Throwback

by Edward J. McFadden III

  A drop of sweat formed on his forehead and slowly trickled into his left eye. Was it from his fear or the constant heat and oppressive humidity? There were times when he felt as if he were under water as he breathed in the damp, heavy air with its lower oxygen content than he was used to. He had been in jungles and swamps before but none were like this. What a world he had come to die in.

  The sweat burned his eye but still he made no move, still he did not blink. His concern now was that they would smell the sweat, his fear, find him, kill him, and eat him. Though he realized that was going to happen anyway, if not now then later, he wanted it to be later. Slowly, silently, he dipped his fingers into the dung pouch around his neck and dabbed the sticky material to his forehead. Smell was important here; best to smell like something that had already been eaten than something that was ready to be eaten.

  His mind wandered again, what a fool he had been when he decided to come here. All the other trips had been so successful and rewarding, but he could see now that they were nothing like this trip. He had been blinded by his success, felt he could do anything he wanted, all he had to do was touch the right key and the world was his. But those other worlds he understood - this one he did not. How could you understand a world where all life seemed so menacing, and death waited in the shadows? The fittest survived, and he was not one of them.

  On every other project, he had insisted on in-depth research and he had always led the way. Planning every movement, every detail, so as not to be discovered, to get it right and then get out. This one had been so vast though, so overwhelming that he knew he could not learn all that was needed. He had brought in the experts; he could still see their disbelief turning into wonder and astonishment as he showed them what he had already done. They had joined his team with great enthusiasm. They knew the answers, he was only supposed to take them there and bring them back. It would be easy he had told them and their fears faded away. Soon they would know the answers, there would be no more guessing. It would be their secret. Now they were dead.

  He could save them though, if he kept going to the stream. He thought of John, the first person he had ever told. He had brought in Rachel and Ken, the experts. How they loved the project and could not wait for the big day to arrive. They helped pick the times and site, did all of the research. They knew who else to bring in and everything that was needed. He had simply listened to them and allowed them complete control. He had never failed, he could do anything and nothing could stop him. They wanted the same thing he did, just a chance to visit. They would never tell anyone else because they knew the danger. They had become his friends. Now they were gone, and soon he would join them and no one would ever know what happened.

  That thought brought him quickly out of his brooding and back to his senses. No, he would not, could not, give up. It would work; he just had to keep at the plan. The more he did the better the chances, he had to give himself every opportunity. He brought up more dung on his fingers and wiped it on his face. It also kept the insects away. They had acquired a taste for his blood and some of them were huge but all were tenacious.

  He started to part the large leaves and move to the stream when he heard a quiet splash, too much it sounded like a stealthy footstep in the water. He stopped, trembling slightly as he fought the sudden, almost overwhelming primeval urge to run from the cover back to the shelter of the cave. He could make it, he would be safe there. He battled his thoughts and the emotions that were trying to control him. It was impossible to run to the cave before something caught him. He steadied himself, perhaps it was not a hunter, others drank from the stream, but he could feel the hair standing on the back of his neck, and the night was now ominously still. There was no noise, even the insects were silent. He realized his hand was on the semi-automatic pistol.

  Suddenly, a loud splash and a low grunt a hundred feet to his right was answered by loud roars followed by terrified squeals of fright and then pain. Something had made a mistake, its last. Loud splashing from where he had thought he heard the step in the water told him he had been right not to move. Now others were rushing quickly towards the noise, rushing to join the kill. A loud struggle was taking place and fortunately it was moving further away instead of closer. There were many involved and they were large. Then all was quiet except for the awful noise of the feeding, a sound he had heard too many times and no longer paid any attention to. But, if they were busy eating they would not pay any attention to him.

  Now was the time to move and he slowly pushed the large ferns apart so that he could scan the area. It was still too light to use the night vision so he put it in his pack. Nothing could be seen in the bright moonlight and he knew the sounds of the kill had frightened away anything else that had been around…unless it was bigger and hungrier. He had learned from experience to be careful. There was always something bigger and hungrier it seemed.

  Staying low, he darted from the drooping leaves and quickly covered the distance between the ferns and the shallow stream. He stopped along the bank, still muddy from high water of the recent rain and dropped to his hands and knees. He stayed back from the water, sometimes there were hunters in there also, waiting for the careless. The area was covered with footprints of all the animals, big and small, that drank from the stream. Including the hunters, who visited the stream looking for those who did not pay enough attention while they drank.

  Looking left and right to make sure nothing was moving towards him, he began writing in the mud over and over again. Sometimes large, sometimes smaller, but always the same thing every time, every night:

  STOP ME CHARLES DAWSON STOP ME

  When he first started he had also written PROFESSOR CHARLES DAWSON but that took too long. Other times, when the despair was the heaviest, he would also add:

  DEAR GOD PLEASE STOP ME

  But most of the time he tried to keep it simple, faster. He could get a lot more done which would increase the opportunity that one day it would be found and he would be stopped. It also allowed him to be on constant alert for the hunters. Write then look, write then look. Act like a prairie dog, stay alive.

