The Naked Jungle

by Harry Whittington

  It seemed like fifty hours crossing that fifty feet of water. He lost all reason and then his head bumped the raft, and that was how he knew when he reached it.

  He caught a side cord and clung to it. Fran tossed over the rope ladder. Alfred caught her, pulled her to the opposite side of the raft. She tried to writhe free.

  “Pull yourself into the raft,” Krayer said. “We’ll stay over here for balance.”

  Webb managed to raise his arms above his head and reach over the inflated cells of the raft. He clung there but was unable to lift himself. When he kicked his legs he only moved the raft away.

  Fran lunged free of Alfred. She fell across the raft and grabbed at Webb’s arms. He kicked his feet and tried to wriggle toward her. She caught him by the jacket and his foot found a rung of the rope ladder. He toppled into the raft against her.

  His head struck against the resilience of her stomach. He heard the breath gasp out of her. She touched his face. Her hands were warm and he could feel the warmth of her hands.

  He lay there, thought about the warmth of her hands and then he thought about nothing. He passed out.

  • • •

  Webb came awake with the sun in his eyes. They were kneeling on each side of him. He was under the tarpaulin and they were massaging him. His blood was stirring, his chilled flesh stung. His face was dry, caked with salt. He felt as if his cheeks would crack if he moved a muscle. He saw her hair bobble when she moved over him.

  He lay still a moment, feeling the blood stirring in his veins. He wriggled his toes and experienced the simple pleasure of being alive.

  Webb blinked his eyes. He looked at them: the sharp blond face of Alfred Krayer — blue eyes, firmly set mouth. His gaze moved to Fran. She’d put a man through hell, he thought. He smiled, salt cracking on his lips. “Thanks,” he whispered.

  Alfred stopped massaging him, sat back against a wall. “Don’t thank me. I didn’t rescue you simply from the goodness of my heart.”

  “You can bet on that,” Fran said. She pushed her hair from her face and glanced at her husband across Webb.

  Alfred looked as if he wanted to answer her but was stopped because they’d never taught scientists to cope with a woman like Fran. Instead he told Webb there were conditions connected with his being taken on this raft.

  Webb turned his head from Fran and looked at Alfred. He was still too ill to care about conditions.

  “The conditions are that you do an equal share in seeing that the three of us stay alive until we reach land or are rescued,” Alfred said….

  Three hours had passed since he’d first mentioned the conditions. Seeing Webb was too ill to care, he had fallen silent. Webb had let his head fall back, his gaze resting on Fran. He was tired and the rising sun warmed him and he slept. He woke up feeling thirsty and sweated, his salt-caked face drawn tauter than ever.

  “I’ll do what I can,” Webb said. He slid his tongue across his lips, wondering if there was any fresh water, knowing better.

  Fran said, “Alfred’s all prepared for thirty days at least.”

  Alfred’s voice was sharp. “It is possible to do worse than prepare for the longest time we can hope to stay alive without food in a raft like this. I can tell you, my dear, we’ll last less than a week without water.”

  “There’ll be search planes,” Fran said. “We have mirrors to attract them in daylight, and specially treated paddles to reflect night flares.”

  “If there are any night flares,” Alfred said.

  “There will be. There were over thirty of us in that crash. There are planes looking for us right now.”

  “They would be too late. Think how those people were packed in that one raft? For them I see no hope.”

  Fran looked at Webb. “There will be a plane, won’t there?”

  “A plane?” Alfred cut in. “What for? Those people cannot have lasted in that one raft.”

  “There will be one,” Fran said.

  “Dream on it, my dear, but don’t plan on it.”

  Fran stared at her husband. Her voice quavered. “A plane will come.”

  Alfred shrugged. “Perhaps. A search plane will come, find an oil slick where the plane sank, and that will be the end of the search.”

  • • •

  By the middle of the afternoon, the wind was rising and waves buffeted the raft. Fran was watching the storm clouds south of them. Alfred told her she could count on a disturbance every night. It would make their life more interesting.

  Fran met his gaze. Her voice was dead when she told him she didn’t see how her life could be any more exciting.

