Minutes to Burn (2001) Read online

  Inside the building, only a few overturned tables and a broken com-puter mouse remained. A rat was gnawing through the mouse cord. It looked up at them, its beady yellow eyes glowing. It did not scurry away.

  Discouraged, they headed back. The others were circled up outside, and Juan leaned through the broken window of the Plantas y Invertebra-dos building.

  "No one inside," Derek said. "Anywhere."

  Juan pointed at a small laptop perched atop a makeshift desk. Flying marine iguanas drifted across the screen. "Someone's here," he said. "Somewhere."

  There was a noise from up the path, then a boy approached on a bicy-cle. Ramoncito pedaled up to the soldiers and skidded to a halt in a cloud of dust. "?Son estadounidenses?"

  "Si," Juan said, pointing at the others. "Ellos. Vamos a Sangre de Dios."

  "Ah," Ramoncito said with a smile. "Mi isla." He switched to English and addressed them all. "You go there again on the drilling boat?"

  "The drilling boat?" Rex said, confused. "No." He gestured to the buildings around them. "Is there anyone here?"

  Ramoncito pointed up the path in the direction from which he'd come. "I would not see him now," he said.

  "Why not?" Derek asked.

  Ramoncito shrugged. "Catch you... later," he said. "Dude." He smiled, then pedaled off.

  "There's no point in hauling this shit everywhere," Tucker said. "I'll wait here with Tank."

  Derek tilted his head to his shoulder and spoke into his transmitter. "Szabla. Primary channel." He waited for her to sense the vibration and activate her unit.

  Her voice emanated from his shoulder. "Szabla. Public."

  Both Rex and Juan looked surprised, and Cameron realized they hadn't yet used the transmitters in their presence.

  "Szabla, Mitchell," Derek said. "Everything clear?"

  "Baccarat."

  Derek looked puzzled.

  "It's a brand of crystal," Rex explained with a smile.

  "All right," Derek said. "We're nosing around. I'll check in in a few."

  "I'll wait breathlessly," Szabla said before clicking out.

  Cameron, Derek, Savage, and the two scientists followed the trail around until they reached the Tortoise Conservation Building, which was also empty. They walked silently out the back door, past the tortoise-rearing pens, in which short flat hutches of mesh and wood had been built over the soft dirt. The corrals were all empty, but the breeding groups' names were written on placards: G.e. Hoodensis--Isla Espanola 2001; G.e. Porter--Isla Santa Cruz 2003.

  Beyond the corrals, a crude boardwalk curved up and to the right. They followed it in single file, Cameron leading the way. Giant tortoises lazed in enclosures below. In one stretch, the planks had given way on the right side, and they had to shuffle along the single intact board on the left, gripping the thin rail. The walk curved again and Cameron stopped suddenly, holding up a hand. Rex started to say something, but Derek grabbed him from behind, placing a hand over his mouth.

  Up ahead, sitting on a crude bench built from log segments, sat a man. He stared down at the tortoise enclosure beyond the walkway, his hands dangling between his knees. His eyes were glazed and unfocused, his head cocked slightly to one side.

  He was covered with dried blood.

  Chapter 22

  A man entered Samantha's room through the crash door, his movements slow and labored in his blue space suit. Samantha rose to her tiptoes and peered through his mask. "Who are you?" she asked suspiciously.

  "Martin Foster. Infectious Disease." The doctor extended his hand. "I'm cross-covering from Hopkins."

  Samantha shook the gloved hand, feeling slightly ridiculous. "Samantha Everett."

  "Yes," he said. "I know."

  "How are our patients?"

  "Besides you?" Dr. Foster shook his head. "Going downhill. The pilot started with GI symptoms this morning."

  "Goddamnit," Samantha said. "It's so frustrating having the anti-serum right here in our hands and not being able to..." She grimaced. "Because of legal ramifications."

  "Well," Dr. Foster said, removing a needle, "you are showing antibodies as well as antigens. If your body hasn't rejected them by tomorrow morning and the absolute viral count is decreasing, we'll get clearance to use the antiserum on the others." He smiled. "There was something of a public outcry."

