by James Jaros
“That’s a tail,” she said to Burned Fingers. The realization registered with empirical clarity, as if she were looking at casts of dinosaur bones in a long ago laboratory.
“A big one,” he said.
What didn’t register with such professional equanimity was the sum of all these clues. The dogs were also plenty agitated. The fur on Hansel’s neck stuck out like quills, and Razzo buried his snout in the sand, sniffing furiously. She ordered them back to the truck. She and Burned Fingers didn’t need hounds to track a beast this huge, and she didn’t want them near any creature that might be able to eat a big dog in a single bite.
“Ever hear of Varanus komodoensis?” she asked as they followed the tracks up a long rolling hill.
“Jess, it’s been forty years since I studied Latin, but I’m guessing—”
“You used it yourself when we saw the first bones: hic sunt dracones.”
“Oh, Christ,” he said, shaking his head and swearing with noticeable restraint. “The last thing we need are those goddamn things.”
Komodo dragons had escaped zoos decades ago, along with other ferociously carnivorous creatures. But lions and tigers and polar bears were ill-equipped to survive the rapidly deteriorating environment, while the giant lizards might have been uniquely suited to prosper in the heat.
What Jessie was certain of was the immense danger of letting a dragon take them by surprise.
The beasts could eat eighty percent of their body weight—four children or two adults—and ran as fast as dogs. They were no more native to North America than puff adders or elephantiasis or a host of other horrors that had arisen in the tropics, then spread widely with the warming.
Her eyes shifted back to the tracks. The morning light, soft as it would get all day, cast a deceptively harmless looking orange glow that made the sands look like the enticing photos of the Sahara Desert she’d seen as a child. But she found nothing inviting about the Komodo’s paw prints disappearing over the short crest. She checked her M–16 to make sure it was on full auto.
“I can’t say I’m real fond of anything with the word ‘dragon’ in its name,” Burned Fingers said. “You think we’re safe up on the truck?”
She shook her head. “They can stand on their hind legs. They could tear a kid right off the side, or us on top.”
Burned Fingers raked his gray hair with his good hand. “They run in packs?” he asked.
“They didn’t use to.”
“We used to say the same thing about panthers and P-bobs.” He and Jessie were still moving, but they lifted their eyes to the crest, as if fearing the beasts would come storming over it any second.
“But Komodos are lizards,” she said. “The world’s biggest, and they’ve always been at the top of their food chain.”
“How big?” Despite his emphasis, he was still keeping his voice low. “I only saw one in a zoo, and that was a long time ago.”
“They can get to be ten feet,” she whispered. “Three hundred pounds.”
“So I’m not going to be killing it with this,” he whispered back, lifting his shotgun.
“Nope, not likely.” She nodded once at her rifle to indicate the weapon of choice.
With sand burying their ankles, every step proved strenuous. At least once a day they’d had to dig out the wheels of the truck or van to keep moving. Where did it all come from? Sand took millions of years to form. It didn’t just appear in a matter of decades. It does now, she corrected herself. Sandstorms were moving entire deserts around.
They slowed as they approached the rise. Silence enveloped them. The sand absorbed even the sound of their feet. Moments later they spotted the Komodo’s characteristic white waste—from its inability to digest calcium in the bones of animals it ate. Jessie would have paused to study the excrement for signs of distinctly human remains, but they heard an agonized, indecipherable whisper.
She looked at the top of the rise, leaned forward and cupped her ear. “That’s a woman,” she said softly.
A few more steps revealed a grisly scene. As unscientific as it sounded, monster was how Jessie thought of the Komodo in those first seconds. The dragon crouched in a depression about fifty feet away. Even from this distance they could smell the animal’s vile odor. Its loose, thickly pebbled skin formed a ridge along the sides of its long neck and folded into a thick flap across its broad brow, giving it the appearance of a dense, stupid beast. A woman in her late teens or early twenties, with an extraordinarily pretty face, lay on her back near the Komodo’s gaping mouth, her long blond braid splayed on the sand, the skin of her chest and stomach torn apart. Her eyes open, blinking.
