TEETH - The Epic Novel With Bite (The South Pacific Trilogy)

by Timothy James Dean

The previous evening, his group ate another cold meal at a new camp close by. They had slices of bread spread with canned spaghetti. Footy voiced his impatience with this waiting game. It was pointless, he said.

  “Let’s get on with it! Let’s go after the buggers.”

  But Johnny’s expertise as a hunter of men made him disagree.

  “Keep your britches on,” he told Footy. “They must be running low on water. If we go looking for them, we could just as easily get bushwhacked. They know this terrain better than we do.”

  “Johnny’s right,” Dingo said. “Men and animals, they all have to drink.”

  “Another thing,” Johnny said. “When the Japs show up, and they will, let me get first shot. Then join in.”

  “And why is that?” Footy snapped.

  “Because I’m the best shot,” Johnny said evenly. The pilot began to protest, but Dingo put a hand on his arm.

  “Johnny is the best with a rifle, mate. I’ve seen his record. We’ll give him first go. Then see what you can do.”

  Early that morning, the three had taken up their stakeout again, and remained there all day. High in his tree, Johnny took in breaths that felt like rain waiting to happen. A bead of sweat trickled down his forehead and tickled his nose, but he did not move. Like other jungle animals and insects of prey, he knew to stay absolutely still. Movement attracts the eye—that’s the telltale. Many of his victims had made that fatal error.

  Johnny had sprigs of leaves woven through his clothing and in the netting of his helmet. The barrel of his rifle was wrapped in vines. He’d smeared mud on his face. The day dragged on, and the hissing of the cicadas lulled him, but he would not drift off. He was wedged in the tree so he would not fall, but he knew sleep was every soldier’s Achilles’ heel. Then even the most seasoned commando was as vulnerable as a baby.

  Through years of practice, Johnny could slow his breathing and sit completely still for hours on end. In fact, this was his element. Still, he couldn’t quite believe that he was back in the New Guinea jungle. He thought he’d left this place behind him for good! He remembered that Saturday, less than a week ago, when he’d learned he’d been released. Then it had looked like his scheme to get back to his unit had fallen into place.

  How did it all go so wrong? He sighed, and his mind buzzed back to Gwyn. What a knockout! She’s as pretty as a movie star. But why is it, every time I talk to her, I hem and haw like a moron?

  He thought about that day at the tent, when she promised to save tonight for him. Our first date! Three hours from now, he should be on his way to pick her up. And after dinner at the Islander, would she let me kiss her goodnight? He could almost feel those full lips, and a prickle went up his back.

  The swelling and ebbing of the cicadas tapered off. In the direction of the river, ducks exploded up. All of Johnny’s awareness sharpened. Then he saw it—motion in the jungle along the edge of the unseen river. That’s no breeze. Something moves there!

  The hunter put his eye to his scope and his finger curled around the trigger.

  CHAPTER 2

  Only Johnny’s eyes moved in his impassive face. Through the crosshairs, he watched the foliage shudder. He made out brown flashes in the greenery, and these resolved into skin that became four men slinking among the trees.

  They approached parallel to the river, along a faint side trail that joined the one Johnny watched. Adrenaline went through him like an itch, and he wondered if Dingo and Footy were aware.

  One by one, gazing warily around, the enemy soldiers stepped onto the broader path. Johnny had his Springfield up, and through the scope, he watched them come, willing them all into the open. The soldiers were emaciated, he noticed, their uniforms in shreds and their feet bare. The two in the middle carried canvas buckets in the crooks of their arms.

  Johnny’s scope revealed their faces in profile. The leader was short and squat, and appeared to be in his late forties. He wore a helmet, and his face was fixed in a frown. The helmet itself was the usual kind they wore, but blackened. He’s been cooking in it. The hard soldier grinned inwardly. Fire made a helmet brittle, useless to deflect a bullet.

  The second man had a conical “coolie” hat of woven reeds. The third wore an old cloth cap, and the last one had a strip of cloth knotted around his scalp. Each man carried a rifle, and Johnny saw the one at the back had a sword dangling from his waist.