  Samantha's face lit up, almost comically. "Are you serious?" She held out her arm, clenching her fist to give him a good vein. He bent over, concentrating. Samantha couldn't wipe the smile from her face. "You know," she said, "they say a space suit puts ten pounds on you."

  Dr. Foster looked up. "I thought that was a TV camera," he said dryly.

  "That too." Samantha leaned over, glancing at his rear end. "Christ, no wonder I never get dates."

  Dr. Foster finished drawing, pinching the needle off with a cotton ball. Samantha held the cotton ball in place, bending her arm and elevating it. "Is Tom in yet? He's been off cavorting--I haven't been able to get ahold of him."

  "It was really irresponsible for him to take off Christmas Day," Dr. Foster said with a slight smile, speaking loudly so that Samantha could hear him through his mask. "Maybe you should speak to his superiors."

  "I am his superiors. And when you're the world's leading viral elec-tron microscopist, you shouldn't take Christmas off." She pounded her fist into her hand, imitating a drill sergeant. "There are responsibilities that come with this job. Sacrifices. That's why I haven't had a date in forty years."

  "I thought it was the space suit and the ten pounds."

  "That too."

  "And your intimidating demeanor."

  "All right--don't push your luck. I just need Tom to run a sample under the EM. I'd do it myself, but they won't let me out."

  The tremendously exacting electron microscope, hypersensitive to minute vibrations and electromagnetic interference, had to be bolted into the concrete basement floor and surrounded with layer upon layer of copper mesh. There was no way they'd release Samantha to go down there herself, but she was anxious to get micrographs of the sample from Sangre de Dios.

  "I'll have him paged," Dr. Foster said. "I'm sure he'll come in for you."

  "Thanks. And get here early tomorrow to draw on me so we can get the antiserum into the patients."

  "Assuming your blood work comes back fine."

  Samantha waved him off. "Assume away. Just move your ass."

  Dr. Foster paused on his way out, looking at her with concern. "Are you all right with all this?"

  Samantha smiled. She pointed to the test tube that Donald had sent over, lying on its side on the counter. "Already on to the next thing," she said.

  "Well," he said. "Maybe when you get out of here, we could go and get a cup of coffee. Or maybe see a movie."

  "Don't you mean 'if I get out of here?'" Samantha asked.

  "I'm comfortable with 'when,' " Dr. Foster said. "And you're avoiding the question."

  "Well, there's a lot going...I don't really..." Samantha was worrying her bangs with her hand. She stopped, looked at her hand, and lowered it. "Yes," she said. "I'd like that."

  Chapter 23

  Cameron inched forward on the walkway's rickety planking. She called out once, but the man did not reply. His face was streaked with blood, his clothes smeared and stiffened with dark patches of crimson. In places, even his hair was matted down with blood.

  Derek and Cameron eased up to him, signaling Savage and the two scientists to hang back. Derek's hand rested lightly on his pistol. As they came up behind the man, he pointed down at a giant tortoise. It lazed under a crude shed roofed with corrugated metal. In the foreground stretched a small wall built of gray stones, and a tall Opuntia, its lower pads chewed off. "Solitario Jorge," the man said without turning around.

  "I'm sorry," Derek said. "I don't..."

  "No comprendemos," Cameron said.

  The man switched to perfect English. "Lonesome George. Last of the Geochelone elephantopus of Pinta Island. His entire species was wiped ou
t by feral goats in the 1960s. There's no one left for him to mate with. When he dies, the species dies. He grows older and older." He raised a blood-crusted hand to scratch his cheek. "Take a close look. We're wit-nessing extinction before our very eyes."

  He turned to face them, and Cameron sensed immediately that he was not dangerous. With a dark band of a mustache, high cheekbones, and deep brown eyes, he exuded a dignified, almost princely air, even in his current state. He extended a hand. "Diego Rodriguez," he said.

  Cameron pointed at his hand, and he looked at it, as if noticing the blood for the first time. "Oh," Diego said, wiping his hand on his shirt, though the blood didn't come off. "Pig blood. Ran out of bullets."

  Cameron grimaced.

  Rex stepped forward. "Where's the seismology department?" he asked.

  Diego laughed. "Got me."

  "Is there anyone here?"

  "Anyone here?" Diego leaned forward, still laughing. "I'm here."

