Jeremy Robinson - Island 731

The trees thinned and the bright glow of the beach beckoned to them. But they hadn’t made it yet. The movement around them had grown frenzied. He glanced to the side a few times and got quick looks at something yellowish, stumbling with each look back. But he didn’t have to see them to know they were moving in to strike. The creatures’ frenzied approach grew louder, their movements combined with shrill chirps.

“Go, go, go!” he shouted.

A shadow drew his eyes up and what he saw held his attention. The creature was silhouetted against the bright green canopy. He couldn’t see colors, or details, but its overall shape had been revealed. It had a rounded head, like an oversize, dull arrowhead. He saw four legs sporting clawed feet, splayed wide. The body was just a foot long, but its tail, which wagged frantically back and forth, extended another foot. But none of this held his gaze for long. It was the two translucent wings, for lack of a better word, extending out from the creature’s midsection that had him transfixed—and caused him to run into a fallen tree.

The limb caught him across the waist and flipped him ass over tea kettle like a professional wrestler. The loud “oof!” that escaped his lungs and the thud of his body hitting the jungle floor spun Joliet around.

“Mark!”

He pushed himself up and shouted, “Keep going! Get help!”

As he caught his breath, Hawkins noticed he no longer held his knife. While keeping his eyes up and on the lookout for danger, he searched the area around him with his hands. I’m lucky I didn’t fall on the blade , he thought. What an idiotic way to die that would have been.

A chirp that was one part whistle, one part growl spun him around. The creature stood upon the fallen tree, staring into his eyes. It was three feet long from snout to tail and covered in yellow- and black-striped scales. Its size wouldn’t normally intimidate him, but the hooked inch-long claws it used to cling to the tree looked dangerous. And when it chirped again, he saw two rows of needlelike teeth accompanied by two snakelike fangs. The wings he’d seen were now gone, folded beneath the creature’s pale belly.

Even though the lizard looked imposing, and its ability to fly was certainly surreal, Hawkins felt he could handle the creature, even without his knife.

But the chirps closing in reminded him that this creature was not alone, and nature is full of predators that worked together to take down much larger prey. Including people.

Hawkins’s hand struck something hard. He reached his fingers out and felt the familiar shape of his knife’s hilt. He clutched it tight, waiting for the right moment to strike.

He didn’t have to wait long. The lizard sprang from the tree. Its wings snapped open from beneath its body and it covered the distance between them in a flash. Hawkins fell back and as the creature passed overhead, he slashed out with the knife. The blade slid through the wing’s membrane so easily that Hawkins wasn’t sure he’d struck a blow.

But then the lizard crashed to the jungle floor, shrieking in agony.

The sound seemed to agitate the other lizards. They bounded from tree to tree, flying and clinging, closing the distance. Everywhere he looked, serpentine eyes stared hungrily at him.

A rustling on the jungle floor alerted him to danger. He stood quickly and saw the wounded lizard charging him. Instincts born of a childhood on the soccer field took over. Hawkins kicked the thing and sent it flying, though much less gracefully than it was accustomed to.

“Hawkins, get down!”

He obeyed the voice, ducking quickly. He heard an impact above him. A large stone fell to the ground next to him, accompanied by one of the lizards. It was stunned, but far from dead.

Hawkins turned toward the voice and saw Joliet, armed with another stone. He ran to her. “I told you to leave.”

“And I just saved your life,” she said before turning and making a beeline for the beach.

Hawkins thought Joliet’s claim was a little exaggerated, but kept it to himself. Now was not the time for arguing the details, and he couldn’t deny he owed her a “thank you.” Still, she should have listened. In a different situation, she could have been killed.

Spurred by the knowledge that the jungle’s denizens really did want to maul them, the pair charged toward the beach, blazing a new path through the jungle. The chirping behind them grew louder. Frantic. And then, all at once, it stopped. The jungle fell silent.

The sudden silence was so powerful that Hawkins and Joliet actually stopped. Hawkins spun around, knife at the ready. “What the hell?”

“Where did they go?”

Where he expected to see dozens of flying lizards, or at least several clinging to trees, he saw nothing. Not a living thing. The jungle was just as empty as it had been the first time they’d entered it.

Still, he knew they were there.

He backed away, toward the beach, which was just a few feet behind them now. He could hear the faint lapping of waves, smell the salty air, and feel the hot sun on his back. Did the creatures sense the beach? he wondered. Do they not like the light? Or is there something else about the beach that frightens them ?

When Joliet stepped out onto the beach and let out a shout of surprise, he feared his last guess was correct. He charged out after her, ready for action. The first thing he saw was Bray, shirtless, filthy, and covered with sweat. Then he saw what lay at Bray’s feet and for the first time since they left the pillbox, he thought he might prefer the jungle to the beach.

Hawkins remembered what it felt like to look at a corpse. Fresh or long since decomposed, the sight of a human being with the life drained from it left a mark on his soul every time, even more so when the evidence of a violent death was plainly visible. He kept his resolve while on the job, but occasionally found himself washing the images from his mind with alcohol. He’d never abused the substance, but had no trouble using it to forget, at least for a few hours, the poignant reminder of his own frailty.

The scene on the beach reminded him how easily human life could be lost.

Fifteen times over.

Bray stood at the end of the line of uncovered bodies—skeletons, really—out of breath and soaked with sweat. His eyes were swollen and red. Had he been crying? The man had exhumed a mass grave on his own, after all. And from where Hawkins stood, it appeared each and every one of the dead had been murdered in the same fashion as the first they’d stumbled upon.

“Oh my God,” Joliet said. “This is a mass grave?”

“This is just the top layer,” Bray said. “There are more underneath.”

Hawkins saw a body with what looked like a third arm and came to the same conclusion as Bray. Other bodies had been buried below. After quickly scanning the jungle behind him and finding no shifting shadows or striped reptilian skin, he knelt down at the head of the nearest body. The skull had been caved in by something blunt, and powerful. Death would have been quick, at least, he thought, assuming this was the one and only wound these people suffered.

Joliet walked down the line of bodies, stopping to look at each one. “Who are they?”

“Three of them were Americans,” Bray said. “World War Two sailors. I’m not sure about the rest.”

Joliet turned to Bray. “Americans?”

Bray held out his hands and let three sets of dog tags dangle from their chains. He separated one from the others and read the name. “Coffman.” He pointed to the body at his feet. “He’s this one here. Just finished clearing him off.”

Hawkins moved down the line to Coffman’s body, his eyes jumping back to the jungle every few moments, looking for motion.