by Andy Briggs
Greystoke wrestled the controls as the plane dipped down toward the jungle. Every light on the console flashed and a dozen alarms squawked.
Tarzan braced himself as the aircraft floor turned into a slide. Robbie’s unconscious body started to roll past but Tarzan hoisted him effortlessly over his shoulder with one hand. He then ran up the incline toward Jane, who had wedged herself in the last seat at the tail of the plane and was clinging on to the chair in front of her with all her might. Tarzan yanked her up.
“We go!”
Jane looked around in disbelief as Tarzan pushed her toward the door. “Go where? Are you crazy?”
Greystoke wrestled the unresponsive stick and fumbled to ease the throttle down. He only turned when he felt his cousin’s gaze burn into the back of his neck. Their eyes met for a second: Greystoke pleading, Tarzan coolly detached like somebody observing an insect.
Then the plane violently rocked as the nose pierced the canopy. Branches furiously whipped the aircraft’s skin and shattered the remains of the windscreen. Greystoke ducked behind the instruments to avoid having his head sliced off. He didn’t see Tarzan wrap his free arm around Jane and take a running jump through the door.
• • •
Jane hated the sensation of freefalling as Tarzan bailed them from the aircraft. She could only see over his shoulder, and that sight was terrifying enough. The floatplane disappeared into the jungle, fire streaming from one engine. Multiple branches lashed at her. Tarzan’s bulk shielded her from the worst of it, but, even so, it felt as if she was being struck from every direction. Wood cracked as Tarzan attempted to land on a bough, but their combined weight and speed broke through the top canopy like a knife through butter.
It was too dark to see anything other than flashes of moonlit cloud spiraling above them as Tarzan attempted to kick from tree to tree to slow their descent. One mighty branch hit Tarzan in the back with such force that Jane slipped from his grasp. She ricocheted through more branches, tumbling head over heels. Vines struck her arms and legs, slowing her down. Several thick liana vines looped under her limbs, almost pulling them from their sockets, but yanked her to a complete stop. Only then did she realize she’d been screaming nonstop from the moment they had jumped from the plane. She closed her mouth.
The jungle was so silent she could hear the blood pounding in her ears. She couldn’t hear the drone of the aircraft’s remaining engine or the explosion she had been anticipating. Nor could she hear anything of Tarzan or Robbie.
Then the usual insect and frog chorus started again, after holding their collective silence for several moments. The vines suspending Jane creaked as she gently swung in the darkness with no idea how far the ground was below. She only hoped that Tarzan and Robbie were safe too… .
13
Greystoke’s eyes fluttered open and it took him a long moment to gather his wits. He was alive, which was a surprise, and lying across the aircraft’s console. The gauges and dials beneath his cheek were broken and blotched with blood.
He tried to sit up, but every part of his body protested. He tried again, and the aircraft gently swayed around him. His head butted a thick tree limb, and something crushed his left foot, which just added to his confusion.
He closed his eyes, rubbing his throbbing head. Calm down, he instructed himself. You’re alive… . Ensure it stays that way.
He took a deep, shuddering breath and looked around. He was lying on the control panel, which meant the aircraft was suspended nose-down from a tree—how far above the ground he couldn’t tell. A huge branch had torn the roof of the cockpit off as it buried itself into the plane and was no doubt responsible for catching the aircraft. From his limited viewpoint he could see one side of the plane had buckled, wedging his foot in place. He wriggled his toes and was satisfied his foot was still attached.
Craning his neck, he could just barely see that the flaming engine had been torn off by a fist of creepers and branches, and now hung several feet above him. The orange flame burned fiercely, casting a golden light over the wreckage. Luckily, the surrounding leaves were so damp they hadn’t ignited, only charred black as they burned.
