Her name was Dr. Jennifer S. Plimpton. At least, it had been, before the charter plane’s engine had coughed, sputtered, and died over the heart of the uncharted Congo basin.
The crash had been violent. The fuselage had torn open like a tin can, and she’d been flung clear. Her seatbelt had saved her life but had apparently sacrificed her clothing to the hungry jungle gods. She was left in a pair of sturdy, albeit shredded, canvas hiking shorts, and a beige, utilitarian bra that had seen better days—and fewer branches. Her sturdy boots were still laced, which was a minor miracle. Her pith helmet, a ridiculous affectation her ex-husband had bought her, lay a few feet away, slightly crushed.
The battle was over in less than two minutes.
Jen saw the fear in their eyes. She also saw the satellite phone, its battery now at one percent, mocking her from her lean-to. Rescue was a fairy tale. But a plan? That was something she could build. Tarzeena- Jiggle in the Jungle
She explained in broken Bantu and emphatic mime. While the Vaziri warriors circled around the poachers’ camp through the eastern ravine, she would approach from the west—the open, marshy clearing they called the “Dancing Floor.” Alone. Unarmed. And profoundly, intentionally jiggly.
Tarzeena. Tarzeena. She who shakes the earth.
They emerged from the ferns like ghosts. Five men, lean and muscled like ancient bronze statues, their skin painted with white clay spirals. They wore loincloths of bark cloth and carried spears tipped with obsidian. Their leader, a man with intelligent, wary eyes and a scar running from his temple to his jaw, stepped forward. Her name was Dr
She sat up, groaning. A cascade of chestnut hair, matted with leaves and what she hoped was mud, fell over her shoulders. She looked down. The jiggle was inevitable. Every minor adjustment, every breath she took, sent a soft, undeniable ripple through her frame. In the silent, predatory world of the jungle, she was a walking seismic event.
The jiggle, it seemed, was a language of its own.
Augustus Finch and his remaining men were bound with their own zip-ties and left for the authorities—a rescue helicopter, finally summoned with the satellite phone’s last gasp of power, arrived three hours later. The leopard, the false Mngwa, was found the next day, tranquilized by a conservation team and airlifted to a sanctuary. At least, it had been, before the charter
Back in Cambridge, she would write a monograph: “Kinetic Distraction as a Non-Lethal Tactical Strategy in Primate-Related Human Conflict.” It would be laughed out of every peer-reviewed journal. But in the jungles of the Congo, they would tell the story for generations.
As the helicopter lifted Jen Plimpton out of the Verduran Depths, she looked down at the Vaziri village. Omari and his people were gathered in a clearing, their hands raised in farewell. She heard their chant, carried on the humid wind, growing fainter and fainter.
“What in the bloody…?” Finch began.
The next morning, the jungle held its breath.