He turned his head. The small bird was staring at him. It bobbed its black skull capped head, clacking its orange beak to greet Allen.
“Well, hello there,” Allen smiled. He watched as the bird’s white body and wing feathers slowly began to dapple into fuzzy, purplish speckles.
Amazed by the bird’s transformation, Allen wondered if he was forming a mutualism relationship with the bird.
The tern chirped excitedly, flapping its wings like an animated Disney cartoon character.
Allen held his right arm straight out from his side.
Two gulls landed on what may have appeared to them as a tree branch. Their plumage instantly began to sprout tiny gypsophila flowers. It was evident Allen’s condition was transferable to other creatures merely through touch. He hoped it wouldn’t prove to be a bad thing like being exposed to poison oak or something deadly.
He watched with trepidation as the two birds turned into floral sculptures.
Allen jiggled his arm. He was relieved when the strange-looking gulls flew off.
He climbed over the deck railing. He jumped onto a boulder. He made his way over the rocks until he reached the gravelly beach, stepping onto the lava-formed island.
He took a few steps then looked back at what looked like footprints in the sand, though he had been treading on solid rock—a mossy trail shaped by the soles of his feet.
Moss began to spread in all directions like a gentle flood, filling each rock pore with newborn life. Fungal spores drifted up to higher ground on the incoming ocean breeze giving birth to millions of tiny toadstools on the hillsides and setting the stage for things to come.
Allen spread his arms apart like a prophet and gazed up at the transforming landscape. He turned to smile at the splendid bird on his shoulder. “Welcome my little friend to Cryptid Island.”
PART TWO
THE CRYPTID HUNTERS
15
HAWE
Jack Tremens and Miguel Walla followed the two heavily armed park rangers through the trees into the tall grass. They’d been on foot for the past twenty minutes after leaving the rangers’ Land Rover on the other side of a large boulder not too far away from an old flatbed truck they’d discovered concealed in a grove of umbrella thorn acacias.
For three months, Jack and Miguel had been conservational stewards volunteering their services. They had been assisting Dr. Karl Hiller and his wife, Cynthia, both compassionate and skilled veterinarians who had recently established Hawe Wildlife Preserve: Hawe being the African word for haven. The sanctuary was almost 200 square miles in the savanna plains and was an extension of a bordering national park.
The Hillers’ mission plan was to provide proper medical assistance to endangered species and protect the wildlife from poachers.
The atrocities Jack and Miguel witnessed while working on the reservation were enough to turn anyone’s stomach. The needless slaughter of mutilated animals left to rot in the sun while poachers made a bleak living peddling rhino horns to be ground up for aphrodisiacs and elephant tusks to be carved into tourist trinkets, leopard skins to clothe egocentrics in exotic furs, and any other animal byproducts illegally sold on the Black Market.
With so many animals roaming such an expansive area, it was an impossible job ensuring their safety from unscrupulous poachers who were not unlike heartless looters swooping in unexpectedly and raiding homes during a forced disaster evacuation.
No animals were exempt from the poacher’s greed, even if it was just for the meat. The amount of species going extinct everyday was staggering. Jack and Miguel hoped to somehow turn the tide.
“How many?” Jack asked.
“I count six separate footprints,” Amare said, glancing over his shoulder. The park ranger wore a beige safari hat, military fatigues, and was armed with an M4 carbine.
Haji, the other ranger walking beside him, was similarly dressed and carried the same style weapon.
“Shouldn’t be a problem,” Miguel replied, giving Jack a wink.
Jack drew a bandana out of his back pocket and mopped his forehead. The center of his shirt between his shoulder blades was soaked from the torrid African heat.
As the two park rangers were carrying assault rifles with 30-round clips and were combat trained, Jack and Miguel only wore side arms. Jack had his Colt .44-magnum revolver holstered on his right hip, Miguel a Desert Eagle .357 semi-automatic pistol in a shoulder rig. They had their five-inch serrated blade hunting knives sheathed on their belts if needed.
