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

by Timothy James Dean

  Johnny looked at the Father. The crocodile was so close, he could have touched its snout. In ecstatic rage, the crocodile glowered at its enemy. The body scent of the man was unmistakable.

  This was the one-prey.

  Johnny saw the great throat contract and realized the reptile had swallowed Footy’s leg. Something twisted inside him. Blind fury exploded, and he no longer wanted to run away.

  He glanced around for a stick or a rock—anything to beat on the beast that had murdered his friend.

  CHAPTER 11

  The Father faced its enemy and the urge to kill was immense.

  Before dawn broke, the crocodile had dredged itself in mud and crept up the bank. It moved like the stalker it was, careful not to betray its substantial presence. By midday it was in place. Through a veil of leaves, it watched. With its sharp hearing, it listened. With sensitive nostrils, it tested the air. In a motionless fever of anticipation, it waited.

  In the cool of the day, it had its reward. The two-legged animals galloped down the sand toward its place of ambush. The crocodile heard the raucous cries and part of it relaxed, while another part tightened like a great coil. The three animals approached together. The hidden predator watched them come. The distinct odor of the one-prey speared into its brain.

  The predator bit the first man because it touched him and tried to run. That was all instinct. Then the Father faced its true goal. The small creature before it had fur on its head, but the reptile sucked in its scent and knew it was in the very presence of its enemy.

  The crocodile stepped to the one-prey, so close its snout brushed him. It rumbled so its throat and belly vibrated and saw the creature tremble in its breath, fur lifting on head and chest.

  Johnny glanced around for a weapon and spied a heavy branch the croc had broken off. Normally it would have been too much to handle, but now he snatched it up like a sapling.

  The scarred eye was in front of him as the crocodile sized him up. With every ounce of strength Johnny had, he swung the club over his head and brought it down. The wood cracked the reptile over the eye knob, so hard Johnny’s feet almost left the ground.

  Always, the scar had been sensitive. The blow did not damage the thick bone or the eye itself, but the pain was searing. The Father flinched and was flooded with killing fury. It hissed in the prey’s face. The man jumped back and raised his stick again. The reptile parted its jaws and came for him.

  Again, Johnny swung his club like an axe into a woodblock. It struck the crocodile between the eyes and all down the snout to the nostrils. The Father recoiled and air hissed through its teeth. Being hit like this was a novel experience, not one it enjoyed. Its wrath expanded beyond all bounds.

  Johnny saw the head go sideways in the same way the Father had taken Dingo, the jaws opening to engulf him. He jumped backwards as it lunged. The edge of the lower jaw struck him. He somersaulted and dropped his branch. The beast realized it had bitten air as Johnny scooped up the club and cocked it over his shoulder like an overgrown baseball bat.

  The reptile grunted as it saw the creature at bay, prepared to make its last stand. During all the years of its life, the Father had seen uncounted animals in this ultimate predicament. In the prelude to their death, they bared their pitiful claws and teeth.

  Again, the crocodile roared. Johnny felt his whole body vibrate. The brute shoved its huge head out from its hulking shoulders and fixed the man in its most ferocious stare. Johnny was almost mesmerized.

  But the man was a killer himself. In his mind, he had never stopped attacking. Now Johnny swung his club with all his might, aimed at the eye again, the only vulnerable spot on the armored creature. Seemingly without effort, the Father cracked its jaws and caught the stick. It jerked, and the wood ripped from Johnny’s fingers, stripping skin. The crocodile crunched the branch like a toothpick, dropped the splinters, and stepped so close its front teeth rested against him.

  “Uh oh,” Johnny said. Gwyn flashed into his mind and he felt a stab of regret for the things they would never do, and that was all the time he had. The Father spread its jaws and Johnny looked into the dark tunnel he was about to enter.

  There was a blur of motion from the side. Cat ran at the crocodile, sword in hand. He stepped up the malformed foreleg and leapt astride the neck.

  The crocodile experienced another novel sensation. It had never been ridden before. It turned its head sharply, trying to see what was there, but could not. It swung its head the other way and Johnny barely managed to jump back. The great snout just missed him. The crocodile peered over its shoulder and saw a man shape.

