Fog was a friend also. But he was even more afraid when it was foggy and he couldn’t see two feet in front of himself. It was because you could still hear the sounds but weren’t sure where they were coming from. Leaves rustling, twigs snapping, or sudden running footsteps would send waves of fear through him. Once, as he froze in his tracks because of a sound, a shape had rushed past him, missing him by only a few feet. Fog was a friend, but he hated it also.
From under the darkness of the fern leaves, he became aware that it was a bright, moonlit night. Too bright he realized suddenly. It had been raining when he set out but it had stopped about an hour ago. He should have gone back and waited for the rain to start again but he couldn’t make himself do it. He had to stay, had to continue.
He slowly took off the night vision goggles and looked up between the fern leaves at the night sky. He remembered the first time he had looked up at that sky, it was just after they arrived, how bright the moon had been then too, closer than he could have imagined. So huge, he felt he could have reached up and touched it. So many stars filled the night sky with no bright city lights to hide them. The moon and the stars were still there, but now instead of beauty all he saw was that there were no clouds in the sky, no hope for a hiding storm. Now the moonlit night was threatening to expose him. He wished he had never seen this sky.
He should have stayed in the cave he thought, and waited for the rain to come again. It always rained, why had he taken the chance? The days after their arrival and the sudden terrible deaths were a waking nightmare, leaving no hope of any kind. For three days, he laid in the cave, venturing out only as far as the site and then running back to the cave. He was doomed to die alone. His ammunition was down to just a handful of shells, the wait for death bitter, leaving him depressed and angry.
Then, in the depth of his deepest despair, when he had all but given up, he had suddenly realized he might be able to change things, to stop the horror before it began. Quickly, he had developed a plan and after he had decided what to do, it had brought back his drive and determination. Every day, no, every minute since death could come all too suddenly, he was driven to carry out his plan as quickly as possible. His future, no - all of their futures, depended on it. Everything depended on his being able to make it to this stream as often as possible. He came every night, terrified of what might happen. Risking his life with every minute he was away from the cave. But then he would remember he was dead anyway. It was just a matter of time. So every night he returned to this small, seemingly inconsequential stream. Maybe it would change what happened. Maybe it would stop the screaming in his nightmares. It had to.
A drop of sweat formed on his forehead and slowly trickled into his left eye. Was it from his fear or the constant heat and oppressive humidity? There were times when he felt as if he were under water as he breathed in the damp, heavy air with its lower oxygen content than he was used to. He had been in jungles and swamps before but none were like this. What a world he had come to die in.
The sweat burned his eye but still he made no move, still he did not blink. His concern now was that they would smell the sweat, his fear, find him, kill him, and eat him. Though he realized that was going to happen anyway, if not now then later, he wanted it to be later. Slowly, silently, he dipped his fingers into the dung pouch around his neck and dabbed the sticky material to his forehead. Smell was important here; best to smell like something that had already been eaten than something that was ready to be eaten.
His mind wandered again, what a fool he had been when he decided to come here. All the other trips had been so successful and rewarding, but he could see now that they were nothing like this trip. He had been blinded by his success, felt he could do anything he wanted, all he had to do was touch the right key and the world was his. But those other worlds he understood - this one he did not. How could you understand a world where all life seemed so menacing, and death waited in the shadows? The fittest survived, and he was not one of them.
On every other project, he had insisted on in-depth research and he had always led the way. Planning every movement, every detail, so as not to be discovered, to get it right and then get out. This one had been so vast though, so overwhelming that he knew he could not learn all that was needed. He had brought in the experts; he could still see their disbelief turning into wonder and astonishment as he showed them what he had already done. They had joined his team with great enthusiasm. They knew the answers, he was only supposed to take them there and bring them back. It would be easy he had told them and their fears faded away. Soon they would know the answers, there would be no more guessing. It would be their secret. Now they were dead.
He could save them though, if he kept going to the stream. He thought of John, the first person he had ever told. He had brought in Rachel and Ken, the experts. How they loved the project and could not wait for the big day to arrive. They helped pick the times and site, did all of the research. They knew who else to bring in and everything that was needed. He had simply listened to them and allowed them complete control. He had never failed, he could do anything and nothing could stop him. They wanted the same thing he did, just a chance to visit. They would never tell anyone else because they knew the danger. They had become his friends. Now they were gone, and soon he would join them and no one would ever know what happened.
That thought brought him quickly out of his brooding and back to his senses. No, he would not, could not, give up. It would work; he just had to keep at the plan. The more he did the better the chances, he had to give himself every opportunity. He brought up more dung on his fingers and wiped it on his face. It also kept the insects away. They had acquired a taste for his blood and some of them were huge but all were tenacious.
He started to part the large leaves and move to the stream when he heard a quiet splash, too much it sounded like a stealthy footstep in the water. He stopped, trembling slightly as he fought the sudden, almost overwhelming primeval urge to run from the cover back to the shelter of the cave. He could make it, he would be safe there. He battled his thoughts and the emotions that were trying to control him. It was impossible to run to the cave before something caught him. He steadied himself, perhaps it was not a hunter, others drank from the stream, but he could feel the hair standing on the back of his neck, and the night was now ominously still. There was no noise, even the insects were silent. He realized his hand was on the semi-automatic pistol.
Suddenly, a loud splash and a low grunt a hundred feet to his right was answered by loud roars followed by terrified squeals of fright and then pain. Something had made a mistake, its last. Loud splashing from where he had thought he heard the step in the water told him he had been right not to move. Now others were rushing quickly towards the noise, rushing to join the kill. A loud struggle was taking place and fortunately it was moving further away instead of closer. There were many involved and they were large. Then all was quiet except for the awful noise of the feeding, a sound he had heard too many times and no longer paid any attention to. But, if they were busy eating they would not pay any attention to him.
Now was the time to move and he slowly pushed the large ferns apart so that he could scan the area. It was still too light to use the night vision so he put it in his pack. Nothing could be seen in the bright moonlight and he knew the sounds of the kill had frightened away anything else that had been around…unless it was bigger and hungrier. He had learned from experience to be careful. There was always something bigger and hungrier it seemed.
Staying low, he darted from the drooping leaves and quickly covered the distance between the ferns and the shallow stream. He stopped along the bank, still muddy from high water of the recent rain and dropped to his hands and knees. He stayed back from the water, sometimes there were hunters in there also, waiting for the careless. The area was covered with footprints of all the animals, big and small, that drank from the stream. Including the hunters, who visited the stream looking for those who did not pay enough attentio
n while they drank.
Looking left and right to make sure nothing was moving towards him, he began writing in the mud over and over again. Sometimes large, sometimes smaller, but always the same thing every time, every night:
STOP ME CHARLES DAWSON STOP ME
When he first started he had also written PROFESSOR CHARLES DAWSON but that took too long. Other times, when the despair was the heaviest, he would also add:
DEAR GOD PLEASE STOP ME
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Great Big Teeth Page 12