Lear left his seat and walked over by the torture table; the thumb and forefinger of each hand latched onto his lapels. “I had myself waterboarded for the thrill of nearing death. You will have your turn in order to obey my will.” He turned to Diaz, and said, “Begin.”
The cloth went over Matt’s mouth. Diaz picked up the jug and poured water over his face. With the table elevated by Matt’s feet, the water flowed over and into his mouth and nose.
Matt heaved what air he had in his lungs, expelling the invading water. While the act provided a moment of relief, more water poured in filling his cavities.
“Your lungs are empty, Mr. King. You won’t be able to blow out any more water,” Lear said, and pulled his right hand away from his lapel and made a short slash through the air.
Diaz stopped pouring water.
Matt coughed and sputtered through moans of stealing air into his lungs. There was no doubt this was the worst experience imaginable. No wonder waterboarding had been declared torture and illegal by the President.
“Are you ready to make your decision?” Lear asked. “We can keep you between suffering and drowning for as long as we want. I recommend you give in now.”
With a shudder, Matt shook his head, then closed his eyes, and gritted his teeth.
“Interesting,” Lear said. “He’s willing to endure more torture rather than choose the death of one of his friends. He even risks all their deaths, but he won’t allow himself to make the call. That’s not the smartest move. Securing two lives is the soundest decision. But that’s a choice made with the heart, not the head. Captain Diaz, please release Mr. King. I have another proposal.”
With great relief, Matt felt the pressure release as Diaz unbuckled the straps. He quickly lowered his feet to the floor, spit out phlegm, and blew his nose dry of moisture. “Just let us go. Haven’t we been through enough?”
“No, no. I haven’t finished my entertainment. You proposed earlier to give your life for your companions,” Lear said.
“Yeah…I will,” Matt said.
Lear spun the revolver’s cylinder, moving the bullet into a random location. “Admirable, I should say, to sacrifice yourself for others. Not to be outdone, I will give you a fifty percent chance for you all to walk out of here alive. We will play a little game of Russian roulette. Are you game, Mr. King?”
Now Matt knew Lear was nuts. Had life for him grown so stale that he was willing to risk it for a thrill? What other reason would he do that? Matt looked over at Logan and Ben. Sadness had replaced the earlier fear they had in their eyes, their empathy palpable.
“May I begin?” Lear asked.
Matt nodded, expecting the gun barrel to point his way.
Instead, Lear brought the gun to his own head. Stoically, he gazed into the distance and pulled the trigger.
Click.
Lear earnestly pointed the gun at Matt’s head and fired without hesitation.
Click.
Matt swooned a bit and then took a deep breath.
The gun went back to Lear’s head.
Click.
Then to Matt’s.
Click.
“The moment of truth is almost upon us. If the bullet is in the chamber and I lose this game, I do wish you and your companions a safe trip home,” Lear said.
Click.
“Oh no…Matt…no,” Logan said, sighing softly at the end of his words.
“Take me instead,” Ben said.
“No. A deal’s a deal, is that not right, Mr. King?”
Matt turned his gaze to the ground and nodded. He then turned his head toward Logan and Ben. He couldn’t find his voice to say goodbye.
“I love you, Matt,” Logan said.
Matt braced himself and found the Our Father prayer playing again in the back of his mind, moving to the forefront.
The gun came up. Lear pulled the hammer back with his thumb and squeezed the trigger.
Click.
For a moment Matt thought he had been shot, but was too numb from fear to hear the gunfire or feel the bullet penetrate his skull.
Diaz and the three mercenaries howled with laughter. The two Brazilian soldiers behind Logan and Ben sheathed their knives.
Lear smirked from one side of his mouth and brought his cigar up from his left hand, taking a long draw.
The scene shifted so abruptly Matt found himself held in a daze. What had just happened? The bullet was a fake? This whole thing had been an elaborate hoax? What about the snake and the spider? What the hell was going on?
