by Russ Elliott
“To make sure he sees you!” replied Kota.
Kota pointed to the east side of the lagoon where it emptied into an enormous cavern. Inside, two parallel poles reached up from the water toward the roof of the cave. “Normally, our criminals are tied between those. But today we have something different for you.”
The sickening feeling in John’s stomach rose in his throat. His mouth tasted bile as his body’s danger signals went into full alert.
He looked ahead where two men picked up a large, bamboo ring about the size of a hula- hoop, threaded with disks cut from coconut shells. They used a long wooden handle to submerge the hoop-like rattle halfway into the water, then vigorously shook it. John’s heart pounded louder in his throat. He recognized this practice similar to the one used by shark-worshiping tribes of the Pacific. He recalled how the shark callers would use their hoop rattles to make strange vibrations beneath the surface. Vibrations that attracted sharks to their boat like an underwater dinner bell.
John tried in vain to twist his wrist inside the rope, knowing with each step he drew closer to certain death. He was now on an area of dock about forty yards from shore. His eyes searched for options. But there were none. Ahead were the backs of Kota, the chief, and two armed guards. A glance over his shoulder showed dozens of half-painted faces following closely. To his right, past the edge of the dock, was the outside ocean. Had his hands not been bound, that might have been an option. But even if he was free and able to swim at full speed, he knew the natives could run back across the dock and reach the shoreline ahead of him. He looked to his left, to the waters of the lagoon. He knew what was in there.
As they reached a dark-stained section of the dock, John felt his boots sticking to what he knew was coagulated blood. He glanced over the top of one of the barrels. The sight of a section of intestines floating in blood combined with the rancid smell made him stop and hunch over. He gagged as the taste of last night’s supper came to the back of his throat.
Whaaack! A tribesman jabbed him from behind with the blunt end of his spear. John lunged forward, stumbling down onto one knee. He slowly rose from the dock, his pant leg sticking to the blood. Regaining his balance, he looked up and saw bits of glass glittering in the distance. His eyes fixed on Brad’s broken underwater light near the edge of the dock about five yards ahead. As they continued to walk, he glanced back and saw one native following closely. Again, he looked to the broken light head, now only ten feet away.
There’s no more time, this is it.
John slowed his pace and looked down at his feet. As the first set of bare toes came into view from behind him, he lifted his left boot high and stomped down with all his weight. The tribesman howled in agony and jabbed the blunt end of his spear between John’s shoulder blades with his full strength. John flew forward, twisting in midair, and landed back first on the broken glass. It sank deep into his forearms and back as he writhed in pain on the dock.
Two guards violently grabbed John by the arms and yanked him to his feet. They followed more cautiously, the points of their spears aimed at his back.
Kota looked at the free-flowing blood on John’s forearm and laughed. “No need to help. We have plenty of blood in the water already!” Although the surrounding natives didn’t understand a word of English, they saw Kota laughing and quickly joined in.
The group was now about halfway around the lagoon where the dock was farthest from the shoreline. Just ahead, the dock passed in front of the tops of the large gate-like doors—doors that dropped deep beneath the surface and closed off the widest section of the reef from the outside ocean.
John’s thoughts reeled wildly as he tried to maintain a modicum of calm. Come on. Don’t let your face give it away. Teeth clenched, he tried to keep the pain from his face as his fingers extracted a small piece of glass from the palm of his left hand. Streams of warm blood flowed across his fingers as he discretely slid the glass back and forth across the rope.
To hopefully draw attention away from his busy fingers, he asked Kota, “Just out of curiosity, do you really have any of those fish we came here for?”
“I had two small ones for breakfast this morning!” Kota translated his comment to the guards, and they all burst into laughter.
The chief raised a hand, bringing the group to a stop. They were now on the section of dock that crossed in front of the giant gated doors. The chief turned to the others. Thrusting his fist into the air, he shouted, “Usuku-osa-dedela-Kuta Keb-la!”