  “Stay with us, my dear,” Alfred said.

  “I intend to. I can’t remember when I ever had two men more completely to myself.”

  Webb glanced at her, smiled. Alfred’s voice cut between them. “Suppose you paddle a while, Millar.”

  Fran protested Webb wasn’t strong enough yet, but Alfred told her he wasn’t likely to get stronger on the diet ahead.

  Webb took the paddle. “I’m all right.”

  He got to his knees, thrust the small paddle into the water. Alfred told him with contempt to take it easier; they didn’t need anything spectacular right at first. “We’ll use the ocean current as much as possible.”

  “And where will that take us?” Fran said.

  “I don’t know. If I could accurately figure our position, I might plot a course. Anyway, I’m working on it. Meantime, we go westerly with the currents.”

  “The wind is against us,” Fran said.

  Alfred shrugged. “The sea anchor is full of water and dragging. That’s the best we can do about the wind.”

  Just at dusk, Alfred removed a chocolate bar from a lining pocket. It was limp and stuck to his fingers. He broke it into three small pieces and shared it.

  Fran looked at the glob of chocolate on her fingers. Her nose wrinkled. “Do they think of things like this to add to your discomfort?”

  Alfred ordered her to eat it. She protested against hot limp chocolate; she was already so thirsty she was ill. She watched Alfred eat his small hunk of chocolate and lick his fingers.

  She turned to Webb.

  He smiled, said, “Here’s how.” It was difficult to swallow the chocolate; his thirst was worse than ever.

  “Last one in’s a rotten egg,” Fran said. She took a deep breath, pushed it into her mouth. She swallowed and lunged around, half falling over the side of the raft.

  Finally she fell back against the wall. Her face was colorless. She massaged at her throat.

  Alfred said, “I warn you, Fran. You show no better control than that, you’ll be dead in two days. Nothing will dehydrate you quicker. Once you’re dehydrated, there’s nothing we can do.”

  Fran stared at him. Her voice was lifeless. “Look. Alfred, will you do me a favor? Just go to hell, will you?”

  • • •

  The wind rose and about eight o’clock the rain started. Fran laughed like a child, lay her face back, stretching her mouth wide, letting the rain beat at her.

  Webb and Alfred made a depression in the tarpaulin to catch as much water as possible. They emptied the first-aid tin into an inner lining, planning to use the tin as a drinking cup.

  Fran watched the tarpaulin slowly fill with water. She said, “You ever see anything so beautiful?”

  When there was three inches of water in the cover, Alfred scraped his hands in it as hard as he could. Fran screamed, trying to stop him. He pushed her away and shook the water out of the tarpaulin so it fell in the sea.

  Fran moaned. “Oh God, Alfred, I know you’re insane. But why’d you do a thing like that?”

  “He’s right.” Webb kept his voice soft. “That water wouldn’t have done us any good. Brackish — all the salt collected on the tarp all day. I would have done it. I just didn’t have the guts.”

  “What will we do for water?” Fran whispered. “I could have drank all we caught in there.”

  “We’ll catch more,�
�� Alfred said.

  The rain stopped abruptly….

  Fran cried herself to sleep. Alfred cursed her for depleting herself like that. “Giving way to your emotions,” he said. “That’s the shortest route to suicide.”

  Fran stopped crying long enough to lash out at him. “Didn’t you know? I’m trying to kill myself. It’s quicker than a divorce — and cheaper.”

  She slid down in the raft and Webb felt the pressure of her thigh against his leg. She was closer than she needed to be; there was more pressure than was necessary even with the thrust and roll of the waves. He could feel the warmth of her flesh through their clothing. He supposed he should move away. But he didn’t. However, he didn’t flatter himself there was anything intimate in her burrowing closer to him. She was lonely and frightened and she needed comforting.

  Just the same he thought about her, all night long. He sat still, staring ahead of him into the darkness. The wind rose and the waves battered at them. And he could feel the steady pressure of her thigh against his leg.

  SIX

  NOW KRAYER was studying a spool of nylon fishing line and hook. “We better put this out,” he said. “A fish might bite. Before long a fish will taste good.” He looked around. “We need some kind of lure. I don’t find any bait included.”

