Cryptid Island

by Gerry Griffiths

  Beyond the lawn, stepping stones led between hedgerows where Allen maintained a garden.

  Laney started up the path only to find herself blocked by a barrier of brush. “What the heck? This wasn’t here before.”

  “Hi, Laney.”

  “Allen?” Laney looked around the yard. “Allen, where are you?”

  “I’m right here.”

  “Where? I don’t see you...”

  “I’m right in front of you.”

  Laney looked down at the hedgerow in front of her just as a portion of the brush rose in the shape of Allen and he became his visibly green self.

  “Allen!” Laney cried out. “You scared the crap out of me!”

  “Pretty cool, eh? I just learned I could do that.”

  “What in the world are you wearing? Is that a loincloth?”

  “It’s a fig leaf. Designed it myself. Extra large if you were curious.”

  “Dream on.”

  “Sorry about tripping you earlier.”

  “That was you?”

  “Yeah. Check this out.” Allen sat down on the grass and sprawled on his back. He blended in so well he was completely invisible.

  “That’s unbelievable. You’re like one of those lizards that can camouflage themselves.”

  “You’ve got to admit, it’s pretty incredible.”

  “I’ll say.”

  4

  SELF DEFENSE

  “I have to get out of the house,” Allen griped.

  “Go out in the backyard.”

  “No, I mean out! Aren’t you getting cabin fever?”

  “Well, yeah. It would be nice to go for a drive or something,” Laney had to admit.

  “Let’s go to the park.”

  “What, walk?”

  “Sure, it’s dark. No one will see us.”

  “What if someone does see you?”

  “They won’t. I think I’m getting a handle on this.”

  “It might not be too smart going over to the park at night.”

  “Come on, where’s your sense of adventure?”

  “Okay, but I still don’t think it’s a good idea.”

  ***

  Allen and Laney decided it was safe enough to go out just after midnight.

  They kept to the shadows, avoiding the sidewalks en route to the park. Laney was wearing a black jogging outfit; Allen his manly fig leaf.

  During the day, the family-oriented park was a place for older kids to shoot hoops; a small baseball diamond for Little Leaguers; an open meadow with picnic tables surrounded by eucalyptus trees, shrubs, and an old oak tree by the basketball courts.

  At night, the park was a rendezvous for small-time dealers and drug addicts even though the local police frequently patrolled the neighborhood.

  Allen and Laney crept between the trees like a pair of stealthy cats.

  “I feel like a kid sneaking around,” Laney whispered.

  “Me, too.” Allen placed his hand on the smooth trunk of a eucalyptus tree. He closed his eyes.

  “What are you doing?”

  “Shhh.” Allen smiled then frowned; a look of shock came over his face.

  “What’s going on?”

  “I’m having a history lesson.”

  “What?”

  “My friend here is seventy-five years old. Did you know this park used to be an apple orchard?” Allen opened his eyes. He took his hand off the trunk.

  “You’re getting this from a tree?”

  “I can’t explain it. We just have a connection.”

  “So now you’re the tree whisperer?”

  “Apparently.”

  “Allen, you’re—”

  “Hey, are you assholes spying on us?”

  Allen and Laney turned.

  Two street punks stood by a picnic table, smoking weed. They wore T-shirts, denim jackets with cutoff sleeves, blue jeans, and motorcycle boots. The heavyset hooligan passed the glowing reefer to the taller bearded man. It was obvious they were looking for trouble.

  “What do we do?” Laney whispered.

  “Did you bring your cell phone?” Allen said.

  “Yeah, it’s in my pocket.”

  “Call the cops!”

  The thugs charged across the picnic area.

  “On second thought, run!” Allen yelled.

  Allen and Laney dashed across the meadow toward the basketball courts.

  “We have to hide.” Allen dragged Laney behind the massive trunk of the oak tree.

  The brutes converged on the tree. They stormed around the backside of the trunk, standing shoulder-to-shoulder like a couple of NFL linemen.