The lizard was twice her length and easily three times her mass. Huge. Well fed, not emaciated like so many creatures these days. But it was no more animated than the woman, who was now so quiet Jessie heard her own startled breath.
Communicating with only gestures, she and Burned Fingers circled wide as they approached the dragon slowly. She wanted an easier kill shot, but kept her weapon aimed at its head the whole time she moved. She assumed a Komodo was as dangerous as any other large carnivore feeding on prey. If the beast tried to take another bite of the woman, or moved so much as one inch toward them, she’d do her best to empty the clip into its brain. At this distance, it could be on them in two seconds.
But the dragon didn’t move. It didn’t appear to notice them at all. She watched its body expand and contract with every breath, like a big bellows, and figured if it did stand on its hind legs it would tower over them T-rex style, though at “only” about half to two-thirds the height of the most feared beast of the late Cretaceous Period. Of any period, she added quickly to herself. Then she studied the Komodo, reminded that she’d felt plenty of fear in the late—and greatly diminished—Anthropocene.
As they angled closer—and the beast’s stench grew stronger—the woman made eye contact with Jessie and said, “Help. Help me,” with unmasked terror.
“Can you hear me?” Jessie asked across the divide, daring to move no closer or raise her voice, even though she knew that Komodos had terrible hearing.
The young woman only repeated her plea. The dragon’s gaze never shifted from a point right in front of its dull, reddish brown eyes.
“If we could get her to crawl away,” Burned Fingers whispered, “even a little, we might get her—”
Jessie cut him off with a head shake. “She can’t move. They have venom that makes you go into shock and bleed.” She eyed the Komodo down her barrel. “But if I shoot that goddamn thing, it could fall on her.”
“You will not shoot that animal,” said a man with a strong Caribbean accent.
She and Burned Fingers spun around. A powerful looking African-American, appearing every bit as well fed as the Komodo, had crept up directly behind them. Wearing a clean white robe and hood, he stared at them through dark aviator glasses. Bandoliers crossed his chest, and he had a classic bolt action rifle aimed at them.
“That dragon is more valuable than you will ever be,” the man said without lifting his eyes from the barrel. “So put your guns down or die.”
Burned Fingers glanced at his sawed-off, and Jessie wished she’d spun around shooting; she might have killed the gunman before he could pull his trigger. But the last time she’d tried that, a marauder almost severed her femoral artery.
“Drop your weapons.” The man held his aim while a smile broadened his face, as if he relished the prospect of murdering them. His straight teeth looked especially white against his black skin.
When neither she nor Burned Fingers obeyed his command, he drew his cheek from the burnished wooden stock and shook his head without once breaking eye contact with them. Nothing about his speech or gestures appeared hurried. “Trying to shoot me would be even more stupid than shooting the dragon.”
“You might get one of us with that relic,” Burned Fingers said, nodding at the vintage rifle, “but then you’re dead.”
He shook his head again, and in the
next instant they saw why: armed guards marched over the rise with slaves chained to an old, empty circus wagon. The red paint had faded, gold filigree on the trim boards was peeling, and a painted American flag, emblazoned on the baseboard, had snapped off. But the iron bars looked strong.
“Who are you?” Jessie demanded. She turned back to make sure the Komodo wasn’t moving.
“I am the Mayor for Life,” he said in the same easy voice, but there was nothing casual about the way he held the bolt action on them. “And I will tell you only one more time to drop your guns.” His tone hardened as metallic clicks forced Jessie and Burned Fingers to freeze. The Mayor’s smile returned as half a dozen gunmen closed in on them from behind.
Jessie laid down her weapon, straightening as screams and cries came from the direction of the caravan. She tried to race across the sand, but a man tackled her. A second gunman jammed his fat black revolver into the back of Burned Fingers’s head. The marauder dropped his sawed-off. Jessie was dragged by her hair to her feet as the slaves rolled the wagon past them toward the Komodo.