  "That's not particularly helpful, my friend," Juan said. "We are in need of the scientists here."

  "I'm Acting Director of the Station," Diego said, with exaggerated gravity. "And the only remaining scientist. Oh wait, that's not quite true. Ramoncito is still here." His laughter quieted down and he wiped his eyes.

  "Who is this Ramoncito?" Juan asked.

  "He's the supplies boy. About fourteen. Very dedicated. You may have met him on his way to town."

  "This is not a joke!" Juan barked.

  "No," Diego said. "It isn't."

  "We need to get to Sangre de Dios," Rex said.

  "Best of luck. None of the local boats go near there anymore." He raised his hands, wiggling his fingers. "It's haunted."

  "I'm outfitting the island with geodetic equipment," Rex said. "I was supposed to meet with the seismologists here to get the telemetry gear in place, and they were going to arrange a transport for us."

  "They did have a boat arranged. They took it themselves to the main-land. Wisely, might I add." Diego sighed. "The last of my scientists."

  "We need a boat," Rex said.

  Diego glanced them over. "How many are you?"

  "Nine," Derek said. "And supplies."

  "Well, you're properly fucked, as the expression goes. Most boats have already struck out for the continent. The only one remaining that's big enough to get you all there in reasonable fashion is mine. And I retired."

  "When?"

  "About two minutes ago."

  "What has happened to the Station?" Juan said, his voice growing angry. "Why are you in charge?"

  "Why was I in charge?" Diego's knee was bouncing up and down, his foot resting on the planks. He stilled his knee with his hand. "Because I was the only one willing to stay. We haven't had grant money. No one was getting paid."

  "Then how can you remain?" Juan asked.

  "Because," Diego said, picking something from his hair and flicking it over the railing. "My family is filthy rich."

  "He'll get along well with Szabla," Derek muttered.

  Diego shook his head, still lost in his thoughts. "First the tortoises... then the turtles...then the iguanas and the birds and the trees."

  "What the hell is he talking about?" Derek asked. Cameron shrugged. Savage lit a cigarette.

  "It's all a loss. All my little projects here." Diego pointed to another tortoise enclosure, farther up the walk. "We moved that group of tor-toises from Isabela before Wolf erupted. Would've been wiped out by the resultant flow."

  "Well," Savage said, lowering his cigarette, "isn't that how evolution works?"

  Rex looked at him, annoyed. "A philosopher."

  "Survival of the fittest," Savage said. "All's fair, right? A volcano comes along, erupts, little fuckers can't get out of the way, tough shit is what I say. That's how evolution works."

  "You seem to have a firm grasp of the concept," Rex said.

  Diego took a deep breath. "Actually, now I'm inclined to agree. For as long as I can remember, I've put everything into it. Into this." He indi-cated the enclosures around him and the distant peaks of the island with a sweep of his arm. "And for what? What does it matter? As you say in America, I'm throwing in my towel. I've lost everything."

  "You've lost everything," Juan repeated.

  "Yes. Everything. My turtles, my workers,my title... "Diego lowered his head. "There's no point in taking you to Sangre. We're fighting a losing battle. Without ammo."

  "We have work to do," Rex said.

  "I just saw seven years of my work go down the gullet of a pig. I'm done. Find your own boat."

  "You listen to me," Juan said angrily, stepping forward. "With your perfect English and your fake castellano accent. I may just be some mono from Guayaquil, but I can tell you this: There is more you could have lost." He jabbed a finger at Lonesome George. "There is more we all can lose. Things are wrong in the world, things do not go well? Tough luck amigo. My wife and daughter are gone because of bad timing and worse structural engineering. But I am not going to lose more to this. . . to this mierda. The ozone hole and these earthquakes and the foolish irresponsibility of others. I am not. These islands prove to me that life can still have meaning, that things can be logical and magical all at once. And that is something worthwhile, a little glimmer of meaning in this mess before us."

  Juan rested a hand on Rex's shoulder and Rex looked over at him, sur-prised. Juan continued to address the back of Diego's head angrily. "You might want to desert your responsibilities because things are bad, but don't make that choice for us. We are willing to stay, to do what we can, however small. Don't make these islands pay for your disillusionment."

