Hawkins was glad to have him along. He really was a far better choice than Blok.
After a five-minute rest, Hawkins broke his bad news to the group. “We have a problem.”
“What is it?” Joliet asked.
“There aren’t any tracks,” he said.
Joliet pointed to one of the clearly indented footprints left by Kam, or his captor. “What do you mean? Kam’s trail is still here.”
“Not for Kam,” he said. “For whoever took DeWinter. There were no tracks on the beach, either, which means they were covered up. There weren’t any broken or bent branches at the jungle’s edge. Whoever took DeWinter left no trail. The point is, we might find Kam by following these tracks, but DeWinter could have been taken somewhere else on the island. We don’t even know if they were taken by the same person.”
“Then what do we do?” Bray asked.
“Only thing we can do,” Drake replied. “Follow this trail to the end. If we find Kam, we take him with us. If we don’t, we keep looking. It’s an island. We’ll find something eventually.”
“Also,” Hawkins said, “we’re being followed.”
Bray and Joliet both reacted with surprise, craning their heads around in search of their pursuers.
“I don’t see anyone,” Joliet said.
“Your little friends picked up on us about a half mile back,” Drake said. “They’re keeping to the trees. Staying mostly out of sight.”
Bray and Joliet looked up.
“Why didn’t you tell us?” Bray asked. He looked at Drake, but then turned his attention to Hawkins. “Why?”
“They’re keeping to themselves,” Hawkins said. “I didn’t want to spook you. When the adrenaline rush wore off, you’d have grown tired quickly.”
Bray looked dubious, but relented. “Okay. Fine. But why are you telling us now?”
“Just about to ask him the same thing myself,” Drake said, taking his eyes off the jungle just long enough to give Hawkins a stern look.
“Because,” Hawkins said, “when they attacked Joliet and me yesterday, it wasn’t to eat us. We’re far larger than their normal prey.”
“Then why attack?” Bray asked.
“They’re territorial,” Hawkins said. “The beach is the edge of their territory.”
“They were escorting us out!” Joliet said.
Hawkins nodded. “And letting us know we weren’t welcome. Which is part of the problem. Returning has pissed them off even more.”
“And the second part?” Drake asked.
“I’m pretty sure the switchbacks are the inland edge of their territory, at least in this part of the jungle.”
“Why is that?” Drake asked.
“Dracos can’t glide up,” Bray said.
Hawkins gave a nod. “Exactly. This is where they started following us yesterday. I’m telling you because they might come at us again when we leave their territory.”
Bray looked back up. “Okay, so what’s the plan?”
A shadow shifted overhead. Bray aimed at it, but nothing was there.
The sound of claws on tree bark filled the air.
Leaves rustled overhead.
Low vegetation shook.
“The plan,” Hawkins said, stepping to the first of several switchback rises, “is to run like hell. Go!”
He sprinted up the first rise with the group close behind. But they weren’t alone. A chorus of angry shrieks rang out behind them.
Waves of draco-snakes descended like a squadron of kamikaze fighter jets.
21.
Knowing it would be nearly impossible to shoot one of the fast-moving draco-snakes with the rifle while running, Hawkins turned it around and wielded it like a club. A shriek drew his eyes up. A large chimera specimen fell toward him, wings tucked under its belly, limbs pulled in tight, jaw unhinged and open. It fell like a missile with fangs, straight for Hawkins’s face.
Hawkins swung up with the rifle, but what should have been a direct hit missed completely. The lizard extended its wings with an audible fwap. With a twist of its head, the creature spun away, sailing downhill until it clung to the side of a tall palm.
He couldn’t decide if they were smart or just easily intimidated. Either way, swinging the rifle around seemed to keep the creatures at bay. “Stay aggressive and they’ll keep back,” he shouted to the group behind him.
Just as the words exited his mouth he felt an impact on his left shoulder. He turned to find a draco-snake clinging to him. A line of sharp pinpricks stung his flesh as the creature’s needle-sharp claws slipped through the fabric of his olive green T-shirt just as easily as it did his skin. But the sting of his pierced arm was quickly forgotten as he saw a pair of short fangs dripping venom just inches from his face.