They’d been traipsing through the tall grass for maybe five minutes when Amare raised his right arm in an L-shape and made a fist. He glanced over at Haji, pointing straight ahead.
Jack heard voices up ahead. He drew his gun, holding it down by his thigh. He looked over at Miguel. His pistol was out of the holster.
The men stepped out of the high grass into a dirt clearing.
Five African men in shabby clothes had their backs turned to them. They were spread out around a giant thirty-foot tall termite mound. The poachers were kicking and using the butts of their guns like brooms, trying to move armored anteaters away from the termite hill.
The animals were pangolins, the most desired species for illegal trafficking as their meat was considered a delicacy. Their keratin scales were used for medicines, and because of that, the timid animals were being hunted to extinction.
Jack watched an anteater roll itself up into a protective ball. A poacher reached down with his bare hands to pull it apart. He screamed suddenly as the sharp scales tore into his flesh.
Another poacher snuck up behind a pangolin. The animal raised its scaly tail, spraying him in the face like a skunk. The man stumbled back, rubbing furiously at his eyes. He slammed the butt of his rifle down on the pangolin’s tiny head, crushing it into the dirt.
“Put down your guns!” Amare yelled, aiming his carbine at the poachers.
Haji pointed his weapon at the man with the bleeding hands.
The other poachers stared indecisively at the park rangers.
Jack moved to Amare’s side.
Miguel stood next to Haji.
They kept their side arms pointed at the ground so as not to provoke a gunfight.
Studying the five poachers, Jack gave Amare a sideways glance and whispered, “I thought you said there were six?”
“There are,” Amare replied.
The unaccounted-for poacher stepped out from behind the termite mound with a single-barrel shotgun and fired.
Amare yelped as the buckshot peppered his left side, some of the stray pellets striking Jack in his right arm.
Haji let out a short burst of machinegun fire, cutting down the shooter. The other poachers raised their gun muzzles.
Jack shot the man with the bleeding hands, reaching into his waistband to draw a vintage pistol. The magnum slug punched a hole in the man’s forehead the size of a silver quarter.
Miguel blasted the poacher that had killed the pangolin. The man dropped his rifle and slumped to the ground beside the dead anteater.
A machete-wielding man charged Jack. He raised his revolver to block the blow as the blade came at his face. His gun was knocked out of his hand. The poacher swung again. Jack ducked. The broad sword swished over his head. Jack extended his left hand, burying the sharp steel of his combat knife into his attacker’s upper leg. He yanked out the blade. The man collapsed to the ground, blood gushing out the wound.
Two poachers threw down their guns. They raised their hands high in the air.
Haji stepped towards them. He aimed his carbine at a poacher’s head.
“Haji!” Amare shouted.
The park ranger ignored his wounded cohort.
“Do not do that!”
Haji glared at the trembling poacher. He began to lower his gun. He brought the stock of his assault rifle around, striking the man across the face, sending him sprawling onto the dirt. “You, on the ground!” he snapped at the other man.
When they were facedown o
n the sun-baked ground, Haji stood over the prone men. He handcuffed them with plastic ties.
Jack watched as more pangolins came out of nearby burrows, heading toward the termite mound. Some of the long-tailed aardvarks took a couple of bipedal steps before walking on all fours.
The animals converged at the base of the huge termite hill, flicking their long tongues inside the loose soil, searching for tasty insects.
Miguel watched the pangolins going about their normal routine as though nothing had happened. “It’s lucky we came along.”
“Tell that to them,” Jack said, gazing down at the dead poachers.
***
“You were fortunate it was only birdshot,” Dr. Hiller said, dabbing blotches of antiseptic ointment on Jack’s arm. Amare was sitting on the edge of a gurney with his feet dangling over the edge. His side had been taped up and he was putting on his shirt.
