by Weston Ochse
He’d gone to see some shrinks after that. He’d told his story, and they’d said that it was his father’s fault for not being there. They’d told his mother that it was a combination of an active imagination and father issues. She thanked them, threw away all of Andy’s Tarzan books, and made him take the mind-numbing pills they’d prescribed.
It was all in his mind.
Finally they’d made him admit that “Tarzan doesn’t live here anymore,” as if saying it made it true.
Less than a year later, the girl’s dad was arrested for molesting her. Andy had been forced to walk home from school a different way since the day he’d scared the girl, but the day after the arrest, he couldn’t help himself. His curiosity had overruled the court order. He’d found the house vacant. The door hung open. Trash and clothes had been scattered as if someone had left in a hurry.
The emptiness pulled him inside. He went from room to room. Living room. Dining room. In the kitchen, a box of Fruit Loops had been spilled and was now a feast for roaches. Upstairs he found three bedrooms. It didn’t take but a second to figure out that the one with the balloons painted on the wall belonged to the little girl. Stepping inside the room, he’d stood there, trying to soak up the environment. But he’d felt nothing. Whatever had been left of the girl was gone. The closet door gaped and he went to it. The door creaked as he’d opened it and what he saw made him stop.
A picture had been drawn about knee-high in the left corner. It looked like the figures had been rendered with crayon. Even without knowing, Andy knew who had drawn the tableau. On the faded yellow wall knelt the stick figure of a girl. Standing over her was the hulking figure of a beast, made from slashes of greens and browns and blacks. The slash beast had yellow eyes that seemed to glow in the gloom of the closet. But the figure that most drew Andy’s attention was the high above the beast and the girl. Hanging from what could only be a vine dangling from a branch was the figure of a man. His face was round, his eyes were tiny circles and his mouth was a larger wavy circle.
Tarzan!
She’d known!
She’d understood!
Even though his mother and the shrinks and everyone else had thought he was crazy, this girl had known that all Andy had wanted to do was to save her— her Tarzan to his Jane.
He looked once again at the kneeling figure. Her head was round too. Her mouth was a frown. Her eyes were smaller circles, and although they were devoid of any emotion, Andy saw within them that strange mixture of hope and fear that had lived in the eyes of the real girl that day he’d taken her into his arms and screamed his Tarzan yell.
Now Andy recognized it once again within this slight Mexican girl lying beside the old man. Yet somehow it wasn’t the old man that seemed predatory. The way she clutched him was too much like a teddy bear or a kid hugging base during a game of freeze tag. No, it wasn’t the old man that Andy needed to worry about. Following her gaze to its end, he found the hungry leer of Batista. Like the King of the Jungle who found the spoor of a new animal, Andy knew that this wasn’t going to end well. He thought about growling at his rummy partner, but knew that the man wouldn’t understand, just like his mother and all of the other adults of his childhood had failed to understand.
Outside the jungle, no one did.
***
Two days later the worms came.
Just after the last sortie of tarantula wasps was hurled back into the Rift, there came a rumbling that set off sensors all around. Twice it stopped, then resumed, strong enough so that even those in the bunkers felt the trembling of the earth.
All the mine tenders got the call to stand by. The mines were detonated remotely, by controllers using satellite and UAV imagery. But in the event the mines failed to detonate, the tenders would have to wade into battle to get to the hard-wired back-up controls. It was deadly dangerous with little chance of survival. Andy never thought he’d have to perform that specific function. At least he hoped he wouldn’t.
Andy stood in the open blast door staring into the night. The Rift was lit by sweeping spotlights. The air was clear except for lingering smoke trails from where Hellfire missiles had connected to bring down the wasps.
Two figures squeezed between him and the door. One was the Mexican girl, the other was her sister. They whispered rapidly to each other and pointed to the Rift. One of the senior sergeants pushed them back. This was no place for children.
