And then, it pulled.
Hard.
“Bray!” Hawkins shouted as he felt himself lean forward.
The big man was there in an instant. Bray wrapped his arms around Hawkins’s waist, locked his hands together, and fell back. The extra two hundred-plus pounds had an immediate effect. The three men once again began to fall back toward shore, but Bray’s back never hit the ground. They were held at an angle, frozen in midair, as though by some kind of magnetic force.
With the tug-of-war at a momentary standstill, Hawkins searched for a solution.
Joliet was one step ahead of him.
The report from the rifle ripped through the jungle like thunder. The sudden sound was so loud that everyone, including the crocodile, flinched.
“I hit it, but I don’t think it’s hurt!” Joliet said, sounding out of breath. “Most of the body is under water.” She pulled the rifle lever down, expelling the spent round and chambering another.
The second shot had little effect on the men. They were expecting it. But the crocodile lurched away from the sound. The sudden tug pulled Hawkins and Bray upright again.
The tug-of-war was about to become a no-contest event. The tentacles were strong enough to pull a lone man off his feet, but had trouble with two, and reached a stalemate with three. But flinching from the gunfire had revealed the predator’s ace up its sleeve. With the limbs stretched to their maximum range, all the crocodile had to do was move backward. Three men couldn’t compete with eighteen feet of prehistoric muscle.
Drake shouted in pain as the croc pulled and the men dug their feet in and leaned back.
Hawkins nearly cried out in pain, too. Drake’s huge hands were crushing his wrists.
“Hawkins,” Drake said through gritted teeth. “Let me go.”
“Not a chance,” Hawkins said.
“It will kill us all.” Drake’s grip loosened.
There was no way in hell Hawkins would let go of Drake. Even if it was the right thing to do, he couldn’t. Howie’s advice returned in a flash. “When you have no choice,” Howie had said. “When flight is impossible. Turn and fight. Attack. Strike hard and you will survive. Hold back and you’ll be lunch.” Hawkins had incorrectly applied that advice in the past, but now seemed the perfect example of when to heed it.
The problem was that to be aggressive in this situation meant letting go of Drake. He had no doubt that if he let go, Drake would be pulled into the croc’s jaws before he could do anything about it.
At the moment, they were in Joliet’s hands.
“Aim for the tentacles!” Hawkins said.
The shot echoed off the cliff. Then a fourth. And a fifth.
“I can’t hit it!” Joliet shouted. She stood just short of the water. The croc’s tentacles were close enough that she could have nearly placed the barrel against one of them, but the crocodile had begun to thrash, yanking its limbs—and Drake’s leg—back and forth. Shooting Drake along with the monster was a very real possibility.
An idea, as crazy as it was stupid, came to Hawkins. But he didn’t see any other choice and his feet were now in a half foot of water to the side of the submerged concrete bridge. Drake was even deeper. In a moment, the crocodile would be able to reverse course and quickly catch them.
A tearing sound preceded a sharp scream from Drake. A portion of the large, tentacle clubs had come free, but left a series of open puncture wounds in their wake. Blood oozed from the line of holes.
Drake’s grip loosened. “Let go.”
Hawkins ignored him. “Bray, when I say, let go of both of us.”
“But—”
“Just do it!”
Crack! Another shot. Another miss.
Hawkins let go of Drake with his right hand and reached down for his hunting knife, sheathed on his belt. The strain on his left arm quickly became unbearable, but at least Drake, who had seen him go for the knife, held on with both hands. With his shoulder feeling like it was about to be popped from its socket, Hawkins shouted, “Bray, now!”
Bray unlocked his arms and opened them. The result was something like the freeing of a catapult arm. Drake and Hawkins were suddenly airborne. But they were far from helpless. As the croc pulled them in, Drake and Hawkins pulled, as well. The combination of forces acted like the classic roller derby slingshot, propelling Hawkins over Drake.