A peculiar smell caught his nose. At first he was worried it was avgas—if the plane’s fuel was leaking then he could still be burned alive. But it was not as bitter, and was more … organic. As he tried to identify the smell, he heard a fleshy tear from above him. Curious, he repositioned himself in his confined prison. Blood was dripping from the branch, running across the instruments. Leaning farther to the side he caught sight of some grizzly red flesh. He was repulsed further when a pale lifeless hand dropped into view as the body above him repositioned. He got a horrific view of the dead pilot whose eyes bore accusingly into his own.
Worse still, the dead man was being eaten by a huge leopard perched on the branch just feet above Greystoke. Its beautiful spotted yellow fur was splattered with blood and its jaws were dripping. Lethal talons tore into the human flesh with a sickening noise.
Greystoke whimpered and slowly moved back under cover. Panic turned his blood to ice and the sudden hopelessness of the situation overwhelmed him. He felt tears of despair coursing down his cheeks as his mind replayed the events that had led him to that place: a lust for wealth, a determination to conclude the work started by his domineering father—a man he had never liked—and the wrath of his feral cousin. All because Greystoke had let his temper get out of control, a throwback to his privileged upbringing, when a tantrum and display of power always got him what he wanted.
Now, trapped in the wreckage of an aircraft in the middle of the Congolese jungle, he was about to be devoured by a wild beast. He wondered if isolated, alone, and terrified were how his uncle and aunt felt when they had met their fate.
• • •
A mile away, Jane jolted awake. She was surprised to have been able to nod off given her precarious position, but fatigue had finally overwhelmed her. She looked around to see what had woken her. The moon had shifted position, a spear of light penetrating the hole they had driven through the thick canopy. Her eyes had adjusted enough to see the pale jungle around her. She could see that she was suspended several feet from the floor and was thankful the vines had been there to slow her from diving headfirst into the ground. Looking up at the ancient trunks towering above her, she marveled that she had survived at all.
Then she caught movement in the foliage. Something was snuffing about in the shadows. She struggled to move from the ensnaring cradle, but her hands were caught above her head. She was a hanging feast for any nocturnal predator.
She freed one hand, which she used to unravel the vines from her other wrist. With them free, it was an easy task to remove the vines around her feet and drop to the forest floor in a near-silent crouch that would have made Tarzan proud. She felt a rock under her hand and lifted it as a weapon as she tracked the sound.
It was coming closer, cracking branches as it did so. Jane wanted to call out, but feared it would give away her position. Another shuffling of leaves underfoot tensed her every muscle. She was ready to spring.
A deer stepped from the foliage, its head raised as it sniffed the air to determine if she was a danger or not. It was almost the same size as Jane, with a pair of short slender horns poking out from its head. It was no threat, but she didn’t dare move. Her heart was still pounding from her recent ordeal.
Judging she was not a threat either, the deer continued snuffling the ground as it detoured around her, vanishing back into the trees. Jane turned almost completely around, and was startled to see Tarzan standing behind her. She shrieked, stumbling backward and falling onto her backside, dropping the rock.
Tarzan laughed and helped her stand. Aside from a dozen red slash marks across his chest, arms, and legs, he bore no sign of the terror they had been through.
Jane hugged him. “I can’t believe we’re alive,” she said. Tarzan was unsure if
he should return the hug, so just shrugged his broad shoulders and indicated for her to follow.
“Come.”
“Where are we going? We have to find Robbie.” Tarzan wasn’t listening. He powered ahead and Jane had to jog to catch up with him, ignoring the bruised muscles that ran the length of one leg.
For several minutes Tarzan ignored her pleas to slow down as she stumbled through the dark jungle. Tarzan was as sure-footed as ever, never once snagging himself on a root or cracking his head against a low branch. Jane was out of breath and drenched in sweat when they suddenly stepped into a small clearing where a fire burned merrily. Robbie was sitting in front of it, slowly roasting some unidentifiable animal Tarzan had caught for them. He looked up at Jane impatiently.
