The Stream of Zaire

The sweat dripped down from the scientist’s pulsing head. He looked around; everything was growing blurry. Through the fog in his eyes, he could see the bodies of his fellow comrades lying motionless on the jungle floor. His breathing grew heavy as the blood circulating in his veins came to a near stop. He collapsed onto the ground and looked up at the large green canopy of trees above him. Full of questions and regret, the scientist closed his eyes and breathed his last breath.
Dr. Glen Fischer entered his office on the second floor of the TIII research building and sat down in his old leather chair. It creaked slightly as he leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “Three groups,” he said to himself. “How can three groups just disappear in the jungle?” It had been almost a year since Dr. Fischer had founded the Fischer TIII Tuberculosis Treatment Center, an establishment dedicated to finding a cure for Type III Tuberculosis. Like Types I and II, Type III Tuberculosis is an airborne bacterial sickness. Unlike the other types, Type III only breaks down a person’s lungs. It is also much more serious and rarely found in any continent except Africa. There is no known cure, and most victims have a life expectancy of one to two years after being diagnosed. Glen was once a world-famous physician, until he contracted the disease for some unexplained reason. He gave up his practice and poured all of his funds into his research center.
After he and his colleagues had experimented with a cure for several months with no luck, Dr. Fischer received information about an old Malawi myth. Apparently, seventy years ago, English adventurers came upon a remote African tribe known as the Malawi. These natives of the Zaire territory claimed there was a small stream running off the great Zaire River. According to the legend, when the tribesmen drank the water, something in it would heal those who were dying of failing lungs and a harsh cough. These symptoms sounded much like those of Type III Tuberculosis, a disease that was once very common in that region. Dr. Fischer, intrigued and desperately searching for a cure, accepted the story and decided to send an expedition deep into the Zaire Jungle to gather samples of this miracle water.
Now, unsuccessful at every attempt to recover the water, the doctor was growing weaker each day, and it was only a matter of time before the tuberculosis would take his life. “I’m tired of waiting for answers,” Dr. Fischer sighed in exasperation. “If no one else can find the stream, I’ll do it myself!” He got out of his chair and began scouring the building to find the greatest intellectuals in his institution. He would need them for the journey ahead.
When he finally gathered the necessary crew for his expedition, it consisted of: Dr. Sherman Cheney, one of the oldest scientists studying Type III Tuberculosis; Dr. Rachel Meret, a young but promising geologist who recently graduated from Princeton University; and Randy Marx, who had been a valiant leader in several trips to the Amazon. “Marx,” Dr. Fischer commanded as he approached his new group, “I want you to find five or six guides to help us on this expedition. They need to be natives of the area and know the land well. I don’t care what it costs; just make sure they’re reliable.”
“Consider it done,” Marx replied.
“Rachel, find out everything there is to know about the Zaire region: its climate, the plants, the animals, any fierce tribes, and so on.”
“I’ll get on it right away,” she answered.
“Sherman…be ready for the journey. I know it will be tough on an old man like you, but I need your knowledge for this.”
“I would be honored to join you,” said Dr. Cheney.
Dr. Fischer spent the next week arranging an airlift to the Aketi Airstrip, located in the country of Zaire; gathering dehydrated food and proper clothing; and purchasing adequate gear and tents. When all these things had been taken care of, Glen told his team they were ready to leave.
The chopper left from the research center at 8:00 a.m. The expedition team wanted to arrive at the town of Aketi before dark. On the aircraft, Dr. Fischer asked Marx, “What did you do about those guides?”
Marx responded, “I hired five of the best natives I could find. They only charge $1,000 a piece for the entire excursion. Should be waiting for us when we land.”
“How familiar are they with the region?”
“Well, they know most of the Zaire Jungle, but they haven’t actually been around the middle of it. No one has. Most people think it’s too dangerous.”
After several hours of flying, Dr. Fischer and his team reached Aketi. Waiting by the airstrip were five African men. One of them approached the crew and introduced himself. “Hello, my name is Okaleh. Me and the others is ready for going at any time.” His English was choppy and slightly off. But one look into the tall man’s calm eyes, and Dr. Fischer could tell that he was dependable.
“It’s nice to meet you, Okaleh. We appreciate your readiness, but it’s getting dark. It would be best for us to stay here for the night and set out early tomorrow morning.”
“I tell the men we wait,” stated Okaleh. The whole group of researchers spent the night in Okaleh’s small hut; despite very little personal space, everyone slept soundly. Morning came quickly, and by 6:00 a.m., the team had assembled and began their long trek. Because there weren’t any trails to accommodate a vehicle, walking was the only means of transportation in the jungle. After twelve miles of vigorous walking, Glen and Dr. Cheney were desperately in need of a rest.
