“Artificial respiration,” Arden panted, as they struggled on. “Get him… to boat… artificial respiration.”

This was mainly for Theo’s benefit, if he could still hear them. As they all knew, if artificial respiration could be applied until the effects of the toxin receded, the victim could recover, and Arden wanted him to know they hadn’t forgotten.

“Right,” Frank said brightly. “We’ll take… turns. All… have dinner in Iquitos… tonight.” But his eyes were rolling back in his head and he had begun to stagger with Theo’s weight. He was more delicately built than Arden, and he was clearly in agony, at the very end of his rope.

As was the stronger Arden. His lower back shrieked with pain, and every breath drove shards of glass into his lungs. His legs were beyond pain; he was no longer running, only driving each leg one excruciating, slogging step at a time. How many more could he force them to take? And were they really getting any closer to the boat, or were they going deeper into Chayacuro country?

Again, seemingly from a few hundred feet behind them, came a casual, softly spoken syllable or two of the Chayacuro language.

Frank slowed, struggling for air. “Can’t… carry… anymore!” he groaned. “Got to… put him down.”

Arden wouldn’t have been able to haul Theo much farther either, and it was with mixed guilt and relief that he slipped out from under Theo’s arm and helped Frank lay him gently on the mossy ground.

Frank crouched beside the supine, inert body and looked up at Arden. “We have to hide him. We can’t let them…” He couldn’t bring himself to say it. “You take his legs. I’ll take-”

“Are you out of your mind?” Arden cried in a hoarse whisper. “They’re right behind us. Do you want us all to die?” He was tugging at Frank as he spoke. “Come on!”