The Naked Jungle

by Harry Whittington

  Vaguely he saw Krayer’s straight-driven right hand, fingers extended, come toward him. Then the fingers were driving deep into Webb’s diaphragm.

  Webb toppled forward and for a split second his heart stopped. He rolled over on his back and writhed helplessly on the ground. The sky was a smear of orange fire, and blue flames licked through it.

  It was easy to tell himself the Navy had taught him judo and protection against it. Sure. But once you were helpless, it didn’t matter that you know what was being done to you. It was too late.

  There was no center of pain; his whole body was a quavering cell of agony. Krayer had reduced him to a pulp of painful jelly. Like the first primitive creature, he squirmed in the mud and could see and ache but could not get up.

  He could not even hate Krayer with a murderous wrath; his mind seemed incapable of holding any thought except the messages of pain that flashed in from every part of his nervous system.

  He tried to hold his breath, praying for the moment when he could stand again. He knew that Krayer was standing over him, watching him with the same unconcern he would show a white mouse in some research laboratory. The fact that he had reduced Webb Millar to a helpless hulk on the ground, without any control over his muscles or glands, did not stir him to pleasure or exultation.

  Webb had no idea how long he lay on the ground — Krayer standing over him, quietly watching him.

  Krayer let him stop writhing; he let him draw himself up tense so that some of the pain subsided; he allowed him to rise slightly, to lift his head. Then calmly, deliberately, Krayer raised his foot and applied sudden pressure to the nerves beneath Webb’s right ear. Millar felt a shock of agony that seemed to strike at the base of his spine, ripping him open. He jerked backward, falling, hurt too badly even to cry out.

  It was longer this time before the world righted itself before Webb’s pain-flooded eyes. He knew he could not stand up now and he did not try.

  “That’s better.” Krayer’s quiet voice seemed to come to him from the other end of the island, although Webb knew he still stood over him.

  “Now you know, Millar,” Krayer said. “And next time you’ll know better. You won’t fight a man again who knows all your vulnerable areas, all the centers of your motor nerve fibers. I could kill you, Millar, or maim you permanently as easily as I reduced you to a helpless animal wallowing on the ground in his own filth. Next time I will.”

  He stepped nearer to Webb and with his foot turned him over in the sand.

  “So now you know,” Krayer said. “We shouldn’t have too much trouble. When you first recover, you’ll think you’ll kill me, that you’ll jump me in the night when I’m asleep — the way you made love to my wife when I was asleep. Don’t try it, Millar. Don’t try either again.”

  Webb squinted his eyes shut, trying to shut out the sight of Krayer.

  When he opened his eyes, Krayer was gingerly dabbing at his own bloody nose. He met Webb’s gaze.

  “Next time you won’t even get that close to me, Millar. Because now I have fear on my side. From now on, you’ll be afraid of what I’ll do to you. If you’re smart, Millar, this won’t have to happen to you again.”

  Webb’s mouth worked but Krayer lifted his hand, warning him not to speak, even if he could form the words.

  “I don’t want you to say anything, Millar. Not now. I’m going to let you think this over. I’m going to leave you here while you think it over. And I’m going to give you a couple of thoughts that will help you make up your mind to be smart — to do what I tell you.”

  He held up one finger, as though lecturing in a classroom. “First, Millar, remember that when you fight an enemy, you don’t have to be governed by rules of decency. Oh, you tried to fight me according to your ideas of gallantry and fair play. I counted on that. Remember that. I’ll use anything — any means — to get what I want.” He reached into his trouser pocket and took out Webb’s knife. “I know how to use this on you, Millar, in such a way that you’d go on living and wish you were dead.”

  “My knife,” Webb managed to whisper.

  Krayer shook his head. “It was your knife. But now it is all a matter of possession. I have it. It looks like the knife is mine.” Webb started to speak again and Krayer cut him off sharply. “I told you, Millar. I don’t want to listen to you. When you are ready to say the knife is mine, then I’ll listen to you. But not until then.”

