Deep In The Jungle

by Gerry Griffiths

  “He was attacked by a jaguar,” she said. “See the punctures in Murilo’s skull. The panther bit into his brain then dragged him into the trees.”

  “You mean there’s a killer jaguar roaming around the resort?” Wanda said.

  “Judging by the condition of Murilo’s body, the big cat’s not finished, which means it can’t be too far off.”

  “Mom! Where are you?” It was Ally’s voice.

  They left the body and came out into the clearing where Enzo was standing.

  Ally and Macky were standing on the catwalk, looking down.

  “What’s the matter?” Wanda yelled up.

  “It’s Dillon! He’s wandered off and we can’t find him anywhere!”

  59

  “What do you mean, you can’t find him?” Wanda yelled as she raced up the steps to the catwalk. Frank was right behind her.

  “I was showing Macky something on my phone and when I looked up, he was gone,” Ally said, almost crying.

  “Don’t worry, we’ll find him,” Frank said. He ran down one of the catwalks, yelling Dillon’s name.

  “We’ll stay down here and look for him,” Ryan said. He went in one direction, Jackie the opposite way. Enzo seemed to snap out of it and went looking for the boy.

  “Ally, we have to find him, and I mean, now!” Wanda said sternly.

  “What is it?”

  “We found Murilo’s body in the jungle.”

  “Oh, my God.” Ally burst into tears. “He’s dead?”

  “Jackie says it was a big cat. A jaguar!”

  “Dillon! Where are you?” Ally shouted and started running down the catwalk.

  Macky came around a corner on a parallel catwalk.

  “Have you seen him?” Wanda called out.

  “I think he went that way,” Macky said, pointing. “Before he snuck off, I know he wanted to go out and play with the monkeys.”

  Wanda wished she still had the Browning but she had left it on the rescue boat, along with the hunting rifle Frank had been using.

  She heard chattering and babbling just up ahead.

  Monkey gibberish.

  Wanda dashed over the catwalk and stopped short at the head of the stairs that led down to the ground. Dillon was halfway down the steps and he was chasing a small spider monkey.

  “Dillon, get back up here on the double!”

  But Dillon had his mind set on catching the monkey and there was nothing Wanda could say that would stop him. He scampered down to the last step.

  The jaguar stood only ten feet away. The two-hundred-pound panther squatted down and hunched its shoulders ready to spring.

  Ryan and Jackie sprinted across the clearing, yelling at the big cat.

  Frank raced down another flight of stairs but he was too far away to save the boy.

  Wanda charged down the stairs.

  Dillon looked up in surprise as the big cat launched into the air.

  Then came a loud explosion.

  The jaguar landed a foot in front of Dillon. It lay in the dirt with its tongue hanging out and most of its side blown apart.

  Enzo stepped out from under the catwalk and opened the breech on his shotgun, expelling the two spent shells.

  Wanda gave Enzo a look of gratitude and smiled as everyone rushed over to make sure Dillon hadn’t been hurt.

  Enzo nodded then walked back into the jungle to be with his brother.

  60

  Frank turned onto the gravel driveway and before he could put the ’56 Chevy into park, the backdoors flung open. Ally and Dillon piled out one side, Ryan out the other. They ran around to the front of the farmhouse and dashed up the porch steps.

  “So how was your vacation?” asked Deputy Hank Burns, still in uniform but obviously off duty as his shirt was hanging out and he was holding a can of beer.

  “Pretty wild,” Ryan said, holding the screen door open for his sister and brother.

  “So glad to be out of the jungle,” Ally said, stepping into the house.

  “It was awesome,” Dillon said. He stopped and looked up at the deputy. “And Ryan’s got a girlfriend.”

  “Is that right,” Hank said.

  “Get a move on, squirt,” Ryan said and shooed his little brother through the doorway.

  Frank came around the corner of the porch, lugging two suitcases, Wanda right behind him carrying a suitcase and a small duffle bag.

  “Here, let me help you with that,” Hank said. He put his beer can on the railing and skipped down the steps, grabbing the luggage from Wanda.

  “Thanks, Hank. How was house sitting?”

  “Well, we didn’t burn the place down.”

  “Thank God for that. Any luck finding a place?”

  “Yeah. I’m renting a cottage over by the McDermott Ranch. Means I’ll only be ten minutes from the office.” Hank put Wanda’s things down on the deck and grabbed his beer off the railing.

  “How were the dogs?”

