The African man said nothing, but closed his eyes and bowed his head.
“I need to leave now. I have a meeting tomorrow with the men whose idea this is. I will be back, and until then, I trust you to keep progress moving. Any means necessary, Amare. You have my full support.” Johan walked away, knowing the man would not give an answer. It was not his way to accept praise.
Johan remembered the first week after Amare’s arrival, all those years ago. The group had been taunting Amare. He was small, a child, who claimed to be ten years old, but looked no bigger than seven or eight. They teased him for being small, for being a baby. They were all sixteen, juiced up on hormones and the thrill of holding real guns.
It had been an early mission for the fledgling Black Arrow Security, a trial run of sorts with the Congolese government. No questions asked.
One afternoon, the boys set on Amare, beating him with sticks and stones until he was bleeding and weeping on the floor. Johan took pity on the boy, carrying him into his own home, to tend to his wounds.
That night, Amara strode into the boys’ tent and slit the throats of the two biggest members of the group. He sat by the bodies until the following morning, just to hear the screams of the others as they saw what he had done.
Johan arrived and stared at the scene, and stared into Amare’s eyes. The cold blue eyes of a boy who had become a man ahead of his time. A man who would kill anything that stood before him. Johan nodded at the boy, who rose to his feet, and walked through the group of boys, who leaped from his path, towards him. Stopping, he dropped to one knee, pulled a knife from the belt of his trousers and swiftly sliced off the ring finger on his left hand, severing it at the palm. He did not cry, he made no sound. Rising, Amare presented the bloodied digit to Johan, and walked away. A token of loyalty, Amare swore himself to servitude, and in all the years, and all the battles since, his loyalty had not once come into question.
Godfrey stood waiting for his boss by the helicopter. His dislike of the island grew more with each visit he made. The knowledge of what lived in the trees terrified him. Unlike many of the men who worked for Black Arrow, he was not from a military background. His skills were not so much combat ready but rather specific to guarding an individual. A fighter by trade, he competed in bare knuckle boxing fights in the back streets of London, and any other city that offered him enough cash to turn up and dish out the pain.
He moved into MMA before it became mainstream, and honed his skills by beating men one on one. Time had proven him to be equally effective in situations up to three on one. Four was too many, and on winter mornings, his jaw would lock and remind him of the beating he had taken in Wolverhampton. Ironically enough, it had been as he stumbled out of the alleyway, blood pouring from his shattered mouth, the teeth he could find clenched in his fist, that Godfrey first met Johan.
A limousine pulled to the curb, in front of a stumbling and bloodied Godfrey. Doors had opened, and strong hands took hold, throwing him into the back of the stretched car. Godfrey woke in a hospital bed in a private ward. His injuries had been taken care of, and when his reconstructed jaw was healed, he also received new teeth.
His loyalty to Johan was born from a debt that he vowed to repay, but now it was something else. It ran deeper than blood in Godfrey’s mind.
“You will be happy to hear, we can leave, Godfrey,” Johan called as he walked up to the chopper.
“Very good, sir,” Godfrey said, trying hard to hide his relief.
Chapter 4
“Joe, Joe, are you awake?” Pete Hawthorn shook his bunk mate by the shoulder.
“What, what time is it?” Joe muttered, rolling over, turning his back on his friend.
The pair went way back to their school days, or rather the days they should have been in school, and not messing around on the streets, causing more trouble than was good for them.
“Wake up, dude. It’s time. If we are going to do this, we have to do it now. The watch is changing, and I can’t take another day of this,” Pete said, shaking his friend harder. Yanking the covers off the bed, he punched his friend as hard as he could on the arm.
“Hey—” Joe cried out, but his friend’s hand smothered his mouth.
“Shhhh, don’t wake them. We need to move, now,” Pete whispered, speaking slowly.
The fog of sleep cleared from his mind and he nodded his head, understanding dawning on him.
Joe jumped from the top bunk, landing quietly on his feet. The pair each pulled out a bag they had pre-packed with clothes and supplies, scraps of food they had saved up from the previous days; enough to keep them going through the heat of the following day.
The two men crept through the tent, stepping over the sleeping bodies, not that anybody would have noticed the men had they woken, or even cared had recognition been achieved. Cramped together in tight lodgings, the humidity of the night soon became unbearable for most. Sojourns outside to cool off or simply to use the primitive facilities were more than common.
The friends made it outside without disturbing anybody. Both were light on their feet, a trait one learned quickly on the streets. Their grace was never what lead to them getting caught. Their slow brains and limited capacity for independent thought when in the presence of an alpha male character were what proved to be their downfall, time and time again.
“Where to?” Joe asked Pete, whispering in the dark.
The darkness was near total. The only illumination came from the stars, which, while in their multitude, never seemed to be strong enough to provide much more than a slight dent in the density of the dark. The moon had long since disappeared behind the volcano, another reason why the timing of their escape needed to be so precise.
“Wait here, the shifts will change in two minutes. That gives us some time to climb the wall over on the east side. We can make it up and over before the new crew takes position. We should be good. Stay quiet, make our way down to the water. We can swim to the first island and wait for the supply boats to come along. We sneak on board, hide down below decks, and ride that son of a bitch all the way to the end.” Pete smiled at himself. The plan was an item entirely of his own creation, and he believed it to be his finest yet.
