by Eric Thomson
Ten
“You’re close my friend, and you smell so fresh off the shuttle.” A muted cackle oozing with feral insanity sent shivers down Decker’s spine.
He identified more individuals by the sounds they made as they moved through the undergrowth, following in the wake of the sniffing man. A dozen, perhaps. The hunters spread in an arc around him, proof they had identified his hiding spot. A face popped over a gnarled, scaly root, teeth unnaturally white in the gloom.
“And there you are.”
Decker’s meaty fist slammed into the apparition. Then, he sprang to his feet, grabbed the bag that held his possessions and ran into the night. The man stumbled backward, cursing in a tone that betrayed an equal measure of madness, anger, and surprise.
Dodging obstacles and plowing through tangled vines, Decker ran with all the energy he could muster, but this wasn’t his turf. He sensed rather than heard the hunting party gain on him, thanks to their intimate knowledge of the forest, knowledge that was only theoretical for the Marine, especially in the dark.
Decker tripped over an exposed root and staggered, catching himself on the trunk of the offending tree. A thrown cudgel missed his head by a hair’s breadth and he pivoted ninety degrees to the left, hoping a sudden change of direction might throw off his pursuers.
Feet digging into the spongy mess of rotting debris, he pushed through a thicket of spiny ferns. The thorns sliced stinging furrows of blood into his hands and face, their coating of alien sap burning his human flesh.
The hunters had abandoned any pretense of stealth and communicated with each other using sharp, high-pitched yelps. And they were closing in fast. A yip suddenly echoed between the tree trunks in front of Zack, and he veered to the right.
He barely managed three steps when one of his pursuers stepped out from behind a tree, fighting stick held high. Decker fell into a crouch a fraction of a second before the hardened length of wood whistled through the air above him. Had the weapon connected, it would have dealt him a disabling blow.
Decker sprang forward and slammed his shoulder into the hunter’s midriff, shoving him against an unyielding trunk with enough force to crack several vertebrae. Taking advantage of his opponent’s momentary disorientation, Decker rammed a one-knuckle fist into his trachea, crushing it. The man sagged to the ground, choking to death.
A second yipping hunter jumped on his back and wrapped his arms around Decker’s neck. Zack staggered forward a pace or two, then bent over and threw the man into the underbrush.
Before he had a chance to recover and for the second time in less than twenty-four hours, his universe vanished into a black hole, this time courtesy of a thick stick connecting with the back of his head.
*
Parth’s red sun was kissing the treetops when Decker came to beneath a cloudless sky that seemed almost painfully blue. He tried to move his limbs but quickly realized the hunters had pegged him out, spread-eagle and naked, at the center of yet another clearing.
The aroma of wood smoke and roasting flesh, mingled with the less pleasant stench of too many unwashed bodies in a small area, tickled his nostrils. He turned his head to one side, triggering a wave of pain and nausea. When it passed, a cluster of rough shelters swam into view, some with small fires by the openings. A few figures sat near them, their features half hidden by the early morning shade.
He heard footsteps approach from the other side, but before he could turn his pounding head, a foot connected with his side, triggering a fresh wave of agony.
“I see our newest hero’s awake.” A man’s voice, raspy, its tone derisive. “Hanno will be glad to know you survived. He has a bone to pick with you after you cost him a few teeth last night.”
Decker’s eyes sought out his tormentor, and when they finally focused on the shape looming above him, he saw a deeply tanned and seamed face surrounded by a matted, unkempt beard and long, ragged hair. Stained teeth cut a pale slash beneath his hirsute upper lip as he grinned.
“In fact,” the man continued, “Hanno will ask the boss for the honor of making the first cut, and he’s good at inflicting pain.”
“Where am I?” Decker asked in a voice roughened by his headache. “And who the fuck are you, other than someone who desperately needs a shower?”
The man laughed.
“Pretty mouthy for a guy who’ll be the guest of honor at our next feast, once the boss is back. Only the boss is allowed to decide, but he’ll take one look at you and figure it out.”
