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

by Timothy James Dean

  “Let’s get out of here!” Johnny said.

  “How? Where?”

  Johnny pointed to the ribbon of puddles that had been the path, and the place it climbed into the jungle.

  “There!”

  He stepped to his pack and hauled it on, noticing that the illness had stolen his strength. Footy grunted into his own load, and the men snatched up their rifles.

  “River crocs,” the Aussie wheezed. “Not giants like the Father, but bad enough. Any one of these bastards can take us.”

  “We can shoot our way out,” Johnny said. “But there are too many.”

  “No good,” Footy agreed. “And we’re short on ammo. You want to wander New Guinea without a gun?” The men went to the edge of the knoll, ready to leap off and run. But they’d have to negotiate deep mud and flooded sections. And now there were four crocs between themselves and the path.

  “They’ll be on us faster ‘n a dingo on a duck,” Footy said.

  Johnny strode to the top to stare down the other side of the hill. He stopped when he saw the ring of predators approaching. The first was a big brute that had just reached the hill. It rushed up at Johnny. He jumped back and whirled to look at the tree. The attacker hissed and waddled closer.

  “Climb!” Johnny yelled. He slung his rifle over his shoulder, sprang to the tree and swung up. Footy turned to do the same. Johnny got his hands around the lowest branch as the big male arrived below. It was ten feet long and thick as a barrel. Johnny pulled up just as the croc lunged. Its jaw ground his boot against the trunk. He got his butt on the branch, but his pack jammed under the next limb, and his legs dangled down.

  The croc fell and immediately jumped again, jaws open. Johnny jerked his legs up in the nick of time, and the croc’s teeth crunched into the branch he was sitting on. It hung for a second and belly-flopped to earth. Johnny tugged his pack free and stood up. Where’s Footy?

  The Aussie had skidded to a stop when the bull came between him and the tree. Now another slipped up behind him.

  “Come on!” Johnny yelled, trying to balance himself and get his rifle ready, but it tangled in the branches.

  The big one faced Footy and roared. More crocs climbed the knoll on all sides. The Aussie was surrounded and he froze.

  “For your life, get up!” Johnny yelled.

  The Aussie stared around, the crocs slid closer, and Johnny could not get his rifle free.

  Then Footy did something that looked like suicide.

  CHAPTER 18

  Footy slung down his pack as five scaled brutes came at him. He reached inside and pulled out a leaf package. He opened it and bamboo shoots spilled out.

  “Bloody hell!” He shoved his arm back in. More vegetables, which he threw away. Finally he came up with a slab of pork.

  “Take this, you rotten bastards!” He lobbed the meat between two crocs and they hissed and turned for it. Johnny was still trying to get his rifle loose from the twigs so he could shoot. Footy dug in his pack again, and came up with more pig. This he tossed in another direction, and three more predators jostled away. But in the meantime, six of them had come up the grass.

  Footy probed deep and came up with his last roast. He bounced it in his hand as he looked at the big male between him and the tree. Its head went up and down, following the bouncing pork. Footy dropped it and kicked hard. The meat struck the croc between the eyes, zoomed off and splashed into the pile he’d made in his illness.

  The croc didn’t seem to mind. Its head went sideways and it scooped up the meat and the muck. Footy grabbed his pack in one hand, rifle in the other, and ran directly at it. The bull grunted and spread brown-stained jaws to welcome him. The Aussie made a desperate leap, cleared the snout, landed between the croc’s eyes, and used it as a springboard.

  A croc ran from each side and launched at him. Footy got his arm through a pack strap and wrapped it over the branch. He shoved his rifle at the Yank.

  “Help!”

  Johnny grabbed the firearm and pulled, dragging the Aussie behind it. The leaping crocs missed his legs and, jaws wide, slammed together. Teeth clashed like hammers and they tumbled down on the big one.

  Footy let go of the rifle, grabbed the tree and clung there. With the weight suddenly gone, a rifle in each hand, Johnny lurched backward along the branch. He would have fallen if he had not thudded against the trunk. The big croc snapped at the two on top of it, and they hissed and backed off.