The men responded in a chant while pounding their spears against the dock in rhythm. “Tala, tala, Kuta Keb-la! Tala, tala, Kuta Keb-la!”
A primal roar erupted from the cavern and echoed across the lagoon. It was absolutely horrific. It was like nothing John had ever heard before.
The men around him jumped and howled with delight.
The chief turned and shouted, “Kolegwa!” He pointed to a thick rope connected to a wooden latch across the doors. A tall, muscular native ran over to the rope and picked up a crude ax.
John watched the two men continue to shake the hoop rattle. The others stopped pouring blood from the barrel and slid it back onto the dock. The chief walked over in front of John, his chin held high, eyes cold, dead.
Kota interpreted, “Today is day we have waited . . . day of release! The day death come to all who enter sea!” John gazed behind the chief as the hoop rattle was pulled from the water, and the guards cautiously stepped back on the dock, staring into the lagoon.
An enormous, black shadow slowly emerged beneath the bloodstained waters. Although John had seen the nineteen-inch tooth, it did little to prepare him for what was rising before him. The black silhouette became more distinct as it ascended to the top of the crimson cloud. More than twice the size he’d imagined.
John stood hypnotized by the sheer width of the shadowy head. The long, jagged frill along its back broke the surface. The frill rose higher until a stretch of slate-gray skin glittered beneath the water.
“Tala, tala, Kuta Keb-la!” The chanting grew louder.
The chief turned his attention to John and spoke. Again, Kota interpreted, “I not dislike you, but you are sign. It not my choice. It not your choice. It meant to be! Destiny. Today you must die!”
“Sorry you feel that way,” replied John. With that, he rammed his now free hands into the chief’s chest with all his strength. The chief flew backward, two bloody handprints on his chest, and plunged into the lagoon.
The chanting stopped, replaced first by a chilling silence, then by screams.
Stunned, the two guards in front of John slapped at the water with the blunt end of their spears trying to give the chief something to grab onto. The water came to life. The chief’s head rose above the surface, his hair matted back with bloody water. He looked up toward the dock, his previously cold, somber expression replaced by a mask of horror. Frantically, he lunged for the end of one of the spears but missed, dipping again beneath the surface.
John raced past the two guards as they tried to save their chief. He heard the chief’s screams above those of his guardsmen. Screams like he had never heard before. He looked briefly over his shoulder as the guards went silent, staring at the hand that reached from the water, a red cloud forming around it.
Like a switch turned to “on,” John’s fear turned to adrenaline. He had about a twenty-yard head start.
Kota yelled, “Dedela Kuta Keb-la!” and a chopping sound echoed throughout the lagoon. It was a word John recognized: in Zulu, dedela meant release. A second glance back, and he saw about 40 men in pursuit while Kota pointed towards him.
He felt a supercharged rush of adrenaline that kept him running at a speed he couldn’t believe. John could now see dozens of men approaching from the dock on the opposite side of the lagoon. He heard a flurry of spears thudding into the planks behind him. He felt the dock beginning to sway from the charging natives in front of him. Their screams of hatred filled the air.
John saw the first tribesm
an from the approaching group stop and draw back his spear. He was well in range. Still, John kept running forward at full speed. The native hesitated, not knowing whether to throw or get out of the way. Two more strides and John propelled himself from the dock just in front of the approaching natives. The screams disappeared as he plunged beneath the surface. Saltwater burned deep into his numerous cuts and wounds.
Beneath the water, he glanced back to check his distance from the creature still within the gates. He saw the dark shadow thrashing amid the red cloud and felt its thunderous vibration from forty yards away. Looking upward, he saw the shimmering figures above the edge of the dock as they followed his trail of bubbles.
John tried to go as far as he could on a single breath of air, but his racing heart quickly consumed his oxygen. When he reached the surface, he twisted his body so that only his face came out of the water. The tranquil underwater sounds transformed into the screams of frenzied natives as he took a deep, desperate breath.