“So I imagine those poachers will be locked up for some time,” Jack said.
“I wouldn’t count on it,” Dr. Hiller said.
“What do you mean?”
“Most times poachers aren’t even convicted or pay only a small fine.”
“That’s ridiculous. And why’s that?”
“Because our judges are too lenient,” Amare said, hopping off the gurney. “If I were a judge, I would send every poacher to the gallows. String them up and be done with them. Let them go and they just go out and kill more animals.”
“It doesn’t seem right,” Jack had to admit. “There should be stiffer laws.”
“I agree,” Dr. Hiller said. “But you have to remember for some of the local people, poaching is their only source of income where wild game is considered a free resource.”
“What about government intervention?”
“There is too much corruption.”
“Surely, there has to be an answer.”
“There is. We continue our efforts protecting these animals and hopefully in time more sanctuaries like this one can be created and national parks will be allowed to expand. But of course, that would require additional government funding,” Dr. Hiller said with a pained look.
“In other words, don’t hold your breath,” Jack said.
“Exactly.” Dr. Hiller patted Jack lightly on the back. “You were lucky the pellets barely penetrated the skin.” The doctor turned to Amare. “You, on the other hand, better see me in the morning so I can change your dressing.”
“Thank you, Dr. Hiller,” Amare said. He gave Jack a wave and left the examination room.
Dr. Hiller looked at Jack. “Well, I have a sick vulture to attend to.”
“Thanks for patching me up,” Jack said and walked out of the room. He strolled down the long corridor and went outside.
He ambled past the corrals and the stucco animal enclosures behind the treatment clinic. He saw volunteer villagers that traveled up to ten miles a day on foot roundtrip, feeding and taking care of injured animals.
Haji was standing guard in front of a lion cage where the poachers were being held, awaiting transport to the nearest jail.
Cutting across the open yard, Jack went up to a cottage porch. He knocked on the door.
“Come in,” a woman’s voice beckoned.
Jack opened the door, stepping inside.
“Aren’t they the cutest things ever?” five-year-old Sophia beamed, kneeling next to a cardboard box filled with a litter of six wild dog pups. They looked like canine Musketeers with their comical oversized ears. Their mishmash hides were a tapestry of different earth tone colors.
“I’ll say,” Jack replied.
“Cynthia brought them over for Sophia to play with,” Maria said, sitting in a chair beside her daughter so she could supervise playtime.
“Where’s that husband of yours?”
“Sitting out on the observation deck with his computer.”
Sophia squealed.
Jack saw all six puppies standing on their hind legs with their front paws on the lip of the cardboard box, slobbering Sophia’s hands with their tongues.
“Better be careful they don’t lick you to death.”
Sophia giggled until one of the pups nipped her hand. “Ouch, stop that!”
“See, I told you,” Jack laughed. He stepped through the room to the sliding glass door leading out to a wooden deck overlooking a small lake and the sprawling savanna stretching for miles to the mountain range on the distant horizon.
Jack closed the sliding glass door behind him to keep out the heat. He went over to the picnic table where Miguel sat, typing on the keyboard of his laptop.
“Updating our blog?”
“I just posted a short account of what happened today.” Miguel looked up from the screen. “You should be happy to know we’ve reached a new milestone and have almost 3,500 followers.”
“That is good news.” Jack sat on the bench across from his friend. He gazed out at the panoramic view.
“I’m thinking of making some web design changes.” Miguel pointed at their homepage, which had caricatures of Jack and Miguel. There was a strong resemblance to their faces but their bodies were more cartoon-like. Jack was the tall, buff, action-type explorer, while Miguel was shorter and partially obscured, peering out from behind a tree like a buffoon.
“Why, what’s wrong with it?” Jack asked.
“Maria says I look like Bernardo.”
“Who’s Bernardo?”
“Zorro’s sidekick.”
“That’s crazy,” Jack said. “I look nothing like Zorro.”