  As Katsu had raced to camp and snatched up his katana, he tried to plan. The best technique with the sword was the slashing cut, but the monster’s skull would be such heavy armor, he must improvise.

  Katsu rode the Father’s neck and raised Katsumushi-maru in both hands, pointed down. The crocodile hissed and launched straight into the air, trying to throw the rider off. Johnny watched the head shoot up, so high the forelegs came off the ground.

  Katsu rode the reptile almost standing, knees pressed to the scales, belly against the rock skull. The Father went ten feet among the branches, then slammed down with such force, the earth bounced.

  Somehow the Japanese kept his seat. Johnny saw the intensity of his focus as he adjusted the katana slightly to one side.

  Katsu shouted and stabbed. The sword slid into the Father’s moon-eye. Liquid popped and the steel went through bone, shot into the mouth between the top teeth, and pierced the floor of the lower jaw. It stopped when it jammed into heavy bone there. Cat’s face was a fierce mask.

  The crocodile’s jaws flew open and it bawled pure agony. Johnny stared into the gaping mouth and saw the red-stained steel at the back.

  The Father spun and ran for the ocean. Johnny threw himself flat to escape the tail that swung over him like a tree trunk. Trees toppled as the colossus broke them down and charged for refuge. Johnny ran out behind it and saw Cat ride the brute down the beach and into the surf. Unbelievably, the Japanese was still committed to his task, his weight raised, twisting on the sword.

  The Father rushed into the water and rolled. Cat was thrown off and a wave broke over them. It withdrew and Johnny’s heart fell to see the Father, still with the sword in its eye, but the man in its jaws. Cat struggled vigorously until the crocodile gnashed its teeth. From thirty yards off, Johnny heard the bones shatter, and another wave crashed in.

  When the foam pulled back this time, the Father stood with the man hanging limp. Johnny saw the blood pumping from the moon scar and spilling into the sea. It remained that way as several more waves broke over it.

  The crocodile opened its jaws, let the body fall and stood awash in the South Pacific. Again it bellowed its abject suffering. The Father turned its head, and with its one good eye, it stared at Johnny. Then it swung its head, scattering scarlet drops, and looked across the ocean.

  The beast lumbered deeper, stopped, wobbled, and crashed over. Another roller surged along the vast body as if swamping a shipwreck.

  Johnny ran to Cat. He found the man in the shallows with terrible puncture marks all through him. Cat was crushed, but somehow, he was still alive.

  Johnny crouched and lifted him. The man’s eyes were open, staring at him. He struggled to say something. Johnny leaned closer.

  “We are even,” Cat breathed, and went still.

  Blood spilled from the corners of his mouth, and from all the holes in his chest. Johnny had seen thousands of dead men, and this was one more. He pounded a fist on the sand.

  Johnny carried Cat’s body out of the water and put him on the beach. The hulk of the Father had not moved. Johnny ran back to Footy. He found him hanging upside down from the tree, the blue eyes wide open and blind. Blood still flowed from the stump of the leg. Again Johnny was flooded with anguish, fists opening and closing. Do something!

  He went to Footy, grabbed him and lifted, and the leg came out of the branches. The torn off c
alf and exposed bone by his face sickened him, but Johnny did not let that stop him. He laid Footy at the tree roots. With a sinking heart, he saw the puddle of blood by the trunk and realized how much of it his friend had lost. Johnny thought he was looking at another corpse and his eyes teared up.

  But beyond all hope, Footy moved. His chest heaved and he gasped air. He groaned and blinked, and his eyelids closed.

  Johnny knew that if Footy had any chance, it came down to what he did in the next few seconds. He undid the man’s belt and yanked it through the loops. He wrapped it tightly around the thigh of the ripped leg and buckled it.

  Johnny picked up Footy and ran to camp. He laid him on a blanket, lit the stove and heated the blade of his machete in the ring of fire until it glowed orange. Footy was tossing. His eyes flew open and he sat up. His gaze went to his cut-off leg and he screamed.

