As promised, here is part three. I do think I'm slowing down now (it's after midnight here ), but at least this much of the story should tide everyone over for now (I hope).

Jungle Paradise Part Three
Rated: PG

“Man, when are we ever going to see the river?” Jack asked, collapsing to the ground, panting. “It’s been days, and I’m hot and I’m miserable.”

MacGyver sat near him, also feeling the need to rest. He couldn’t explain why—maybe it was the excessive, stifling heat or the sun blazing down on them—but he was beginning to feel ill. He had tried to remain hydrated, but his head felt sore and his joints ached. As he sat with Jack, he watched him, trying to see if the heat was affecting him, too. Besides the usual reactions such as sweating and his face turning bright red, he couldn’t tell if Jack felt as sick as he did. Trying to ignore the pain that seemed to be slowly creeping up on him insidiously, draining him of energy, he looked around the jungle, glad that they had at least some protection from the canopy of trees overhead. Trees. As he looked around some more, he saw a tree with unusual roots sticking up above ground, coiling and arching.

“I think we may have found the river,” he said. He heard the weakness in his voice, and he hoped Jack didn’t detect it.

“Please tell me you’re not kidding,” Jack said.

“Over there,” MacGyver said, pointing towards the tree. “That’s a Red Mangrove.”

“Well, that’s great, but what’s a botany lesson going to do to help us at this point?”

“Red Mangroves thrive near water, especially in the Amazon. Come on, let’s go take a look.”

When they stood, MacGyver swayed, feeling dizzy. He held his head in his hands.

“Mac, what’s wrong? Are you all right?” Jack asked, preparing to catch him if he fell.

“What?” MacGyver asked, dazed. “Yeah, I’m okay. Let’s keep going.”

He shook off his feelings of nausea and tried to regain his strength, walking steadily and showing Jack that nothing was bothering him. They reached the mangrove, finding several more like it. Spreading beyond their entangled roots lay the wide span and greenish waters of the Amazon River.

“The river! We found it!” Jack said.

“Yeah, now we’ve gotta build a raft sturdy enough to cross it.”

“Well, let’s get to it!”

They worked for several hours, gathering and using the best wood they could find. MacGyver lashed everything together tightly with vines, using the strongest knots and his knife to trim them. Once the raft was wide enough and strong enough, able to withstand their weight and their packs, they pushed it into the river, using makeshift paddles to propel them downstream. By this time, MacGyver began to feel worse. Even though it was hot and muggy, he shivered. His skin tingled with an odd sensation he’d never felt before. Hugging his knees to his chest, he tried to control the sudden coldness surrounding his body, desperately hoping to conceal his movements from Jack. He kept telling himself that he couldn’t fall victim to any sickness now. Jack had screwed up again and gotten them into another disastrous mess, but he wouldn’t fail his friend. He would get them home. Then, maybe when he was well, he’d give Jack a sound beating. Until then, he had to work to stay healthy.

“Ah, isn’t this great?” Jack asked, looking up into the broad leaves overhead, smiling when he noticed a toucan. “We’re like Huck and Tom, or Lewis and Clark, or…”

MacGyver managed to smile slightly. “I know what you mean,” he said.

For the first time, Jack noticed MacGyver’s pallor. He could see the weakness and pain around the edges of his eyes, which had also lost their luster. His breathing seemed intermittently shallow, coming in gasps on occasion, as if he was fatigued.

“MacGyver, are you all right? You’re not looking so hot,” he said.

Feeling defeated now that he had noticed, MacGyver allowed himself to shiver more freely, his body trembling. His head throbbed. The feeling of cold gave way to feeling hot, hotter than he should even in the extreme temperatures, his skin burning, yet he continued to shiver. His stomach churned disgustingly, and another wave of powerful nausea hit him, giving him the urge to vomit, but all he could manage were dry heaves. His body ached severely, the slightest movement causing him pain.

“It’s hot,” he whispered.

Jack moved closer to him. “Do you think you have heat stroke?” He asked.

