The Naked Jungle

by Harry Whittington

  Krayer fed Fran the salted milk those three times. The rest of the time he sat immobile. Then he would lean forward, touch her forehead, the small of her back or check her pulse.

  The awesome silence seemed to intensify the hatred between the men. They were stranded and forsaken on an unknown island and both had the feeling they might stay there the rest of their lives — with nothing but one woman and their hatred between them.

  Anger rode the stillness. Contempt kept Krayer from suggesting that Webb take it easy, rest some. And what Webb felt kept him from speaking to Krayer at all. Her naked body lay between them. Tense and wary, they were ready to spring at each others throat.

  There was the grumble of thunder from windward.

  Webb straightened slightly, listening. “If it rained, that would help her, wouldn’t it?”

  “Anything cool would help. But I don’t think it will rain from a sky as clear as this.”

  “You may be wrong,” Webb said. His hands kept moving. “I’ve seen it rain down here every fifteen minutes with the sun shining bright.”

  Krayer stretched out on the grass beside Fran. He locked his hands under his head. His voice was taunting. “Undoubtedly, you’re a devout man, Millar. Why don’t you pray for rain?”

  Webb stopped working. “Don’t bend it, Krayer. You begin to irk me.”

  Krayer didn’t move. His voice remained calm. “Don’t worry, Millar. You’ll have your chance at me.”

  Webb laughed tiredly, despite himself.

  Krayer turned his head slightly. “Did I say something amusing, Millar?”

  “I don’t know. You turn it to buttermilk, Krayer. You don’t look like a man spoiling for a fight.”

  “Make no mistake. I’m not. I do just what has to be done.”

  “Sure…. And fighting me is one of those things?”

  “I think it’s indicated. If I didn’t, I’d never have mentioned it. Even the things I saw you do to my wife, I could have tolerated — if I’d thought tolerance was the answer.”

  Webb stopped working again. His voice was cold. “You expect a fight between us to settle a number of things, don’t you, Krayer?”

  The moonlight fell across Krayer’s sharp-chiseled features. Webb could see that Krayer’s eyes were barely opened, narrowed to slits.

  “There doesn’t have to be a fight, Millar. If I thought you were a man with cool intellect enough to do the things he was told — for his own good — I’d be willing to accept that.”

  “But you know better?”

  “I’m a good judge of character. I know better.” Fran whimpered.

  Webb stopped working, bending over her. Krayer came up from his back and pulled himself to his knees. Their hands bumped over her forehead.

  Krayer said, “You know so much about temperatures, Millar, go right ahead.”

  Webb moved back, realizing Krayer’s sarcasm was justified. He sat on his haunches and Krayer took her pulse, felt her forehead and lay down again, without speaking.

  Webb sat silent a moment, wanting to ask Krayer about the change in her, but refusing to do it. He moved forward again, touched her forehead. It was still hot and he felt the blood throbbing in the vein at her temple, but he was sure the fever had abated.

  Her head moved under his hand. Her voice was weak.

  “Webb.”

  Krayer sat up on the other side of her. Webb heard his sharp intake of breath. For a moment they waited over her.

  Krayer said, “How touching. She calls for you in her delirium, Millar.”

  “Yes. As far as she’s concerned, you’re past Sydney, Krayer. Way past.”

  “As far as she’s concerned. But here’s a little suggestion. There’s no use for you to answer her. She doesn’t even know what she’s saying.”

  Krayer stood up.

  “I’m going to get some more salt water,” he said. His mouth quivered, pulling down. “You may stop bathing her now.”

  “Doesn’t she need it?”

  “Your gallantry has already gone far beyond the call of duty, Millar. Why don’t you relax for a little while?”

  A sudden rain pelted down. Krayer glanced up at the moon and then again at Webb. He said, “You might keep wiping the rain off her face.”

  He turned and moved through the underbrush.

  When Krayer returned, he prepared the coconut milk and salt water. This time Fran drank it down without protest. She lay back on the tarp.

  The rain ceased after about twenty minutes. There was a chill in the air and a freshening breeze in from the ocean.

  Krayer removed the other tarpaulin from the raft. He rolled it, twisting it in his fists until it was dry. Then he spread it over Fran.