“This is actually your lucky day,” the Mayor said. “If you had not gone looking for our beast, you would have been destroyed by mines. Do you know where you are?” He spoke with notable emphasis for the first time.
“The Great American Desert,” Burned Fingers said, looking directly into the dark glasses.
“We call it the Bloodlands. It could get very messy for you, too, if you cause any trouble while we try to get the dragon in the cage.”
A gunman signaled the slaves to turn the wagon around after they’d towed it within twenty feet of the Komodo and woman. The lizard’s eyes moved, but the rest of it remained still. Four slaves eased a ramp from the rear of the cage, resting it carefully on the sand. They kept glancing toward the Komodo. If the creature attacked, they’d be trapped by their chains.
The gunman who directed the slaves unlocked a metal cuff on a short, muscled man and pointed to the woman. The slave crept forward on his hands and knees. When he neared the Komodo, the dragon’s yellow forked tongue flicked at him, triggering the slave’s panicky retreat. He backed into the barrel of a handgun.
Jessie noticed the Mayor’s bolt action now slung over his shoulder, her M–16 pointing toward his newest prisoners. His smile beamed brighter than ever.
The slave moved back to the woman, taking her arm and dragging her away quickly, leaving a trail of blood on the sand.
“She tried to escape,” the Mayor said to Jessie and Burned Fingers. “But he tracked her down because he was even hungrier than her.”
Now Jessie could see the extent of the woman’s savage mauling and knew her survival was doubtful. A gunshot sounded from behind the dune that she and Burned Fingers had come over minutes ago. Jessie spun around. A burly man grabbed her arm so hard she felt bruised. Looking back, she saw the Mayor nodding at the gunman with the slave. He seized the wretch’s shoulder and pointed a pistol at the cage.
The slave hesitated only briefly before wrestling the woman’s arms from her sides and dragging her up the ramp. Her eyes widened and she started screaming as the Komodo trudged toward her, drooling pink saliva. The creature flicked its long, strangely bright tongue at the bloody sand, then hurried after her feet.
“No, no,” the woman shrieked, trying to pull her legs up to her body. Each touch, taste, and smell of her made the beast move faster.
The Mayor nodded when the slave hauled the woman to the front of the cage. A guard opened a narrow door for him, and the slave jumped out of the wagon. The guard locked the door right away as gunmen secured the rear of the cage. The Komodo stood over the woman, its huge head unmoving as its tail snaked through the bars and hung to the ground.
A child’s cry drew Jessie’s gaze back to the dune. Another group of gunmen were gathering the caravaners. Leisha and Kaisha, the conjoined twins, were roped to their father. None of the others were tied up, except for Hansel and Razzo, leashed to a gunman with a truncheon.
The Mayor stared at the twins and yelled loudly, “Bring me those two,” enunciating each word precisely before glancing at the cage. The Komodo still stood over the woman, neither of them moving.
A gunman forced Augustus and his girls forward, and warned the other caravaners not to move.
The Mayor stepped close to Leisha and Kaisha, peering at the peculiar V formed by their short necks. When he reached to touch them there, Augustus said, “Don’t, brother. Don’t do that.”
The Mayor turned to the missionary. “Do you know what you have here?”
“My daughters,” Augustus said fiercely.
The Mayor shrugged. “You have something the Alliance wants very badly. Something they will pay enormous sums for. In fact,” he gazed at all the caravaners, “they will want all of you because nobody gets to cross the Bloodlands. No . . . body.” The poor play on words appeared to amuse him. “But you two,” he returned his attention to Leisha and Kaisha, “they will want you most of all.” He leaned closer to the girls. “And do you know why?”
They didn’t respond. Jessie kept an eye on the wagon. The dragon’s head hung over the savaged torso of the young woman, its dark rubbery lips spilling long strands of saliva onto her exposed intestines.
“I will tell you why,” the Mayor continued, still inches from the girls. “Because they are insane. Did you know that? They are a great power, and they are insane. They think you are a demon from hell, and nothing you say will ever change their minds.”
