“If you’ve got a plan B, now’s the time to tell me,” I said nervously.
“I’ve always got a plan B,” came the confident reply. “I’m going to swim over to the left and come out from under the ledge. When it sees me, I guarantee it’ll come after me. As soon as I get a clear shot at it, I’ll take it. Its skull is thin. One shot and he’s gone.”
“Why wait?” I shouted. “Do it here!”
“I can’t get a good shot through the sand. I don’t want to miss.”
He was right. The quig’s violent thrashing had kicked up a storm of sand and it was hard to tell which end was up.
“As soon as it follows me, swim out as fast as you can, and keep swimming straight ahead along the reef. About a hundred yards dead ahead you’ll see an anchor line that’ll lead you up to the skimmer. I’ll catch up with the water sled. Got it?”
“No, I don’t,” I said with rising panic. “What if you miss? What if the spear misses the skull and all you end up doing is pissing him off more? I want a plan C.”
“There is only a plan B.” Then he added with a confident smile, “And I never miss.”
“Uncle Press I—”
He didn’t stay to listen. He kicked off forward, coming dangerously close to the snapping jaws of the quig, then shot off to the left using the speedy water sled to pull him along. He did a great job of tempting the quig, because it pulled its body back out from under the ledge and started to shadow him.
Now was the time. The quig was busy, and if I was going to get out of here, it had to be now. Unfortunately, I couldn’t move. Panic had set in and I was frozen. The idea of swimming out into open water where that quig could turn around and chomp me like a Slim Jim had shut down all of my systems. I was absolutely, totally incapable of moving.
Then I spotted something. The billowing sand was starting to settle and I saw it lying on the bottom near the edge of the rock outcropping. It was the water sled Uncle Press had used as a decoy! The quig must have dropped it out of its mouth when it backed out. It gave me a flash of hope. If I could use the speed of that water sled, then maybe I had a chance of getting to the skimmer before Moby Dick came a-nibbling. That was it. I had to do it.
My legs worked again. I pushed forward and quickly swam to the tangle of pants and vines that engulfed the water sled. I picked it up to find that the pants were totally wrapped around the thing. The fruit stuffing was gone though. The quig had gotten a treat out of this after all. But there was a problem. I quickly saw that the sled wasn’t going to work because the pants were totally wrapped around it. The pants kept water from entering the slits, and that’s where it got its power. I had to get rid of the pants, or the sled would be useless. So I frantically began tugging at them.
While I worked I glanced up to where Uncle Press had gone, but there was no sign of him, or the quig. Had he speared it already? I had absolute confidence in Uncle Press. If he said he was going to shoot the quig, then the quig would be shot. But what if the quig had his own plan B and decided not to follow him? Then all bets were off. I had to think less and work faster. Finally I figured out how the pants had gotten twisted around the sled and with a final yank, I pulled them free.
Big, big mistake.
You know what it’s like when you’re walking in bare feet and stub your toe really hard? A weird thing happens. There’s about a half-second delay between the time you crunch your toe and when the pain registers in your brain. That’s just enough time to think “Uh-oh!” before you feel the hurt. I don’t know why that happens, but it does. Well, that’s kind of what happened to me right then and there. The instant I pulled the pants off the water sled, I realized I had made a huge mistake.
What hit me was that the little piece of vine Uncle Press had used to tie the trigger down was still in place. The sled was still turned on. The only reason it wasn’t moving was because the pants had prevented water from entering the slits. But as soon as I pulled the pants away, the slits were cleared and water could rush in to power the engine and—like when you stub your toe—I had about a half-second to think “Uh-oh!”
Oh, yeah. The sled was on and ready to go. I wasn’t. Too bad.
Things happened fast. The powerful little engine sprang to life and jumped out of my hand. It only got worse. While trying to get the pants away from the sled, I had gotten the vine twisted around my wrist. It was the vine that had tied the pants to the water sled. It was the vine that was still tied to the water sled, and the other end was now wrapped around my wrist. Yeah, you guessed it. The vine snapped taut and an instant later I was yanked sideways and dragged through the water by the runaway sled, full throttle.