Andy felt the heat of Batista’s gaze scorch him as it followed the girl back inside. He’d tried not to say anything, but his Tarzan vibes kept getting stronger and stronger. When he looked once again at his partner, he found Batista staring at him.
“You want a piece of her too, maricone?”
Andy shook his head and tried to look away. But Batista grabbed him and spun him back around.
“I know your kind. You like to watch.”
“I—”
“Next time we hit the bunkers I’m gonna do her. You keep look out and I’ll let you watch. I know you’ll like that.”
Andy didn’t have time to respond. Just then, a one hundred yard-long worm broke free of the soil in their sector. Its skin was a mottle of purples and reds. Hair covered its upper half, or what Andy thought was hair. Each ten-foot strand moved individually, reminding Andy more of tentacles than anything else. Claymores immediately exploded, daisy-chained to deliver a conflagration over a broad area. 40,000 ball bearings ripped into the creature, chopping it in half. Great gouts of blood and flesh flew through the air. It screamed, the sound like a train using its emergency airbrakes.
Then died.
Another worm came after.
Then another.
Then another.
But Andy hardly noticed. Instead, all he could think of was how he was going to keep the girl safe from the predator he worked with. He might have to go talk to her. He looked first at Batista, then at the girl.
Me Tarzan. You Jane.
***
Andy had been away from his Network for six weeks. He’d had longer assignments, but had always filed interim reports, sometimes calling every day just so his bosses knew he was doing what he’d been paid to do. Working with the Rift Battalion, he hadn’t even had the opportunity to make a phone call. He couldn’t take notes, he couldn’t record his thoughts on the recorder he’d stuffed in the bottom of his bag, he couldn’t even scratch hieroglyphics in the dirt. Absolutely everything was monitored by a special team of NSA signal interceptors.
So for all intents and purposes, he’d stepped off the face of the earth. And until his tour was up, he’d remain that way. The soonest he could expect to leave was at the six month mark when they were due to rotate out.
Yet even that was the subject of speculation. The other new guys couldn’t help but wonder if they were really going to be allowed to leave. Sure, they signed non-disclosure agreements and promised to keep the Rift and its denizens a secret, but since when was the government so trustworthy as to keep its side of any bargain?
Like the Mexicans for instance.
Andy had asked why they hadn’t been sent home. The looks he’d gotten had answered the question for him. He soon discovered that the Mexicans would never be allowed to leave. They’d as easily tell the secret of the Rift to the Weekly World News as the Wall Street Journal if it meant they could enter the land of plentiful shopping malls. So they were here to stay. And if history was any reference, they’d end up being assigned to the black trailers where scientists were continually trying to breakdown the monsters’ genomes.
The knowledge brought twitches to Andy’s Tarzan vibes.
The next day came and went without as much as a monstrous whisper. As did the next and the next and the next. A full week passed without incident. It was to the point where new soldiers like Andy wondered if it was all over, if they’d won. But the old timers scoffed at the idea, and with more than a little condescension, explained the idea of gestation. They predicted two more weeks of inactivity before the Rift-shit hit the fan on
ce again.
Just a lull before the storm.
The only one who didn’t like it was Batista. He’d had eyes for nothing but the emergency bunker and the young Mexican girl who waited inside. Until the monsters returned, he wouldn’t even be allowed to get close to her. So it was that every day when they were checking the mine controls and cabling, that he complained and griped and groaned. He’d wax graphically about what his plans were for the young girl. He’d detail the things he’d do. He’d wonder philosophically if she’d like him for what he did, perhaps even love him and beg for more.
Never once did he think that his partner thought otherwise, because Andy remained silent through it all. Andy prayed that it was all talk. In his mind, he might have been Tarzan, but intellectually he understood the difference between pretend and reality. When it came down to it, Batista was a ruthless killer and Andy only pretended to be one. If one were to believe his coworkers, then he was nothing but a coward afraid to do anything but lay huddled in a ditch, begging the universe not to kill him. If that was true, then what good would he be to the girl?