“Where have you been?” he said crossly. “I’m starving and I’d love to know how one minute I was on a plane and the next I’m sitting in the jungle. I asked him”—he indicated to Tarzan—“but he didn’t make any sense. So you better have a good explanation.”
As they ate, Jane recounted the night’s events. There seemed to be a lot to cover and they both wondered if they hadn’t lost a whole day somewhere, but by the time Robbie had explained how he’d woken up on the forest floor with Tarzan towering over him and an aching head from where Greystoke had hit him, it was dawn. With the shadows dispelled, the jungle came alive with the chatter of monkeys and birds, and a sense of familiarity descended on Jane. Now she wanted nothing more than to sleep, but Tarzan refused to allow them to rest any further.
“My family need me,” he said slowly, picking his words with care. Since he had started using English again after meeting Jane, his speech was rapidly improving. “The Targarni will return.”
“What about Greystoke?” asked Jane. “Is he still alive?”
Tarzan shrugged. “I traveled to find you. Orando showed me the path you took.”
Jane frowned. That explained how Tarzan had found them many miles from their usual haunts. She guessed that the pygmy’s own jungle telegraph system was more efficient than people gave them credit for, and she wondered how far they could communicate. “Why were you looking for me?”
“I find a woman in the jungle,” said Tarzan grimly. Robbie snickered when he saw how Jane reacted to the odd phrase and she felt herself blush. Tarzan didn’t notice and continued. “She is injured. May die. Maybe you can help?”
Jane was unsure how they could help, but nodded. “And if this Albert Werper still comes looking for Opar?”
Tarzan sneered. “Then Tarzan will show him.”
Robbie sat upright, intrigued. “So it really exists?” Tarzan nodded. “And is it full of jewels and riches like the legends say?”
If it was, then Tarzan gave no indication. He just shrugged and threw dirt over the fire to extinguish it. He stood ready to leave. “It is a place of death,” he intoned, and motioned for them to follow him deeper into the jungle.
• • •
Rain battered the fuselage and poured into the cockpit, waking Lord Greystoke. He had no idea how long he had slept, but it was daylight and his stomach grumbled with hunger. He discreetly checked to see if the leopard was still perched on the branch above him, but the beast had gone, taking the partially eaten pilot with it. It could still be close by, but thirst drove the Englishman to reach out and cup as much rain in his palms as he could. Every movement rocked the aircraft and the occasional screech of metal cautioned him that it could drop at any time.
The day drew on and, goaded by hunger and the increasingly dark thoughts that he wasn’t going to be rescued, Greystoke tried to free his foot from the crushed wreckage. As far as he could tell, a limb from the tree that was holding the plane’s weight had dented the metal. If he pried it away, there was a chance the aircraft would fall. But as the day drew on, he cared less about the risks and began hammering the hull with his free foot. For over an hour, his efforts achieved nothing other than sheer exhaustion.
The rain continued, giving Greystoke plenty to drink. But he was soaked through, and his body temperature started to drop. Seized by uncontrollable shivering, he realized he was going to die out in the jungle. Was it a family curse? Or had he brought this misfortune upon himself? If he had stayed at home at the family estate he wouldn’t be facing certain death—bankruptcy, maybe, but not death. Which was worse? His father had squandered the family fortune in order to build an empire. Nothing had been successful. In almost every country they had established a business, corrupt officials set about making crippling demands. The only real success had been the coltan mine, and now that was drying up.
Night fell and Greystoke cursed his misfortune. He cursed his father who had never supported him and his savage cousin who should have died at birth, whose mere presence threatened to take away the only thing left of value: the Greystoke title.
• • •
How Greystoke survived the night was a mystery. He awoke to a new day, weak, shivering, and uneaten. The pilot’s pale face had haunted his nightmares. Only, in those fevered visions, the pilot had been alive as the leopard devoured him, pointing a broken finger at Greystoke, claiming him responsible for his grisly death.