  Johnny regained his balance and found his Springfield had come free. Footy stood up beside him and took his rifle back. The quarters were close, and Johnny got out of his pack. With one hand, he shoved it up and set it on the next branch. He climbed after it, and continued until he found a good place to perch. Footy came up as well and stopped on the limb below. The two stared down at the scaly reception party.

  “Strike me pink!” Footy panted. “I was nearly a pookpook sandwich.”

  “I guess we know what happened to the Jap,” Johnny said.

  “Struth! One of those buggers got him!”

  “Only way he’d go without his sword, or our stuff,” Johnny said. “But now what?”

  “Yes mate—now what?”

  The men considered this while fifteen crocodiles milled below. The big male nipped each one that came too close. They, in turn, edged away, pushing others. The cluster maneuvered until they lay around the trunk like spokes in a wheel.

  Footy looked down and hooted like a monkey. The reptiles cocked their heads. Johnny drank from his canteen. Footy took a swig from his own.

  Johnny remembered the brandy and, feeling weak from the sickness and now jittery, it struck him as a fine idea. We’re stuck up here for who knows how long? He pulled it out, uncorked it, and took a swallow. It went down like sweet fire. He tapped Footy with the bottle. The Aussie looked at what he was being offered.

  “A little early in the day, isn’t it mate?”

  The absurdity of that, here in a mud patch a million miles from anywhere, made Johnny laugh. Footy got the joke and neighed as well. He grabbed the brandy from the Yank and took a long pull.

  The men drank until it was a third gone, and their heads were spinning. Johnny put the cork in the bottle and returned it to his pack. He pulled out some wrapped pork.

  “Lunch,” he grinned at Footy. “You don’t mind if I dig in?” The Aussie suddenly realized he had no food left. Johnny let the leaf wrapper flutter down while he bit in. The reptiles fought over the scrap and tore it to shreds.

  “Mula was right, their mumu is the best!” Johnny said with his mouth full. “Too bad you decided to feed the lizards.”

  “Not the time to play ‘silly buggers,’” Footy said anxiously. “Give us a bite, would you?”

  Johnny took another mouthful and chewed. “Mmmmm!”

  “Stop taking the piss out of me!” Footy said. “Now, be a mate!”

  “Sure—if you say ‘please Johnny,’” he laughed with his mouth full.

  “Up yours with barbed wire—sideways!” Footy whined. “Don’t make me shoot you!” Johnny finished the meat and extracted some beans he forked in with his fingers.

  “Bloody hell!” Footy snapped. “You’re a right bugga, you know that? Alright Johnny, stop being a bloody wanker and give me a bloody bite to eat. Please.”

  “Now was that so hard?” Johnny asked. “Here you go!” He extracted another piece of pork, held it out and let it tumble.

  “Crikey!” Footy lunged for it. He swayed alarmingly, but caught it, and the crocs craned up. He had to stuff the meat in his mouth and use both hands to clutch the branch. The big bull clawed up the tree trunk, snout just below his dangling feet.

  Johnny chuckled and dropped a pack of veggies. One hand free, the meat between his teeth, Footy just managed to grab it. Eyes bulging, he glared up at the Yank.

  Johnny stared down at the filthy face, the hat back and the hair every which way, a slab of meat protruding from the mouth. He chortled wildly and was forced to grab the tree for balan
ce. Footy watched the Yank snorting, helmet jiggling, and the sheer silliness cut through his exasperation. He launched into spasms of high-pitched laughter.

  The crocodiles watched carefully, and understood nothing.

  Finally, the men chuffed to a ragged stop. They wiped their eyes and ate in silence. The crocodiles smelled the meat, and this they did comprehend.

  “You know about crocs,” Johnny said. “Do they eat their own kind?”

  “Shore,” Footy said. “Bloody cannibals, the lot of them.”

  “Nice bunch,” Johnny observed. “Right at home in New Guinea. There are more than twenty now. We can’t shoot them all. How ‘bout this?” He told Footy his idea.

  “Hardly counts as a plan at all,” the Aussie complained.

  “Got a better one?”

  “No.”

  “Want to do it?”

  “Right then. I’m with you.”

  Johnny swung down beside Footy. They helped one another get their packs on. The crocodiles saw the movement and stirred hopefully.

