Die Again Tomorrow Read Online Free PDF Page A

Snakes, vermin, insects, and birds thrived in such quantity that it was enough to make Manhattan look sparse. The constant buzzing and hissing, plus the smothering humidity at 97 degrees, forced her into high alert against predators and heatstroke. Hydration was key: you could survive only three days without water.
    Yet even with all the rain, uncontaminated water was nearly impossible to come by. Plan A was to find some bromeliad plants—a relative of the pineapple, its broad waxy leaves could act like a bowl for catching rainwater. Yet her luck ran dry, as it were. Instead of bromeliads, she came across benign-looking heart-shaped leaves that she recognized as the deadly curare, a plant used by natives to poison arrow tips. Giving it a wide berth, she stumbled onto a small pool of clear standing water—so delectably temping—but likely chock full of parasites. She knew she had to boil it, but all all the potential kindling she could gather was slick with moisture, so fire wouldn’t take.
    While looking for dry twigs, she kept her eyes peeled for food sources like berries, recalling a mnemonic from her days in Girl Scouts: White and yellow, kill a fellow. Purple and blue, good for you. Red . . . could be good, could be dead. At least back then she’d had a troop and a leader to guide her. Even on her most difficult survivalist adventures, working as a white-water rafting guide during the summers, she’d never really been alone. Once, while leading a group of six tourists on the Middle Fork of the Salmon River in Idaho, she and her charges had gotten stranded after a jagged underwater rock tore apart their raft. While they waited three days for help to reach them in the dense woods, she launched into cool survival mode—collecting water from the dew on plant leaves, foraging for pine nuts and cattail stalks, using one man’s glasses to start a fire. Once they were finally rescued by helicopter, the story of her heroism landed her several local prime-time television interviews, both in Idaho and back home in Florida. It was through one of those charismatic appearances that the producers of Wild Woman noticed her and invited her to a casting call. And now, quite astonishingly since she’d never aspired to fortune or stardom, she had her very own television show.
    Back in the Amazon, with the camera crew watching her every failed attempt to find a suitable drinking source, she felt increasingly distressed for reasons they would never know. The producers wanted to intervene after her second dehydrated day, but she refused. It was the last episode of the season, and so far, she hadn’t required any assistance. She was determined not to spoil her pristine record, as though doing so would constitute a betrayal of her promise to the viewers—that she was “alone in the wild.” After what her ex-fiancé put her through, she was extremely conscious of betrayals. So: not a drop. It was maddening to watch the camera guys tipping back canteens, but it was also galvanizing.
    Deep down, though, she knew her motivation had nothing to do with the viewers or her bastard ex. It was about trying to prove to herself that she really was the independent survivalist she played on TV, and not the helpless girl who had failed her father so horribly at the end of his life that she stumbled around shrink-wrapped in guilt.
    But her determination to survive on her own in the rainforest proved futile. After three days, her dehydration grew severe enough for producers to call off the shoot and fly her to the nearest hospital in a remote village. There she spent six hours hooked up to an IV with fluids, berating herself for failing, until a doctor who spoke no English pronounced her “ volta ao normal. ” Finally she could go back and finish the job. She hoped the producers would edit out the past few days like they’d never happened; if only they could do the same with the past year.
    But