“Is that how you treat your guests? Knock ‘em out and tie ‘em up?”
“It depends on the sort of guest. Some, they’re dropped on us at times when we’re recruiting. If they’re not dangerous bastards like you, we might take them in. But you killed Pete and busted up Yanni real bad on top of breaking Hanno’s teeth. So you’ll end up being the other kind of guest, the kind who provides us with a few nourishing meals. The meat around here doesn’t have everything a body needs. Thankfully, once in a while heaven sends us long pig.”
The man laughed. It was a mad cackle that matched the psychotic gleam in his deep-set eyes.
“And you’re long all right, in more ways than one. Yep, the boss will be really happy we have you trussed up, waiting for him.”
He walked away, still giggling at his joke. It was one of the most chilling sounds to ever reach Decker’s ears, even after a career that had featured more than a few deranged sentient beings. Soon, several equally dirty, wild-looking men and women came to gawk at him, but none seemed inclined to talk.
The sun soon rose high in the sky, both blinding and baking Decker with its harsh rays. First hunger and then thirst tormented the Marine, but after a brief burst of interest, his captors ignored him.
He tried to work his arms loose, but the feral convicts knew their knots and had driven the stakes deep into the hardened earth. After feeling blood seep from his tortured wrists, he stopped, but it was too late. Attracted by the scent, native insects, at first only a few, but then in teeming hordes, crawled over his body, poking into various orifices and leaving irritating bite marks everywhere.
Unable to brush them off or scratch at the skin punctures, he gritted his teeth and tried to send his mind elsewhere, using the meditative techniques taught to operatives during counter-interrogation training.
His bladder yanked him back to the here and now as the sun dropped below the treetops, sending a line of shadows creeping across the encampment. Decker’s skin felt as if it was on fire and a detached part of his mind wondered whether staking him out was a form of pre-cooking for cannibalistic gourmets. With no other options available, he gave in to his bladder’s demands. A warm puddle formed beneath his buttocks and thighs.
A female voice to his left called out, “He’s gone and pissed himself.”
“Douse him with water, if it bothers you that much,” the man who’d spoken with Decker that morning replied. “It’s not as if any of us have the aroma of a fucking rose.”
Evidently, it bothered the woman because moments later a bucket’s worth of cold liquid splashed over him, momentarily cooling the sunburn he’d developed.
“I hope you’re not gonna shit yourself as well,” she grumbled, walking away.
“If you’re dumping water on me, could I have a sip to drink as well?” Decker croaked. “You wouldn’t want your food to be too dry.”
“Wise-ass, aren’t you?” The woman said, returning to stare at him. Long black hair framed a narrow, haggard face, its delicate features blurred by dirt and privation. In another setting, she might have been pretty. If not for the savage glint in her eyes.
“I can give you water I’ve processed.” She made as if to hitch up the skirt-like wrap that hung from her emaciated hips. When he didn’t react, she barked out a laugh. “All right, mister. Unprocessed water it is.”
The woman vanished from Decker’s field of vision, and then returned holding a cup made from a hollowed-out branch. Squatting by his side, she lifted his head w
ith one dirty, calloused hand and placed the cup’s rim on his lower lip with the other.
“Don’t drink too fast or you’ll choke.”
“What does it matter?” He asked between short sips. “You fine folks intend to kill me, anyway.”
“You heard what Bernie said this morning. Boss gets the final say. Until then, you stay alive.” She studied him in silence while he drank, then said, “It's a shame we’re not recruiting. A big buck like you could do a lot of good, in more ways than one.”
“Why aren’t you recruiting?”
“The gang’s full up. We can only feed so many and times are pretty lean these days. It takes a lot of hunting and foraging to collect enough nutrients for a human body. We’re already stretching what’s available in our territory.”
“And a chance at long pig makes up for it, right?”
She gave him a predatory smile.