  As Dawson wrote, he constantly moved to his left getting closer to the cave as he went. From time to time as he progressed along the stream, he would stop when he heard a noise, tense with fear and ready to slip back into the ever present ferns. His back would begin to ache and the up and down moving would make his knees feel like they were on fire. As the last few hours of night passed, there were also times when he would suddenly feel as if he had to hide, felt something was near, and he would move back into the heavy cover of the forest until the feeling passed. He trusted his instincts, they had been right before.

  As the feeling passed or when the animal proved to be nothing that was interested in him, he would begin writing again. Twice he heard the sounds of something large moving close by. Both times he had quickly moved to the cover of the thick leaves but he had not seen anything and the noise faded away. Even if they had not been hunters, he still could have been stepped on or run over by something coming to the stream for a drink.

  Slowly, Dawson moved along the muddy bank as the night passed, stopping only long enough to cautiously approach the stream enough to fill his canteen. The heat and humidity made him constantly thirsty and he had to chance meeting something he would rather not to stay hydrated. He ate some type of fruit, round and light green that was almost too sweet. It was one of the few things that did not make him even slightly ill and stayed down after he ate it. But the noise of his chewing made it hard to hear anything else so he stopped. He placed some of the fruit in his back pack; he could eat later in the cave when he did not have to be so careful.

  Finding food of course was a major problem. They had not brought food because they were only going to be here a few hours. What he could eat here was unknown and he had found out through trial and error. Fortunately, he had not poisoned himself too bad. Also, he had learned that cooking meat attracted all types of problems he did not ne
ed. No sense advertising where you were at. No one was coming to save him, the scent brought the hunters.

  He concentrated on writing the words into the dark, slick mud over and over again. The more he wrote, the better his chance to never come to this stream, ever. He looked in the direction of the low cliff where the cave was and was pleased to see how far he had come. Though he had stopped several times to hide, he had probably covered another one hundred and fifty yards with his writing.

  As he looked down at the mud, he caught his reflection in a small pool of water near his knee. He had not shaved or even had a chance to clean himself. Sleep was only in short, interrupted intervals. How old he looked, so changed. Then he quickly looked up again in shock and disbelief. It was dawn, it was getting light fast, and he was no longer hidden in the dark. In a land where even the smallest hunter was a mortal danger, to be completely exposed to them was sure death. In the dark, though they could see well, he could hide from them in the forest, trusting in his hearing and watching them through the night vision. In the day he could not hide, all eyes could see in the light. Then the stalking would begin and the victim never knew until it was too late. He had watched it many times from the safety of the cave.

  Dawson started to get up too quickly and slipped in the mud and went down to his hands and knees. He pushed his hands down to lift himself and his fingers sunk deep into the slimy ooze. He pulled them out with a squishy, popping noise and as he slowly stood up he realized there was no other sound. It was quiet, deadly still. Fear ran up his spine and he had trouble catching his breath. His heart was pounding. He knew the feeling, something was watching him. It was his turn to be hunted.

  To turn around, for he knew the attack would come from behind, would invite a sudden charge that he might not be able to stop. He was too close to the vegetation running alongside the stream. He had not noticed that the jungle crept closer to the stream, a perfect spot for an ambush. A rifle or a shotgun might have done the job, but all they had decided to bring were pistols. Not a lot of stopping power against one of the killing machines that would cover the distance from the vegetation to him in just a few seconds.

  Instead, he stood up slowly and with all his will power forced himself to walk slowly across the stream. He didn’t want to make it seem as if he was getting away, he didn’t want to provoke a charge. Sudden movements would trigger an attack response. Slowly putting some distance between him and the attacker was the key. He had to have reaction time if there was a charge.

  The water was shallow and clear, no deeper than his ankles and he could easily see where to step without falling. The cool water felt good as it washed over the tops of his boots. He pulled the pistol from the holster but the far bank was steeper here and he would have to pull himself up on some exposed roots. If the charge did not come before then he would have to put the gun back in the holster, he knew if it was in his hands he would not be able to climb up the bank. If there was a sudden charge after he holstered then he would have to be able to enter the jungle before the animal crossed the stream. Then he would have to hope the animal could not get through the densely packed tree trunks. Even then it was over three hundred or so yards to the cave, he had to stay in control, he could not panic.

  Dawson reached the far bank and reluctantly holstered the gun. Still no attack. Slowly he made his way up into the dense undergrowth that would help hide his movements. There were many trees but there were no branches to climb, the trunks ran straight up like the mast of a sailboat and disappeared into crowns of wide droopy leaves with serrated edges. Besides, he did not know how big this hunter was, or how high it could jump…or if it would wait for him at the bottom of the tree. No, it had to be the cave; he ducked under some hanging moss and began to walk faster. Every step he was closer to safety, to living one more day.