A spear plunged into the water, barely missing his shoulder. John quickly dove deeper to avoid the flurry as dozens of spears pierced the surface. Around him, trails of bubbles flowed from the wooden shafts that streaked toward the bottom of the lagoon.
John looked ahead to where the pilings went deep beneath the surface. He hoped he could make it to the outside ocean on this same breath of air. The minute and a half since his last breath felt more like five. He concentrated on trying to relax and conserve the precious oxygen in his lungs. If he could make it to the open ocean, he’d have a chance of reaching the coastline before the natives got to him.
Swimming toward the pilings, he noticed a faint flash of light. He dropped his gaze to the bottom of the lagoon. No . . . no, it can’t be! His eyes locked on something more frightening than the monstrosity behind him. The light he saw was reflecting from a long piece of metal—a helicopter blade lying beneath the murky depths. He tried to determine if the rotor had two blades or four, but didn’t dare take time for a second glance.
As John glided between the eight-foot gap, he noticed something white embedded in the piling to his left. Lungs burning, he reached along the thick wooden post and pulled out a nineteen-inch tooth. He looked at the huge white object in his hand.
If I ever make it back . . . A spear streaked between the pilings. John slid the tooth under his belt like a sword, and made for the surface, keeping the piling at his back. Breaking the waterline, he drew a desperate breath. Behind him, the dock shook, screams growing closer. He looked out to the open ocean and realized that his plan was doomed. East of the cavern, where he had hoped to make his escape, was nothing but a rocky cliff—a fifty-foot vertical embankment impossible to climb.
There was only one option: the cavern back inside the lagoon. He recalled that the dock stopped about thirty yards before the mouth of the cave. If he could swim past the end of the dock, the natives couldn’t follow without going into the water.
John dove beneath the dock and back into the lagoon. Staying as deep as possible, he followed the row of pilings toward the cavern. Every time he surfaced for a breath, he could hear the stampede of natives above, searching madly.
He reached the end of the dock. Drawing a deep breath, he pushed off from the last piling and glided beneath the waves. He kept swimming farther and farther, his oxygen-starved lungs burning, but he didn’t dare to go up. Finally the water grew dark and cool.
He was inside the cave.
After a few more strokes, John came to the surface. The underwater serenity again transformed into deafening screams and the pulsating drumbeat. He looked back. He could see tribesmen crowded along the edge of the dock. A flurry of spears arced over the water splashing just behind him, reminding him that he was still within deadly range. John plunged beneath the surface.
Through the dark waters, he could see the lagoon floor rising toward the shallows of the cavern. Drawing closer to the shoreline, he felt something nip his right forearm. Quickly, he pulled his arm back. The slender fish was about three feet long. While it swam beside him, he noticed its distinctive three-pronged tail. The Rhipidistian darted away when John angrily swung at it with his fist.
Finally, he felt the sandy bottom beneath his boots. He sloshed onto the bank, gasping. He glanced around, catching his breath for a moment. The cavern was enormous. He glanced up at the two bloody poles projecting from the water. Ropes dangled from them where countless victims had been tied. Above the posts, a series of ropes hung down from the cave ceiling. “This place looks like fun,” he muttered. But there was something else, something strange. It was quiet. He looked back outside the cavern and realized the dock was completely empty, not a tribesman in sight.
He slid the giant tooth from his belt. He gripped it tightly around its middle so he could run, and that’s when he heard it. The horrible screams. The cries grew louder, echoing through the cavern, making it impossible to tell from which direction they were coming.
His eyes darted around. “Looks like the party’s not over.”
John hurried along the bank, looking for a way out. He came to three tunnels. The natives’ cries grew impossibly louder.
“Crap! Which one?”
He started for the first tunnel, then stopped, second-guessing himself. “No! What are you nuts?—the prize is never behind door number one.” After only a brief hesitation, he entered the center opening.