As Hawkins overtook Drake, he looked down and saw the tentacles attached to Drake’s leg. He also saw the large jaws and twitching beak awaiting them. In fact, he was now poised to enter the monster’s jaws before Drake, and headfirst.
Joliet’s fear-filled voice shouted from shore. “Mark!”
Hawkins took careful aim and swung out with the knife. He felt a gentle tug on the blade, but the sharp metal had no trouble slicing through the soft squid flesh. A deep red, two-inch-deep wound opened up on one of the limbs and then began to tear.
Both tentacles instantly released and shot back into the croc’s mouth as it thrashed and sped away. While apex predators like the crocodile—and squid—are essentially killing machines, they’re also terribly fearful of injury.
Without the limbs pulling them, gravity became the dominant force. Hawkins and Drake plunged into the river. Hawkins surfaced a few feet beyond the concrete bridge. Drake came up next to him. Without asking if the man was all right, Hawkins shoved him toward the bridge, where Bray waited to pull them out. The current was strong, but they could move against it. Slowly.
Bray caught hold of Drake’s hand and pulled him onto the bridge.
“Go!” Hawkins shouted, nearly at the bridge. He got his hands on top of the bridge and began pulling himself up while the other two men ran to shore. He heaved on shaky arms, fighting the swifter current flowing over the bridge, and pulled himself halfway up.
Crack! The rifle shot startled him more than before and he nearly fell back in. But Joliet’s next words spurred him forward. “It’s coming back!”
With a quick glance back, Hawkins saw a large, triangular head closing the distance.
Crack! A geyser of water erupted next to the croc.
There was no time for Hawkins to climb atop the bridge and flee to shore. At best, he’d wind up in the same situation as Drake. At worst, he’d be plucked from the bridge and eaten. He’d injured one of the tentacles, so the crocodile might not use its long-range weapon, but the giant reptile wouldn’t have much trouble snatching him from the bridge old-school croc style. If it worked on zebras, it would work on a man.
So instead of standing and making himself a larger target, he slipped over the top of the concrete bridge and pushed himself into the waterfall’s basin. Partly concealed in mist, he turned around and shouted. Massive jaws snapped closed and stopped just short of his face. The crocodile had bitten the bridge. As the croc let go and moved back, Hawkins fled in the only direction left available to him.
Down.
25.
The water pounding down from the waterfall above the basin helped propel Hawkins deeper. He followed the bowl-shaped slope of the basin toward the bottom. He hoped that the crocodile, whose eyes were positioned atop its head for spotting prey on or near the surface, wouldn’t spot him below.
A look up told him his plan was working. The silhouette of the croc circled the basin above him. Its massive body blocked out the already diffuse sunlight and cast swirling shadows on the basin walls. Hawkins paused his descent, willing the croc to give up the hunt. He couldn’t hold his breath forever.
He quickly noticed that the crocodile’s search pattern brought it deeper with each pass. It would soon be able to spot him.
And then, Hawkins thought, I’ll be lunch.
He pushed deeper. Water pressure squeezed his ears and compressed his chest. He let out some air. The bubbles made for the surface and as they passed the croc, it snapped at them.
Hawkins didn’t watch to see if the predator was smart enough to realize the bubbles had come from him. He just kicked for the bottom, which he could see ju
st ten feet below. He’d have nowhere left to hide, but figured he could push off and maybe sneak past the croc long enough to reach the surface. He doubted it, though.
As he neared the bottom, he noticed it looked different from the walls. The water depth coupled with the turbulent surface conditions and the croc’s shadow had filtered a lot of the sunlight, but the difference in color between the gray stone wall and bright white bottom was easy to see.
Is there sand at the bottom? he wondered, but decided against it. Any silt below the waterfall would most likely be gray, like the volcanic stone that made up the cliff and basin walls. In fact, with the swift current swirling around the basin, he doubted there would be any sand at the bottom at all. So what is it?
A shrieking face appeared out of the gloom. He reeled back and let out a bubbly shout. When his mind finally registered that he was looking at a human skull, he calmed, but then cursed himself for shouting. The croc had undoubtedly heard the sound. It had also cost him most of the air remaining in his lungs.