“Yep, especially a big healthy one straight off the prison shuttle. As soon as we saw yours land over by Demon Peak yesterday, Bernie called up a hunt without waiting for the boss to return. It doesn’t happen too often. We had one a while back who got away. The damn shuttle made the drop early morning, so our fresh meat was able to run.”
The woman climbed to her feet.
“Still,” she said before turning away, “it’s a shame. You’re kind of easy on the eyes, compared to the rest of the rejects around here.”
Eleven
When darkness returned, Decker worked on his arm restraints again, teeth clenched against the painful cuts inflicted by the woven tree bark used for rope. After a while, during which a growing chorus of snores drowned out the rustling of nocturnal animals, he felt a minute amount of slack in the cord restraining his left arm. A few excruciating yanks later, he became convinced the stake was coming loose, likely because the water splashed over him earlier had softened the hard ground.
He heard the whisper of bare feet over short grass coming near and stopped pulling. Someone was still up. Without warning, the same woman as before straddled him and, removing her skirt, settled over his groin. A crude knife in her hand reflected the dull orange glow of dying embers nearby.
She reached down to touch him, her face twisted into a hungry rictus more appropriate to a succubus, a demon in female form, than a half-mad convict.
“I know you’re not supposed to play with your food,” she whispered, “but a big boy like you doesn’t come around often. Make momma happy, and I’ll bring you something to eat. Otherwise, I might just take a few slices now, to tide me over.” She waved the knife over his face.
Revulsion welled up Decker’s throat as she touched him again, then rubbed herself against his groin. She leaned forward, and her fetid breath washed over his face, mixing with the stench of her unwashed body.
He gagged, suppressing a convulsive shudder. Then, in a fit of desperation, he put his remaining strength into a final, excruciatingly painful tug on the loosened stake.
It popped out, and Decker’s left fist slammed into the side of the woman’s head. She slid off him too stunned for words and slumped to the ground on his right. Her hand released the crude knife and Decker reached for it, sensing a burst of adrenaline coursing through his veins. When he felt his fingers wrap around the wooden hilt, a humorless grin split his bloodied, dirty face.
Three quick slashes with the blade and he was free. He gave the woman another solid blow to the head, hard enough to keep her unconscious for a few hours, but not so violent as to kill her. His eyes scanned the encampment, and he spied his bag, boots, and coveralls neatly piled by an empty lean-to, presumably tribute waiting for the boss’ return.
The nearest sleeper stopped snoring and turned over onto his side, open eyes staring at Decker. When no cries of alarm escaped his lips after few heart-stopping seconds, the Marine realized he was still slumbering. The snores resumed a moment later.
With as much stealth as he could muster, Zack slipped on the coveralls and stepped into his boots. He grabbed the duffel bag and tiptoed away from the camp towards what he hoped was the west. Navigation using the unfamiliar constellations overhead hadn’t been part of his preparation for Parth.
Every fiber in Decker’s body ached from the previous night’s fight and a full day stretched out on the hard ground, unable to move, without food and precious little water. But the darkness of the jungle quickly swallowed him nonetheless.
Thanks to a wildlife trail, he initially made good time and little noise, though he couldn’t avoid the occasional stumble thanks to roots poking through the layers of decaying vegetation.
The trail soon petered out, and progress came at a greater cost, both in energy and through fresh scrapes from unyielding Parthian flora. But he didn’t dare slow his pace, let alone stop for a breather.
Decker knew this was his one chance of escape. Failure meant death at the hands of crazed exiles, joining who knew how many other unwary convicts purposely dropped on Desolation Island’s savage central plateau to vanish forever.
The Commonwealth Correctional Service would have hard questions to answer after he returned home and exposed the dark side of their exile scheme. If he returned home.
Living in a pastoral, preindustrial state was supposed to be more humane than lifelong incarceration, but for many, it had turned into a nightmare. He could only pray that Ariane Redmon hadn’t been dealt the same hand. Otherwise his mission might well be for naught.