“Changing the subject, ever heard of a Professor Nora Howard?” Miguel asked.
“Can’t say as I have.”
“It seems she’s been taking a special interest in our website, writing comments and requesting we get in contact with her.”
“Really. Any idea who she is?” Jack asked.
Miguel tapped a key and turned his laptop around on the table so Jack could see the screen. “Here she is on Google.”
Jack took a moment to read Nora Howard’s biography. She was raised in Montara, California and had earned her PHD at Stanford University, majoring in bioengineering and had graduated with various honors in programs researching cloning, stem cells, and cellular biology. She enjoyed hiking and traveling and had an unaccredited metaphysics degree in Cryptozoology. She was currently employed at Wilde Enterprises.
There was also a picture of her to the right of the article. She was an attractive blonde with piercing blue eyes and a cute smile.
“Pretty. For an egghead,” Jack quipped.
“I think she wants to hire us.”
“Hire us for what?”
“Not completely sure.”
“Can you contact her?” Jack asked.
“Sure. Let me shoot her an email.”
***
They had just finished eating dinner outside on the deck when Miguel’s laptop chimed, signaling an incoming email. It was a three-pager from the professor, outlining her proposal with attached contractual agreements.
Jack and Miguel read the email twice as it seemed too unbelievable.
“This is a hoax, right?” Miguel said, sitting back from his computer. He glanced through the closed sliding glass window at Maria standing in front of the kitchenette sink, washing the dishes while Sophia sat at a small table, drawing pictures of the animals she’d seen that day.
“Pretty wild, that’s for sure. That company the professor works for must have money to burn, seeing what it’s willing to pay us.”
“If we deliver the goods,” Miguel said. “Let’s say for a second that this is on the level and we agree to sign up. I’m not sure I want Maria and Sophia coming along.”
“You’re right. Some of those places mentioned in the email look pretty dangerous.”
“Do you think the Hillers would mind if Maria and Sophia remained here?”
“I don’t see why not. They can always use the help. But will Maria go for it?”
“She will. Once she sees what thes
e people are willing to pay us.”
“It might mean being away from them for stretches at a time. You saw the itinerary the professor had planned for us.”
“True, I’ll miss them but think what we can do with the money. Definitely boost our online presence and spread the word about endangered wildlife.”
“I’m game if you are.”
“Then I guess we’re doing this?”
“Pull up those contracts.”
Miguel returned to his computer. He clicked on the blue attachment. “I’m definitely changing our homepage.” He looked at Jack and struck a pose like he was mugging for the camera. “What do you think? Antonio Banderas? Jimmy Smits?”
“In your dreams.”
16
MNGWA
The Cessna 340A made its descent, touching down on a field near a small village nestled at the base of a grassy hill.
“This is it,” the pilot yelled back. The twin engines whined down, each propeller coming gradually to a stop.
When Jack and Miguel were picked up from Hawe Wildlife Preserve, they weren’t told their destination. Looking out the windows, they knew the general direction was south by the position of the sun.
From the passenger compartment, Jack had watched the pilot in the cockpit taking flight instructions over his headset. Every so often the pilot would make a slight correction, altering their course.
“And where are we exactly?” Jack asked the pilot as he stepped from the cockpit and came down the aisle. Instead of the traditional captain’s uniform, the bush pilot was wearing a polo shirt with a WE emblem above the shirt pocket, a pair of slacks and dress shoes.
“Tanzania.”
“That’s pretty broad,” Miguel said.
“Sorry, but that’s all I can tell you.”
Jack knew by the pilot’s tone they weren’t going to get any specifics.
Miguel’s laptop chimed on the seat next to him. The pilot took it as his cue to return to the cockpit.
Miguel raised the cover, putting the laptop on the pull down food tray mounted to the back of the seat in front of him. He saw Professor Nora Howard on the screen, sitting behind her desk, wearing a white lab coat.
Cryptid Island Page 5