Enveloped in darkness, he ran, stumbling and scraping the walls. Feeling his way around a corner, he saw a speck of light in the distance. He picked up the pace. The light grew closer until he shot from the cave like a bullet from a gun. He squinted in the sunlight, realizing that the cave had spat him out somewhere east of the perimeter wall of the village. “Maybe my luck’s starting to change,” he muttered. “There isn’t a soul in sight . . . uh, maybe not.” A glance back showed tribesmen emerging from a different tunnel. Others swarmed through the front door of the village only sixty yards away.
John broke into full stride as he crossed the beach. His waterlogged boots felt like lead in the soft sand. Still they did little to slow him down as he entered the thick of the jungle, cold, moist leaves beating against his chest.
~~~
The underwater gate slowly swung open to the pulsating drumbeat. A rope trailed behind the gate loosely on the surface. The vast gap between the reef filled with darkness as a massive shadow slowly passed through it.
Just outside the entrance, the eighty-foot-long silhouette paused. A long, gray frill broke the surface, barely visible in the endless blue sea. On the dock, two muscular natives pulled with all their strength. The rope became taut, springing from the water until the doors slowly closed. Several villagers watched from atop the interior wall of the village, adjusting their positions to keep the creature in view. The ghostly black shadow streaked across the surface heading north, away from the lagoon. A splash from a huge paddle fin, and the frill rolled, vanishing beneath the waves.
Chapter 7
THE HUNT
The jungle was silent, with the exception of a drizzling sound that echoed across the leaves as a tribesman relieved himself on the local fauna. His spear leaned against a nearby tree. Gazing blankly through the draping vines, he heard something. The villagers’ cries grew louder—closer. A sudden rustling of leaves snatched his attention. He looked over his shoulder, trying to discern what was crashing through the jungle.
~~~
John ducked as he continued his rapid pace, keeping branches from hitting his eyes. Long leaves and vines slashed cruelly at his chest and arms. Bursting through another thick cluster of leaves, he looked up and saw a tribesman’s back. He couldn’t stop. He was going too fast to change direction.
The moment seemed suspended in time. The native grabbed his spear. His surprised expression twisted into hatred. The blurred image of the spear swung out beside the native’s waist, poised for the kill. Before the razor-sharp stone found its mark, John twisted his body. He swung the giant tooth over the spear, and
its blunt side collided with the native’s forehead with a loud, crushing pop. . John didn’t miss a stride, though he did glance at the tooth to make sure it wasn’t broken.
Without looking back, he continued to run pell-mell through the jungle. Flickers of sunlight flashed before him from breaks in the palm fronds overhead. His mind flashed to a haunting image—not the creature, but the helicopter blade at the bottom of the lagoon. Please don’t let it be ours. His thoughts raced as fast as his feet. He tried to remember if there was more than one blade. What did I see? His mind was a blur. Brad’s helicopter had four blades. Did he see four blades? He tried to reason with himself, that surely whatever it was belonged to some other unlucky explorer who wandered here years ago. Who knows? . . . By now, it probably looks like the bottom of the Bermuda Triangle down there, he thought.
John began to slow as his adrenaline high started to fade. His thoughts switched to Brad. Why? Why did he have to climb over the wall? If only he’d waited until morning.
A spear streaking through some nearby leaves caught John’s attention. He looked out the corner of his eye. I’d better find our ‘copter soon or I’ll be discussing the issue with Brad face-to-face.
As he tried to glean his general whereabouts, another thought occurred to him. Had he passed the clearing already? He tried to recall the path he had taken to get him this far. When he first entered the jungle after coming out of the cave, he was east of the lagoon. Along the way, he had adjusted his course west in hope of picking up the trail. But I haven’t found it. He hadn’t seen a single sliced leaf or broken branch since he had been in the jungle. Have I cut too far west and completely missed the clearing? Have I run a mile already? He tried to think how long he had been running. Had it been ten minutes, fifteen, or only five? He had no perception of time.