  “Winston’s been my tagalong buddy, but I think Rochelle really missed Dillon because she hasn’t been eating much.”

  Inside the house, they could hear Dillon yelling, “Girl, I’m home,” and his bulldog barked and whined with glee.

  A white English bull terrier pushed open the screen door with its nose and scampered over to Wanda. “Did you miss me? Oh, I bet you did,” she said and gave Winston a pat on the head.

  “You got any more bags you need help with?” Hank asked.

  “A few in the trunk, but that’s okay, I’ll get them in a bit,” Frank said.

  “Well, if you all don’t mind, I think I’ll run along. I’ve got some unpacking of my own at my new place.” He took a last pull on his beer, squashed the can on the railing and handed the crumpled metal to Wanda. “See you on Monday.”

  “Thanks again,” Wanda said.

  “See you around, Hank,” Frank said.

  The deputy gave them a wave and climbed in his pickup parked by the mailbox.

  Wanda looked over at Frank. “You know what I feel like doing right now?”

  “Dinner?”

  “Soaking in a nice hot tub.”

  ***

  Frank carried the pot roast into the dining room and placed the serving dish in the middle of the table. Wanda was already seated at one end, Ally and Dillon on her right, Ryan on the left. Frank walked by Dillon, gave the boy a pat on the shoulder, and sat at the head of the table.

  “This looks wonderful,” Frank said, gazing at the beef platter, the steaming bowls of mashed potatoes and green beans, two breadbaskets with hot biscuits, and a gravy boat full of brown gravy.

  Once everyone had put food on their plates and eaten most of their meal, Wanda asked the family, “What do we tell people when they ask about our vacation?”

  “Well, I’m sure Ally and Dillon will have plenty to share with their friends,” Frank said. He looked over at Ryan. “Of course, they don’t need to know about everything.”

  “Do you think you’ll ever want to go back there?” Ryan asked Frank.

  “Well, I wouldn’t mind—”

  “I know what you’re thinking Frank and you can forget it. We’re never setting foot in that jungle ever again.”

  “But…”

  “Never,” Wanda said, ending any further discussion on the matter.

  “I suppose you’re right. Some places are best left alone, I guess.”

  “Exactly,” Wanda said as she took her last bite. “Well, if everyone’s done—”

  “Oh, before you guys run off, I’d like to share something with all over you,” Frank said, reaching in his back pocket.

  “Okay,” Wanda said, half out of her chair, but sitting back down.

  Frank placed a folded brochure on the table.

  “And what is that?” Wanda asked suspiciously.

  “Well, I thought for our anniversary we could book our next trip,” Frank said.

  “You better be talking Maui.”

  “Even better. What do you say to a weeklong sa
fari in Africa? And we can all go!”

  Ryan looked at his mother and could tell she was fuming. “I’ve got some work to do in the barn,” he said and excused himself from the table.

  “I’ll go start the dishwater,” Ally said. She stacked a few dishes and hurried into the kitchen.

  “Are there lions?” Dillon asked.

  “Sure, lots of them.”

  “I want to go.”

  “Dillon, go clean your room. We’ll have dessert later,” Wanda said. She grabbed some dirty dishes off the table and glared at Frank. “You’re really something.” She stormed off into the kitchen.

  “Boy, you sure made Mom mad,” Dillon said.

  “Better go clean your room,” Frank said, but when he saw the downcast look on Dillon’s face, he leaned in close and whispered, “But don’t worry, we’ve got a year to wear her down.”

  THE END

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  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  Gerry Griffiths lives in San Jose, California, with his family and their five rescue dogs and a cat. He is a Horror Writers Association member, has over thirty published short stories in various anthologies and magazines, as well as a short story collection entitled Creatures. He is also the author of three novels, Silurid, Death Crawlers, and The Beasts of Stoneclad Mountain, published by Severed Press.

  Deep Crab Marina and Sports Bar

  Seaside, Washington

  Cheap lamps flickered at either end of a dim drinking establishment. A few patrons slumped against the bar, all of them wearing flannels and ball caps. A lone television flickered above the far end of the bar, reflected in the array of whiskey bottles and glasses. A patron named Paul Woody looked up at the TV and grimaced.

  “You see that?” Paul asked the man sitting next to him.

  “See what?” the man next to him said.

  “Eh, another dumb shark movie,” Paul said.

  On the TV, a series of boats floated around an oil rig as divers submerged despite the danger of a freakish shark.

  “Your point?” the other man asked.

  Paul gestured lazily at the TV. “Why don’t they just steer the damn boats away from the shark?” Paul asked.