  Webb breathed shallowly; the breath hurting him. He saw Krayer lift his second finger.

  “Here’s the other thing I want you to think about, Millar. I mean to survive on this island. When finally a ship comes or a plane, I’ll be alive. Do you understand that? Because you’re going to help me stay alive. Frankly, I don’t believe that you could survive on this island without me. As long as you obey me, you’ll survive. That’s all that matters to me. Think that over.”

  He turned then and walked slowly across the beach, toward the green jungle. Webb lay perfectly still. He stared at the sky but he did not see it.

  The minutes dragged by. He tried to rebel against Alfred Krayer’s orders as he lay on the sand; he refused to let his mind dwell on the warnings Krayer had left with him.

  He heard movement above him and he turned his head. The shock of what he saw was almost as painful as the agony inside him.

  Fran could hardly stand, and yet Krayer had pulled her dress down over her head and was half-carrying, half-dragging her to where Webb lay helpless in the sand.

  When they were beside him, Krayer stopped and Fran sagged across his arm. The strange terrible part of it was that Krayer was barely able to support her weight. But he held her up and caught her hair in his fingers, pulling her head back.

  “Look at him,” Krayer said. “There he is. The latest one. He looked so fine to you. How does he look now?”

  Fran stared at Webb. Webb tried to turn over, get up. He managed to sit up but knew if he tried to stand, he’d blank out.

  He sank back into the sand, closed his eyes. He felt the sobs start in his stomach. Even with his eyes closed, he saw Fran’s face. He would always see it for the rest of his life: the agony in her eyes, the way her face was twisted with horror.

  He looked away. He had already seen too much. He heard them go away from him. Fran’s sobs were weak but they lashed at him, reaching him even after she had reached the jungle.

  He tried to get up but couldn’t make it yet. The sound of the surf was loud and it mixed with Fran’s soft wailing sobs and pounded at his senses.

  For the first time he completely understood what he was up against. He realized a little of what had happened to Fran in the years she’d been married to Krayer, dominated by a man who used the lash of fear to control her.

  He was filled with sudden bitter hateful laughter. No wonder she’d turned to him, she’d needed him. God knew she needed somebody. She was helpless against Krayer, as helpless as a puppy against its trainer, a trainer who wanted it whining and whimpering and cowering on its belly before him.

  So far, nothing Krayer could do had broken her spirit. But how much longer now? And how could Webb help her? Krayer had easily reduced him to nothing. All that remained of Webb Millar was a heart pulsing wearily in a rack of ribs. Nothing was left: no past, no future except the unceasing threat of pain.

  No. No, he told himself over and over. I’m damned if it’s true. I won’t be vassal or slave to a bastard like that. I won’t let this happen to her. This is as low as he’ll sink me — the definite bottom.

  He told himself there were different kinds of intelligence. He’d always gotten what he wanted. Right now he wanted to live like a man, stand up like a man and survive like one. Survival. What did Krayer know about living? Webb Millar knew about living. He knew about Krayer’s wife, knew in his heart that for all Krayer’s brilliance and his ego, he was starving his wife. And that was Krayer’s weakness, his terrible gnawing weakness. That was why he’d shown her Millar, helpless on the ground. He knew Millar could give her what
he never could. He, therefore, had had to use every other means to prove his own superiority — not only to Fran, but to himself.

  Webb told himself to get up; he knew that from this moment he had to be smarter and stronger and tougher than he’d ever been. And as he told himself this, he knew it would be true. But for the moment, the sun blazed down on him and he could not get up.

  TWELVE

  THE NEXT HOURS passed slowly. Or maybe it wasn’t hours at all, perhaps it was only minutes, but each was a separate eternity under the hellish sun.

  Again and again, Webb would try to get up, only to discover a new area of pain or to find his arms and legs too weak to support him. Coming on top of the ordeal on the raft, the long night without sleep, the beating he’d taken left him shaken.

  He toppled back into the sand, clawing at it with his fists, thinking, “Oh, my God, can this really be happening to me?”

