Chapter IV

Kwame swore that the rain was coming from every direction at once.

The few hesitant drops had awakened the six before sunrise. Linka had volunteered to pack up the campsite as the rest had huddled under a tree and scarfed down granola bars for breakfast. It was becoming a routine – wherever Wheeler was, Linka went the opposite way, and vice versa. They were two like magnetic poles that kept pushing away from one another. It would become a real issue soon, thought Kwame. Teamwork was the cornerstone of their world-saving efforts.

Right now, the pelting rain was blurring his vision as he kept close to Mfuto, who was, thankfully, very certain of the right direction. He led them along the winding river, deeper and deeper into the jungle. Finally, the rain began to trail off and the wall of white water broke to reveal the opulent greenery of the African landscape.

Mfuto walked towards a small clearing surrounded by trees. "We shall rest here a minute," he said. "It is not much farther. Maybe a kilometer down the river."

Wheeler did some quick math. "Like a half mile?" he frowned. "Is that right?"

"About that," answered Gi. "God, why didn't you guys ever go with the metric system? Why base things on the measurement of some dead king's foot? I thought you were supposed to be on the cutting edge of things."

"We are," responded Wheeler. "Who else but the Americans could have come up with a Triple Whopper? We put beef on top of beef on top of beef, covered it with cheese, and put it on a bun. How's that for ingenuity?' He clutched his stomach. "Man, I'm hungry."

Ma-Ti rummaged through his knapsack. "I think we still have a few granola bars left." He counted them and looked up. "Oh, Linka. You never had yours this morning. Do you want it now?"

Linka was perched on a rock, ringing out her soaked blond hair. "Nyet, Ma-Ti. I am not hungry. Maybe later."

"Alright," he said, turning back to the bag. Wheeler reached over his shoulder and pulled out one of the bars. As he ate, he stole quick glances at Linka, who seemed exceptionally concerned with finding split ends in her hair. The drive he felt to apologize was strong and several times he held himself back from doing so. It always seemed like it was his responsibility to apologize, even when he didn't think he'd done anything wrong. She never wanted to admit to being wrong. He didn't know why he kept allowing her to get away with it.

Linka was smart. Crazy smart. And that was what bugged him the most. You'd think with all those brains in there that she wouldn't act like a six-year-old when she doesn't get her way. But here they were – not speaking to each other after twelve hours. He wanted to put an end to it, but there was something different in this fight. There had been such certainty in her voice as she pushed him away. Whatever was between them seemed…

Broken, Linka decided, blowing a few split ends into the breeze. These kinds of adventures had always been hell on her hair. Maybe she should go Gi's route, she thought. Get it all cut short. But she loved her long hair, she loved the look she got from Wheeler when she…

She blinked. Eto tvoya problyema, she told herself. There was her problem. Caring so much about what he thought of her. The urge to impress him, to make him proud of her – these impulses were simply not part of her nature. Or at least, she resolved, they should not be.

No matter how many times she had pushed him away, he had always come back. There was something comforting in that; it was consistency in their world of chaos. But her burden sat heavily upon her back. How could she be the beautiful, desirable girlfriend that part of her wanted to be while remaining the independent, asexual intellectual that the other part of her demanded? Ochyen' trudno. It was so hard.

So, better this way, she decided. No more tears. The resolve she felt made her sit up a little taller. They could be friends now. No pressure. No sexual tension. Better this way.

Mfuto stood up from his conversation with Gi, Ma-Ti, and Kwame. "Come, friends," he said, "it is time to move on."

Wheeler and Linka caught each other's eyes before joining the group. They were ready.

The smell of the camp was apparent before it was physically in sight. The deep, warm smell of rotting flesh crept in like thousands of squirming insects. They had been to dumps before, wading waist-deep through refuse for some reason or another. And the smell had always been the worst part of it. But this camp was different. The smell was organic.

The smell of dead things.

"We have certainly come to the right place," Linka observed softly. As they approached, the ground beneath them grew more and more slick. The dirt had been pressed in by the passing of many vehicles and the coating of fluids on the soil had not been washed away in the rain storm. There was blood and plenty of other waste. It was obvious that Plunder was not supplying the children with sanitary health conditions.

"This is as far as we should go," said Kwame. "Everyone, take out your cameras. Make sure to document everything you photograph. We need irrefutable evidence of Plunder's operation."

"We need records of health violations, child safety violations, international treaty violations," Gi listed. She shook her head. "The UN will have a field day with this place."

Wheeler walked around the corner and began clicking away with his camera phone.

Click

One shot of lion carcasses, their amber eyes caught looking up in a last minute display of ferocity against their attackers.

Click

One shot of raw sewage from the camp, running haphazardly through a leaky pipe into the river. Oh, man, he thought, and I was in that water. He reminded himself to take a very long, very hot shower when they got back to civilization.

Click

One shot of two little children, maybe ten-year-olds, carrying a huge lion pelt on their bony shoulders. Their eyes, he thought, looked a lot like the lion's. Dead inside.

He sighed and wondered for a brief but lucid moment of existentialism what was the point of any of this. What was the point in existence if 10-year-old Sudanese children were forced to carry lion pelts for some acquisitive asshole.

"Hi!"

The small voice behind him made him jump and drop his camera phone. He turned around quickly and looked into the face of a young girl. Her dark, haunted eyes looked up at him with a mixture of excitement and wariness.

"Hi," he replied, bending down to pick up his phone. "Uh, what's your name?"

The little girl looked down shyly. "Ashra."

Wheeler smiled at her. "Well, hey, Ashra. My name's Wheeler."

Ashra giggled. "That's a funny name."

"It's not a funny name!" Wheeler responded in mock indignation. "It's a nickname and I like it a lot. I think Ashra's a funny name too."

"Is not!"

"Is too!" The sound of angry voices arose nearby and Wheeler pulled Ashra towards his cover in the brush. "Ashra, do you work here? Does Mr. Plunder make you work here?"

The girl nodded. She looked down at her hands. Wheeler gently turned her palms towards him and was taken aback by the blisters and sores. Ashra quickly grew uncomfortable and hid her hands behind her back.

"It's OK," promised Wheeler. "My friends and I are here to help you. We are trying to make Mr. Plunder stop hurting you. Will you be able to help us?"

She looked anxiously toward the camp. "I will get in trouble and then we will get no bread. I made trouble before and we got no bread. I was sad because Kiani and Shanta are little and very hungry and I made them get no bread!" Her chin was quivering and Wheeler knelt down to take her in his arms.

"It'll be OK," he told the sobbing girl as he gently hugged her tiny form. She felt very thin. She could be dead in a matter of months.

No, he thought decisively. No, I will not let this kid die. This world may be messed up, but we can still choose to not just bend over and take it.

"Come on," he said, taking her hand, "let's go find my friends.