Blood of Demons

This story was written as an entry in the 2013 NYCMidnight Flash Fiction Contest. I had 2 days to write a <1,000 word story with the following prompts:

Genre = Mystery // Location = Airplane // Object = DVD

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The little red recording dot flashed in the corner of Tom’s video camera as Nigel Dennison, the self-proclaimed “intrepid and daring” explorer, proudly conquered leaves with his machete. The only sounds besides the distant shrieks of birds and monkeys were Nigel’s excessive grunts with each chop. 

“Cut!” Nigel shouted suddenly.

Tom stopped recording. “What now?”

Nigel took a swig from his flask of rum. “Bug spray. Pronto.”

“I haven’t felt a single mosquito yet.”

Nigel snorted and snatched the bottle of repellant from Tom. “That’s because I’m the one doing all the work.”

“Well it is your show…” Tom whispered as he readjusted his 20-pound backpack. They were filming the fifth installment of Nigel’s acclaimed Mystical Explorer DVD Documentary Collection.

“It is my show, but it’s going to make both of us rich!” Nigel retorted. “This could be the one. For the first time, this mystical nonsense may have real scientific backing. These Kuyujara tribesmen have stumbled upon something that makes them live much longer than they should.”

“I’m not sure I like the idea of stealing from these people.” Usually they filmed fanatical ghost hunters and would-be witches. “But the Kuyujara—all this is their livelihood.” Tom recalled the years he spent volunteering to aid the bushman tribes in Africa. These Amazonian groups were in even more danger of human industrialization and corruption.

Before Nigel could respond, nearby leaves rustled and a dark, slender native appeared before them. He was dressed only in a straw skirt and crack-like scars littered his body. He held a long spear in one hand, but smiled. The native spoke slowly, “Welcome, white man. To Amazon.” Tom swore he rolled his eyes as he turned away.

Nigel wheezed in excitement. “You got that on film, right? Tell me you got that!” He looked back at Tom, then frowned. “Turn that camera back on, you oaf!”

“Come,” the native said and disappeared into the thick underbrush.

“Just keep the camera rolling, Tom! And for God’s sake make sure you get me in the shot. It’s all about the presentation!”

“You said you were friends with these people?”

“I am. I met Téo here in a bar in Santarém last week. Of course, I did have four or five caipirinhas before that.”

“Great, so you were drunk..?”

“Stop worrying, Tommy-boy! He invited me to visit their village. Clearly my reputation precedes me even out here!” Nigel bellowed a full-bellied laugh and followed his friend.

Tom wandered along behind them reluctantly. Not long after, they stopped and Téo pulled back a curtain of foliage. In the clearing ahead, a circle of maloca huts surrounded a central fire pit, but Téo ignored his village and pointed beyond it. There, past the huts, so disguised by the forest that it almost belonged, lay a crashed airplane. Hidden beneath tree trunks and vines, Tom might never have noticed it without Téo’s help. Even Nigel was speechless.

The three of them walked straight through the village with Nigel chirping greetings to the natives. A cold shiver trickled down Tom’s spine as each one avoided eye contact and turned away. It was as if they were being shunned. On their turned backs he observed the same cracked scars as those that covered Téo, like dried desert mud.

Once they were closer, Tom got a better look at the plane. It was probably World War II era, all metal plating with a missing wing and broken windows. He searched for any sort of insignia, but it must have faded long ago. Téo motioned for them to follow him into the rear cargo hold.

Inside the plane, strange gourds and bones hung from loosened bolts. Jars of all shapes and sizes held insects, liquids, or plants inside. Tom made sure to get a close-up shot of each. Sitting upon a log in the center of the fuselage was an elderly native woman clad in elaborate dyed animal skins with a dress of blue, red, and gold feathers that stretched to her feet. Shorter feathers crowned her head, while some dangled down near the sharp bone that protruded from each side of her chin. Her solemn face carried those same cracked scars.

“This must be their leader, the witch doctor!” Nigel whispered into the camera with a goofy grin even wider than the woman’s bone piercing.

She stood up and held out her hands to Nigel. He glanced apprehensively at Téo who simply nodded. Nigel placed his hands upon the woman’s and she closed her eyes. A few seconds later she let go and gathered some supplies from her jars, placing them in a large bowl and mixing them together.

Téo sat Nigel down on a crate. He pointed to the woman and smiled. “Make demons leave. Long live. Happy live.”

Tom shifted his feet nervously.

“Must be a cleansing ceremony of sorts!” Nigel cheered. “This is what we came for!”

“Are you sure about this?” Tom asked.

“It’ll be fine.”

The woman hobbled over with a wooden spoon of dark viscous liquid. She chanted a few inaudible words in her native tongue and held the elixir to Nigel’s lips.

Tom zoomed the camera in so he could see just Nigel’s face, the spoon, and the old woman’s face. Nigel winked and swallowed the liquid.

For a moment everything seemed fine. Then Nigel convulsed and foam formed at his lips. Téo held him down as his limbs thrashed. Nigel’s insides seemed to boil like a pot of scalding water and small cracks formed, fragmenting his white skin. A hazy red mist rose from the cracks. Tom looked to the ceiling and watched the little specks of blood join the dim red stain that was already there. By the time he looked back down it was over. Nigel’s scarred arms lay limp and his lifeless eyes rolled back in his head.

“Bad blood. Too many demons.” Téo said. He stood up with a frown and wiped crimson droplets from his face. “Now you?”

Tom stopped recording and closed his eyes. “Good blood,” he prayed. “Good blood…”

(c) Kade Kessler 2013

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