But things were looking up for Batista. Three days short of two weeks, he found his chance. A Hurricane had jumped the Baja Peninsula and was eating its way up the Sea of Cortez. In a divinely poetic set of circumstances, the storm was dubbed Hurricane Edgar.
As Batista voiced his plan, all Andy could think of was how he could get the courage to foil it. Looking at the bunkers with the wind picking up, Andy finally voiced the words that had been rattling around his mind for his whole life.
“Me Tarzan. You Jane,” he whispered.
And the words steeled him for what he’d have to do.
***
The UAVs were grounded. The satellites were blind. Winds were cresting at fifty miles an hour with gusts past seventy. Rain poured from a dark, hollow sky until the ground could take no more. The Hurricane had slammed ashore at 2 A.M., annihilating shoreline homes, small boats and jetties in Puerto Peñasco. The storm didn’t tarry. With an angry fury, the hurricane grew legs and moved inland. Those not sane enough to stay inside found that Edgar was making life a wet, windy, miserable hell as it shuffled laconically across the land.
Batista made his move at 3 A.M. Wearing a camouflage-colored rain jacket, he slipped out of their bunker and into the storm.
Andy noted the sidearm Batista carried and strapped his own on before following. He waited a few moments, then cracked the door and slid into the night. Through the wind and rain he could just make out Batista running hunched over towards the emergency bunker where the Mexicans were being held. To Andy’s right was the minefield. Beyond that gaped the blackness of the Rift.
Andy hunched low and gave chase.
Running was miserable. Every third step he’d slip and fight for balance. The desert sand was already soaked with water. What remained slid away along paths of least resistance. The water, likewise, found its way into his cloak and seeped down his back and into the top of his pants.
But he kept on. The look of his neighbor and the Mexican girl in the bunker merged into one impossibly imploring gaze that pulled him forward through the squall. He fell twice more, once face first, the slick, cold earth coating his teeth.
Andy was so miserable with the weather that he was almost upon Batista before he noticed the man had stopped. Andy windmilled his arms, skidded half a dozen feet, then managed to crash hard on his rump. The sound of his cavitations was lost to the stormy din. He quickly rolled over and tried to merge with the earth. Not ten feet ahead of him was Batista doing the same thing. From beneath their hooded brows they watched a file of black clad men marching towards the bunkers. Andy instinctively reached down to check his sidearm to ensure it was still there.
The door to the bunker opened, the men went inside, then it closed behind them.
Andy waited.
So did Batista.
It seemed like an hour, but was probably only a few minutes. To keep from screaming, Andy recited the titles of the fifty-seven Tarzan episodes starring Ron Ely. He got stuck twice in the middle of the second season, but finally remembered the episode that had been troubling him— Creeping Giants.
Batista leaped to his feet and broke into a run.
Andy had become part of the soil, afraid to move lest he’d be seen. His vantage couldn’t be better, however. This he told himself to make his cowardice reasonable.
Batista reached the side of the bunker. He pulled his pistol and held it ready. As he slid into the shadows on the other side of the door, he pulled a knife out as well. Then he blended into darkness.
They didn’t have long to wait. Soon, the black-clad men exited the bunker, each with a Mexican in tow. Andy strained to see if the girl was one of them, but he couldn’t make out any faces through the rain and distance. He didn’t have to. If the girl had been taken, Batista would have made his move. Instead, he waited until the group was halfway back to their trailers before turning and opening the door.
Batista probably hadn’t counted on one tarrying.
He met a black-clad man face to face in the doorway.
Andy watched as Batista raised his knife and brought it down in one quick move. The other man blocked it by making an X with is arms. Then he grabbed Batista’s wrist and pulled him to the ground. Both men rolled in the mud, as each scrambled for traction.
Andy stood. He was torn by his fear and the idea that this might be his only chance. He took two steps, but was almost knocked down by a gust of wind. Rain stung his face.