“That’s a lot of work, Pete,” Joe yawned.
“Well, you want to stay here even longer? Crammed in like sheep, sent to the slaughter for working too well, or not well enough. Fuck that shit, dude. I’m done.” Pete raised his head. He could hear the chatter of the guards. “Shit, we missed it. Come on, leg it.”
Pushing his friend, who moved more through fear of being discovered than his wholehearted belief in their plan, Pete ran for the fence.
The guards’ voices grew louder as they marched through the sleeping construction workers to the somewhat more luxurious quarters reserved for the security force.
“Hurry, man,” Pete growled as they reached the wall. Starting his climb, he hauled himself up to the top, threw over his left leg and sat, looking down at his friend. “Come on, Joe.”
Joe made slow progress on the climb. Twice, he lost his footing and almost fell. Guards passed them by, too close for comfort, but too absorbed in their own complaints to notice the escape attempt.
Reaching down, Pete offered his hand to his friend and hauled his body up and over the wall.
“That was harder than it looked,” Joe said, rubbing at his wrist. “Think I broke my damn arm.”
Together, the men swung their bodies over the wall and dropped down to the ground the other side.
“Jesus fuck.” Pete bit his tongue, swallowing the pained roar that built in his throat.
The drop had been high, fifteen feet on the lowest section of the wall, and made worse by the terrain on the other side, which consisted of rocks and bare earth, piled up in a form of barricade against the wall itself.
Pete’s foot twisted beneath him as he landed. Both men heard the snapping sound of bones and tendons being forced to move in ways they were not designed to do.
“Are you alright?” Joe asked sheepishly.
“Right as fucking rain, mate.” Pete grimaced. “Help me up, we need to keep moving.”
Fighting back the tears, his jaw clenched to the point of cramp, Pete limped his way towards the trees. The rocky terrain beneath them soon gave way to soft grass, a large expanse that extended out towards the woods. Stumps poked from the ground to show where the area had been cleared. No doubt to give the guards more warning should anything living in the trees decide to attack.
“We made it,” Joe said, falling into the tall grass, collapsing under the strain of carrying his friend.
The labour camp conditions of the builds came had stripped Pete of the blubber he had been carrying ever since the first day of high school, but it had already reduced their physical wellbeing by a similar margin.
Both men were spent, and their trek had only just begun.
“Can we rest?” Joe asked.
“Sure, but just a minute. We need to keep moving. The supply boat will arrive tomorrow. I want to get off this island as soon as possible,” Pete answered.
“Did you hear that?” Joe said, snapping into consciousness. He had started drifting off to sleep.
Something rustled in the tall grass behind them.
“Pete, Pete, wake up. Did you hear that?” Joe nudged his friend with his elbow.
“Hear what?” Pete asked. A few moments later, the realization of their nap, however short, dawned on Pete, and he jolted into a sitting position. The result was a sweeping wave of pain radiating from his ankle, which burned as if trapped in a fire.
The rustling sound came again, closer this time.
“That,” Joe said, getting to his feet.
“Help me up,” Pete said, holding out an arm.
In the next moment, a fresh wave of pain engulfed him. Recoiling, Pete just managed to hold in his scream. Withdrawing his arm, he saw that three fingers of his left hand had been removed. The blood glistened in the darkness.
Shock powered Pete to his feet. He spun around, panic consuming him. He looked for Joe, catching sight of his friend running off into the trees.
The grass rustled again and Pete turned to face his attacker, giving himself just enough time to move out of the way. His leg wanted to buckle, but he held firm. The creature, which looked like some form of bipedal iguana, leaped through the air, snapping at Pete as it soared passed.
The thing landed in the grass with the soft thud, hidden from view by the knee-high vegetation. Pete turned to run. Three more creatures jumped up. One latched onto his face, sharp claws hooked into his cheeks, digging into his flesh as the creature scrambled for purchase. A claw found his left eye, the ball popping like a liquid-filled candy.
Pete screamed, unable to contain his agony any longer. The creature on his face scaled his body and stood perched on his head. Powerful claws in its rear legs had burrowed into Pete’s skull, giving it a solid base.
The other creatures were also on him, climbing over him like over-eager kittens at play.
They tore chunks of flesh from his body, the result of their movements as well as their inquisitive bites. Their weight and the wounds they inflicted drove Pete to his knees. More appeared, smaller ones; children. They ran around him in circles, waiting for him to fall.
“Help me,” Pete roared, hearing the clamour of the guards as they reacted to his screams.
The spotlight came on. Each guard post had a powerful spotlight mounted onto a pivot so that they could be aimed both inside as well as outside the camp walls.
The light was intense. It drove the creatures back into the cover of the grass. The light blinded Pete, who, still on his knees faced the camp.
“Help me, please,” he cried, raising his bloodied arms to shield his eyes.
Joe saw the things in the grass, and he ran. He left his friend behind and ran, self-preservation being the most important aspect of his life.