*
After what seemed like an agonizing eternity pushing his way through the forest without finding a downslope that might show he was headed in the right direction, Decker stopped. He dug a hand into his duffel bag for a ration bar and realized most had vanished, hunger having overcome the savages’ fear of their gang boss.
After eating half of one, he forced his legs back into motion, ears alert for the sound of running water that might assuage his growing thirst.
Eventually, and at first, imperceptibly, the darkness beneath the triple canopy turned to a pre-dawn gray. Then, with the suddenness common in the subtropics, he could see his surroundings again. And gauge the sun’s direction.
Decker mentally cursed himself. He had been walking north all night. No wonder the ground had remained as flat as a tennis court.
Shortly after correcting his course, the distant, muffled sounds of humans moving through the jungle unconcerned with making noise, reached his ears. Then, he heard faint yipping sounds from the opposite direction, the hunting calls they had used before encircling and trapping him.
Sunrise had happened just in time. Had he remained on the same bearing, he would have been caught between two groups. And chances were good that the second one was the hunting party headed by the gang’s leader, returning to camp. The Marine’s assumption was confirmed when its members yipped in the same manner.
Decker figured the time had come to trade stealth for speed. He bulled his way through thickets, heedless of noise, praying he would find the edge of the central plateau and a path leading to the plains before they caught up to him.
But no matter how much vigor he poured into his stride, the yelps of his hunters crept ever closer. This was their territory, and they knew it well.
The trees abruptly stopped on the banks of a fast-moving stream approximately ten meters wide, its foaming waters headed due west.
A weary smile tugged at Decker’s cracked lips as he waded into the river. Submerged rocks tried their best to grab at his ankles and throw him off balance, but he kept wading into the cool onrush until the water reached his waist.
Then, facing downriver, he immersed himself and swam with the current as best he could, eyes scanning for anything that might snag him, be it a log, a rock or the native fauna.
Between strokes, he took a sip or two of water, eventually calming his burning thirst, while hoping his full-spectrum immunization would be effective against the microorganisms sure to lurk in every drop.
He lost track of the hunting party’s vocalizations after entering the rive
r and allowed himself to hope he had gained enough distance. Such was his relief at stumbling across this unexpected highway through the forest that he didn’t notice his increasing speed and the growing roar ahead until it threatened to become deafening.
Decker came around a tree-lined bend and saw a cloud of mist bordered by an unexpected rainbow above churning waters. A sickening sense of dread stabbed at his gut.
He was about to reach the edge of the central plateau, where the fast flowing river turned into a waterfall. With a burst of energy born from desperation, he propelled himself to the nearest bank, a rocky shelf sculpted over the centuries by monsoon floods. Although now, in the absence of torrential rains, it sat high and dry.
Fingertips, formerly calloused by the life of a Pathfinder, now softened by that of a spy, scrabbled at the gray schist, breaking off fist-sized chunks. Finally, Decker’s hands caught a protrusion robust enough to carry his weight.
After struggling against the irresistible push of the water, he found solid footing. Then, he hauled himself onto the shelf, where he lay still for a good minute, working to regain his breath. Once his heartbeat had slowed to a less frenzied rhythm, Decker climbed to his feet.
A broad vista unfolded beneath the outcrop. Its furthest horizon was marked by the deep blue of the Southern Ocean beyond the turquoise waters of the lagoon bordering this part of the island.
The river, resuming its course a good thirty meters below him, meandered through the lowland jungle, emerging amid well-ordered fields before it ended in a narrow, marshy delta. A village, no more than an indistinct dark clump at this distance, sat on a spit of land surrounded on three sides by water.
With his goal in sight, Decker’s spirits rose. He knelt at the edge of his perch, hoping to find a way down and escape from his hunters for good. Without warning, an arrow flashed by his head, close enough to let him feel the wind of its passage. An enraged yelp pierced the waterfall’s roar, and Decker dropped on his stomach.