But his thoughts lingered on the skull, and the field of bones surrounding it. There has to be at least fifty people here, he thought. The bones covering the basin floor looked deformed. Not deformed, Hawkins realized, worn down, like sea glass. These bones have been here for a long time.
Hawkins dug an arm into the loose collection of bones and found that they shifted easily. He reached down to his shoulder and didn’t find the bottom. His guess about the number of bodies lodged at the bottom of the basin had been grossly conservative. There might be hundreds of bodies!
A change in water current tickled Hawkins head as a large shadow shifted around him. Without looking back, Hawkins twisted himself down, piercing the layer of bones like a drill. When the shadow returned, he froze. He lay on his back, covered by bones, but with a view of the basin.
The croc swam just a few feet above the bone layer, its head cocked to the side so that it could look down.
It knows I’m down here. It just doesn’t know where.
Hawkins jumped when the crocodile lunged out with its open maw and snatched a skull. The loud snap of the jaws closing on the old bone felt like an electric jolt, but it wasn’t nearly as frightening as when the skull imploded under the croc’s crushing bite.
With a twitch of its tail, the agitated crocodile surged through the water. Hawkins couldn’t tell if the beast was furious, injured, or just impatient, but there was no doubt it was growing more dangerous. It dredged a path through the bone yard, snapping at everything it passed, and sending chunks of white pluming into the basin.
It passed just a few feet to Hawkins’s right, pushing a femur hard into his ribs, but the impact didn’t hurt nearly as much as the ache in his lungs.
You’re going to die down here, he told himself. In a few months his flesh would be picked clean by fish and crocs. In a few years, his bones would be just another polished, water-worn skeleton.
Be aggressive, he thought. Stop hiding!
Hawkins clenched his hands and realized that he still held his hunting knife. He looked for the croc. It circled near his head, angling to make a pass. He slowly twisted his hand around, pointing the blade up.
Aggressive. He repeated the thought like a mantra. Be the more aggressive predator.
The tip of the croc’s jaw appeared over his eyes as it swam just a foot above him.
Aggressive.
The croc’s head and neck passed, revealing its true size. The creature could easily fit a man down its gullet.
Attack!
Hawkins thrust the knife up. A momentary resistance of tough crocodilian skin quickly gave way and the seven-and-a-half-inch blade slid into the croc’s lower jaw, all the way to the hilt.
The crocodile’s reaction was immediate and violent. It thrashed forward, which only increased its pain as the blade cut down the length of its lower jaw. Before Hawkins could withdraw the knife, it struck bone, dug in, and stuck. Unwilling to release the weapon that had now saved his life from three top predators, he held on tight.
The croc accelerated through the water like a torpedo bound for the surface. Hawkins was yanked from the bottom, rising with the croc, attached to its belly like a remora on a shark. The pressure on his lungs lifted, but the ache to breathe increased.
The light of day grew brighter as they ascended, then struck him with its full force as he and the croc launched from the water. Hawkins gasped loudly, sucking in air as the panicked reptile continued swishing its mighty tail, propelling them both higher into the air. They crashed through the waterfall’s spray, through the rainbow-colored mist, and toward the concrete bridge.
Seeing the bridge, Hawkins wrenched the knife free, pushed away, and twisted around. Had he not turned around, the impact with the concrete bridge might have broken his back. As it was, he took the collision in the gut. What little air had found its way into his lungs was driven out. Pinpoints of multicolored lights danced in his vision, but he managed to cling to the bridge for just a moment, which was long enough to realize the croc had also landed atop the bridge.
The giant continued thrashing as blood dripped from the wound Hawkins had inflicted. But it had no interest in him. It was trying to flee from the more aggressive predator, or the very lucky one—Hawkins couldn’t decide. His mind was a fog and his vision fading. He tried to breathe, but his body hadn’t recovered from the blow. He slipped back toward the basin, slowed more by the water rushing past him than his grip.