  Webb tore a corner off his shirttail. He reached over, took the hook, ran it through the piece of cloth.

  “Are fish really that dumb?” Fran said. She lay very still, too depleted to sit up.

  “Fish are dumber than people,” Webb said, watching the line playing out from the spool in Alfred’s hand.

  She said, “Alfred, what if that fishhook punctures this raft?”

  Alfred jerked his head around, blue eyes cold. “It won’t puncture the raft. I won’t let it. We’re going to keep this line east of the raft all the time. We’ll have to see it doesn’t get under it. It’s a chance we’ll have to take if we’re going to eat.”

  They were silent a long time. Webb slid down in the raft and stretched his legs. There was plenty of room but he felt cramped and trapped in the circular, two-celled float.

  Now that he was lying down, he became aware of Fran near him. She was too near. He closed his eyes, wanting to sleep. He was tired enough to sleep, but he knew he wasn’t going to sleep.

  He sighed, opening his eyes against the glare of the sun. Fran lay with her head at the other side of the raft, watching him. Her voice was low, spiritless. “How did you ever get out here? Where were you going?”

  “I don’t know. Things got rugged at home. Not worth it any more. I decided to do what I’d always wanted to do, come down here.”

  Krayer’s voice was sardonic. “Things got tough. So you ran away.”

  “Call it that if you want to.”

  There was brief, tired silence.

  “What else would you call it?” Krayer wanted to know. “Some people escape into drink, love affairs, mental illness. But all of them are trying to escape something — something they lack the basic courage to face.”

  Webb shrugged. It was a long time before he spoke again.

  “You miss my point. It’s not worth fighting for, why should you fight?”

  Krayer’s smile was cold. “Thought you could run away to the islands? I suppose you were stationed down here during the war?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you remembered the good … forgot the bad.”

  Webb was too tired to answer. “No. I knew I could find freedom down here, even of a sort. Rat race back up there. I was tired of it.”

  Krayer’s mouth showed white. “And you thought you could throw your life away and come down here?”

  Silence stretched, charged but weary.

  “It’s my life.”

  “Sounds wonderful,” Fran said. “A lot of people must wish they had the courage.”

  “Courage is an odd word for it,” Krayer said. “You won’t escape anything by running away.”

  Fran said, her voice low, “I’d rather believe that what I wanted was somewhere ahead of me, even if I never found it.”

  “Yes,” Webb said. “That’s why I’m here. The only reason.” Tiredly, he laid his head back.

  Krayer spoke slowly. “It must be easier that way. You don’t have to think, reason, face anything. A great level. It’s my wife’s level.”

  Fran smiled tiredly at Webb. “Hail, fellow moron.”

  Webb made the effort to grin. “Seen any good movies lately?”

  “Certainly. Wide screen. Technicolor. Double features.”

  “And popcorn.”

  Krayer’s sharp voice was like a knife between them again. “You better get some sleep, Millar. Believe me, when your four hours are up, I’m calling you to stand your watch.”

  Webb sighed. His chest was suddenly tight and he sat up, breathing deeply. He looked over the side of the raft, trying to see if a fish had fallen for that piece of cloth on a hook.

  • • •

  Webb stared across the sunstruck water. The swells were high but slow and lazy so the raft seemed to sit motionless. Krayer and Fran slept on each side of him. He watched Fran chew at her lips. How much longer could they stand it without water? He glanced at the sky: the cloudless sky.

  The spool wriggled in his hand. It took a long time for him to realize something had grabbed at the hook. He sat up letting the line play out. Come on, little fish. Be a nice little fish. Be nice. But be little. Not too little but not big enough to snap this line. He wound as much as he could, let the fish fight, then wound in again.

  Suddenly it broke water, a sudden flash of silver in the sun. Webb cried out. Alfred sat up behind him, wanting to know what was the matter.

  “Fish.” Webb whispered the word over his shoulder. Krayer pulled himself up on his knees, warning Webb not to let the fish snap that line.

  “He won’t break the line. Not my fish. My nice fish.”

