Jeremy Robinson - Island 731

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.