Something coughed behind him and suddenly the draco-snake was no longer there. Hawkins caught sight of it when the three-foot-long spear through its chest pinned it to a tree with a thunk.
Bray frantically tried to reload the second of his three spears, but the ungainly weapon wasn’t cooperating.
“No time for that,” Hawkins said, heading to the second switchback. “We need to get to higher ground!”
He swung out with the rifle, striking a draco-snake inbound for Bray’s head. The butt of the rifle struck the creature’s spine with a crack, breaking its back and knocking it to the ground. The creature twitched at Bray’s feet.
Bray wound up with the speargun, mimicking Hawkins’s rifle club technique. He brought the weapon down with a savage strike, finishing off the draco-snake—and the speargun, which bent at a sharp angle. It wouldn’t be firing any more spears. Bray discarded the weapon and held his two spears, one in each hand. They whooshed loudly as he swung them at passing dracos.
“Move it!” Joliet shouted as she passed the pair.
Drake followed her, swinging the ax at everything that got close.
Hawkins and Bray charged up the switchback trail, swinging and shouting. Hawkins knew that anyone, or anything, nearby would hear them coming, but the element of surprise only worked if you were still alive.
With each switchback, they rose higher above sea level so that the draco-snakes at the bottom of the hill would have to scurry up after them. The creatures weren’t nearly as fast, or agile, on land as they were in the air. By the time they reached the fifth switchback, the creatures had all but vanished. Only their angry shrieks from below remained.
Propelled by adrenaline, the group kept a swift pace to the top of the hill. Hawkins retook the lead as they approached the pillbox clearing. Moving more slowly, he shouldered the rifle and scanned the area. Seeing no danger, he lowered the weapon, stumbled into the clearing, and sat down in the neatly trimmed grass to catch his breath.
Bray sat himself down next to Hawkins, then lay down on his back and stared at the blue sky above the clearing. “That … was awful.”
Joliet sat between them, her canteen already at her lips. After taking a long drink, she pointed to Hawkins’s arm. “We should patch that up.”
Hawkins looked at his shoulder. There were eight overlapping quarter-size bloodstains on his shirt, four on one side, four on the other. He pulled the sleeve up, which stung as the coagulated blood peeled away with the fabric and started the bleeding anew.
“So this is the pillbox,” Drake said. He looked it over and stepped inside.
Bray turned his head toward the small bunker. “You did a good job with the sketch. Looks like the vines have shifted, though. The numbers are covered.”
Joliet took a small first-aid kit from her backpack and shuffled closer to Hawkins. She inspected the wounds, poking the skin around them. “Well, I don’t think you’ll need stitches, which is good because I don’t know how to give them.”
She let go of the shirt to clean the wound, but the fabric sprang down, making the job difficult. “Take off your shirt.”
“You sure that’s necessary?” Hawkins asked.
“Girl asks him to undress and he asks if it’s necessary,”
Bray said.
“Shut up, Eight,” Hawkins said.
“Just stating the obvious. She’s clearly—”
“Shut up, Bob,” Joliet said, a little more forcefully than Hawkins.
Hawkins started to remove his shirt.
Bray turned his head to the sky once more. “I’ll just lie here and—”
“Oh my God.”
Bray turned to the sound of Joliet’s voice. Her eyes were locked on Hawkins’s chest and the four long scars etched across it. Bray sat up fast. “Holy shit. What did that?”
“You’ve never seen him without a shirt on?” Joliet asked.
Bray shook his head no. “Never without a T-shirt. The hell did that to you, Ranger?”
“Later,” Hawkins said.
Bray raised a single eyebrow. “Ask yourself this question: Will Bob ever stop asking me about my big-ass freaky scars?”
Hawkins sighed. Bray was persistent like no one else on the planet. He wouldn’t have a moment’s peace until he told the man the truth. “Grizzly bear.”
“Geez,” Bray said. “I know you were a ranger, but shit, you stood up to a grizzly?”
“Shouldn’t have,” Hawkins said. “We could have gone our separate ways, but I’d lost respect for nature. It’s not something I’m proud of.”