“You can’t give them to the Alliance,” Augustus pleaded. “They’ll kill them.”
“Yes, they will,” the Mayor said calmly. “And the way your daughters will die will be terrible.” He took off his glasses, the whites of his eyes as starkly prominent as his bright teeth. “But we made our peace with them long ago. We keep the Bloodlands clear of all travelers, and they bring us girls like her.” He put on his dark glasses and looked back at the wagon. “After they have a baby, they are shipped to us. It is a profitable arrangement, and we will do nothing to interfere with it.
“You,” he pointed to the gunman by the twins and their father, “do not leave them, no matter what. And you two,” he stared at the girls once more; Leisha was crying, “accept your fate, and count yourself—”
“Please, no. No,” the young woman in the circus wagon screamed.
The Mayor and everyone else stared at her. The woman was swiping feebly at the forked yellow tongue probing her ripped torso.
Jessie caught Ananda’s eye. Don’t look, she mouthed, but needn’t have. Ananda and M-girl were already holding each other close and lowering their gazes to the ground. But Bliss stared at the cage. Most of the others did, too.
“As long as we use bait—and they are hungry—they will climb into the wagon, so we keep them hungry,” the Mayor said. “And wait till you fight him. There is nothing like a Komodo in the fight pit. He is a monster. You will see,” he said to Burned Fingers. “Maybe you, too,” he said to Jessie. “I like what I see in you.”
She looked at Burned Fingers, who glared at the Mayor. The man’s teeth were on full display, his pleasure unmistakable. Jessie wondered if he was insane, too, if this desert he called the Bloodlands eventually turned everyone into a crazed shell of what they had once been. If its most brutal survivors formed a massive black hole that forced the unwary into the final gravity of its inescapable grip.
A slave lifted a large canister with a long hose, feeding water into a trough that stood to the woman’s side. The lizard stepped toward it, crushing her foot. She screamed. The beast drank, lifting its head to drain the water down its long throat while the woman clawed the air as if she might pull herself into the open sky beyond the bars.
The Komodo looked at her dumbly, then clamped its massive mouth around her bloody chest and back and lifted her off the floor. Its movable jaw opened wide, like a python with a pig, and in a series of bites the giant lizard worked the flailing, shrieking woman around its maw until her head disappeared in
to its throat, leaving most of her torso hanging out of its mouth, legs kicking wildly. The Komodo gulped three more times, inhaling all but her feet, which no longer moved. Then they vanished, too.
“Do not try to escape,” the Mayor said.
Gunmen pushed Jessie and Burned Fingers forward, and slaves dragged the wagon away.
Jessie’s legs felt wobbly. Who are these people? She eyed the guards and gunmen closely for the first time. Many were covered in burn tattoos of spears and swords and viciously coiled serpents—crude welts carved by fire—up and down their bare backs and chests. Their faces. Most were African-American, but not all. Standing only feet away were three brutal looking white men with thick beards and identical fleur-de-lis tattoos on their arms; two Latinos, also heavily inked and burned; a broad-shouldered albino with thick Slavic features, cloaked in fabric pale as his skin; and two Asians.
The slaves were of a similar ethnic mix, but with far fewer burn tattoos. Otherwise, little but chains and lack of weapons distinguished them from their captors, until she noticed two men, shackled together, who were each missing an eye. Then she looked at the other slaves closely and saw an empty red socket peering out from every one of them.
Once the procession settled into what felt like a shocked rhythm to Jessie, she tried to account for everyone on the tanker truck and van. The gunshot she’d heard earlier still plagued her.
“Turn back,” one of the white gunmen ordered her.
She couldn’t. Not yet. She was still trying to find little Cassie among all those larger bodies. The girl might have slipped away, or run off. That’s what she’d done at the Army of God. Jessie doubted the Mayor’s gunmen would have shot Cassie, given any girl’s value. But they might be crazy as him.
The gunmen backhanded her without another warning, snapping her head to the side. She yelped from the impact of his stiff leather wrist guard, which scraped her cheek raw and left it burning.