  Johnny was studying this one when he whirled and seemed to stare right back. He feels me looking at him. Johnny had observed this phenomenon before, as if sight was not passive, but rather something that probed the world. Johnny looked into his face and dubbed him “Headband.” The cloth was soiled and had a faint image of the red sun on it. The “meatball,” Johnny thought. He felt the hatred again, strong as the morning he’d first seen the circle on the aircraft. Through the crosshairs, he saw the black stubble on the scalp, the dark triangles of the eyes, the weathered skin.

  The others continued to move away. In seconds, they would be over the riverbank, out of sight. Johnny decided to shoot them in order, front to back, so they’d block the trail. Helmet, Coolie, Cap then Headband.

  The three were on the lip of land that went to the river. Headband jogged to catch up. Johnny aimed at the first man. He centered the cross hairs below the rim of the helmet, tilted down between the shoulders and squeezed. The Springfield kicked and Helmet dropped. Spine shot.

  Johnny’s eye was already on his next target while his fingers reloaded. Coolie flinched when the first man collapsed, the clap just reaching him. Johnny squeezed again. Heart shot.

  The last two were suddenly hyperactive. Cap leapt off the trail and tore through the undergrowth. Headband jumped the corpses and raced for the river. Johnny heard a rifle cough below—a miss. He stayed on his plan. Again his fingers inserted a shell in the chamber as he panned the undulating shrubs. He could picture the runner clearly, even though he could not see him—another sniper skill. He fired, and a bush shook and went still.

  Then there was one. Reloading, Johnny whip-panned to Headband, and found him on top of the bank. There was another clap from the Aussie rifle—another miss. Johnny’s lip curled. He had the enemy in his crosshairs, but before he could slam the bolt home and squeeze, the target went over the top, out of sight.

  Johnny hitched his rifle over his shoulder and slid down the tree. He saw Dingo go tearing by, revolver in hand. At his heels raced Footy with the Lee Enfield. Johnny had to look where he was landing. When he glanced again, the trail was empty. He sprinted after the others. He heard shots—four, five of them. He scrambled up the bank, reached the top, and froze.

  Nothing in his life had prepared him for what he saw on the other side.

  Scientists say the saltwater crocodile has been around for two hundred million years and shared the planet with the dinosaurs. But “dinos” and all the other “saurs” disappeared en masse sixty-five million years ago, with two exceptions. One is the bird, the “living dinosaur.” The other is the crocodile, the closest relative to the ancient ones of all the so-called reptiles.

  The crocodilians not only survived, they went forth and multiplied. Crocodylus porosus, the giant ocean-going kind, voyaged from Africa to India, infested South East Asia, colonized the subtropical areas of Australia and ventured as far north as the frigid Sea of Japan.

  They invaded the island of New Guinea as well. Here they found an ideal home. There were no other large animals with which to compete. They were the apex predator of the entire place, and included all animals—including man when he arrived—in their diet.

  The massive bull was forty-four years old and in its prime, the dominant crocodile of the river and the surrounding ocean. Except when it indulged the occasional urge to copulate, it was too aggressive to tolerate company. It even killed the odd female that came too close when it was not in the mood.

  Alone as it preferred, the reptile spent much of its day basking on the riverbank. It luxuriated in the warmth seeping into its vast body. It s
pread its six-foot jaws, gaping at the sun. This normally revealed its sixty-eight teeth, but recently it had cracked one off on the skull of a pig. The replacement was just beginning to bulge under the gum.

  During most its long years, the bull relaxed completely as it basked, for nothing dared disturb it. But things had changed. Always now, the crocodile was uneasy, even here in the heart of its territory at the mouth of the river.

  The reptilian brain had no way to make sense of the ships and aircraft, bombs, artillery, and soldiers with firearms, which invaded its realm. But it did observe them, and it reacted with territorial fury. Yet its anger was impotent—the invaders remained far off. At times its unrequited aggression was so strong, all the muscles in its four thousand pound body tightened like cables. Even when the interlopers were not in sight, the beast fretted.

