Page 19 of Factory Controller

“Then let’s take a load off.”

We trudge up a short incline to the clearing. Heather goes to seat herself on the log, and I cry out in alarm.

“Wait!” I rush over and gently, but firmly shove her away. “Let me check for ants.”

“Ants?” she sighs. “I could see checking for snakes, or spiders, or that venomous slug you mentioned, but…ants? I won’t let a few ants ruin my picnic.”

I snort, drawing my survival knife. I stab it down into the line of jet black insects running along the rough bark of the log. When I lift my knife away, one of the creatures squirms its legs in the air, thorax impaled on the blade.

“This is a bullet ant,” I say, holding the squirming bug in front of her face. “Would you like to know how it got its name?”

“Ah…” Heather swallows hard. “Because it’s the size of a bullet?”’

“No, because when they sting it feels like being shot.” I flicked the bugger off into the underbrush. “So, maybe I’m not so stupid for being worried about ants.”

The log is a no-go, but there’s a flat boulder we can seat ourselves on. It sits in a patch of sunlight, and we startle a little lizard sunning itself on the rock.

“See, not all of the wildlife is bad or out to kill you.” I hand her a silver-wrapped energy bar. “All I’ve got are peanut butter and chocolate.”

“I don’t care.” Heather shreds the wrapper off and snaps off a bite of the granola bar. I consider her as she eagerly sates her hunger. Her story about the Factory sounded like complete bullshit. Who sends an accountant to the Amazon rainforest? Doesn’t make any sense.

Yet I don’t think she’s working to screw me over. If she is, she’s a hell of an actress. Mighty easy on the eyes too…

What am I thinking?

I don’t want to get attached.

That’s not my thing.

I just need to get this troublesome woman out of the forest and out of my life for good.

A distant rumble reaches my ears. I groan in alarm and peer up through the break in the canopy at the thick clouds boiling in over the foothills.

“It’s going to rain,” I say, standing up swiftly. “Hard. Come on, we need to find shelter.”

Heather offers no argument. We rush along the trail as my eyes scan for an appropriate place to shelter. I see a towering lupuna tree and know that if we get near its trunk the worst of the rain will not find us.

“Come on,” I say, tugging her by the hand. The skies open up when we’re a dozen paces from the sheltering branches of the tree I picked for our shelter. Even those few seconds it takes to cross the gap leaves us pretty soaked.

“Hopefully the rain will pass soon.”

Heather nods, staring out at the torrential downpour with wonder. She may never have seen rain this hard before. I find myself admiring her form a great deal. My eyes drop from her lovely eyes, to her graceful neck…

She’s incredible. Heather could be a model or a movie star, no question. I know I shouldn’t stare, but I can’t tear my gaze away.

I feel a tingle in the back of my neck and am compelled to lift my gaze to her face. When I do, I find Heather staring right at me.

I’ve been caught.

HEATHER

The constant hiss of the rain creates an oasis of sound beneath the sheltering boughs of the tree. A lupuna tree, Trent said. I can almost believe he and I are the only people in the entire world, Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden.

Nothing could be more primal, more profound, than the look in Trent’s eyes when he stared at me with open desire. His goofiness fled before a stone-armed savage who thought, in that moment, only of the conquest of flesh. My flesh.

Trent looks away quickly, sharpening his knife in lieu of having to make conversation. I can’t help but think of his knife as a phallic symbol. He’s going to pretend like I didn’t catch him staring at my body with open lust. I guess I can deal with that. Part of me is even relieved. It would make for an awkward journey if we spoke of it out loud.

The rain lets up mercifully soon, allowing us to continue on toward the village. I find myself thinking of the last relationship I’d had to pass the time. Rick Whitman. A.K.A. Rick-the-Prick.

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