Diaz stepped over by Ben and reached to unbutton the man’s shirt.
“But what—” Ben started.
“It’s not a coral snake, Senhor Ben. You’re keeping a milk snake warm,” Diaz said. He unbuttoned two buttons on Ben’s shirt, and removed the snake, returning it to its fish tank.
“And this thing…” Logan pointed to the arachnid hanging on his chest, only inches away from his chin.
“It’s called a South American Goliath bird eater. It won’t bother you unless you do something to hurt it. Even then, its bite isn’t very harmful to humans,” Lear said, and tapped a section of ash off the cigar.
One of the mercenaries gently picked up the spider and brought it back to its fish tank.
“I can’t believe this” Matt said, the buds of anger sprouting into his tone. “This was all a joke? Why…why would you do that to us?”
“I told you, Mr. King. I was disappointed, and I need a little excitement to make me feel better,” Lear said. “Sometimes I kill things to brighten my day. Consider yourself lucky.”
Logan brushed off his chest and wiped his hands on the back of his pants. He helped Ben with his crutches, and the two stepped over to Matt’s side.
“So you’ll let us go now?” Matt asked.
“Yes. After the Chinook’s unloaded it will be available to bring you to the airport where tickets await you. You will be taken stateside where you’ll meet with a group of my lawyers. From there, authorities will be invited to take your statements. You all must remember that you are bound contractually as to what you can discuss of your outing,” Lear said.
As bad as Matt wanted to pound his fists into Lear’s face, his mind told him to get while the getting was good. Lear was too unstable of a man to give him time to change his mind. So far, Ben had managed to keep his mouth shut, a miracle in itself. He could tell by Logan’s body language that he couldn’t leave the tent fast enough.
One of the phones on the table started ringing. All eyes turned and stared as the phone’s screen rapidly blinked.
“What the…” Matt said.
Lear stepped over and picked up the phone. “The call is from Vincent Cooper.”
“Coop? That’s not possible,” Logan said. “He’s dead.”
Lear placed the phone back on the table and pushed the speaker button.
A voice called from the other end, “Hello? Hello?”
“Who is this?” Lear demanded.
“This is Vincent Cooper.”
Chapter 7
Watching the giant Quetzalcoatlus lower its head to strip Ron’s flesh from bone in a strange way reminded Coop of an old steam shovel scooping up a dipper full of earth. One of his first geological assignments had him deep in South Africa where an early 20th century version of the behemoth had somehow survived the ravages of time and was used to dig the side of a mountain in search for gold, platinum, and other precious metals and minerals. The boom would lower, and the dipper’s teeth would sink into the ground—powering its way along until coming up full. The Quetzalcoatlus’ feeding motion had s similar mechanical quality.
“Coop, I said what do we do now?” Alex repeated.
The leader had heard the Professor the first time, but didn’t have a plan then, and certainly didn’t want to blurt out the first thing that came to mind. He, Alex, and Caveman were naked, without effective weapons, and split from the other two groups.
A Quetzalcoatlus was on foot in hot pursuit
of Suge, Natasha, and Meat. The bugger’s desire for human flesh was so intense, it forfeited aerial advantage, and risked its own safety. If it happened to meet a predator in the woods, the tree canopies might prevent an immediate flight to safety.
Thinking about the scenario had him realizing how the group would have to rely on wit for survival. Their strategy would have to include more than hiding and fleeing. They would have to find a way to force the battle to an even field.
“Coop?” Alex said.
“Sorry, Alex. I heard you. My mind’s racing in a hundred different directions,” Coop said. “We haven’t been gone for three hours, and we’ve lost two men. A pterosaur isn’t far off chasing after Suge and the other two, and we haven’t a clue what Chief and those with him might be facing. If only there were some way to communicate.”
“We should go after Suge’s group—see what we can do to help them. We might be able to distract that big lookin’ stork,” Caveman said.