Worse still, it pulled me out from under the rock ledge, into open water and right in the same direction that Uncle Press had lured the quig. That was the last place I wanted to go, but I had no way of steering because the sled was out of my reach. I desperately tried to pull the vine off my wrist, but it was so twisted I couldn’t free it. I was absolutely, totally out of control. I tried to look ahead, but I was moving so fast the force of the water kept spinning me around. No matter what I did to kick my fins or twist my body, I kept spinning helplessly. I felt like the tail on an out-of-control kite. I wasn’t the one in charge, it was the runaway water sled that was calling all the shots, and right now it was pulling me toward an angry quig.
I twisted my neck to look up ahead and sure enough, there it was. I saw the immense gray shape of the quig, lurking just outside the rock ledge, peering in at what I guessed was Uncle Press. I was traveling parallel to the rock ledge, further out than the quig. In a few seconds I would pass by the monster and unless it was deaf and blind, I would get its attention. I could only hope that between now and then Uncle Press would nail it with the speargun. But he would have to shoot fast because I was almost at the quig.
Then two things happened. When I flew by the quig, it heard me coming and it made a sudden, surprised turn to see me. It was a small turn, but enough to let something else happen that made me want to scream. I saw the glint of a spear come shooting out from under the rock ledge—and miss its mark. The missile sliced through the water just over the quig’s head. Uncle Press assured me that he wouldn’t miss, but he hadn’t figured that I’d be flying by like an idiot to distract his prey.
The quig had dodged eternity, and now the prey was me.
I was traveling on my back now. My arm felt like it was going to rip out of the socket, that’s how powerful the pull from the water sled was. But when I looked back, I realized the pain in my shoulder was the least of my problems. The quig was after me. As fast as this sled was pulling me, the quig was faster.
It took only a few seconds for the huge beast to swim right up beside me. We were traveling at the same speed with ten yards between us. I can’t begin to tell you how helpless and vulnerable I felt. I knew that soon this bad boy would turn into me and clamp its jaws on my midsection. I saw its yellow eye staring at me. There was no emotion there, just calculation. It was measuring the perfect moment to turn and strike. This was going to be a bad way to die. I’m not exactly sure if there’s a good way to die, but if so, this isn’t it.
The quig didn’t come any closer. It didn’t need to. When it struck, it would need a little bit of distance to get a good run at me. In fact, it started to pull a little bit ahead. It made a few quick little head turns toward me, as if judging the exact right distance and speed for its attack. This was torture. I was at the point that I wanted to get it over with.
Finally it struck.
The shark opened its jaws and made a sharp turn toward me. I gritted my teeth, waiting for the pain.
But then I saw a flash of light just over the shark’s head. Was it a flash of light? No, it was another spear! I thought for an instant that Uncle Press had reloaded, but that was impossible. There was no way he could have reloaded and got up above fast enough to be shooting from that angle. No, the spear had come from someone else.
Whoever the archer was, he w
as good. The spear flew directly down at the shark and struck it on top of the head, burrowing into its skull. The instant the spear found its mark the quig started to thrash. It was still headed toward me though, and as it spun I got slammed in the ribs by its tail. Yeow. It hurt, too. Bad. But I didn’t care. It didn’t hurt like its teeth would have.
The quig continued thrashing and sank down beneath me. A moment later it crashed into the reef. The sled kept pulling me away, but I looked back and saw that the monster was writhing uncontrollably. It was a horrifying sight. This fish was history. It wasn’t going to eat me or anybody else.
I was saved from the quig, but I was still traveling out of control. I wondered how long this little engine would go before burning out. Now my arm was starting to hurt bad. Not to mention my ribs, which had taken a healthy whack of shark tail. I wasn’t sure how much longer I could take this.
Then something caught my eye. It was a gray shape moving up alongside me. Uh-oh. Was there another quig? I spun around to get a better look and saw that it wasn’t a quig at all. It was a guy being pulled by another water sled. But it wasn’t Uncle Press. This guy wore black pants with a black top that had no sleeves. Through the clear air globe on his head I saw that his hair was kind of long and black. He had an empty speargun strapped to his leg, which meant he was probably the shooter who saved my life. I had no idea who this guy was, but I liked him already.
