Jungle Justice

Jungle Justice
                                                    A short story by REI Franklin October 2009


It was dark in the alley behind the bar down by the river landing, the tropical night was hot and the still air heavy with fowl smells. Crouched next to a waist high, rat infested pile of garbage a man in a bright red and white shirt waited in silence. A long pointy knife at the ready in a bony hand and a short but sturdy piece of driftwood in the other were usually scary enough to convince a half drunken sailor to part with whatever it was he carried. 
Santos, an experienced bush pilot, staggered into the alley to relieve himself, barely conscious of where he was and too drunk to care he stopped beside the garbage pile. Fumbling with his pants zipper he didn’t notice the bandit approaching him from behind. His new clothes and expensive watch had caught the eyes of the local bottom feeders. With his knife raised the bad guy was almost upon Santos when a loud blast stopped him. The thug turned around and saw a burly man standing close by with a double barreled shotgun, one of the 10 gauge barrels smoking but held upright. Desperation tricked his mind into thinking he could overpower the gunman so he lunged with his weapons and was closing in when a second blast; this time with the barrels level, exploded in his face.
Santos tripped as he turned to face the commotion and lay passed out in the garbage, bleeding from a stray shot that had hit him in the shoulder. The burly man looked around to see if anyone had entered the alley; they were still alone. The music in the bar was loud and noise from the fights on the inside had helped mask the tragedy that had taken place outside. Bob, or Rude Bob, as the burly man was known, checked the bleeding pilot and saw that the wound was not serious. He checked the thug making sure there was no pulse then proceeded to cover the body with as much trash as he could. Swinging the unconscious Santos over his shoulder he headed down to the water where his boat was tied to one of the wooden dock piles.
This was a rough town on the south bank of the Amazon River where muggings and other crime related violence was common but it was too close to the state capital Manaus for the authorities to tolerate wanton killings. The life of a man had been taken and justice would have to be done. They must leave now and let things calm down for a month or two before returning. When the body was discovered the shot riddled face would tell the law how he had died.  Bob was happy he’d loaded his supplies and fuel earlier that afternoon. Untied, the boat quickly drifted upstream with the counter current; some help with the paddle and they were soon out of earshot. After a few pulls on the starter cord the old outboard roared to life; they were on their way to camp.
In the jungle, justice sometimes takes an unexpected path to fulfillment. This thug had ended the lives of many innocent people and until tonight no human eyes had witnessed his evil deeds. Bob had heard about the back alley robber and how he never left anyone alive, how sometimes he would prey on young native girls kidnapping them and selling them off to big city clients into a life of misery. He was still hurting from the loss of a dear friend whose murdered body had been found in this same ally not three weeks ago and although he wasn’t actually hunting the man he couldn’t help but to be glad he’d found him at the perfect moment.
  On the river the night air was cool and damp. The pre-dawn fog thickened making the naturally hazardous trip almost impossible and Bob decided to put in until the fog lifted. They were still very close to the landing but if the boat capsized chances of survival in this caiman infested water were almost zero. Extreme caution was the least that was required to navigate the swirling eddies; keen eyesight and an understanding ear were paramount. If you can’t see the land you have to listen for it. At this hour the dawn chorus was stirring making those little chirping sounds typical to the jungle and Bob’s years of experience brought them in to safety. He pulled the boat in as far as he was able and tied it to one of the many low hanging, vine covered branches that cloaked the swampy river bank.
Santos had not stirred since he passed out back at the garbage pile. He must have had way too much to drink, very unlike him, or else he’d been drugged, his wound, even though it was only a scratch, had to be taken care of, Bob needed the pilot alive and well for the trip to the high plateau. Taking a bottle of rum from a nearby case he washed the shoulder and wrapped it with a clean T shirt from his bag. Satisfied with the pulse and steady breathing he took a swig from the bottle and leaned back on the tarps that were covering the load humming a little tune he’d learned from the natives.
When the sun came up and heated the air the fog would lift, then they’d continue their trip, meanwhile there was nothing else he could do. The minutes dragged on and the air didn’t clear, insects buzzed around but the jungle was oddly silent this morning; most of the creatures were quiet indicating that something was amiss. Bob’s senses alerted him, he listened. Something big was thrashing in the water not too far away and in this part of the world it is imperative that action be taken swiftly when danger is perceived. Your survival depends on successful evasive action unless you are bigger and stronger than your attacker. He’d already reloaded his old Matador and grabbing it with both hands (it’s a big gun), he carefully checked the surroundings. The thrashing sounds grew louder and drew closer. The boat began to rock a little in the waves that reached it. Still he could see nothing of the source of the upheaval. 
Santos stirred, groaning he tried to get up almost falling into the dark water. He had no idea of where he was or why his head and shoulder hurt so much. He remembered nothing of what happened last night. After receiving the note from a fellow pilot in Manaus he’d come to this little river town to meet with a prospector for a charter trip to some far off mountain. Two days waiting around with nothing to do in a god forsaken place like this was reason enough for a couple of drinks. There was only one bar in town so there he was sitting on a rough stool surrounded by a slew of low life. The regulars exploded in loud guffaws when he asked for scotch and water. The only drink available was something that tasted like jet fuel mixed with gunpowder. After just two shots his head started spinning and he decided to step outside. The rest was blank.
Now wide awake, he sat up carefully and saw that he was in a boat tied off to a branch with a rough looking character holding a huge gun. At least the ruffian was looking the other way and seemed to be totally concentrated on some splashing noise coming from the foggy jungle. Again he tried getting up, very carefully, so as not to alarm the gunman, maybe if he rocked the boat the man would fall into the water and loose the gun; that would level the odds. Before he could carry out his plan the splashing became louder and he caught a glimpse of the largest black caiman he’d ever seen. The boat was already rocking dangerously in the now churning waters. The crocodilian was thrashing and turning as their kind is wont to do when eating their prey.
Bob had recognized the sounds a while ago but had to make sure his boat and passenger were not in danger before turning his attention back to Santos. He almost fell off the boat when he saw the look of terror on Santos’ face. Quickly he calmed the pilot’s fears introduced himself and briefly explained their situation. Now both men watched the caiman in its violent antics to swallow the meal. Suddenly Santos stiffened and grabbing Bob’s arm pointed to the churning water. The beast was eating a human, they could see arms flaying and for a fleeting moment they saw a red and white flash, Bob was certain the body had belonged to the back alley robber. The caiman was setting them free, they could safely return to town.