  Behind him he heard the ferns on the other side of the stream violently thrust apart and quick, loud splashing steps in the water. The hunter had realized its prey was getting away. It was coming, fast. He bent over to stay under the thick ropey vines and heavy leaves and began running as fast as he could. Still, he didn't panic, he knew the way and he was moving quickly through the dense undergrowth. It was not the first time he had run for the cave.

  The hunter would have problems; it would be slowed by the thick vegetation. Still, it would move fast, unbelievably quick leaps and claws that moved faster than the eye could follow. It wanted the prey in the open where its speed could be used with deadly efficiency. It was getting closer.

  He could hear the hunter crashing through the trees to his left, cutting off his escape to the cave. For a brief second, he wondered if it was doing so on purpose, that it knew where he lived. A loud roar, much too close, broke his thought though and he realized he had to change direction. But he had been in this area several times and he knew just exactly what he wanted to do. There were paths made by animals coming to the stream to drink, and one branched off to a sink hole that was filled with plants and vines.

  He abruptly turned right and cut past a small mound of dirt and several short stumpy trees then turned left again. He broke through some waist high vegetation that marked the edge of the sink hole and immediately ran down a slope that dropped quickly ten feet below the mound of dirt. He was just on the edge of the deeper area that was overgrown with a tangled web of plants and vines. He bent down and picked up a small branch and threw it high into the air then shrunk back into a small depression at the base of the mound so he was hidden by several small ferns. Dawson pulled out the pistol; if this didn’t work it would not take long for the hunter to find him.

  The animal broke through the vegetation thirty feet in front of him and stopped just short of the sinkhole. It was about six feet tall and stood on two legs. Its black and gray mottled skin glistened in the sun. He always thought the skin looked like it was the texture of a basketball. Its tail whipped furiously from side to side like a snake and its mouth was open, exposing razor sharp teeth. At that moment, the branch crashed into the limbs and vines at the bottom of the sink hole and the noise drew the attention of the hunter. It did not pause; in the blink of an eye it launched itself into the morass. Several smaller animals broke from the cover with loud cries of fear and ran for their lives. It snapped at several and missed but one broke from cover in its panic right at the hunter’s feet and was quickly caught in powerful jaws. The frightened animal squealed in pain and uselessly bit at the air. With a sudden crushing shake of the hunter’s jaws, the smaller animal went limp and the feeding began.

  Dawson realized he was not breathing and took in a slow silent breath, no sense reminding the feeding hunter that he was still around. Better to move off silently. His hands started trembling; the adrenaline burn, but he felt relief. He breathed out slowly and as he turned to leave found that his backpack had caught on a small bush. He pulled quietly to free it but was startled by a loud crashing noise came from across the sink hole. Something else was coming; something had heard the death struggle, something bigger. Now panic was taking over, he could not stop it; he could not take his eyes off of the dark forest where the noise was coming from. He did not think to step back into the depression until it was too late.

  And it was too late. It broke from the forest directly across from him with an explosion of trees and a roar that seemed to shake the ground. It was about a foot taller than the first hunter and was stockier, broader. Though its forelegs were small, it stood on two muscular hind legs and its thick tail did not whip back and forth as the other hunter’s, it stayed straight with just a little movement at the tip. Its skin shimmered in the light with colors of black, brown, red, and yellow. He had seen it before. He had seen it kill.

  The first hunter let out a loud cry and dropped a chunk of flesh from its mouth. It roared at the larger hunter as if hoping to scare it away but another loud roar from the larger animal caused it to shrink back. With blinding speed, it turned and leaped all the way out of the sinkhole right towards the small dirt mound. Dawson
shrunk back and twisted to the left as the hunter landed right beside him, and as the strap broke free from the branch, he fell hard to the ground. The frightened animal paid him no attention though and with another leap was gone.

  Again it was silent. Dawson realized he could still hear the loud breathing of the hunter and the pounding of his own heart. Slowly, he looked up from the ground and saw the hunter was not looking at the dead beast that had been left behind, it was looking at him. It was only across the pit, less than twenty-five feet away. Dawson looked into the eyes of the hunter and knew it scavenged only when it had to; it lived to hunt, to kill. It needed to feel the struggle of the prey and the hot blood flowing from its meal. In those eyes he saw his death.

  White teeth flashed in the early morning sun as the hunter roared again and Dawson jumped to his feet. That was a mistake. The quick movement excited the hunter. Its eyes seemed to change shape as if it were calculating the best way to catch him. He started to step left towards the cave but the sink hole ended less than fifty feet in that direction. He would be caught before he could get back into the vegetation. He would have to walk back slowly the way he came. Fortunately, this hunter was no jumper, its legs were thick to hold up its stocky, muscular body, and as long as it was on the other side of the sinkhole; it would be unable to cross.