  Fran’s voice was weak. “What you found, Webb? Bottle of water?”

  It took a long time and when they wound it in, Webb couldn’t reach the fish. He slid over the side of the raft, pulling the rope ladder after him. In the water, he felt the fever recede. He got as close to the fish as possible, put both hands under the water and brought them upward with all his strength. He watched the fish go arching into the raft.

  Webb pulled himself over the side of the raft, surprised he felt so much better after being in the water. He cleaned the fish with his pocket knife and Alfred cut the meat in narrow strips and spread them out in the sun.

  Fran pointed in horror at the fish hook. Alfred dropped the fish, grabbed the hook. He searched the raft wall for any sign of a break. He trembled. “Damn you, Millar, You ought to have better sense.”

  Webb said nothing. His tongue was swollen and he had reached the point where he didn’t speak unless he had to. But Krayer wouldn’t stop. “A fool trick like that can cost us our lives.”

  Webb reached over, took the hook, baited it with fish waste and tossed it back into the water. Krayer stared hard at him a moment, then began counting out the strips of fish. He divided them in three shares. Then he sat back, picked up a piece of meat and chewed on it. The illness showed in his face but he ate every bite of his share.

  Webb looked at his portion of fish, decided he wasn’t hungry enough yet. Fran was feverish and he told her he felt better after having been in the water. Fran said she was going over and Krayer told her to take off her dress; if it got wet, she’d be cold tonight.

  Fran pulled the dress over her head and went over the side in bra and pants. Webb felt his fever rising.

  She held to a side cord. “Watch for sharks. I’m scared to death out here.”

  He half-lifted her over the side of the raft. Krayer told her sharply to get under the tarp. She lay back against the wall. Then Krayer told her to eat some of the fish, but she refused. Krayer ordered her to eat it, but she burrowed deeper. Her leg touched Webb. He felt her trembling.

  Angered, Alfred said. “
I’m going in the water. I want you to eat some of that fish while I’m in there.” He jerked his head around. “Millar, watch for sharks.”

  Krayer went over the side, moving carefully. Fran said, “You know I can’t eat that fish yet, don’t you?”

  He touched her leg above her knee, patted her and smiled. Before he could move away, she turned her leg, spreading it slightly so his hand slid down against the warmth inside her leg. He caught his breath, wanting to move his hand away and not moving it. Such a hell of a thing to do, and he couldn’t help it. He closed his fingers on the softness of her flesh, pulling her leg hard against him.

  Her mouth relaxed into a faint smile; she sighed and he’d have sworn some of the tension left her.

  Krayer’s head appeared suddenly over the raft wall. He stared at Webb. “What the hell’s the matter, Millar. You look ill. You see a shark?”

  Webb shook his head. “Must be the fish,” he said. “I’m trying to eat.” He picked up a fish strip, chewed it. It tasted like a wet mop. Suddenly it didn’t matter. He ate it all, watching Krayer pull himself back into the raft….

  Late that afternoon it rained. Webb washed out the tarp quickly, scrubbing away the salt. They caught the tarp full of water.

  By nightfall Fran’s fever had subsided and she slept. Krayer took the first watch and warned Webb to sleep.

  Webb lay very still, staring at the stars that appeared in the cloudless sky. Fran stirred beside him. He felt the faint acceleration of his heart. He had to quit getting stirred up like this over her. The way his heart pounded and his pulses raced, he wouldn’t last a week. He closed his eyes, willing himself to sleep.

  He couldn’t get his mind off her. Wasn’t it bad enough to be in a spot like this, without asking for trouble? Who was asking for it? It was right there and had been from the first time he’d seen her in Honolulu. Only he’d never thought he’d see her again; she was just a lovely woman who was leaving her husband when they got to Sydney. Now here she was, near him, her legs pressed against him, her head at the other side of the raft.

  He opened his eyes, stared at the stars, tried to picture his island with Fran on it. Nice. But the picture had Krayer in it, no matter how he tried to shut him out. You’ve troubles enough, Millar. Strips of dried fish. A little water that will be gone or spoiled soon, an expanse of endless open sea.