  They stared directly at Allen.

  Allen held his breath. He didn’t move a muscle.

  “Where’d they go?” said the heavyset bully.

  “Hell, I don’t know.”

  “You don’t think they climbed up?”

  “I don’t see anyone up there.”

  “Christ, they must have doubled back on us. Come on, before they get away!”

  Allen waited until he was sure they had gone. He stepped away from the trunk revealing Laney, who had been hiding behind him.

  “Some trick, eh?” Allen said. “You squished behind me and me looking like the bark of a tree—it’s the perfect disguise.”

  “Before your head swells into a watermelon, can we just go home?”

  “Sure.”

  Allen and Laney took an indirect route to avoid any other undesirables that might be lurking on the outskirts of the park.

  They were making a hasty retreat down the sidewalk when the heavyset thug jumped out from behind a shrub. He grabbed Laney.

  “Hey, let her go!” Allen yelled.

  “Will you look at the freak.” The tall thug stepped out from behind the bush. “Gumby here looks like he’s been snorting so much paint it’s coming out of his pores.”

  “This isn’t paint, you asshole.”

  “Who you calling asshole? Looks like someone should teach you some manners,” the tall thug said. He raised his hand and there was a snick as the sharp metal shot out of his switchblade. With one quick motion, he lunged, slashing a deep gash down Allen’s arm.

  “Oh, my God!” Laney screamed.

  “Shut up or I’ll—”

  Before the heavyset thug could harm Laney, Allen grabbed him by the throat with one hand. A thick, milky sap oozed out of Allen’s fingers. The man gagged, his blue, swollen tongue flopping out of his mouth.

  “Hey, let him go!” the tall thug shouted.

  The heavyset thug’s face turned bright red. He began to wheeze.

  “Allen, you’re sending him into anaphylactic shock!” Laney broke free from her attacker.

  “What the hell are you, man?”

  Allen released his hold on the heavyset thug and the man collapsed on the ground.

  “You really want to know?” Allen looked down at the deep slash on his arm. He pressed one end of the sticky wound together with his forefinger and thumb. Like closing a zipper, he slid them down, sealing the gash as though properly suturing the wound, leaving no visible scar.

  “You’re a goddamn alien!” The tall thug fled down the sidewalk.

  Allen stared down at the unconscious man, his face covered with hives. “You better call 9-1-1. I think I might have killed him.”

  Laney took her cell phone out of her pocket. She told the dispatcher a man was suffering a seizure near the park. She gave the location before closing her phone. “I’m pretty sure they’ll be able to trace the call back to us.”

  “That doesn’t give us much time. We better get home and pack,” Allen said.

  “And go where?”

  “As far away from here as possible.”

  5

  LORD OF THE JUNGLE

  Brian Phillips had been trekking through the Amazon jungle for three days. His clothes were saturated from the humidity. The strap of his rucksack dug into his shoulder like a piano wire garrote. He was beginning to wish he’d never
taken on the assignment, even though the editor of Global Consortium News, a watchdog publication, promised the photo/journalist a story worthy of a Pulitzer Prize.

  Four hours ago, his guide refused to go any farther and left Phillips to hike on his own. The man had been frightened, babbling about evil spirits, further convincing Phillips the legend was true.

  Phillips consulted the crude map with clandestine instructions that had been slipped under his hotel room door before deciding on the arduous journey. He continued down the narrow trail.

  It was the middle of the day. The sun was blocked out from the two hundred foot Kapok trees canopy, the rainforest gloomy as a wet cave. He shuffled through organic matter and decomposed leaves, occasionally having to climb over a sprawling buttress root grown across the path.

  The thick foliage teemed with white orchids and red and yellow flowered acacias. Every plant dripped, even though the torrential storm had long passed. Rainwater pooled in cupped bromeliad leaves. Philodendron roots descended from the treetops, searching for moisture; light-seeking epiphytes scaled the towering trunks in the opposite direction.