“Let’s take a short break right here,” Marx suggested. They stopped by several large rocks and rested for a few minutes.
“We not able to stop like this,” Okaleh warned. “Soon, we be in bad land with mean tribe. We must keep steady walk, or we die.”
“Okaleh must be talking about a small pigmy tribe that descended from an ancient line of Zulu warriors and lives around here,” Rachel offered. “It has resisted change for the last fifty years, and the tribesmen have killed anyone who interferes with them. Glen, Sherman, can you guys keep a good pace for the next few miles?”
“I think I’ll be ready after this rest,” Glen declared.
“I’d rather die of exhaustion than get a spear through my stomach,” Sherman commented. The team regrouped and set out once again through the jungle. For the next ten to fifteen miles, the only sounds to be heard were chimpanzees scampering among the trees, parrots squawking throughout the sky, and a few random noises from unknown animals scurrying through the forest of trees. There was no sign of the pigmies. When the group came upon a small clearing several hours later, Okaleh told everyone to set up camp for the night. Compact, portable tents were brought out and constructed close to each other in a circular formation. Dr. Fischer lied down in his shelter, anxious to survive the night and start gaining progress in his journey the next morning. Tired from the grueling hike, he closed his eyes and soon fell asleep.
It was another early start for the crew as they began another day’s walk with renewed energy. “Is there anything we should know about that we could encounter today?” Dr. Cheney cautiously asked Okaleh. Cheney wanted to avoid a repeat of yesterday’s startling experience.
“Nothing major. Always watch for bad animals,” Okaleh replied. Only two miles later, yells were heard off in the distance.
“What was that?” Marx asked.
“Oh no, is my men who scout ahead of us. Something go wrong.” They followed the sounds of hollering until they reached three of Okaleh’s men. At the moment, there appeared to be nothing wrong with them, but a look of terror could be seen in their faces. Okaleh asked the men what was wrong, and they explained in their native tongue that while they were scouting the jungle, one of the men wandered off in a different direction. Apparently, he was bit by a tsetse fly, and he ran back to the others in despair.
“A tsetse fly bite from this region,” Rachel explained, “will likely give this man sleeping sickness! Within a few hours, his heartbeat could increase. After that, his spleen might enlarge. He may develop a rash and fever, too. Dr. Fischer, we can’t make him come with us in that condition.”
“Fine, we’ll send him back to Aketi in case he needs treatment. Two other guides can accompany him, but we’ll need Okaleh and another guide to bring us to the stream.” So three guides went back to Aketi, and two others led the research team deep into the jungle.
“Good news,” Okaleh reported. “We have twenty-five miles left. Soon, we reach the stream. There, we set camp, and you start studies.” The day of travel went as planned, and after several hours of hiking through the dense jungle, they heard the crisp, flowing sound of water.
“Finally. We’ve really made it,” Dr. Fischer thought to himself. He followed Okaleh through the thick green bushes, and, stumbling over fallen trees, he came upon the little trickling stream.
“I think we should run tests on the water before we drink it. It might be harmful for all we know,” Dr. Cheney suggested to the team. With a few hours of daylight remaining, the doctors set up their tools by the stream.
Looking at it, no one could tell that the stream was unique, but when tested, it was found to contain a large amount of some unknown element. “This is great!” Glen exclaimed as he analyzed the water. “This water is not only the cure for Type III Tuberculosis, but it also has a completely new element in it. We’ll be legends of the science world!”
“I wouldn’t get too excited if I was you,” Dr. Cheney warned. “We don’t even know if this water can heal your disease.” Dr. Fischer ignored Cheney’s opinion of the stream. He decided to set up his tent and get to sleep early; however, sleep would not come. Glen dozed off a couple of times but was too anxious to rest, and besides, he hadn’t heard anyone else go to their tents yet. This observation suddenly hit him, and he became suspicious. The hair on his neck rose, and slowly he peeled back the tent entrance to peek outside.
His heart skipped. Everyone was lying on the ground near the stream. Dr. Cheney and Marx were breathing heavily, but they couldn’t speak or yell for help. Dr. Fischer ran over to the men; Cheney just kept pointing to the stream and holding his chest with a look of desperation. Finally Glen understood. This healing water was no cure at all. It was death. The mysterious element they had found earlier must have been such that, when combined with water, would form an airborne poison! It was too late to run; Glen had already breathed in too much air. Suddenly, he began to sweat. “Why couldn’t I figure this out earlier?” he asked himself.
His head began to throb, and he was no longer able to speak. He wished more than ever that he could take back this whole expedition. Unable to change the past, he looked through his blurred vision at the people he had misled. They were dead because of him. As regret filled his mind, he slowly grew weak and short of breath. Dropping to the ground, he looked over at the seemingly innocent stream, and, closing his eyes, he breathed his last breath.