  The sun was broiling him; it seemed to cook the salt from the sand and baste him in his own sweat. He had to get out of that sun.

  He pushed himself up on his knees and crawled toward the cool green vines and lush bushes. It looked like heaven over there; and by crawling until he fell and crawling again, he made it.

  He rolled under a matted overhang of vines and felt more like a wounded animal than a man.

  He didn’t know how long he lay there. He felt better in the cool brush. After a long time his gaze fell on a bamboo bush and he pulled himself over to it. He knew there was water in those thick stems, but he had no way to break them open. If only he had his knife but there was no use thinking of it. Krayer had the knife and he had to live despite Krayer.

  He pushed aside the stalks and found the smallest bamboo sprouts. He twisted them free and lay back and chewed the moisture out of them. The taste was good and he began to feel better.

  “Millar.”

  He heard Krayer out on the beach. He sat up and peered through the matted vines at Alfred Krayer standing in the sun. It was hard to believe the slender, thin-lipped man out there had almost crippled him. But it was true all right. He began to tremble at the sight of Krayer.

  He looked around in the brush. Near him was a limb that had been washed up in some storm.

  His hand closed over it; it was like weathered iron.

  Webb lifted the short limb. It made a good club. Again he looked through the brush at Krayer who was searching the beach for him.

  If I could just stand up, he thought, I could walk out to meet him with this club. It was a fine thought. He felt the sweat chill on his forehead. It was as though he saw himself raising the club, almost felt Krayer’s skull crush under the impact.

  His breathing quickened. He had to try it. There was no freedom on this island as long as Krayer lived. If he didn’t kill Krayer, Alfred Krayer was going to kill him — one way or another, sooner or later.

  He pulled himself to his knees. His stomach felt watery, but he knew he was going to be able to stand. His fingers tightened on the club.

  When he moved, a dry branch crackled under him and Krayer spun around out on the beach. Krayer stood motionless for a moment, searching the rim of the jungle.

  Webb felt the panic start in him. He was remembering suddenly what had happened to him, the inhuman things Krayer had done to him. He had to crush Krayer’s skull, had to kill him. But he was trembling now. He didn’t know if he could kill Krayer. He could want to, he could go forward with every intention. But suppose he didn’t strike hard enough, suppose he didn’t stun him with that first blow?

  He forced himself to stand up. To hell with that. He could live like an abject animal or he could die trying to be free. That was all he’d ever really wanted, wasn’t it?

  Krayer heard him clearly now and he started slowly up the slight incline from the beach.

  For a moment, Webb supported himself against a palm trunk. Then he pushed the vines aside and stepped out into the sun with the club in his fist.

  When the sun struck him, he was blind for a second and his legs faltered.

  Krayer stopped a couple yards from him and poised warily, his face twisted and cold with a dead smile.

  With deliberate calm, Krayer removed the knife from his pocket, opened it. The blade glittered in the sunlight.

  “As I told you, you’d think at first that you’d kill me,” Krayer said. “We may as well settle that now, too.”

  He took a step forward.

  Webb felt his stomach turn to jelly. His fist tightened on the club. He raised it slightly. “Stay there.”

  “Oh, no, Millar. I’ve got to come near enough so you can club me, haven’t I? … Come on, Millar. I’ve just this knife. But it’s ready for you. Remember what I told you Millar? You’ll live — but you’ll wish you were dead.”

  Webb swallowed. He stared at Krayer, knowing in this moment he had to kill him, but also knowing in his heart that he couldn’t kill. He would hesitate — the thought of killing was repellent — he would waver and Krayer would use that knife, without mercy.

  Krayer saw his wavering, read the meaning as clearly as if it had been written out for him.

  “Drop that stick,” Krayer said. Webb knew the scientist was employing psychology now, not even dignifying his weapon by admitting it was a club. “Drop that stick, Millar I’ll overlook this outburst. I’m quite willing to. You’ll learn. Slowly. I’m patient. Now, drop the stick and come along with me. I’ve a job for you.”

