Jeremy Robinson - Island 731

Bennett relaxed a bit and gave a nod. He offered a lame smile. “Easy for you to say. You’re already pretty tough.”

Hawkins smiled, though it was purely for show. “Wasn’t always.”

Bennett braced himself against a palm trunk. “So, what are you doing? What’s your plan? You have one, right?”

Hawkins noted that Bennett wasn’t including himself in the questions, but didn’t point it out. “Following the trail.”

“That’s it? That’s your plan?”

Hawkins’s impatience grew again. “I don’t know if the others are alive, or even where they are. All I know is that that thing took Joliet in this direction. It left a good trail to follow, but I think it was heading in the same direction as this path.” Hawkins motioned to the path behind him. “So we’ll follow the path, find what we find, and try not to get killed. That specific enough for you?”

Bennett moved away from Hawkins and leaned against a tree. “I’ll just wait here, then.”

Hawkins closed his eyes and took a slow breath. “Bennett, I’m not sure I’ll be coming back this way. You can’t wait here. It’s not safe.”

“Wasn’t safe with you, either.”

Kid has a point.

“And wherever you end up, you’re going to have to come this way to get back to the Magellan . My ankle is twisted. I’m just going to slow you down.”

Hawkins couldn’t decide if Bennett was playing it smart or was just a coward. Either way, he had no real solid argument against Bennett finding a place to hide and lying low. He probably would have to come back this way to reach the Magellan. “Fine. But pick a spot and don’t move. If you have to piss or shit, dig a hole and bury it.”

“To hide the smell?” Bennett asked.

“A lot of predators hunt by scent,” Hawkins said. “Stay low. Stay quiet. Do not move. And stay awake . When I come back through here, I’m going to call your name once. Just once. If you don’t come out within thirty seconds, I’m going to leave.”

“You promise you’ll come back for me?” Bennett asked.

“If I’m still alive.”

Bennett gave a nod. “I trust you.” He stepped off the trail and waded into a tall stand of ferns. He ducked down and lay on his back by the base of a tree. Once the ferns stopped shaking, he was invisible. “Good?”

“Perfect.”

“I’ll try to stay here, but if I have to move, I won’t go far.”

“Good enough,” Hawkins said. He thought about warning him about the panther-child chimera, and about Cahill’s body strung up farther down the path, but decided the less he knew, the less likely he’d be to panic and do something stupid. He turned toward the trail.

Bennett’s voice stopped him for a moment. “Hawkins, good luck.”

Hawkins didn’t reply. He just followed the trail, thinking it would be a miracle if he ever saw Bennett again. He was beginning to doubt any of them would make it off the island alive.

The path before him led down the hillside. He moved slowly at first, wading past the knee-high ferns and then Cahill’s body. He considered cutting the man’s body down, but if he did that, whoever put it here would know he’d come this way. He also walked to the side of the path rather than on it. He’d rather be the tracker than the tracked.

With Cahill and the laboratory behind him, Hawkins quickened his pace. When the grade became steep, his jog became a run. When the hill leveled out, he kept on running, burning with fear for his friends. What would he do if he was the last one alive? He forgot the question when he saw signs of recent passage.

There was a footprint indented on the path, heading in the same direction. He crouched to inspect it and the motion saved his life.

With a surprised shriek the draco-snake soared over Hawkins’s head. Its wings snapped open, slowing its flight. The creature clung to a tree trunk, whipped its head around, and hissed.

Hawkins ran like an Olympic sprinter after the gun is fired. He could hear the dracos behind him. Trees shook. Shrieks grew louder. Shadows danced on the jungle floor around him. But he didn’t stop and fight. He couldn’t.

One bite , he thought. Just one bite and I’m a dead man.

The jungle ahead looked thick with brush. He’d have to plow right through and hope the draco-snakes got tangled long enough for him to elude them. His arms took the brunt of the impact as he raised them to protect his face. He felt stinging pricks all over, some sharp enough to be bites.

He shouted as the brush gave way. He spilled past the foliage barrier and fell to the ground, bathed in hot sunlight.

The cacophony of the sudden draco-snake attack fell away abruptly as Hawkins was once again expelled from their territory. He checked his body quickly, finding a multitude of scrapes, but no wounds that looked like snakebites. He also knew that if he’d been bitten, he’d already feel the effects as his blood raced through his adrenaline-charged body.

Confident he wasn’t going to die yet, Hawkins looked up at his surroundings and once again found himself baffled. He stood on the edge of an expansive clearing—a pasture, really—complete with a herd of cows. Thirty head. And each one of them was looking at him.

The herd stood on the muddy bank of a small lake. He realized he’d seen both the lake and green pastureland from the top of the pillbox.

A wave of agitation worked its way through the herd. The cows mooed and stomped their feet. And then, one by one, they backed away from the water. When the source of their distress was revealed, Hawkins shook his head. “You’ve got to be kidding me.”

The bull stood as tall as Hawkins’s six feet and rippled with muscles upon muscles. He recognized the breed as a Belgian Blue, famous for its double muscling that made them look like bovine bodybuilders. The brown-coated monstrous bull easily weighed more than a ton. But none of that was as frightening as the look in its eyes. As the herd’s protector, the bull clearly saw him as a threat. Hawkins took a step away from the bull, but stopped when his back struck the jungle’s foliage and set the draco-snakes to shrieking.

To his left was open field in which he could never outrun the bull. To his right was the lake and whatever dangers lurked within its waters. But both choices were better than the certain death waiting in front and behind him. Field or lake?

The bull didn’t give him time to decide. With a snort and a stomp of its hoof, the bull lowered its sharp, curved horns and charged.

A moment of indecision paralyzed Hawkins. He saw death waiting in every direction. Not just waiting, reaching out for him. The island seemed perfectly designed to snuff out human life.

The bull let out an angry bellow that refocused Hawkins’s attention. The giant protector of the herd had halved the distance between them and was closing the gap fast. Hawkins raised the rifle, took aim, and pulled the trigger. The report echoed over the lake. A pinprick of red appeared on the bull’s flank, but the giant showed no sign of slowing. He fired again, striking the bull’s back. But still, it charged. The bull’s dense musculature protected it from the bullets. A killing body shot would be impossible, even if the bull stood still. Hawkins aimed for the head, but it bounced with each step. Hawkins let out a breath and pulled the trigger a third time.

The shot missed.

Or, at least, buried itself in the depths of the giant’s body.

Hawkins lowered the rifle. He was wasting ammo.

Head to the ground, the bull moved like a missile on a straight trajectory. And it wouldn’t stop until it reached him.

Seeing a flaw in the bull’s attack, Hawkins remained rooted in place, but tensed himself for a sudden dash. He’d seen more than a few matadors sidestep a bull on TV. Granted, he usually rooted for the bull, but this fight for survival wasn’t sport. If Hawkins didn’t time his leap right, he’d be gored, or worse. Of course, even if he did manage to escape the charging bull, he’d still have to sprint across the field. His only real hope was that the bull would get tangled up in the thick brush separating field from jungle, or that the draco-snakes would take exception to the bovine intrusion and use their poisonous bites to stop the giant.