He knew how to handle a water sled, too. He eased over close to me until we were traveling side by side. He held on to his sled with one hand and let go with the other to reach back to his leg. What was he doing? He brought his hand forward again and I saw that he was now holding a very large, very nasty-looking silver knife. For a second I freaked. Was he going to stab me? But that didn’t make sense. He wouldn’t have gone through the trouble of killing the quig just to kill me himself. At least I didn’t think so.
He reached forward with the knife and with one quick move he lashed out at me. Not knowing what he was doing, I closed my eyes. But what he did with that one strong swipe was cut the vine that attached me to the runaway water sled. The pull on my arm stopped instantly. The force of the water slowed me down. I looked ahead to see the runaway water sled continue forward on its crazed trip to nowhere. Good riddance!
I was dazed and hurt. I tried to move my legs to get some sort of control, but I was floundering. That’s when I felt something grab the back of my shirt. It was the guy in black. He had come around and was now right next to me. Without a word he grabbed the back of my collar and began towing me to the surface. I totally relaxed. Whoever this guy was, he was in charge now and I didn’t care. All I could think about was breathing fresh air again.
The trip to the surface took about twenty seconds. The closer we got, the brighter the water became. I couldn’t wait to get on top. Then just before we surfaced, the guy in black let go of my collar and let me float up on my own.
It was a great feeling. My head broke the surface and the BC belt kept me floating. That was a good thing because I didn’t think I could tread water just then. I yanked the air globe off my head and took a deep breath of fresh air. The sun was warm, the air smelled sweet, and I was alive.
“Friend of Press’s, are you?” came a voice from behind me.
I spun around to see the guy in black floating next to me. He had taken off his air globe and I now saw that he was a little older than me, and had a slight Asian look with almond-shaped eyes. He had deep, sun-colored skin and long black hair. He also had the biggest, friendliest smile I thought I’d ever seen in my life.
“Told me he was bringing somebody to visit,” the guy said cheerfully. “Sorry ‘bout the rude welcome. Them sharks can stir up a real natty-do sometimes. Easy enough to handle ’em though. Just gotta know the soft spots,” he said, tapping his head.
“Who are you?” was all I could think of saying.
“Name’s Spader. Vo Spader. Pleased to meet you.”
“I’m Bobby Pendragon. You saved my life.” I wasn’t sure what else to add but, “Thanks.”
“No big stuff. It happens. Never saw anyone caught up by a sled like that though. No sir, that was a real tum-tigger.”
“Yeah, a real tum-tigger,” I said. Whatever that was.
“Took us a might off course though,” he added, looking around.
I looked around too and what I saw made my heart start to race again. Because what I saw was . . . nothing. Oh, there was plenty of water all right. But that was it. We were in the middle of the ocean with no landmass in sight.
If a tum-tigger was bad, this was definitely a tum-tigger.
JOURNAL #5
(CONTINUED)
CLORAL
Talk about feeling helpless. Here we were, two guys floating like corks in an endless ocean. A quick three-sixty scan showed no land, no boat, and no rescue of any kind in sight.
“Beautiful day, isn’t it?” asked Spader.
Beautiful day? We were lost at sea and he was talking about nice weather? Either he was in strong denial, or he was crazy. Either way, he was starting to make me nervous.
That’s when I felt a tug on my foot.
I screamed. The quig was back. Or he had a brother. Or he had two brothers. And they were both after me and they . . .
The water to my right began to boil and an instant later a bubble-covered head surfaced. It was Uncle Press. He yanked off his air globe and smiled at me.
“Have a nice trip, Bobby?” he asked. “That wasn’t exactly plan B.”
“You think I tried to get dragged like that?” I shot back, all indignant.
“Whoa. Relax. I was kidding.”
“And I thought you never missed?”
I couldn’t help but add that last dig. I knew it was my fault he missed hitting the quig with the spear, but still, he did say he never missed. No qualifications.