Just then three small figures darted out of the bunker door and into the night. Batista was still struggling with the other man, and wasn’t able to stop them. Andy squinted through the gloom and spied one who had the shape of his Jane-girl running straight for the minefield. What sold him was that she also wore a baseball cap. Gritting his teeth, he took off at a run.
He had the angle on her, but she was fleeter of foot. He had to stop her before she entered the minefield. Once she tripped one of the monitors, there’d be no chance to save her. He poured on all the speed he could muster. He was almost to her when he realized he’d never make it. He opened his mouth to call to her but didn’t know her name. His only hope was to get her attention, so he used the only name he knew.
“Jane!” he screamed.
She slowed as she turned to look at him. She had the same Meso-American complexion and the same baseball cap, but it wasn’t her.
His heart sank. Still, he couldn’t let this girl die.
“Stop! Minefield!” he cried and pointed in front of her.
She caught some semblance of his meaning, slowed and finally stopped. She stood like a deer, ready to bolt, watching his feet and hands. He took a step toward her and she took a step back. She glanced around for a way to escape.
Andy put his hands out for her to stay where she was. Just as he gave her a warm smile, she was plucked from the earth into the sky.
“No!” Andy screamed.
A tarantula wasp had her in its grip a hundred feet off the ground. This close it was bigger than Andy had thought. Easily as big as a Cadillac, its shiny black body and orange wings glistened in the wet stormy gloom. It flew a few dozen feet away, then dropped her to the ground. Andy felt, rather than heard, the girl’s back snap. The wasp hovered for a second, then fell to its prey, stinger first, piercing the girl’s abdomen. Her mouth opened into an impossibly wide scream, but nothing came out. As Andy watched, several eggs pushed their way through the thin stinger and into the girl’s stomach. He thought he was going to be sick.
But then he noticed that the wasp had landed three rows into the minefield. Andy wondered what was taking so long. The girl’s back arched. Her hands reached into the air. Then the scene disappeared in a massive explosion as several Claymores fired their deadly cannonade. The ball bearings ripped through the wasp and girl with ease, adding a crimson mist to the gusting winds.
Andy turned and wretched into the mud.
Then he heard a scream.
Batista stood over a slender figure about fifty yards away. His hulking form reminded Andy of the slash monster in the neighbor girl’s closet. A rage descended upon him that he’d never felt before. He no longer cared about his own safety. All he cared about was the girl.
Andy broke into a loping run. He pulled the pistol from the holster. From his mouth came the Tarzan yell that Johnny Weissmuller had made famous the world over, copied by kids from Chicago to China. But Andy was no longer a kid. He wasn’t even a man any longer. Finally, amidst Hurricane Edgar and the death of the girl at the hands of the giant wasp, he’d become that being he’d spent his whole life denying. He was the King of the Jungle, imbued with savage strength and animal instinct. His need to save superseded his desire to survive. He’d finally become that man Tarzan could be.
Batista heard him and turned towards the sound. The smile on his face faltered as he spied Andy rushing towards him.
Andy didn’t give him a chance to make a move. He raised his pistol and fired three times. At least one of the rounds hit, knocking Batista to the ground.
Then all hell broke loose.
From behind him, the Vulcan cannons opened fire. The gunners couldn’t have been able to see, so they must have been firing blindly. Mines were exploding all over the place. The signature explosions of Hellfire missiles accentuated the mines with their deeper concussive blasts.
Andy felt something coming towards him and dove for the earth. A wasp swooped past him, foiled by his instinctive maneuver. Andy rolled to his back, and took aim with the pistol. He fired four times as the wasp swooped and came back towards him. Each round found a home on the underside of the shiny black carapace. He managed to roll away at the last moment as the wasp crashed dead to the earth.
Clawing his way to his feet, Andy ran the rest of the way to the girl. He fell to his knees beside her. He felt her shoulders and her head to make sure she was okay. She stared at him in terror.
“It’s okay, Jane. Everything’s going to be okay.”
He smoothed her hair. Her expression softened a moment, then exploded into a preternatural scream.