  Johnny ran to him holding the smoking machete and shoved him down. He sat on him facing away, seized the bleeding stump in one hand and put the flat of the blade to the torn flesh. It sizzled and Footy shouted. His body arched up and then went slack as he passed out. Johnny was grateful for that.

  He turned the blade, seared another raw section and kept scorching until the metal cooled. He returned to the stove, heated it again and continued until the stump was completely cauterized. The flesh was blackened, reddish fluid seeping through.

  A sharp end of bone protruded and Johnny needed to do something about it. He propped the leg on a log and raised the machete three or four times to gauge where to strike.

  He swung hard, the blade hit true, the bone broke cleanly off and sailed away.

  Footy was starting to come to again. Johnny raced to the medical kit and grabbed a tube of morphine. He broke the seal, screwed on the needle, jammed it into Footy’s arm and squeezed in the drug. The man went limp again. Johnny stared into the stricken face.

  He’s a hair from death—what more can I do? Footy desperately needed expert medical help, and all he had was Johnny.

  Keep trying! Johnny got the iodine, spilled it on a pad and swabbed the stump. He opened the sulfa powder and poured it on. He loosened the tourniquet and was relieved to see the worst of the arterial squirting had stopped, although it still bled. He waited a minute and tightened the belt.

  For ten minutes, Johnny watched the pilot’s waxen face. Each breath he took was a fight for life. Then Johnny loosened the belt again, let the stump bleed, and cinched it back up. He’d seen men lose limbs because the tourniquet was left on too long. After half an hour, he pulled out rolls of gauze and wrapped the injury. He ripped strips of tape from the roll and stuck down the bandage. At least once the stump was neatly wrapped, it looked better.

  For the first time since the attack, Johnny had a moment. Another surreal sunset blazed across the west and it struck him like a blow.

  This time yesterday I sat here with Footy and Cat. Now Cat is dead and Footy is close behind. The Father found us at last, and with a vengeance.

  Johnny’s gaze flashed to look at the crocodile, but it was gone. For a crazy minute he wondered if it was behind him and he jumped up and spun all around, but it was not there. In growing consternation he stared at the ocean. Night was falling fast now, and the breakers were huge. It was hard to make out anything.

  Then he saw the birds. A hundred yards out, the gulls were gathering. Beneath them, the swells broke strangely. Something wallowed like a drifting log.

  It’s the croc! The birds began to land on the carcass and peck at it. It was time to adjust the tourniquet again and Johnny bent to his task.

  The Father is dead, he thought, killed by Cat.

  CHAPTER 12

  It was dark. Johnny remained near Footy and made a fire. He was too distraught to be hungry, and he lit a cigarette that disappeared in a few drags. The Australian began to mutter and toss. Johnny brought water, raised him up, and dribbled some between his lips. Footy choked but swallowed, then sagged again and Johnny felt for his pulse. It beat faintly.

  Johnny wondered when to give him more morphine. He counted how many doses were left. With the syrettes in the cache, added to the ones they’d conserved in the swamp, he had nine tubes. He did not know how often to administer the powerful opiate. Too much would kill his friend. He decided to wait until he knew Footy had to have it. If he lives.

  A waning moon sailed into view. Johnny stared at the waves, but could no longer see the Father’s remains. He kept vigil over Footy all night. At regular intervals, he loosened the tourniquet. Every hour, he tipped water in his mouth and hoped he swallowed some.

  Now I’m a nurse, he thought. So this is what Gwyn did for me. Caring for another in this way was both intimate and somehow impersonal, both powerful and humbling. Johnny gained a new level of appreciation for Gwyn and all the others who had nursed him. Then he remembered how badly he’d treated them as he recovered, and felt ashamed.

  In the middle of the night he realized Footy had urinated on his bedding. Johnny made another bed using two blankets. He folded one to go under Footy’s upper body, left a space for the hips, and placed the other to cushion his legs. Gently as he could, he stripped Footy’s shorts off, easing the cloth over the terrible injury. His patient whimpered but did not come to.