MacGyver shook his head, which required some effort since his neck was stiff and shifting movements caused more pain to explode in his head. Flecks of light danced before his eyes.

“I don’t know. I think I have a fever. I was just freezing minutes ago.”

Jack grabbed his shaky hand. It was clammy to the touch. “You do feel pretty warm,” he said, watching him with concern. “Maybe you just need to eat and drink something. We’ve been at this for quite some time, and I tell you I’m exhausted myself.”

MacGyver clutched his side and tried to recline on the raft. “Maybe you’re right,” he said. “I probably pushed it too hard. I just need to replenish my energy.”

“Well then,” Jack said, releasing his hand and searching the bags for water and rations. He put on a witty, exaggerated British accent to amuse his sick friend. “Let’s just see what we have in the gourmet selection for tonight, shall we?”

Smiling, he found a ration bar and some water, handing them gently to MacGyver, who attempted to smile back, a lost, dreamy look to his eyes. Jack began to worry that his friend’s condition was more serious than he was willing to tell him.

“There you are, my boy,” he said, continuing his false British accent. “Be sure to eat it all—it’s good for you.”

“Thanks,” MacGyver said, tearing open the package.

By just looking at its grainy texture, he could tell he wouldn’t be able to stomach its contents, but he was still trying to humor Jack, to show him he wasn’t as ill as he looked when in reality he was and was growing worse by the minute. He hated anyone seeing him sick, always had. It wasn’t just the feelings of powerlessness or having to depend on someone else—to him, it felt like a personal failure. He sipped on the water first, and even its mildness upset his stomach. Still, he forced himself to take a bite of the bar, his jaws aching in protest. As he chewed, sour bile filled his mouth. He choked it back and tried to swallow, but he retched anyway, leaning over the side of the raft. When he was finished, his abdomen sore, he rolled back onto the raft, gasping and shuddering, staring blankly up at the sky fragmented by the leaves of the trees. The constant cries and screeches of the abundant life surrounding him seemed magnified, piercing his ears and causing them to ring.

Jack watched him in deep sympathy, feeling helpless and unsure of how to comfort him. He had never seen MacGyver as sick as he was now, and it scared him. He wished he knew of some way to cure him or at least alleviate the symptoms of the mysterious illness he had. Any number of things could have contributed to the way his friend was feeling. The jungle was filled with toxins, parasites, and other diseases. Even he knew this, despite his tendencies to fantasize and be idealistic. Beneath his exterior, which showed the lovable dreamer and romantic, charming rogue, Jack Dalton knew the harsh realities of life, experiencing them firsthand with his own family. Perhaps that was why he always tried to assume the role of the amiable buffoon, because the alternative was too much for him to bear. As he saw MacGyver now, pale and shivering, he knew he would do anything to take his place and wondered why he hadn’t gotten sick as well. He hoped MacGyver knew how loyal a friend he was, despite his mistakes.

“Look, I know those rations taste awful, but they couldn’t be that bad,” he managed to joke feebly, smiling at MacGyver to reassure him.

MacGyver returned a faint smile. “I’ll be okay,” he said, his voice so quiet that Jack could hardly hear him over the din of squawking tropical birds overhead. “I…have to rest.” He closed his eyes and sighed.

“That’s a good idea Mac,” Jack said. “You rest.”

He watched him as they continued to float down the river. At first, he kept shivering, so Jack used one of the sleeping bags he had brought to cover him. After awhile, MacGyver grew so still and looked so pale that Jack began to worry. He frantically felt for his pulse, relieved to feel it, even though it was weak.

“Don’t you dare scare me like that again Mac,” he said.

He looked around the vast, tangled wilderness of the Amazon, never feeling more isolated in his life, especially with MacGyver unconscious and unable to provide him with company. He hoped his friend would feel better the next day. There was always the hope that he had contracted some 24-hour virus, and he would be better by morning. That was the hope he clung to as the jungle grew dark and he faded into his own sleep, allowing the easy drifting of the raft to relax him. MacGyver would be better the next day, he convinced himself. He had to be.

To be continued…