  “She’ll be cool enough now for a while,” he said.

  Webb lay down near her. His clothes were soaked and the wind chilled him. He felt his sun-blistered flesh tingling; it seemed to contract when the wind struck it. His teeth chattered.

  Fran whispered, her voice whimpering. “Webb.”

  Webb got up and moved back to her.

  “I want to go home,” she said.

  Krayer propped himself up on his elbows. He said, “Go to sleep, Millar. She doesn’t even know what she’s saying. We’ve done all we can do for her now. She’ll be much better by morning. Especially if we get a few more of your freak showers.”

  Webb sighed and lay down again. But this time he was on the edge of the tarpaulin. He knew that Krayer was watching him, but Krayer said nothing.

  Sure, Webb thought, we’ll settle this whole matter, all of it. Later.

  Fran whispered again. “Please, Webb. I want to go home.”

  “We’ll get you home.”

  Krayer spoke sharply. “Damn it, Millar. Save that crap. She doesn’t know you’re talking to her. She’s delirious. If she must talk, we can’t stop her. But at least, spare my having to listen to you.”

  “Why the hell don’t you go to sleep?”

  Krayer inhaled deeply. He pulled himself up and Webb saw him crouched and tense in the moonlight. A breathless still hung in the jungle. After a moment, Krayer sighed and slumped again to the ground.

  His voice was mordant. “Until morning then, Millar.”

  • • •

  Fran’s breathless whisper beat at Webb. “But you’ve got to understand, Webb. So … important. I want to tell you.”

  Krayer sat up. “She’s imagining some sort of scene between the two of you. Very touching.”

  Fran said. “But I did win that contest, Webb. You know I won that beauty contest? I did….” Her laughter was weak. “Mother was like you. Mother was shocked. Had kittens. But when I won, she was real proud. Are you proud, Webb? Do you think I was silly? You do think I was silly…. Was it the strapless bathing suit? Strapless bathing suits were new in my town. People were shocked. It’s just that I never was in love. That’s why I keep trying to tell you. You mustn’t … laugh. Mother was the reason I went around with Jonathan. Mother wanted me to marry him. I tell you, I couldn’t help it. She thought Jonathan was so nice. Made me date him all the time. He was fast. Fastest boy I ever knew; Mother wouldn’t believe…. Boy she didn’t like. Named Kirby. Real nice boy. But no money. Took me all nice places. See, I loved nice places. I always loved nice places with lots of lights and music. Love dancing. Always loved dancing.”

  Webb touched Fran’s face. “Stop it, Fran. You’ll wear yourself out.”

  Krayer laughed. “You’re talking to yourself, Millar.”

  Fran twisted her face away from Webb’s hand. “But I was having fun, Webb. Had so much fun. Just that I never fell in love with anybody though. Mother had her say. Always had her say. Brought rich boys for me to meet. Liked them. Always liked them all. Fine. But love — never loved them. Kept getting older. All the time I was getting older. Won beauty contest. Got job as model. Knew everybody. Went everywhere. Only never loved anybody. Not enough. Looking for something.”

  Her voice quavered and broke and she rolled restlessl
y under the tarp. “Poor Webb. You were looking for something too weren’t you? Wife left you. Guess she didn’t love you enough, either. Or maybe you were looking for something and she wasn’t it…. That happens. That can hurt a girl, Webb. Something terrible … when she finds out … when she finds out she’s not what you want … she gets all hurt. It doesn’t matter then. Win beauty contests. Get job model. Doesn’t matter. Doesn’t help ego one bit. Ego all in the mud. Muddy ego. That’s what happens. Ego gets low. You’re not what he wanted. You can’t ever be what he wanted…. You get all mixed up…. You wonder why he married you. Wonder if maybe you’re all wrong. Remember, you never fell in love…. Maybe something is wrong inside you. He married you. But he doesn’t want you — not way you want to be wanted…. You see a man. Maybe something about him interests you. You wonder — can you interest him? Can you? Can you? Damn it, can you? The man you married … can’t interest him. This new man — maybe you can interest him. Maybe drive him crazy? Maybe he’ll drive you crazy? … And sure, you can interest him…. Only man you married finds out…. Very ugly business…. He tells you about yourself. Out loud. Very out loud…. In front of people. He tells you, you’re a tramp. You can interest any man, he tells you, as long as you’re free … as long as you’re a tramp…. You cry. All broken inside. You know … you’re not a tramp. You’re not. You’re looking for something — something you can’t find. Only you’re all wrong. No matter what you do, you’re all wrong.”