  Johnny and Footy aimed their rifles at the hind end of the big male.

  “Ready?” Johnny asked.

  “Ready mate.”

  “Fire!” Two rifles clapped almost simultaneously. On each side of the bull’s tail, just behind its back legs, a chunk blew out. Blood misted the air and the wounded croc shuddered and whipped around to nose its injuries. Its kin flinched away at the noise, then came instantly back on the tang of fresh blood. Eagerly, they snuffled for the source.

  The injured croc bolted for the river, dragging its broken tail. At once the others were on the blood trail. The gang slid down the slope on their bellies and ran across the mud flat. Johnny and Footy reloaded and prepared to jump.

  The bull was slowed by the weight of its tail. Its nearest pursuer caught up and bit the gaping wound. In its agony, the male shot for the sky, crashed down and bit its attacker. The two rolled across the field. They came to a stop with the big male belly up. It struggled to roll over, but more crocs rushed in and one bit the neck. The wounded bull's jaws flapped impotently while others chomped into its body. Scales ruptured and blood gushed.

  The men could no longer see the injured animal because of the pile-on. But then it heaved from the scrum and rushed for the river, the rest close behind. It reached the bank, dove in, and tried to lash away, but went nowhere. The tail canted uselessly to the side, and only the stump swung. A free-for-all erupted in the shallows. The next bite tore the tail clean off, and then teeth slammed in from all sides.

  The bull’s head sank and its last breath burbled up. Tan water turned to burgundy.

  “Go!” Johnny yelled. He and Footy jumped together. They skidded down the muddy bank, splashed through a pool, and dashed for the trail.

  They went by the carnivore picnic, and at last they were seen. A twelve-footer charged them, running faster than the men thought possible. It closed in from behind, and at the last second, Johnny jumped one way, and Footy the other. The croc lunged, and the head came between them, jaws spread. Then it belly flopped and went skidding through the mud, while the men bounded on.

  Johnny’s boots were weighed with great clods, he was still half sick, and the brandy was sour in his throat. Spots pinged before his eyes. Footy got ahead, intent on the trail where it climbed into the jungle. But now two more crocs raced from the sides to cut them off.

  Johnny frantically lengthened his stride, hit a patch of slick clay, and went horizontal in the air. He slammed down full-length, and all his wind was knocked out. For agonizing heartbeats, he lay unable to move, while the soldier shouted at him. At last he struggled onto hands and knees, but could not breathe.

  Footy and a crocodile converged. It charged, he jumped, and the croc’s jaws just missed as it went by. The thick tail swung, clipped his legs, and the Aussie did a cartwheel. The reptile turned to take him.

  Johnny still could not get air, but his Springfield was in his hands. His face was covered in mud, but he forced himself to kneel and aim, sure Footy was done for. Somehow the Aussie sprang up, the croc right on him. Though his eyes were bleary, Johnny managed to shoot it, high behind the forelegs. Spine shot! The animal rolled and lay still. Footy tore across the last few yards and bounded into the forest.

  Johnny’s diaphragm convulsed, but he still could not breathe. He forced himself to stand and smeared the mud out of his eyes as he ran. He went by Footy’s croc and saw that it watched him, but could not move.

  But then another one skidded onto the path in front of him and turned his way, tail flicking. It was between him and the trees. He glanced back and saw the whole pack coming. He knew his rifle was not loaded and he was out of time. The croc hissed and rushed him.

  But then its head bounced hard. Johnny heard the shot and glimpsed Footy, rifle smoking at his shoulder. The predator ripped a terrible burp into Johnny’s face and swayed. He took a couple of steps back, counted three as he ran, and leaped high. He went over the croc’s shoulders, caught a glimpse of the hole leaking blood in the back of the head, landed on his feet and pelted on.

  He high stepped through the puddles and reached the edge of the mudflat. He was done in, but he ordered his burning legs to make a final push, and scrambled up the trail. At the top of the rise, he fell on his knees. He was about to pass out when, at long last, he was able to suck in a searing lungful of air.

  And there was a filthy Footy, leaning on his rifle.

