Read Shadowline Drift: A Metaphysical Thriller for Free Online Page B

swallowed the light. Creepers twisted around the trunks, choking the trees that choked the sun from the sky. Unseen birds squawked and screeched. His pulse hammered and Jake heard it like words— Alone, so small . Alone. So small . He’d left his boots behind—they’d felt tight, blisters and chafing waiting to happen—but had taken the kit Mawgis had prepared. He’d tied it around his waist with the same string Mawgis had used, fashioning a surgeon’s knot to secure it, and then knotted the string again.
    Jake ’s mind had churned. Straight north or follow the river’s course? Mawgis had brought him to this spot on purpose—to get him where he needed to go, the man had said. Jake had a pretty good idea that if he followed the water he’d likely come to a settlement. From there, he could get to a city. The sooner he got anywhere with a satellite phone, the better his chances were of stopping Mawgis.
    He ’d walked until the river had bent and the forest had come up, cutting off the little clearing where he’d sat with Mawgis, hiding it completely by the time he’d gone maybe fifty feet further. Now he’d lost the sound of rushing water that had been a touchstone, a way to know he was going in the right direction—some direction, not in circles.
    He slowed his steps and then stopped, his gaze darting around, seeing the same thing everywhere he looked—trees with thick air roots hanging from their branches like dangling nooses. Underbrush, low and spiky, with tiny, wrinkled brown leaves. Thick growths of ferns, solid as walls. He thought maybe he should turn back, retrace his steps, try to find the Tabna village. The Brits and Joaquin were there. He’d be safe with them. But that was useless, and Jake knew it. He was already far too lost to find his way back. Forward, whatever lay ahead, was his only choice.
    Underbrush tore at his clothes and skin. The sun climbed higher in the sky. He felt its heat, the passing hours marked in tiring muscles and rising air temperature. Sweat rolled down his brow, dribbling into his eyes, making them sting. He dragged his hand across his face. It came away streaked with dirt.
    The trees broke and he found the river again , the sound of the current like a friend, a guide, and it wouldn’t be long now, he hoped, before the river would surely lead him to a village. He followed a broken path that wormed along the bank. The spongy ground pulled at his bare feet as though it were alive. Bits of rotting leaves and fruit clung to his ankles. Land mines of sharp twigs and hard seeds battered his soles.
    The air was sultry, thick with dust and leaf mold. His skin itched and his lungs ached from breathing air so wet it was like inhaling dirty water. A haze of insects, each no bigger than a fleck of pepper, wheeled around his head and dove at his eyes. Mosquitoes buzzed past. Carapanás . Foot longs. A whine like a jet engine in his ears. Mosquitoes carry malaria, he’d been warned before he’d left the States, and biting flies can leave eggs and microscopic worms beneath your skin that can cause blindness. Jake slapped at the bugs, driving them off or smashing them on his face and arms. Red stains bloomed like bloody roses.
    It was hard to stop walking now—as if stopping even for a moment was giving up—but he knew he needed to. His fingers fumbled at the knots he’d carefully tied in the string around his waist, undoing them. He dropped the pouch onto the dirt. Crouching, he untied the knot that held the fabric closed. The can of insect repellent rolled away on the uneven ground. He clamped his hand on top to stop the roll, lifted the can, and shook it. Nearly empty. He sprayed his arms and legs, repacked the pouch and retied the string, and walked.
    And seemed to make no progress, to pass the same tree, the same creepers and climbers, to throw his arms over his eyes and push through the same column of whirling insects time and again. The only certainty was time passing, marked