  Krayer was sitting up beyond her. His voice crackled, “If I had a sedative, I could stop that.”

  “Sure,” Webb said. “It would make you feel a hell of a lot better, wouldn’t it?”

  Krayer sat up. His voice was harsh. “She’s delirious. She doesn’t know what she’s saying. Don’t forget that.”

  “I never said she did.”

  Krayer stood up. Fran went on whispering, her voice sounding breathless and hollow. Krayer stood with his fists clenched at his sides, his legs apart. Webb saw globules of sweat where the moon touched Krayer’s forehead.

  Finally, after what seemed long moments of attempting to get his emotions under control, Krayer spoke. Webb stared up at him, thinking there was only one thing that upset the perfect balance inside Alfred Krayer’s mind — Krayer’s wife.

  Krayer’s voice shook. “Millar, I think if you don’t want trouble with me — before morning, you better walk down the beach a ways and sleep the rest of the night.”

  Webb stayed beside Fran for a moment. He looked up at Krayer. He knew the man was right; he could see Krayer was being tortured. An outsider didn’t have to stay and watch it. Even the perfectly adjusted Alfred Krayer was capable of pain, suffering it as well as inflicting it.

  He glanced at Fran. There wasn’t any more he could do for her. He nodded, started to get up.

  Fran moaned. “Webb, where are you?”

  He stopped. “I’m here.”

  “You’re going away,” she whispered.

  He looked up at Krayer. The man’s voice was barely audible: “Stay, damn you. If she’s conscious and aware of you, I want you to stay. You may as well know me. I’ve learned self-control. I can endure even hell — for the rest of the night.”

  ELEVEN

  WEBB STARED at Krayer. First, he decided none of this was real. It was a nightmare; or if he was awake, it was hallucination.

  He stood, swaying slightly on the beach in the first crack of dawn. His shirt was still damp so he’d not bothered to put it on all night. He was bare to the waist and he felt chilled in the morning breeze.

  His legs were apart and he was more than half-drugged from weariness and lack of sleep. He tried to pull his gaze away from Krayer, but couldn’t do it. The whole chain of events was insane, and Krayer was the center of that insanity. It was as if Webb had become hypnotized and could not stop staring at him.

  He shook his head and tried to clear it, but his brain was fogged by exhaustion and nothing would help but rest. However, there wasn’t going to be any rest for him, not yet, and he was caught up in a whirling madness.

  It had started at the first moment of daybreak, or maybe it had started the moment he saw Alfred Krayer on that plane in Honolulu, or maybe it began with time. It was hatred; that was clear enough, even to his tired mind.

  He had been slumped with his knees drawn up, arms across them and his head resting on his arms. Finally, about an hour ago Fran had gone to sleep for the first time. Webb had remained sitting beside her, too tired to move, too sore to lie down.

  He’d felt Krayer’s hand on his shoulder. Dully, he looked up.

  Krayer stood above him, barefooted, his face a cold mask. “Come out on the beach with me.” Krayer’s voice was low but chipped like flint.

  Webb winced, scrubbed his hand across his face. “What are you talking about?”

  “Not here.”

  “What you want, Krayer?”

  “We’re going to settle it, Millar. Out on the beach — away from Fran or here in front of her. It’s up to you.”

  Webb’s eyes widened. “Are you crazy? It isn’t even daylight. I haven’t slept.”

  Krayer’s voice didn’t change. “It will be daylight soon. It’s not my fault you haven’t slept, or any of my concern.”

  He stood above him waiting. For a long time Webb stayed where he was, feeling nothing. There were no reflexes; there was nothing but bone weariness.

  Krayer said, “Are you coming, Millar? We can settle it here. I don’t care.”

  Webb peered up at him again, then glanced at Fran who was asleep on the tarpaulin. He managed to pull himself up on his unsteady legs.