  Webb’s mouth trembled. He stared at Krayer, hating him, but hating himself more. He’d thought he was as low as he could get. Now he knew better. Krayer hadn’t even begun on him yet.

  He dropped the club, hearing it thud in the sand at his feet.

  Webb followed him into the place Krayer had chosen for their camp. His shoulders slumped round and his feet dragged. He told himself he would not bend abjectly to Krayer’s will. But he also knew that when he made a move against Krayer, it would have to be smart, smarter than anything he’d ever planned before.

  Fran was lying back against a palm tree. She looked up when they came near. For a moment she met Webb’s gaze and then she looked away.

  “The job I have for you is rather simple,” Krayer said. He seemed not to have noticed the look that had passed between Fran and Webb; or if he noticed, he was showing Webb it no longer merited his attention. “It is simple, but at the same time it is most important. And I’ve decided it is the first thing that must be done.”

  With a calm look of contempt in his face, Krayer handed Webb the knife. For a moment they stood and looked at each other.

  “Before you make a foolish attempt,” Krayer said, “remember that you’re still hurt. Your reflexes will be impaired and your coordination will be off. There’s nothing wrong with me.”

  Webb took a deep breath. “Your nose is still bleeding.”

  Krayer’s smile was cold. “Still rebellious, are you? Well …” He pointed up a coco-plumosa palm. “I want you to cut the long heart out of that palm. There are three other palms here. Cut the heart out of the three; we’ll need them all.”

  Webb caught one of the lower fronds of the palm and pulled himself up. It was a long slow process hacking out the three-foot bud of the tree. When it fell to the ground, Krayer picked it up and carried it over to Fran.

  Webb let himself down from the tree. While he climbed the next two palms and chopped out the bud from them, Fran and Krayer sat on the tarp and shredded the long pieces of palm.

  Webb carried the two buds across the grassy space. Krayer stood up and leaned against the tree, while Webb dropped the buds.

  Krayer said, “Now, I’ll take the knife.”

  Webb held the knife clenched in his fist. He looked at Krayer’s insolent smile and then his gaze moved to Fran. She kept her head lowered as she shredded the palm.

  Webb dropped the knife at Krayer’s feet.

  “You’re smarter than I thought you were,” Krayer said. “You learn faster than I hoped.”

  Webb said nothing. He turned away
. Krayer’s voice stopped him.

  He looked over his shoulder. “What do you want now?”

  Krayer spoke sharply. “I want to survive, Millar. Remember that. I don’t know if you think this is a place of rest, but you’re wrong. In order to live, we’re going to have to keep moving twenty hours a day. There’s a lot to do. When I tell you to do something, I expect you to do it. Not for me, nor for Fran — but for your own chance to stay alive.”

  Webb said, “You call this living?”

  Krayer laughed at him. “You wanted to get back to the South Seas, Millar. Quit bitching. You’re there.”

  “It was people like you I was trying to escape.”

  Krayer looked him over, spoke slowly. “People like me, Millar, the intelligent, the educated, are taking over the world. The time has passed when a man could be half-clever, a jack-of-trades. So you’ll never escape us.”

  “What do you want me to do?”

  “I want you to shred those palms. Take your time. Your hands may bleed at first, but you’ll get used to it.”

  • • •

  Slowly the piles of shredded palm strips stacked up around them. Fran worked steadily, without speaking.

  At last Krayer picked up three strips and began to plait them. He ordered Fran and Webb to watch him and then told them to plait the strips their natural length and work in new strands, until they had pieces about thirty inches wide.

  He watched them work for a moment and then turned, striding away through the jungle.

  Webb watched him go. “Why does he think he can suddenly trust us?”

  She didn’t look up. “He knows you’re afraid of him.”

  Webb felt his face flush. “I’m sorry I failed you.”

  Now her head jerked up. Her eyes met his. “You failed me?”

  They kept working. His gaze bored into hers. “Yes. You thought I was strong — strong enough. Stronger than Krayer. You needed me.” His laugh was bitter. “And here we are.”