  On several occasions, soldiers saw the monster in the distance. Invariably, some shot at it. They did this instinctively, without knowing why. If pressed, they would have said it was sport.

  The bull knew it was being attacked only when it felt blows against its scales, and then heard the claps of sound. Sometimes it felt merely the thumps against its thick hide, but other times, there were stabs of pain. Infuriated and alarmed, the reptile rushed into the river.

  Once, when the sting was particularly sharp, it whirled with jaws agape, but found no tormenter to confront. The giant raised its head and roared, to the horrified delight of the far off soldiers.

  The changes in its territory tormented the beast. It grew ever more agitated, and at last, could not remain. It swam into the South Pacific and navigated the huge rollers to distant islands. There it lolled in a lagoon formed by a coral reef, consoling itself on the plentiful fish.

  On shore, it discovered another herd of the two-legged animals. When these were foolish enough to venture onto the lagoon in a hollow log, the crocodile went to meet them. One swipe of its tail knocked them into the water with it. It was easy to pluck the toothsome morsels as they thrashed and screamed.

  Occasionally, one of the creatures made the mistake of sleeping on the beach. Then the great predator eased out of the waves and came for it. The foolish one would awake in the embrace of the mighty teeth. When the herd discovered what had happened to its missing member, what cries and carrying on there were then!

  The predator might have doubled its span of years in that place, but its instincts drove it back to its river. While returning across the ocean once more, a furious buzzing came from above. The irritated reptile shifted course and swam on.

  A Zero fighter flashed over, returning from a mission. The pilot saw the monstrous black shadow weaving below, and swooped down for a closer look. He absorbed the unbelievable length, as long as his aircraft. He imagined himself in the water with it, as one day he might very well be. At once, he threw his aircraft in a loop, screamed back and opened up with his 7.7mm machine guns.

  The crocodile heard the thunder, saw the spurting water, and dove. Through its transparent eyelids, it watched white spears drill for it and went deeper. The danger passed, and it felt a patter like rocks that rolled off its back.

  The pilot cut another tight circle, but there was only the dancing Pacific, and he gave up his diversion and continued to base.

  The reptile swam submerged, fear and ire pumping through it. Only when it must, did it come up for air, suck in a breath, and sink again.

  A day later, the crocodile tasted mud in the stream. Following the trail, it came in sight of familiar land and navigated to its channel. As it coursed between the banks, its kin saw the return of their violent patriarch. Many had witnessed it maim and even slaughter other bulls that had dared mount a challenge, and they bolted for their lives.

  The crocodile cruised through the murk and lay among the reeds. It had hatched near this place, and it knew every hole where the big fish finned. But even now, it could find no rest.

  Ever stronger, an impulse rose within it. At last the crocodile lifted off the bottom and turned into the current. It swung the great tail and surged against the stream. On it went, while the bright light crossed from one horizon to the other. Then, in the dark, guided by the flow, it continued. Eventually, the light returned, and on it swam as the rows of triangular scutes along its back transferred heat into its body.

  During its lifetime, the predator had made several excursions up the river. All this was its territory, and every other crocodile that saw it coming froze where it was, or flailed rapidly away.

  The bull continued, and it remembered the places of the two-legged herds. Long before it saw their nests along the shores, it scented the body odor and the tang of smoke. It drew closer and saw the animals themselves, and heard their plaintive cries. It would have been natural for the reptile to stay for a time and feed, but now, driven by something stronger than hunger, it swept by.

  The villagers clustered along the banks to witness the passage of the fearsome spirit of the river. Each tribe identified it in its tongue as the Father of the Crocodiles, and even the fingers of brave warriors trembled as they pointed out its passage to their young. Since birth, the little ones had heard frightening tales of the giant, but they had not seen the manifestation of the dark deity until now.

  As the crocodile surged towards them, the people were appalled. Surely, some of them would die. But when it voyaged on, their knees went weak with relief, then wonder. Why had they been spared this time? Should the incarnation of the river’s anger have chosen them, or their children, they would have been powerless. They must live on the river—there was nowhere else to go. Their sorcerers could perform all their incantations, but the giant pookpook was a force far greater than that.

