secretly wishing that the Lord would take González and free him from his rotting bonds.

  He soaked one of the clean rags in the water and wiped away the sticky fluid that was still leaking from around González’s eye socket. The ruined eye seemed lumpy and uneven behind its closed lid. He gently bathed the mucus-smeared lashes, then reached with his thumb to pull back the lid to check for further infection. As he lifted the delicate skin, he felt a movement behind it. He leapt back, landing on his rump and sending the small clay water bowl flying. He grabbed for it, too late, and managed to cut the skin between his thumb and forefinger on the broken shards.

  There was something in there. Something small and grey that had wriggled and shifted from the light as he lifted the eyelid. Perhaps some strange parasitic vermin had managed to worm its way into the wound. Bile rose in the young man’s throat.

  After a few seconds he gathered himself and approached Father González again. His heart hammered and his hand shook as he lifted the eyelid once more, steeling himself to make a grab for whatever creature had invaded his mentor and friend. There was nothing. He leaned forward over the wound, peering closer; still nothing. Perhaps it had just been the light, or his fatigue and anxiety for the old man had made him see something that wasn’t there.

  He was about to gently probe the empty socket for anything foreign in the wound when the old priest dragged in a large breath and slowly opened his other eye. Its once clear brown iris was now indistinct, as though a layer of slime had grown across it. The muddy orb fixed on Father Castillo, then on the bleeding cut on his hand. The nostrils in the cadaverous face flared as the older priest inhaled again, and his lips turned up slightly in a brush of a smile. Then the expression vanished and the eye closed again.

  Father Castillo should have been elated at this sign of consciousness from his holy colleague. Instead, he felt a terrible coldness spread from his stomach through his entire body. He hadn’t recognised the man who had stared up at him.

  The church was finished, but there were no celebrations.

  The previous night, all the animals in the village had been slaughtered. Their bodies had been found shredded, as though whatever had attacked them had rent them to pieces in search of their precious fluids. Some of the animals had been taken while tethered close to the villagers’ huts – yet no one had heard a thing. It worried Father Castillo that whatever had attacked the animals so viciously had crept silently among them while they slept – and was clever enough to untie knots.

  When he went to check on Father González, he found the old man had colour in his face again and his cheeks seemed fuller than they had in weeks, which was amazing as he had been given nothing but water dripped into his open mouth.

  Father Castillo peeled back the eyelid of the ruined eye, steeling himself as he remembered his last experience of cleaning the wound. It was a miracle: there was once again an eye in the socket. Still shrunken and a milky grey colour, but an eye nonetheless.

  Father Castillo leaned closer and placed his hand on the old priest’s cheek but Father González didn’t wake. The younger man noticed the smell from his mouth had changed. Now it was rawly metallic and musky; and unsettling.

  Father Castillo felt he had aged a decade in the last few hours. They had woken to find they had been visited again in the night – but this time several children had been taken. The sleeping infants had been silently pulled from their mats and spirited away in the dark.

  The villagers had been frightened following the killing of the animals, but now, with the children missing, their fear turned to panic and anger. The children had to be located quickly, and alive.

  By mid-morning, a singl
e child had been found wandering incoherent through the deep green maze of the jungle. The small boy had turned his red-veined eyes on Father Castillo’s black robes, screamed the Guarani word for devil, and sobbed until bloody tears ran down his face. Father Castillo did what he could but the child had lapsed into a deathly blankness and had never woken again.

  Now, the young priest exhaled wearily and looked at the faces surrounding him. Not since he and Father González had first arrived had he seen such mistrust among the Guarani. And now there was something more in their eyes – fear … fear of him.

  A dry rattling behind him caught his attention and he turned to see the medicine man, Nezu, shaking his gourd and pointing it at him, his creased lips moving in a chant and his eyes full of hatred. A small crowd had gathered, and this time they listened to his every word.

  Father Castillo decided to move Father González into the church. It was cooler within the stone structure, and far more secure. The tribe’s superstition was like a river that ran strongest just beneath the surface, and now that undercurrent was bubbling upwards in a surge of panic. It would not be long before it turned into savage action.

  Father González groaned as he was carried across the clearing. Steam seemed to rise from his sweat-damp skin wherever the dappled sunlight touched it. Despite the way the old man’s body shivered, Father Castillo thought it looked fuller, more fleshed out.

  The faces of the men carrying the stretcher were twisted in disgust. None of the Guarani wanted to be near the old priest, or even look at him. It was if they believed he was somehow responsible for the turning fortunes of the village.

  Garbled words bubbled up from deep inside the man and Castillo leaned close to his lips to hear. ‘La estrella nos quema.’ Castillo frowned: the star burns us – the words didn’t make any sense.