Great Divide

Through The Trees Part I

Copyright © 2017

This story, "Great Divide", is copyrighted under the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. This includes all chapters, epilogues/prologues and associated content. Any unauthorized copying, broadcasting, manipulation, distribution or selling of this work constitutes an infringement of copyright. Any infringement of this copyright is punishable by law.

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Jessa

I was stationed in what the UF calls, Station 2 - District 8. It was once known as Belem - the largest populated city in Brazil over 20 years ago. There are a number of multicultural refugee camps, known simply as Free Haven's - doting their way across the massive stretch of the city. 

The UF received a transmission around 2 weeks ago that the local chapter confirmed a ball of fire falling from the sky on the night of the first Blood Moon of the year. Christians and other crackpots thumped their bibles and put several camps into a panic mode. UF dispatched a team of former FEMA emergency management personnel to handle the would be crisis. 

Then they dispatched me to investigate, track and destroy any threats. 

While you may be curious as to why they would send a young woman out to the untamed rain forest, alone and possibly under equipped given the findings, to neutralize threats...wellll that's just what I am wondering myself.

They claim that I am good, the second best in my class, top 5 among my peers. Dead eye shot, cold eyes and a poker face will get you very far in this line of work. But I am not cold, am not soulless or heartless in the least. I've been extremely good at hiding since I was a little girl. Hiding what I am thinking, and not displaying it on my face is a cake walk. 

In reality I think that they want a guinea pig. They want to show that they are putting women on the front lines, sending them out alone to prove that we are not inferior and can do more than hide behind our male counterparts. 

My current situation seems as if it couldn't get any worse - I'm stuck in a foreign land, dressed to the nines in my best gear, arguing with a derelict man about guiding me out to the crash site of the mysterious fireball.

The locals are scared, superstitious bastards who act as if they had no clue I was coming at all. Convenient.

Even though there are plenty of white Americans milling around, there is a general fascination with my orange flame hair that tumbles out of my braid.  One man reaches to touch a freckle on my face, then gets distracted once he realizes they cover my wrists and forearms as well. It would seem as if I am the alien race that has landed in the Free Haven. 

"I need to get to the crash site, even if you get me close enough to the edge of the forest, sir."

He shakes his head and begins to speak in rapid Portuguese again. How frustrating. And convenient.. I sidestep another handsy youngster and try to look less threatening in my approach. 

Shifting foot to foot, I try my newest tactic. I rub my thumb and pointer finger together in the elderly man's face. "You want credits? I can get you a shipment of food, even fruits, dropped within a matter of days. But you have to take me to the edge of the forest."

He has started speaking again, raising his voice when he realizes that I am offering a form of currency now, a gold piece. Its a pocket watch that I found on a search and rescue mission last month. He goes to snatch it from me, but I hold my arm above our heads. 

"You have to take me to the edge of the forest, near the river. Do you understand?" I point the watch in the general direction out of town. I get a vehement nod in response. Money talks, bullshit walks. 

Chatty Cathy goes to take the watch again and my anger rises. "Hey Pal! You have to take me first. You don't pay for services before they're rendered." He flinches at my tone but seems to understand what I am trying to get it and bustles me to a small wagon being held up by a pitiful looking mule. Or rather the wagon seems to be holding the skinny mule up...

He means for me to get into the wagon. There are hay bales and straw in one corner so I stow my bags there and climb aboard after setting my back to one side so that I can see the driver and the trail that we will leave behind.

The wagon tips slightly as he climbs up the buckboard and snatches the reigns from his posting stations. 

"Mova o seu rabo!" The harsh command and a grunt from the mule, or maybe the driver, spurs our ride forward. I eye the people we pass, staring them down, condemning their faces to my memory. There are scared faces, ones with curious expressions and some down right hateful. They don't like the UF interfering, but don't want to handle any possible hostile situations themselves.

I decide to set my gear up on the drive and check in. Using my radio pad, I call in my location and destination and after a snubbed response, command central asshole has been updated. I log my information into my transmitter and scowl at the face of the device when I realize that my battery is low. Shit, I forgot to charge the fuckin' thing.

I am usually not this careless however since I have already updated my location into the GPS system, I turn it off. Knowing that they will not use the locator until they go without hearing from me after 3 days and their 72 hour rule passes.

The rest of the bumpy ride consists of a morbid tune from the driver while I put my primary rifle together. The AR build is a hodge podge of spare parts, but the entire upper receiver and barrel are a Colt make I scavenged from some refugees in a smelly swamp in Louisiana. The M4 Socom models are hard to find and worth a few credits - but I value my weaponry more than currency. 

I check both pistols and load all of my magazines before tucking them into my leg rig and tac vest.

This is a preparedness that I feel in my bones.

 Knives in holsters, a tanto at my hip and a pair of brass knuckles complete my ensemble. Weapons are a girls' best friend, don't ya know?

Determining to leave my snipe mag loaded but the rifle broken down in my soft case is a internal battle. It takes me less than 60 seconds to get it set up, but I want to be ready. But, I also don't have the free hands to tote it plus my Colt. 

I've been eyeing my surroundings, alert and sensitive to the fact that the driver stopped his humming and that the ride is slowing down more than usual. When I tilt my head to the right, I see the expanse of the entrance to the jungle.

Cathy, my driver, is silent as I unload myself and strap the bag to my back, snapping it into place on my tac vest. He snatches the pocket watch from my outstretched hands and mutters something horrible sounding in his native tongue.

"Nem Deus pode ajudá-lo ." 

I stroll backwards into the forest and give him a two finger salute. "Don't wait up, chicken shit."

He can barely get the mule turned around quick enough, I'm already scanning the dense forest before me when I realize that the forest still seems to be teeming with life. Which is a good sign. 

Bugs are already nipping at my exposed cheeks so I dig in a pocket for a nearly empty can of a homemade rubbing alcohol mixture, and lather myself down before tugging my face mask up. I can't run the risk of being scented by my target, but I can't run the risk of catching malaria in a shit hole with little to no medical facilities. 

I wish that I could say I am excited, hell, maybe even scared. But the sad reality is that I feel nothing at all when I cross the line into Hell.

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