  He heard spider monkeys chattering in the branches along with a background chorus of thousands of communicating insects. A bright yellow toucan squawked, poking its head out of a tree hollow. Tiny birds flittered overhead, swooping over the giant fronds. An ocelot yowled deep in the jungle.

  Phillips sensed he was being followed. His suspicions were confirmed when he caught a glimpse of a small figure darting behind a blockade of stilt palms to his right. Then another appeared on his left. Soon, they were trudging just off the path, marching through the thicket, keeping pace with Phillips.

  The trail led into a small clearing.

  A woman was sitting on a fallen log. She wore a broad brim fedora shadowing her face, khaki shirt and pants, and brown boots. Twenty pigmy warriors stood behind her, armed with blowguns, and bows and arrows. More tribesmen watched from the high branches, while others peered out from behind the trees.

  “Please, sit,” the woman told Phillips. She pointed to a cut stump placed in front of the log.

  The reporter walked over to the stoop. He unhooked the strap of his rucksack and sat down. He unzipped his bag. He removed a notepad and pen, and put them on his lap. He reached in again, taking out a digital camera with a long photo lens.

  The pigmies immediately raised their blowguns to their mouths, archers pulling back on their bows.

  The woman glanced over her shoulder. “They don’t like cameras.”

  Phillips stuffed the camera back inside the rucksack.

  “Thank you for making the journey to see me. Where is your guide?”

  “He was too afraid to accompany me. I left him back on the trail.”

  “It was brave of you to continue on your own, Mr. Phillips.”

  “I’ve heard the Brazilian people are scared to venture into the rainforest because of an evil spirit that speaks to them, warning them to stay away.”

  “Only those that come to do harm.”

  “I believe they call it O Botanico.”

  “Yes, I am familiar with the name. Mr. Phillips, let me explain something to you. The Amazon region is an abundant resource, but, due to slash-and-burn practices, excessive logging, and decimating the jungle for agriculture and livestock, the rainforests are being destroyed. Did you know seventy percent of the three thousand variety of plants currently used to produce drugs to fight cancer are found here in the rainforest?”

  “No, I didn’t.”

  “Every day undiscovered plant species are forced into extinction due to deforestation. Plants lost forever, plants that might hold the cure to the disease. It is crucial these plants be saved. We just need more time to find them. That is why I summoned you here: so you can spread the word.”

  Phillips looked around at the stolid pigmies. All eyes were upon him.

  “All right,” Phillips said, picking up his pen and pad. “Where do we begin?”

  For the next hour Phillips scribbled frantically, taking copious notes while the woman spoke.

  The woman finished by saying, “That’s enough for now.”

  Phillips gathered up his things, putting them in his bag. Standing, he shouldered the rucksack. He turned.

  The trail leading back into the rainforest was no longer there as though it never existed. He became aware of the dead silence like the entire jungle was a waiting giant, patiently listening.

  “Before you go, there is something you must see.” The woman got up. She walked over to Phillips, standing by his side.

  Phillips saw the fear in the pigmy warriors’ eyes, and he too trembled.

  “It’s okay! You can come out!” the woman called out.

  For a moment nothing happened, and then, like a curtain lifting on an enormous stage, the rope-like lianas hoisted the drooping vegetation. The giant palms parted revealing the strange green man standing in the middle of the trail, his arms raised above his head like a maestro conducting an orchestra.

  Phillips gasped.

  “Mr. Phillips, I would like to introduce you to my husband, Allen Moss. The Botanist.”

  6

  THE DECIMATOR

  Laney squatted behind a large fern and watched the massive piece of equipment down below move about the forest floor like an invading alien from another planet. The driver sat in an air-conditioned glassed-in compartment over the front section that maneuvered on dual treads much like a tank with an attached cargo bed, which had tall rail posts.

