Jeremy Robinson - Island 731

Hawkins slung the rifle over his shoulder. With plenty of hunting experience under his belt thanks to Howie GoodTracks, Hawkins was the obvious choice. The Remington lever-action rifle held ten rounds, which was nice, but was considered a short-range weapon. The range didn’t concern Hawkins, though. The one-hundred-yard reach was far better than anything else in their arsenal and they weren’t likely to have a hundred-yard view once they entered the jungle. The only real drawback was that he had only ten extra rounds. Twenty shots total. Against one adversary, they’d be enough, but he wasn’t sure if they were dealing with a larger population. If they were, twenty rounds might not do the trick.

Hawkins looked at the crescent-shaped beach that wrapped around the lagoon. There was enough gray sand to conceal hundreds more bodies. The thought of it sent a chill up his back. Shaking off the image, Hawkins tossed a backpack to Bray. “The dead can wait. Time to go.”

He headed for the jungle’s edge while the others grabbed their gear. He slid past some brush and stepped into the canopy’s shade. The jungle seemed different. Not as quiet. He could hear things moving. Distant calls. They’d spooked the island’s natives when they’d first arrived, but the creatures had either grown accustomed to their presence or no longer considered them a threat after they’d been chased away by the draco-snakes.

Hawkins scanned the area, looking for the yellow- and black-banded creatures. Part of him hoped they would attack now. He’d much rather fight them with his energy high, weapon fully loaded, and the bright beach nearby if the fight went south and retreat was required. But he saw nothing but an endless sea of tree trunks, green leaves, and shifting light as the morning sun filtered through the foliage.

A hand clasped him on the shoulder. He turned to find Joliet smiling at him. “Ready to go, Ranger.”

He nodded. “Stay close. Only speak if you have to. We’ll rest at the switchbacks and not a moment sooner.” Hawkins took the lead as they entered the jungle. Drake brought up the rear. The group, all dressed in packed cargo shorts and T-shirts, would have looked like vacationers on a hike. The weapons they carried and looks of determination told a different story.

Hawkins kept their pace brisk and steady, but slowed every time he heard something move in the brush, or saw a shift of shadow from above. When they reached the switchbacks, he removed his backpack and helped himself to his canteen while the others caught up. Drake arrived moments later, a layer of sweat covering his forehead. But he seemed oblivious to the heat. His eyes remained wary and on the jungle.

“Have something to drink,” Hawkins told the captain.

Without taking his eyes off the jungle, Drake unclipped his canteen, took three long drinks, and put it back. The man’s vigilance never wavered.

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.

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 .