  Diego leaned over, lacing his fingers. His shoulders settled a bit, as if under great weight. Below him, a finch flew over and landed on Lone-some George's back. With painstakingly slow, deliberate motions and a resigned sigh, the tortoise pushed himself up on all fours and extended his long slender neck. The finch hopped around his shell, picking para-sites off George's tough, leathery skin.

  Diego watched. "Beautiful," he murmured. "So beautiful."

  Juan stepped back, the redness fading from his face. He glanced around at the others, ashamed for losing his composure.

  "We'll pay you well," Derek said.

  Diego's laugh was tinged with lunacy. "Pay me in bullets."

  "I'm sorry," Derek said. "I don't understand. How much do you want?"

  Diego rose, slapping his hands together. "Two shots of bourbon. One neat, one on the rocks." He rose and glanced down at himself. "After I shower."

  He walked past the others, pausing beside Juan for a moment. Juan looked down uncomfortably. Diego raised a hand to pat him on the side but lowered it again when he saw it was covered with blood. He headed down the walk back toward the Station.

  "Come," he said.

  Diego sat contentedly at the bar before two shots, one poured over ice. He threw back the first, set it on the counter, and took a sip from the second. Tucker watched hungrily, working the thimble on his key chain. He was drinking passion-fruit juice. A feral kitten had sneaked into the bar. It was playing near the door, sharpening its claws on a wicker chair.

  The Galapason, a tropical theme bar at the eastern end of Avenida Charles Darwin, was open to the scorching sun, though a few pieces of plywood were laid across the high rafters, creating sporadic patches of shade. A pool table stood in the center of the bar, one leg propped up with a mound of old books. Hammocks swayed between 4x4s, and painted bas-reliefs of parrots stared out from the walls. A back alcove housed a junkyard tangle of broken furniture. A rat scurried across the dirt floor, disappearing between the yellow crates of Pilsener bottles, and the orange crates that held the smaller Club empties.

  The soldiers were still finishing a ceviche of octopus, spiced with aji.It was served with soft, flattened potato patties mixed with campo cheese and onions and topped with salsa de mani, a peanut sauce. Savage signaled the bartender for another beer, which arrived quickly. He held up the bottle, regarding the upside-down Pi
lsener label.

  Diego shrugged. "Ecuador," he said.

  Cameron and Derek had grabbed a quick snack and left to stand guard over the gear, freeing up Szabla and Justin to eat. The soldiers and scientists sat in a row along the bar, ignoring the scurrying rats and the faint aroma of urine in the musty air. There were a few locals at the scat-tered tables, and two men played pool on the uneven table.

  Having showered, loaded a bag with supplies, and changed into jeans and a long-sleeved nylon T-shirt, Diego was prepared to brave the sun and push out for Sangre de Dios. He drained the second whiskey.

  The kitten rolled onto its back and swatted at the underside of the wicker chair. Diego glanced at it with enmity. After it put on a few pounds, it would be out like the other feral dogs and cats, scouring the landscape for tortoise eggs and land iguanas.

  "You know," Rex said, "even if I set the GPS equipment on Sangre, we'll still need someone to receive the telemetric information here and relay it back to the States via computer."

  "Well," Diego said, "you'll have to show me how the equipment works."

  "I thought you retired," Juan said.

  "That was the pig blood talking." Diego rose. "Let's get the gear set up at the Station. Then I'll pull the boat in and we'll load up."

  They rose and headed for the door. Diego picked up the kitten by its tail on his way out. He stepped outside, twirled it once in the air, and smacked it against the wall. He tossed the limp body into a nearby trash can and started for the Station.

  Chapter 24

  They didn't have the luxury of waiting for dusk to avoid extreme UV exposure. Before they loaded the gear on El Pescador Rico, Diego made them wash their boots at the pier, in case they were caked with dirt hiding seeds, insect eggs, or other communicable material. Cameron was fascinated by the ritual--it was hard for her to believe that the ecology of each island was so fragile that it could be upset by the transport of a single seed. Though Sangre de Dios had already been compromised eco-logically, Diego claimed that it could be further damaged by introduced species. Diego made Tucker throw out an apple he'd had in his kit bag since Guayaquil, and Savage had to hide his cigarettes in the top pocket of his shirt to save them from a similar fate.