  The other man shrugged. “I suppose. The motor might have puttered out on ‘em, though.”

  “Yeah, it’s been done a million times. Motors don’t just go like that, and there are backup systems. It’s not an either-or situation,” Paul said. “Why do all these dumbasses stick around when these monster sharks are out and about? Just motor the damn boat away,” Paul said. “I don’t care if yer’ doing research, or have to fix a damn oil rig, or whatever the reason may be. Just motor away.”

  The other man laughed. “I suppose.”

  Paul gulped his shot of tequila. “I mean, problem solved, right? Leave the area and you’ll never see the fucking shark again.”

  The other man nodded. “Nothin’s really keeping them there. They can just motor away.”

  “Exactly,” Paul said. “Just fucking leave, eh? I mean yeah, a giant shark would make you curious, but then you’d get the hell out of there. It just doesn’t make any sense. Something would have to keep you with the shark, almost force you to be there. The ocean is just too damn big.”

  The other man took a swig of his beer. “Well, for the first time, Paul, you make sense,” he said. “Congratulations.”

  Paul raised his hand as if he was going to backslap the other man, and laughed. Then Paul looked back up at the TV and waved his hand. “Just motor away,” he muttered. “Ain’t nothing keeping you there.”

  The First

  “Great,” the stranded fisherman said. He clung to the last evidence of his boat, a jagged piece of hull keeping him from the floor of the Pacific. Thirty-foot swells surrounded him, nuzzling him in their watery bosom. The Pacific was cold, too cold, but luckily, he had worn his emergency gear, a waterproof thermal shell similar to a snowmobile suit.

  Lightning had struck the mast of his ship The Morgan, frying the alternator and all onboard electronics. That was when the fire started, igniting the fuel tanks. He’d been sent flying into the mess of rain and swells, lucky to keep consciousness.

  Or maybe not.

  As lightning spidered the horizon, the brief light illuminated a shape in the water, one he’d definitely seen before while fishing for halibut near the Falcon Islands. The Falcons were a tiny island chain fifty miles off Washington’s Olympic Peninsula, and well known for an overpopulation of sea lions and their ultimate predator, the great white shark. And wasn’t it his luck to blow up his boat in shark-infested waters.

  Great.

  Lightning dissipated in the sky.

  The shark disappeared.

  For the first time in his life, Eric Harper began to hyperventilate. He immediately performed an ab crunch, bringing his knees as close as he could to his chest. He wanted to ball up, make himself disappear, but he needed to grasp what remained of the hull, too. He shut his eyes tight as water dripped down his brow. He blew away the moisture in spastic breaths.

  “Mother,” he said weakly.

  Huh, he thought. Another first.

  When he opened his eyes and blinked away the rain, a shark fin sliced the electric water, then disappeared.

  A swell gently carried him higher, until he could see Mount Kraken rising above the Falcon Islands. For a brief moment, the mountain tip resembled a shark fin, then disappeared in the gloom.

  The swell brought him back down into the maw, and he clung to the hull piece, knees drawn up as far into his body as he could. Of course, this made him weaker, as did the storm. He had a feeling that was going to be the theme of tonight. Weak, weak, going, getting…weaker.

  Or maybe not.

  Below him, a nudge, then nothing at all.

  “Just a fish,” he thought. “A goofy halibut up at the surface.” Eric Harper looked up at the sky and laughed. “Bring it on,” he said between spits of water. “Bring it the fuck on.”

  Below him, a swell of water pushed against his legs. The jagged hull piece bobbed higher in the water along with it. Lightning divided the horizon, illuminating the water beneath him.

  He so wished it hadn’t.

  The great white surged vertically below, it’s mouth wide open, the scarred gums connected to rows and rows of prehistoric looking teeth.

  Eric let go of his pathetic life raft and reached for his ankles, pulling them tight to his ass so only his knees pointed down. But the great white was too fast and caught him right at his knees, popping them like firecrackers wrapped in paper towels.

  He screamed.

  The jaws opened wider, and Eric was sucked further into the shark’s mouth. Now only his torso and arms were clear. He pummeled its eyes with his fists, but soon gave up as his spine began to crack, forcing complete non-function of his motor skills.

  As the shark prepared to dive, a shadow loomed beneath it, a shadow that dwarfed its own. A much larger set of jaws opened, taking in the great white entirely, and Eric along with it.

  Then there was nothing but the storm.

  The Last Colossus is available from Amazon here.