  “G’day Yank,” the Aussie grinned. “The buggers are still coming. We better shake a leg.”

  Johnny nodded weakly—it was all he could do. He pulled himself up on his rifle. Footy jogged ahead, and Johnny followed into the rainforest. Overhead, a cockatoo flared its yellow crest and shrieked at them. When they were sure they had outrun the crocodiles, they slowed, but kept walking.

  “You should see yourself, mate,” Footy gasped over his shoulder.

  “You too,” Johnny puffed. “You look dipped in pookpook pekpek.”

  CHAPTER 19

  They climbed a jungle-clad promontory. It thrust into the Raub, falling into the water in a series of mudslides. Johnny and Footy followed the trail. Still recovering from the sickness, they were much slower than usual, and had to pause frequently to catch their breath. They soon drained their water bottles.

  They were grateful when they approached the top, and the slope grew more gradual. They came to a spring bubbling through moss. They paused to slurp water and fill their canteens. They stripped, washed the mud off themselves and their clothes, and spread the wet things over the branches to dry.

  Both men were hungry—a good sign, they agreed. It meant they were on the mend. The sun dried their clothes while they lay back on the vegetation and smoked.

  “Blimey I'm hungry,” Footy said. “I could eat a kangaroo.”

  “You do that?” Johnny asked.

  “Shore mate,” Footy said. “A ‘roo’s meat is dark, but good with a sauce.”

  “Never thought about eating kangaroos!” Johnny said. “Me, I'd go for a T-bone steak, cooked over charcoal. Seared outside, pink in the middle.” His mouth watered.

  “Aww, put a sock in it!” Footy moaned. “I'm so hungry I could turn bloody cannibal.”

  “Don't look at me when you say that,” Johnny said. Footy chuckled and they lay quiet in the sun.

  “What made us sick?” Johnny wondered after a time.

  “Who knows in this bloody place?” Footy replied. “The last water we drank—maybe something died. But it could have been anything…”

  “…the food in Mula’s village. A bite from an insect.” Johnny paused. “I’ve got malaria as well.”

  “Me too,” Footy said, “but then, who doesn’t? You still reckon a croc got the Jap?”

  “I guess so,” Johnny said. “It was tough enough for us with our rifles.”

  “And in broad daylight. Bloody right,” Footy said. “I reckon a croc found him in the night and gave him a pull into the drink...”

 
; “…and that’s all she wrote,” Johnny finished. He started to dress. “Still, I didn’t come this far to have that Jap take us out. Let’s keep our eyes peeled.”

  “Yes mate,” Footy said, getting into his clothes. “We should have put him out of our misery long ago.”

  “Maybe you’re right,” Johnny conceded. “But he was our mission—all that was left of it. Now there’s nothing to do but hump to the coast and flag a ride out.”

  The men hiked down the far side of the hill. Darkness came while they were at it. They ate the last food they had left, cold sweet potatoes, and slept in the jungle by the trail.

  In the morning they pushed on. The storm had knocked the humidity out, and the air was fresh. Not long after, they skidded down the final incline and emerged in a field beside the river. They were both preoccupied with their hunger.

  They hiked on, and at last, late in the afternoon, they found more native gardens. They had no idea whose lands they were on, and they approached with rifles ready, but the place was deserted. In fact, they had seen no one since they left Mula. They pulled up mounds of sweet potatoes and knocked off the dirt. They discarded those riddled by insects and stuffed the rest in their packs. They found beans in hairy pods and stripped handfuls of these as well.

  They lit a fire and boiled the beans, and wolfed them down while the sweet potatoes roasted. When these were ready, they dragged them out with their knives. The men ate several each until they were stuffed, and saved some for the following day.

  In the twilight, Johnny tied his hammock between trees and Footy spread his blanket. Even though they had seen no people, they agreed they must continue to stand watch. They took turns, Johnny first. He found it strange not to have to think about the prisoner, feed him or truss him up, but it did make things easier.

  Shortly after sunrise next morning, they set off, eating cold kaukau as they went. They hiked along the river, ignoring the ever more numerous trails that turned inland. These, and frequent gardens, were ample evidence of natives, but there was no one around, and this was disturbing.