Then something took hold of his wrists. Through pinhole vision he saw Joliet above him, shouting at him. Her voice was indistinct, but he understood what she wanted: a little help. As she pulled him up, he managed to swing a leg up onto the bridge. With Joliet pulling and the water pushing, he soon found himself on his hands and knees on the bridge, gasping for air.
“It’s okay,” Joliet said. “Just breathe.”
After sucking in a few desperate breaths, Hawkins asked, “The croc?”
“Gone,” she replied. “Whatever you did to it worked. It took off downstream. What did you do to it?”
Hawkins lifted the knife from the water. “I was the more aggressive predator.”
She shook her head. “I’m starting to think that knife is lucky.”
“You might be right. Where’s Drake?”
“Bray took him uphill. Followed the goat.”
Hawkins glanced downstream. There was no sign of the crocodile, but that didn’t mean there weren’t others. If there were, they’d surely be drawn out by all the blood in the water. “We should go.”
With Joliet’s help, Hawkins made it to shore. He rested again, just long enough to steady his adrenaline shakes and sheathe his knife. Then they started up the hill. The path wound around in a big loop, moving steadily up and around the waterfall. The jungle rose with them, but at the top of the hill, blue sky greeted them. The path exited the jungle and cut through what looked like a manicured lawn. The dirt path shot across the grass, ending at a six-foot-tall chain-link fence.
Beyond the fence sat a concrete building, beneath which the river flowed. The building was large and stark, like something from Cold War Russia. The concrete was worn and barren of any markings. But something about the large structure felt ominous. Had the trail of footprints not led directly to the gate, he might have circumvented the landmark.
Bray emerged from the open doorway, his face ashen. There was no greeting. No relief at seeing Hawkins alive. He simply walked over to them and said, “Guys, you need to see this,” and stepped back into the dark entryway that swallowed him whole.
26.
Hawkins stopped at the chain-link gate. Most of the fence was rusted, but still solid enough. It looked old, but not World War II old. More like 1970s old. He tapped his finger on the razor wire curling along the top of the fence. “Still sharp.”
“Still sharp?”Bray said. “That’s your big observation? Ranger, this is modern. And those”—he pointed to the field on the other side of the fence, and the goats that st
ood there watching them—“those goats. A shit-ton of goats. What the hell is going down on this island?”
“I know,” Hawkins said as coolly as he could. He sounded calm and collected, but on the inside he was freaked out. The draco-snakes he could handle. The croc was worse—horrible in so many ways. But this serene scene? The fence. The goats. It was all so normal. And something about that put him on edge worse than nearly being eaten.
The gate was latched shut, but not locked. Hawkins tapped a hinged section of the lower gate with his foot. It swung back and forth like a doggie door.
“That explains how the goats get in and out,” Joliet said. She sounded calm, too, but he could hear the tightness in her voice. She was tense. “There have to be at least twenty of them here.”
Hawkins looked at the field of trim grass. The expanse, through which the river cut, stretched at least five acres. The sound of ringing bells drew his eyes to the animals. The goats, all similar in size but a variety of black, white, and brown patchwork of fur, foraged, wandered, and occasionally butted heads, oblivious to the dark history of the island. A history that Hawkins feared they were about to get another dose of inside the newly discovered building.
The three-story structure was shaped like half an octagon, but with a square indentation at the core. The river flowed beneath the indentation, turning the lowest floor into a bridge. The roar of the waterfall on the other side of the building was dulled by concrete and forest, but it served as a reminder of the crocodile that lurked nearby.
Every instinct in Hawkins’s body was screaming at him to turn and run. Get off the island. But he fought against the urge to flee. He forced himself to unlatch the gate. It squeaked loudly, like a wounded animal, causing the hairs on his arms to rise up.
Joliet stepped through slowly. When Hawkins paused before following, he noticed Bray was looking at his arm and the hair standing on end. Bray leveled a serious stare at him. “Try to hide it all you want, we’re both a goat fart away from pissing ourselves.”
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