Russo, Richard Paul - Butterflies

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RICHARD PAUL RUSSO

BUTTERFLIES

THE HEAT WAS KILLING HIM. There was the chatter of monkeys, buzz of flies; a

long sharp caw. Water flowed somewhere nearby, falling over stones. Mason

stumbled out of the trees and into a clearing. A cloud of blue and white

butterflies rose from the moss at his feet, fluttering about his face,

momentarily blinding him. When the butterflies cleared away, he saw a hut on the

other side of the clearing. Mason was certain the hut hadn't been there a moment

ago.

He crossed the clearing, squinting against the glare and the heat of the sun.

Dead vines hung from the roof of the hut, trailed across the open doorway and

the single window. Mason climbed the two steps and pushed through the vines. The

hut was empty, and even hotter than outside.

Mason came back out of the hut. It was late afternoon, he was exhausted and

thirsty, and he wondered if he should search for the water he heard. Chances

were good it would be gone by the time he reached it, or it would turn out to be

something completely useless that just sounded like flowing water. Mason shook

his head, deciding no. He was too tired for that.

He moved around the hut to the side shaded from the sun and lay on the soft

carpet of thick, green moss, his back against the hut wall. The noise around him

steadily increased -- birds shrieked, animals snorted, insects cracked and

whirred. Something like the beat of drums vibrated up to him through the moss.

Mason closed his eyes and slept.

He did not know where he was, and only barely knew who he was. If he was still

on Earth, it was a part of Earth unlike any he had ever known or heard of--a

place where, it seemed, physical laws were regularly defied. He knew his name,

but almost nothing else about himself. His past was gone.

He did not know how to get it back.

When he woke it was morning. Mason lay on his back and gazed up at the sky above

him. A thick, orange haze obscured all signs of the sun; or perhaps the sun was

not yet high enough to be seen. The heat was already stifling. The sound of

flowing water was louder now, and his thirst had become painful.

He heard the crackling static of a radio. He glanced up at the roof, saw a long

thin antenna projecting from the peak. Now this is interesting, he thought. He

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struggled to his feet and walked into the hut.

A large radio set rested on a wooden table next to the Window. The static

emerged from a set of headphones lying beside the radio. A single chair stood in

front of the table.

Mason sat at the table and studied the radio. The controls were simple, though

unmarked -- ancient round analog knobs and dials. He found the volume, turned it

down, put the headset over his ears, then slowly brought the volume back up.

Nothing but static. He moved a hand to the tuning dial and turned it.

Music faded in, faint, then faded out immediately. Mason fiddled with the dial,

trying to bring in the station. He caught it for a few moments -- a Latin beat,

guitars and mandolins and percussion, a hint of a voice singing in Spanish.

Something vaguely familiar about it, for a moment he almost thought he

understood the Spanish words. Something about flowers? Then it dissolved into a

squealing burst of static. Mason tried to tune it back in, but couldn't find it

again. He continued up the frequencies.

He found nothing else except a few tiny gaps of real silence amidst the static.

He switched bands, though he had no idea which bands he was switching to or

from.

A voice. Crackle of static, then another voice. He feathered the dial, turned up

the volume. He was picking up a conversation, two people radioing to each other.

Then it came through loud and clear.

"...your position now?"

"Hell, I don't know. We're in the middle of a goddamn swamp. Hold on a minute."

Static. "Dingo says we're in Foxtrot Abel, four-oh-three dash three niner."

"Fine, just fine, Torelli. You're headed right for him."

A flutter went through Mason's stomach, rose to push against his heart. He knew,

somehow, that they were trying to find him. Whoever they were.

"Roger that and out, Sorcerer."

The static returned. Mason took a stone and scratched a mark on the frequency

display. He would have to keep track of their progress. And when they closed in

on him, then what?

He had no idea.

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