“Then it’s a good thing Spader came along,” he said calmly.
“Hello, Press!” exclaimed Spader. “Good to see your face again.”
“Yours, too,” said Uncle Press. “Lucky for us you were in the area.”
“I was out doing a bit of fishin’ and spotted your skimmer anchored a ways back,” said Spader. “I have to say I was a might surprised. You know this is shark territory.”
“Yeah, tell me about it,” I threw in. “Maybe we shouldn’t be here anymore.”
“Right!” shouted Spader. “No sense in waiting for another nibbler to come a-callin’.”
Spader looked at his big, black diver-style watch. I think it must have been some kind of compass because he checked it, looked up, changed position, then announced, “Off we go.”
He popped the air globe back on his head, pointed his water sled, then shot off across the surface.
I looked at Uncle Press thinking that this guy must be crazy. There was nothing out here. Where was he going?
“I love that guy,” he said.
“Where is he going? We’re in the middle of an ocean.”
Uncle Press put his air globe back on and swam close to me. “He’ll bring us to our skimmer. You okay?”
“I feel like I was stretched on a medieval rack and beaten with a club. Other than that, I’m cool. But I don’t think I can swim.”
“You don’t have to. Put your globe on and grab my belt.”
I did as I was told. I put the air globe back on and it instantly conformed to my head. I then reached out for Uncle Press’s belt. I made sure to use my left hand. My right arm had taken a bit too much abuse. It was probably two inches longer now, too.
Uncle Press gently squeezed the throttle on his water sled and we started our journey toward the skimmer that would take us . . . somewhere. Luckily the water was calm so the trip was easy. Good thing, too. I needed to catch my breath. As Uncle Press pulled me through the gentle swells, I floated on my back and looked up at the sun. Yes, the sun. There was only one, unlike Denduron where there were three. It was a hot sun, too. So far everything about Cloral gave me the feeli
ng of being someplace tropical. Both the water and the air were warm, but not so hot as to be uncomfortable. Of course, the whole quig thing made the place feel a little less like paradise, but you can’t have everything.
We had only traveled for a few minutes when Uncle Press slowed to a stop. I let go of his belt and saw that bobbing on the water in front of us were two water vehicles—skimmers. Spader had actually found his way here with the help of his watch. Talk about finding a needle in a haystack. I was impressed.
Spader had already climbed aboard one of the vehicles. They looked kind of like Jet Skis. But these sleek vehicles weren’t toys. They were way too high-tech for that. Each frame was about the size of a very shallow bathtub. They were pure white and looked to be made out of plastic. The bow was pointed and the stern was straight across. To control it, the driver stood at a column that looked like motorcycle handlebars. Behind the driver’s space was a molded seat for a second passenger. The sides only came up a few inches. I guess water getting inside wasn’t a problem.
You’d think they’d be unstable, but that was taken care of. The skimmers had wings. If you’ve ever seen an outrigger canoe with beams that project out to the side, with pontoons on the end, you’ll know what I’m talking about. The skimmers had outriggers on either side. Right now they were lifted up out of the water, which gave them the look of a bird frozen in midflap. On the ends of each outrigger were torpedo-shaped pontoons. My guess was that when under way, the outriggers would be lowered into the water to make the skimmer stable.
Spader’s skimmer was identical to Uncle Press’s, except that he had a float thing that was attached to the back like a caboose. It was some kind of equipment carrier that floated behind the main skimmer.
No, these skimmers weren’t toys. They looked more like those sleek, high-end corporate jets that big shots fly around in. I have to admit, they were way cool.
As Uncle Press climbed up on his skimmer, I watched this Spader guy. Who was he? Was he the Traveler from Cloral? Whoever he was, he was pretty confident in the water. But I guess you have to be if you come from Cloral. His skin was really dark, but I don’t know if that was natural or because he was out in the sun so much. Probably a little of both. He was about six feet tall and looked pretty strong. Not a muscle guy, but definitely lean and mean. His black hair was long and shaggy and nearly came to his shoulders.
The Lost City of Faar Page 5