“Not something you’re proud of—holy shit, did you win?”
“Bray…” Joliet said, her tone a warning. “Let it be.”
Hawkins was lost in the memory as he spoke. “I killed it.” He drew his hunting knife. “With this.”
Bray smiled wide. “Your parents should have named you John Rambo.”
“What I did was wrong,” Hawkins said.
“What? Why?” Bray asked. “A bear attacked you. You defended yourself.”
“Actually,” Hawkins said, “it was the other way around.”
“What?” Joliet said.
Even Drake looked surprised.
“I was taught how to fight predators by Howie GoodTracks, an elder in the Ute tribe. After my father headed for the hills and Howie’s son died, we kind of adopted each other. Howie taught me that when a predator attacks, the best way to defend yourself is to be the more aggressive predator. If you’re a dangerous meal, most animals will back down. But that’s not what happened. The bear didn’t attack me. I attacked it. I killed it. And I shouldn’t have.”
A weight fell over the group. Bray didn’t say another word. Joliet silently finished patching up Hawkins’s shoulder. When the two long bandages were taped in place, she quietly said, “You can put your shirt back on.”
Hawkins slipped into his shirt and pulled it over the old wound. “Thanks,” he said to Joliet.
“Did you say something about Japanese characters?” Drake asked as he strolled out of the pillbox.
“Above the door,” Bray said. “But we don’t know Japanese, so we couldn’t read them.”
Hawkins stood up and rolled his shoulder. The wounds still stung, but the bandages felt secure. “Meant to show you earlier, but—well, you know what happened.”
Drake moved the fallen vines to the side. The muscles in his face tensed. “Seven thirty-one.”
Bray gasped and then choked. After a brief coughing fit, he said, “What? What did you just say?”
Drake looked grim as he spoke the words again. “Seven thirty-one.”
Bray looked like he’d been sucker punched in the gut. “You’re sure?”
“Wish I wasn’t,” Drake said.
Hawkins and Joliet just stared dumbly at the pair.
“Seriously?” Bray said. “This doesn’t ring a bell for you two? Unit seven thirty-one.”
When they didn’t reply, Bray stood, walked to the pillbox, and looked at the numbers again. He shook his head. “Chapter twelve. Sinister Science. Did anyone read my book?”
No one had. He sighed. “There have been several nations and individuals who have done horrible things in the name of biological scientific progress throughout history. But none hold a candle to Unit seven thirty-one. They were Japan’s covert R and D division during World War Two. They performed sadistic experiments on human beings.”
“The Japanese tend to gloss over that bit of their past,” Drake said. “They’d prefer it didn’t exist. A lot of Japanese know nothing about it. Most schools even teach that the U.S. was the aggressor in the Second World War. Modern Japan has very little in common with the 1940s version. It was a dark time. They fought ruthlessly with little regard for the sanctity of human life, on the battlefield or in the laboratory. Was kind of a mass corruption that sometimes happens to nations.”
“Like Nazi Germany?” Hawkins asked.
“I don’t recall the Nazis eating POWs, conquered peoples, or little girls,” Drake said.
Joliet looked horrified. “You can’t be serious.”
“He’s right,” Bray said. “Once again, you’d know this if you read my book. Widespread Japanese cannibalism was proven during the War Crimes Trials after the war. Japanese soldiers could eat POWs and locals, but not Japanese dead. It was policy. Like what I was saying to Bennett before—they dehumanized human beings outside their race. Eating people became no different than eating a cow.” Bray shook his head. “And that was just the regular military, never mind Unit Seven thirty-one. The Nazis did similar experiments, sure. Tested the effects of chemical and biological agents. They froze people’s limbs and rapidly heated them. But they were also fond of performing live vivisections. Liked to see working organs. Beating hearts. Nasty shit. They’d remove the organs, or limbs, and the victims had to watch. Test subjects were usually Chinese since the unit was based in China, but they also experimented on POWs, including Americans, and women, and children. Even pregnant women. Nothing was off limits.”
“The people on the beach,” Joliet said.