Greystoke had been stranded for over a day and any thought of help had long since vanished. He was now beginning to envy the pilot for his quick death, whether it was during the crash or by tooth and claw. A fast death seemed much more appealing than slowly dying of starvation.
Staring up through the canopy, he listened to the incessant chirping of brightly colored birds as they flitted between branches. Their chatter had become so familiar he thought he could pick out individual words—or perhaps he was going mad?
No, there were distinct words… . voices. Greystoke gasped as he sat upright. Familiar voices were talking below.
“Nobody survived that,” he heard Albert Werper say. “This was a complete waste of time.”
“Shut your face,” snarled Clark. “Robbie? Jane? Anybody?”
Then a woman’s voice, Idra. She had survived Tarzan’s wrath. “He’s right; if anybody had survived …”
They were preparing to leave. Without checking the plane. Were they crazy? Greystoke attempted to shout out, but only a hoarse whisper escaped his dry lips. He tried again, swallowing what little spittle he had, his voice now more of a wheeze.
“Up here!”
“What about burying the bodies, at least?” said Clark, his voice choked with emotion. He was desperate to discover Robbie and Jane’s fate.
“This is no holiday,” snapped Werper. “We have limited supplies and can’t waste time.”
“I hate to agree with him,” said Idra, “but we’ve got to think of ourselves now.”
“Here!” croaked Greystoke, but his voice was no louder. His hand fell on some loose items of debris that had collected in the cockpit during the crash. One was the fire extinguisher he’d clobbered Robbie with. He hammered it against the fuselage wall as loud as he could.
“Up there!” Idra said sharply.
“We’re coming!” shouted Clark.
Greystoke stopped banging. He lay back down, wondering how they were going to lower him down.
• • •
To his surprise, Greystoke woke on the ground feeling fresh and revived. His immediate thought was it was another dream, taunting him with things he could never have. But Clark and Idra came into focus, crouched over, studying him with concern. Idra pulled a needle from his arm and placed it back in the first-aid kit.
“You’re dehydrated,” she said, as his eyes followed another needle she injected into his arm. “This’ll pep you up a bit.”
Clark put a canteen to Greystoke’s cracked lips, and the Englishman sipped the cool water. “How did you find me?” he asked between gulps.
“We watched the plane dancin’ across the sky,” said Clark. “An’ saw the explosion as you went down.”
“How’re you feeling?” Idra interjected. “Anything broken?”
Greystoke stretched his limbs and cricked his neck. Everything seemed functional. “Just bruised everywhere,” he concluded.
“Where are the others?” Clark asked.
“The p—pilot …” Greystoke drifted off as the memory came back. “A leopard ate him… .”
“We found the body. He was badly chewed up,” commented Werper. The archeologist was sitting on a stack of flight cases, surrounded by Mbuti porters who all watched Greystoke intently.
“The others?” pressed Clark.
“They bailed from the plane,” muttered Greystoke, replaying events in his mind. “Tarzan just picked them up and jumped… .”
Clark’s jaw worked, but words failed him. He sat back with an expression of disbelief and confusion.
“He’s not a man, he’s a monster,” barked Greystoke. “A savage … a barbarian …” He looked at Idra, studying her for the first time. She didn’t appear to show any injuries. “I thought he’d killed you.”
Idra managed a rare smile. “Me too. But he didn’t, even when he had the chance. He’s … fascinating. I was wrong about him.” She glanced at Clark who was staring at nothing, his brow creased in concern. She shook her head, focusing back on Greystoke. She handed him an energy bar. “Here. Eat. We need to get you back to the camp.”
“The camp?” exclaimed Greystoke between mouthfuls. “We’re not going back.”
“You’re in no state—”
Greystoke climbed to his feet, leaning on Clark for support. His legs shook, but sheer determination kept him upright. “We are pressing on.” He looked at Clark and, for a moment, softened as he read the sense of loss the South African was experiencing. Clark met his gaze. The optimism and determination that usually drove him on had gone; now he looked lost and bewildered.