From within the cover of the forest, his back pressed hard against the thick truck of a tall tree, he stood panting. Sweat slicked his flesh, and his legs shook from a mixture of shock, fading adrenaline and general exertion.
With his eyes closed, Joe listened for the sound of his pursuers. He heard Pete calling, he heard his best friend’s screams, and he wept. Crying not only for his friend, but because of his cowardice. The gunshot brought him to attention. He froze, waiting for another. Maybe the guards were coming for them, clearing a path through whatever it was that truly lived in the woods.
No more sounds followed. Realization dawned on him as to what the gunshot signified. Joe swallowed, his mouth suddenly dry.
Joe needed to move. He needed to keep going, head to the coast and follow through with the plan. It was what Pete would have wanted.
Pushing off from the tree, casting himself into the total darkness of the forest, Joe began to move.
He took small shuffling steps, afraid that if his movements became too bold, he would trip and stumble.
The forest floor was thick with roots and vines, creeping plants and other vegetation. Fern leaves swatted at his face, with no clear, worn path to be found.
Something wrapped around Joe’s feet. He tripped, stumbled, and fell. He landed face first, with a wet splat. The overpowering aroma of ammonia and shit filled his world. It was all he could smell, and all he could taste.
Pushing himself to his feet, his head came free from the pile of still-warm shit with a wet sucking noise. Wiping his eyes, trying to clear his face, Joe stumbled and ran. Blinded, he held his hands out, vomiting as he walked.
He fell repeatedly, walking into trees and plants. Thorns tore deep burrows into his flesh, and his shins became a magnet for the rocks that seemed to sprout from the ground as if the island grew them like fungus.
Without warning, Joe was falling again. Not from a trip this time, but because there was no more ground beneath his feet.
Joe screamed as he fell, blind to the distance or what lay below him. Fear was total. It consumed him to the point where it did not matter where he was, or what fate befell him. He braced his body, only to relax his body, unable to prepare for the unknown.
He hit the ground a few moments later. The ground opened up and swallowed him. Rushing over him, the water was cold. The impact was a jolt to his entire body, and the gasp Joe made at the moment of impact could not be helped. Water rushed into his open mouth, filling his lungs. Coughing and choking, Joe fought and kicked his way to the surface.
A break in the trees allowed for a small burst of starlight to filter through, casting enough of a luminescence for him to make out his location. He had fallen from a cliff into a small pool. Swimming as best he could, the act being something Joe had never taken to, even as a child, he hauled himself to the edge, then heaved himself up and out of the water.
He lay on the muddy bank, breathing heavily. His entire body ached, but he did not know if it was through injury, or merely the trick of his mind. He tried to move. Everything responded as he instructed, and inch by inch, Joe made his way up the beach and away from the water.
The ground solidified beneath him, sloping on a steep incline. Joe didn’t care. He rolled onto his hand and knees, and crawled his way up, hoping to reach the top of the cliff.
The slope stopped suddenly, the hard ground falling level. Joe tried to stand when his foot went through the ground and into the hollow space below.
Yanking his foot free, Joe looked down and realized that what he stood on was not a solid mass or the crest of a hill, but rather a mound of disturbed ground.
He heard the approaching charge before he caught sight of the bodies shimmering in the darkness. Turning, Joe saw he had no place to run. They were coming at him on all sides, their bodies a shimmering sea of blackness. Ants, giant ants, closed the ground in no time, the first wave charging at the interloper that had attacked their home.
They swarmed over Joe, who tried frantically to swat them away. Their two-inch-long bodies were crushed by his blows, but their s
trength was in numbers, and with every nibbling bite their hungry jaws made, more toxin was forced into Joe’s system.
The hallucinations began immediately, colours and lights exploding in his vision, conjuring up creatures of nightmarish worlds: creatures with rotting limbs and raw, weeping bodies; creatures that put the beasts of the island to shame.
The fractured ground splintered beneath Joe’s feet, and he fell into the ant’s inner sanctum. He fell to the floor, where he was absorbed into the waiting flood of insects. They swarmed over him, and in him. Probing bodies forced their way deep into his flesh through every available entry point. They burst through his ears and burrowed into his head.
Joe’s screams died down, suffocated by the insectile flood, long before his life was finally taken from him.
Chapter 5
Amare stood and watched from the shadows of the main tower. He watched the men slink across the campsite, and heard their cumbersome attempts at scaling the wall, making a note to scold the men who failed to notice them.
He was keen to see how far they got. Very few survived long. He thought of it as a game. Had he held anybody on the island in close enough confidence, he would have placed wagers on the man leaving. It made him think of his time in Iraq. They had teased locals with bottles of water. Filling some with vodka, and some with bleach. They would throw the bottles from the truck and take bets on who would drink from which. Those sessions made him a very rich man on the base. Then one pissant called Phelps leaked a video of their fun onto Facebook, and everything changed overnight.
Amare took care of Phelps, removing his tongue before he slit his throat. He still had the dried appendage in his box of trophies, dating back to the finger he removed from his own hand. The box was getting full. He kept promising himself he would upgrade to something larger, but it always slipped his mind.
Island Rampage: A Dinosaur Thriller Page 3