  Krayer studied him a moment, turned on his heel and strode out on the beach. Webb followed slowly, none of his perceptions clear. On the white sand, he stopped and blinked against the sudden brilliance of the sun. Daylight came in over the water on long silver shafts.

  Krayer said, “I’ve no more relish for this than you have, Millar. But I feel it is as necessary as it is unpleasant.”

  Webb managed to come awake enough to see that Krayer was coldly serious. He felt the odd emptiness in his stomach as he stared at Krayer. What was Krayer thinking? Krayer never started anything in his life that remotely contained any element of adverse chance. How did Krayer expect to win this fight, even with Webb half-dazed and sleepy?

  “Are you ready?” Krayer inquired.

  Webb fought back the conflicting urges that suddenly attacked him. He wanted to laugh, he wanted to kill that man before him, he wanted to heel around and run. It was wildly crazy. What in God’s name could be any more insane than the college amateur boxing stance that Krayer had assumed there on the beach?

  Webb swallowed, feeling ill and frustrated. Krayer’s slender arms were up, well in front of him; his left arm was extended, his right fist was cocked before his chest.

  It didn’t make sense. Krayer was as tall as Webb, but fifteen pounds lighter. His fair tender skin was blistered and lobster red; his tawny hair bobbled over his high forehead, and his blue eyes looked strained and pale from too much study. He looked as though a bookworm had been gnawing at his soul.

  Even after five days without shaving, there was only a pale down on Krayer’s cheeks. At home he must have been a three-times-a-week man with a razor. His features were sharp hewn and his narrow lips were compressed. He sidled slowly forward, his eyes wary.

  Webb dropped his arms at his sides. “Let’s stop this,” he said.

  “I asked you, are you ready? Begin it, Millar. Or I will.”

  Webb breathed deeply. The sleepiness was gone now. In its place was the certain, crawling knowledge that the whole world was starkly insane. His fists knotted, but he moved in holding them at his side. He was no fighter, he’d had less than half-a-dozen fights in his life. But he’d been taught how to box in the Navy and he’d never backed out on a fight. Suddenly he knew that he wasn’t going to hold back any longer.

  He stepped toward Krayer and saw the man crouch, lowering that silly gu
ard and tensing himself.

  Krayer lunged forward and Webb forgot even the rudiments of self-protection. He stood straight, waiting until Krayer was almost upon him. Then he drove his left fist against the side of Krayer’s head.

  Krayer staggered and toppled sideways, striking the ground on his left arm.

  Webb unclenched his fists and started toward him. Krayer spun around with the agility of a monkey and sprang against Webb with his arms outflung. Webb felt his legs grabbed below the knees and he toppled backwards helplessly.

  The breath was jarred out of him. But the moment Krayer released his legs, he bent them and got his foot against Krayer’s shoulder and shoved him halfway across the beach.

  Webb got up slowly, still breathless, and discovered that the fight wasn’t yet over. Krayer scrambled to his knees and came back at Webb from that position. His arms were out and he was trying to push Webb backward off balance.

  There was no way to fight him. Krayer threw his arms around Webb’s hips and he dug his heels into the sand and tried to send Webb off his feet.

  Webb took two long steps backward. He caught Krayer’s hair in his left hand, jerked his head up and smashed his right fist into the man’s face. He felt the crunch of flesh against bone, felt the jar of that blow all the way up his arm. Blood spurted from Krayer’s nose and he moaned. The anger seeped out of Webb and he relaxed his fists and didn’t hit Krayer again.

  Suddenly, lightning struck Webb in his groin. Before he was even aware that the man had moved, Krayer’s knee came up. Webb gagged, stumbled forward and doubling up. He crossed his arms and pressed in against the fire in his stomach.

  He heard Krayer’s cold laugh. Then through the haze over his eyes, he saw an arm go up. The side of Krayer’s hand chopped down on the tendons along Webb’s neck. It was as though the pain in his loins bounced, burning all the way to the crown of his head and then rebounded faster than ever.

  He struck on his knees, still gagging and no longer able to see Krayer at all.

  One of Krayer’s fists struck Webb in the right temple. His head sagged, another fist caught him in the left temple, rocking his head. The agony in his body paralyzed him. His arms fell away from his agonized stomach. He reared back, trying to get a full breath of air.