“I don’t know why I didn’t think of it then, but Unit Seven thirty-one also experimented with repositioning limbs, and switching limbs, and organs between bodies, including animals. If it were just the numbers, I might be able to write it off, but when you take the bodies into consideration—”
“And the chimeras,” Hawkins said.
“And the sea turtle,” Joliet added.
“This island must have been a second Unit Seven thirty-one base that was never discovered. Given the sophistication of the Drakes—”
Drake cleared his throat.
“The dracos, I’d say they kept operating for some time after the war.”
“Considering we’ve got two people missing,” Drake said, “I’d say they never stopped operating.”
Bray’s face contorted with a look of extreme confusion.
“What now?” Drake asked.
Joliet stepped toward Bray. “Bob?”
“You feeling okay, Eight?” Hawkins asked.
Bray raised a hand and pointed past the three of them, toward the opposite side of the clearing.
Hawkins spun around fast. He raised his rifle, braced it against his shoulder, and took aim at the creature standing there. But he didn’t pull the trigger.
“Umm,” Bray said. “Was that goat here before?”
22.
The goat returned the group’s silent stare, slowly chewing on a long strand of dry grass like a hillbilly named Bubba sitting on a front porch. Hawkins half expected the thing to say, “Git off my land,” but the goat just offered a feeble bleat and went back to chewing, pulling the grass into its mouth, inch by inch, with its tongue. As a child, Hawkins had always felt unnerved by goats’ rectangular pupils. He’d overcome the fear as an adult, facing down far worse than goats, but when this goat craned its head slightly and locked eyes with his, Hawkins felt the childhood paranoia return.
The all-white goat with five-inch-long curled horns stood just three feet tall and sported an impressive potbelly and full-looking udder. Hawkins glanced at the udder and remembered Bray’s story about spider silk-producing goats. Knowing goats could jump great distances from an idle position and having witnes
sed the flying draco-snakes, he half expected the goat to leap up and swing around on spiderwebs shot from its swollen udder. But it just stood there, chewing.
The goat took a step forward, jangling a small bell attached to a red plastic band wrapped around its neck. Hawkins focused on the collar. It looked familiar. It looked … “Just like the one on the turtle.”
“What?” Joliet asked.
“The collar,” Hawkins said. It looks like the plastic band we found around the loggerhead’s midsection.”
Joliet shifted, but her movement brought the goat’s attention to her and she couldn’t get a better view.
Bray started calling to the goat the way someone might call a dog, with clicks and squeaks. He knelt down on a knee. “My uncle owned a farm in New Hampshire. Alpacas, llamas, and goats. Weird combination, but they did okay.” He opened his pack and began rummaging through it. “Lots of goat’s milk products. Soap. Cheese. Stuff like that. My parents sent me there for a few weeks. To teach me how to work hard. But all I really learned is that I hated farming”—he began unwrapping something—“and that goats have an affinity for oats, sugar, and anything sweet.”
Bray held out the unwrapped chocolate-chip granola bar and started clicking at the goat once more. “Come on, girl.”
“Don’t think a goat living on an island in the middle of the Pacific will know what a granola bar is,” Drake said.
“Doesn’t need to,” Bray said. “Goats have an excellent sense of smell. Eyesight, too. Those rectangular pupils give it crazy night vision.”
The goat cocked its head to the side, flaring its nostrils. Then, with a sharp bleat, it trotted to Bray and began nibbling on the end of the crunchy snack. Bray pet the goat’s back. “Good girl.” He looked to Hawkins. “She won’t move until the bar is gone.”
Hawkins wasted no time inspecting the collar and quickly confirmed his suspicions. “Same red plastic. Japanese text, too, though the characters are different. Definitely doesn’t say ‘broccoli’ again.”
“Broccoli?” Drake asked.
Joliet knelt next to the goat and stroked its side. As her hand passed over the goat’s fur, the skin beneath it rippled, as though twitching with excitement. “It’s what Kam said was written on the plastic band we took off the turtle.” She gave the goat a gentle scratch behind its ear and it paused eating to let out an ecstatic bleat. “I don’t think this goat has ever been petted before.”
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