  The reptile traversed the low country and swam into the highlands. Eventually it penetrated the foothills of the central mountain range. Now the country was so remote and wild, it no longer saw the two-legged prey. At last the mountains pressed in, the banks drew close together, and water ran swift and clear. At times it roared in rapids the crocodile must climb, dragging itself over the stones, until it came to deeper pools and glided on.

  It entered territory it had never seen. It explored the new realm and discovered another herd of the two-legged prey. It was quiet here, and the impetus that had driven it so relentlessly began to ease. Its natural hunger returned.

  From the waterweeds, only its eye knobs showing, the crocodile watched the movements of the prey. It noted each individual that came to the river, and at what light of day. It chose its target, eased by night into its chosen place, and crouched absolutely still, covered by water.

  Soon it sank its teeth into the good flesh once more. Its belly ceased to complain, and its nerves calmed.

  The reptile had killed one of the females a few days before. It carried the carcass to a solitary place on the river, ate its fill, and hid the rest under a deadfall. This morning, it nosed the remains out and bit into flesh redolent with rot.

  Content, it drifted along the bank and crawled out to bask. It lay enjoying the blaze of heat on its back, and the warmth that seeped into its belly from the soft mud.

  Then all at once, the Father was attacked. The explosions it feared rang in its ears, while pain pierced its head and body. The reptile whirled, and this time, it found its tormenters right beside it, within easy reach.

  Johnny scrambled up the bank and froze. The slope fell away into the river, and lying along it was an enormous crocodile. It was so massive, it dwarfed the three men along its flank. In the presence of their far more ancient foe, these had forgotten one another.

  Johnny saw the enemy beside the tail, firing his rifle. Footy was in front of him, shooting into the flank. Dingo was near the head, firing his pistol into it.

  The Father!

  Even as the knowledge thrilled through Johnny, the crocodile looked at him. He saw the thick neck, the folds in the skin as the head turned. He watched the jaws fly open and saw all the long teeth, wet with saliva. But it was the yellow-green eyes that drew him with th
eir predatory malevolence. Johnny noticed the dark malformed scales shaped like a crescent moon over one of them.

  He was bringing up his rifle when his peripheral vision caught the ridged tail swinging inland. His attention remained on Dingo, who was in extreme danger. The Major fired repeatedly while his feet backpedaled.

  But the crocodile was too fast. The wide head went sideways, the jaws slid around Dingo, covering him from chest to knees, and it bit him. Johnny heard bones crack and the grunt that squeezed out of the Major. The crocodile lifted him like a feather as hat, pistol and knife fell away.

  Johnny was still getting his rifle to his shoulder when the tail hit the enemy. Instantly, man and rifle parted company. The firearm tumbled into the water, while the Japanese flew over the bank in a crash of branches.

  The Father, Dingo drooping from its jaws, turned to the river. Its flank struck Footy and bowled him onto his back. It had only been seconds since Johnny arrived, and he had the crosshairs on the huge speckled eye with the vertical iris. He squeezed the trigger as the tail came to the end of its swing and bumped his legs. It was like being tapped by a steel beam. Johnny flew sideways as the bullet exploded from the muzzle at 2,900 feet-per-second. Instead of the eye, the shot hit the crocodile’s foreleg.

  It was a high velocity 150-grain slug in a metal jacket and it ripped through scales and flesh, shattered bone, and tumbled on. The end of the Father’s foot blew off, a mass of toes and claws that fell in the river.

  The crocodile hissed in agony and swung its head to its injury. It saw the shredded foreleg and the creature behind it. A blast of pain slammed through it as it stared at the helmeted man.

  That image would remain vivid as long as it lived—the ruined limb, the smooth-headed man, and the overwhelming agony. It sucked in a breath, and drew in the unique body scent of its adversary.

  Johnny reloaded. The crocodile heard the clicks and fear welled with the pain and fury. For a moment it vacillated, caught in the equal urges to attack and escape. The man between the teeth heaved and groaned. Dingo is still alive! Johnny realized.