“We could, but that puts us at risk. With the trees as obstacles, I think it gives them an advantage to escape. We should stick with the plan of heading south and hope to meet up later. I believe that’s what Chief will do. We need to do everything we can for at least one of us to make the journey to the Mule and contact help.”
“I hear ya,” Caveman said. “It just don’t seem right.”
“We’re going to have to start thinking differently. We’ll have to do things—selfish things—that we normally wouldn’t do. We may not have the fear of death, but getting killed out here sets us back to start. I think we let Suge, Meat, and Natasha go at it alone. Let’s keep moving south. We’ll mark the path in case we’re in the lead and the others come across our way.”
SKEER-AK!
Coop and his companions turned their heads in unison toward the two giant pterosaurs. They were no longer feeding and now stood side by side, their heads warily cocked toward each other.
“What’s going on with them?” Coop asked.
“Not sure,” Alex said. “Thought they might be considering coming after us, but—”
One Quetzalcoatlus uttered a shriek in an ear-piercing pitch and swayed its head side to side.
Alex continued, “It looks to me like the two are assuming an aggressive stance.”
Right after the words had left his mouth, one longed neck pterosaur abruptly swung his neck to the side, and crashed his head into the neck of the other. The Quetzalcoatlus had used its head like a spiked ball of a flail, an ancient weapon where the deadly sphere connected to a handle by a chain.
The attack did nothing to ward off the victim, and the pterosaur returned a blow—missing its target with its head, but smashed its neck into the other.
“It’s on like Donkey Kong now,” Caveman said with excitement in his voice.
The violent exchange continued, one would sling its head to the side making contact, and the other would counter with a blow of its own.
“Look how that neck can bow,” Caveman said. “It bends a whole lot more than I ever thought.”
The back legs of the pterosaurs eased nearer to each other. Occasionally, one reptile would swing its head lower and take a body shot. The battle was obviously taking a physical toll, and the two leaned into each other in an attempt to overpower the other.
A decisive head blow to the neck sent a sharp snap into the hot Patagonian air. The missile had found a vulnerable target, and the unfortunate loser of the fight’s neck cocked unnaturally to one side.
The victor squawked and rose on its hind legs, with its beak open toward the heavens. The other collapsed to the ground near Ron’s remains. It wasn’t dead, but there wasn’t any chance that it could survive an injury like that.
With its belly full for now, the victor took to the air, spreading its leathery wings wide across the sky in an awesome display of its unparalleled size.
“That was better’n than watching two queer roosters in a cockfight on Saturday night with a belly full of moonshine in me,” Caveman said.
Alex turned half-opened eyes toward the man, and said, “I wouldn’t know.”
“Yeah, but you know about killin’ your wife, don’t you?” Caveman said.
The Professor deflated and dropped his gaze to the ground.
“Guys, we can’t fight among ourselves,” Coop said. “Stay focused. There’s no sense sticking around here any longer. Let’s go,” Coop said.
***
The three traveled for an hour without incident. Coop was surprised they never heard the Quetzalcoatlus chasing through the woods after Suge and the other two. There were a few times a distant cry gave them pause, but they agreed the cry sounded more like a common pterosaur than a distressed human. Perhaps the giant reptile tired of dodging trees and the boney sacks of flesh had maneuvered their way to safety. The Quetzalcoatlus’ neck was it most vulnerable part, but Coop couldn’t think of any weapon they could devise in the wild to deliver enough impact to break one’s neck.
As far as current weapons went, Coop had claimed a five-foot branch straight enough to serve as a spear. Alex found a hockey stick shaped branch and would use the curved end at times to chop aside brush and foliage. Caveman had picked up an odd looking piece of wood shaped sort of like a fat baseball bat. When Caveman held the club, the image fit his namesake well.