  Johnny placed him on the fresh bed. At least now when Footy must void he would do so on the sand. Johnny hung the damp blanket on a branch to wash another time. The night was warm, but Footy was cold to the touch, and Johnny got his sheet and covered him.

  Time passed and Footy’s breathing grew more labored. He needs so much more than I can do! Johnny thought despairingly. Where’s our rescue? Did Chas even get the message through?

  The night wore on, and Johnny felt supremely alone under the cold stars. This is why you can’t coddle your feelings, the soldier warned him. Another thought arose: I’d give about anything to have Gwyn here, just for a few minutes, just to talk.

  Johnny’s spirits sank even lower. He expected Footy to die at any minute. In the darkest hours of the morning, the pilot let go a rattling breath and Johnny thought it was done. He grabbed the man’s wrist and found no pulse. He threw handfuls of twigs on the coals for light, and held the blade of his knife over Footy’s lips. When a faint mist formed, he got a lump in his throat.

  The sky over the eastern sea turned from coal to ash. Morning dragged in at last. Footy began to shout and thrash. Johnny shot him with morphine and held him down until he passed out.

  Gradually, Footy’s breathing grew regular. Johnny stared at the haggard face. The Australian seemed to have shrunk and aged ten years overnight. Johnny removed the tourniquet and saw that no more blood came through the bandage. He set the belt aside.

  Finally, Johnny could think about his own condition. He forced himself to eat bananas and brewed coffee. I have to keep strong for Footy’s sake. He felt a little less hopeless in daylight, but still desperately sad. It came to him that he was mourning. For Cat, Johnny realized. He should be here, busy in the kitchen.

  Dumb! His killer mind chastised him. He was just another enemy, one more Jap! Not long ago I would have shot him as soon as look at him.

  At least Footy rested peacefully and Johnny began to think about the task he did not want. He drank more coffee and smoked and put it off, but at last he stood. He walked down the beach, passed the jeeps he and Cat had wrecked and the signal bonfire they had made together. There was Footy’s S O S, for all the good it had done them.

  Johnny came along the surf and saw Cat’s corpse partially buried in the sand. He half-wished something had dragged it off in the night. He shaded his eyes and studied the ocean. There was no sign of anything floating, but it would have drifted with the tide. Gulls stood around Cat’s body and Johnny raised his arms and shouted at them. They scattered and he knelt by the corpse. With revulsion, he saw small crabs feeding on the torn flesh and he snatched up a stick and drove them back to their holes.

  Johnny picked Cat up in his arms and walked the route they had run togethe
r. He carried him to the Finish Tree and laid him on the ground. Here Johnny would bury the dead, but first he must tend to the living. He jogged back to camp, gave Footy more water and held his head up until he quit sputtering and slept again.

  Johnny cracked a wedge of board from the discarded desk drawers and went back to the Finish Tree. He felt exhausted, but the thing must be done. He brushed away the leaves, drew a rectangle on the sand and began to dig with the wood. His hands became raw and he persevered. He grew blisters and went on.

  The job was especially slow because every twenty minutes, he must check on Footy. Usually the patient was passed out, but sometimes he was semi-conscious, eyes flickering beneath the lids. Johnny tended to him and went back to the burial.

  His arms ached and still he dug. The blisters burst and he went deeper. By the early afternoon, he stood in a pit up to his chest and considered his labor. The hole was about five feet deep and it had started out wide enough, but the sides kept caving in. He sighed and shoveled some more.

  At last it was ready. Johnny looked from Cat’s body to the grave. He steeled himself for the task of putting him in and could not begin. He was appalled by his weakness. During the war, he’d walked away from his own dead countrymen countless times. He’d passed enemy corpses without a second thought. But now he must put Cat in and throw dirt on his face, and he could not do it.

  What is wrong with me? And then it came to him. He was my friend. The realization shocked him. When had the prisoner stopped being his enemy and crossed into this new territory?

  Johnny postponed what he had to do and went back to camp. He found Footy had soiled his bed-site. Johnny made up another one, washed him with soap and a pot of water, dried him and moved him again. Footy tossed and moaned and Johnny shot him with painkiller and waited until it knocked him out.