  A large mechanic arm was attached to the center of the rig with a clamping claw at the end. It came down and fastened around the base of a tree. Laney heard the powerful saw blade cut through the trunk.

  In mere seconds, the tree was separated from the ground, leaving hardly a stump, and hoisted in the air. The timber was fed through the apparatus, slicing off the branches, then halted. A ten-foot log was severed from the main tree and fell to the ground. Another section of tree was stripped of its limbs. Another log dropped onto the accumulating debris as the rest of the tree was processed.

  The arm picked the logs off the ground and loaded them one by one onto the cargo bed.

  Laney timed the cutting down of one tree. She was shocked to see how efficient and fast the process had been. Technological advances had eliminated the labor-intensive tasks of the logging industry with its computerized operations, meaning faster production and higher yields.

  The thirty minutes it took to harvest 10 trees would take the same amount of years to replenish.

  Laney raised a pair of binoculars to get a better look at the heavy equipment. She could see the operator inside the cab. He looked young, maybe in his mid-twenties, and had long hair and a beard.

  She could see a familiar company logo on the side of the cab door and knew the powerful corporation had used its political muscle to gain unsustainable logging rights to the Amazon rainforest.

  Laney looked down at the ground and spotted a large rock. She picked up the stone and cocked her arm, ready to throw.

  A vine shot out of nowhere, wrapping around her wrist. “Hey,” she protested and spun around.

  “Better not,” Allen said. He released Laney, who dropped the rock. The vine retracted back into the index fingertip of his green-colored hand.

  The humidity was high so he was hydrated and vibrant. His taut skin had the texture of the outside of an orange. His facial features were still Allen but his body had transformed into a chiseled human-shaped flora.

  “You should’ve let me smash out his windshield.”

  “There’s something you need to see. Follow me.” Allen stepped onto a path between the trees.

  Laney noticed, walking behind her husband, the vegetation near the trail reacted to Allen’s presence like he was a famous celebrity maneuvering through an excited crowd of fans, everyone wanting to reach out affectionately to touch their idol.

  Branches quivered and flower petals blossomed.

  Creeper vines ros
e in salutatory waves.

  The foliage ahead formed arches to welcome Allen.

  Even though she knew it was only the shadows and the way sunlight filtered down through the canopy playing tricks on her vision, she still swore the trees swayed whenever Allen came in close contact.

  He continued up a slope taking them to a ridge overlooking a small valley.

  Allen leaned against a tree.

  A leafy tendril on the bark caressed his neck.

  “Stop that,” he grinned, giving the trunk a playful pat.

  Laney gazed down at the logging trucks and the large encampment of tents. “This is a major operation.”

  “That’s not all. Look over there.” Allen raised his green arm and pointed.

  “Oh, my God!”

  Ten heavy-duty tree-cutting machines were parked in a clearing; the same type as the piece of equipment she’d witnessed earlier.

  7

  VANDAL

  As dusk approached, generator-powered floodlights began to turn on all around the perimeter of the sprawling campsite. While they waited for the sun to dissolve behind the trees, Allen stood on the ridge in plain sight, relaying what he saw to Laney concealed behind a mango tree.

  “So far, I’ve counted maybe forty men and a handful of women going into what must be the mess tent.” Allen wasn’t afraid of being seen by anyone from down below as he blended into the backdrop of foliage behind him. It was like he was standing in front of a painting-in-progress and the artist had airbrushed over Allen’s naked body, blending him into the landscape and making him virtually invisible; that is, until he moved and stepped away from the canvas.

  “Do you see any guards?” Laney asked.

  “Yes. There’re three by the heavy equipment, another standing by the generators, and four or five roving the perimeters. By the looks of it, they’re heavily armed. I’d say they’re paranoid of being raided.”

  “I doubt if any of the indigenous tribes would be foolish enough to try and stop them.”

  “I agree. These guys look paramilitary.” Allen stepped back and joined Laney on the ground at the base of the mango tree.

  “So, what’s the plan?” Laney asked.