One thing they all needed as much as a weapon was bug spray. The no-see-ums had been feasting on them from the moment they passed through the tree line. Patagonia entomology’s timeline differed greatly from its zoological. Insects were more of the modern day variety, which was a major blessing. With all of the horrors the prehistoric animals presented, at least they didn’t have to worry about twenty-inch dragonflies, two-foot-long scorpions, eight-foot centipedes, and God only knows what else.
The terrain had become a bit more difficult to travel as the amount of trees thickened and the ground swelled in low rising hills. With treetops blocking the sky, and the perpetual clouds filtering the sun, at times they would veer off direction. The journey was going to be problematic enough not having a compass to point the right way. Travel at night time was also out of the question, with no stars above to guide them.
Coop’s mouth had entered a new stage of dry. Each breath stung the back of his throat on its way to his lungs. At one point, he had thought about saving his urine and drinking that, but then realized that he hadn’t had the urge to pee since his resurrection. That couldn’t be good. There had to be physical consequences from traveling through time. Had he been reconstructed atom by atom from one timeline to another? Speculation was a luxury he could ill afford now. He needed to keep his mind sharp and focus on survival.
“Coop,” Alex said in a low voice. “I think I hear something—might be water. It’s coming from over there.” He pointed to the right from where they were heading.
“I don’t hear nothin’,” Caveman said.
“Yeah, well, you spent years of your life shooting automatic weapons and were exposed to explosions. I didn’t serve in the military. I’ve spent enough times in remote locations to pick up on signature sounds.”
“We can’t pass up a chance. Alex, lead the way,” Coop said.
The land rose for ten or so yards before flattening out again. A small brook cut across the landscape, over large and small flat stones. Weeds grew sparsely, about waist high. It was a welcome sight indeed.
“Good work, Alex,” Coop said.
Caveman bounded off in the brook’s direction.
“Wait,” Coop called out. “I’m just a thirsty as you, but we need to be careful. Where there’s water, there’s other animals coming to drink.”
“I don’t see nothin’,” Caveman said.
“I don’t either,” Coop said. “That’s not the point. We should be ready for what we don’t see.”
“I’m always ready,” Caveman said, and lifted the club and shook it in the air.
“Great. Keep an eye out,” Coop said. “Alex, you stay in the middle, and Caveman and I will be by
your side. Let’s go get some water.”
Alex nodded, and the three cautiously stepped toward the brook some fifty feet away.
Funny, Coop thought he could smell the water as he approached. It was a sweet smell—refreshing—pristine—invigorating. His lips felt like dry-rotting rubber as he rubbed his tongue around the inside of his mouth.
The brook’s song increased with each step toward it. Water trickled along, spinning gentle eddies around rocks and down miniature waterfalls. Coop remembered reading about an Army veteran suffering from PTSD so badly that he had taken to living in the woods away from society. In the interview, he said he understood where the term babbling brook came from. The small stream of water he camped by was a constant companion. He said the waters at times actually sounded like people talking. Sometimes the voices would speak directly to him. Sometimes he answered back.
The area was clear, and now they were at the water’s edge. The crystal clear liquid cried out to be touched.
Alex stooped and dipped his fingers in the water. “Oh, man. This is like sixty degrees or colder. I’m tempted to put my face in it and drink it dry.”
The feeling’s mutual, Coop thought. Patagonia’s temperature between the mountains would rise up to one hundred degrees at times due to the fact that veins of hot magma flowed near the land’s surface. “I’m surprised the water’s cold. The other waterways we came across were warm. Some were even hot.”
“It’s an anomaly, for sure,” Alex said.
“It’s just one of God’s many gifts He gives us,” Caveman said. “Count your blessings, boy, or God ain’t gonna give you none no more.” He set his club aside and began digging with his bare hands into the soft earth near the brook.
Coop leaned down and scooped out handfuls of the refreshing liquid, and rubbed his face. Oil mixed with grime slid across his forehead, slightly digging into his skin. It was if all of his sins were washing away, and renewed hope swelled in his chest. “I wish we had a way to boil it.”
Lost World II: Savage Patagonia Page 8
