Jeremy Robinson - Island 731

The ground shook.

Mud flew from the bull’s pounding hooves.

The monstrous animal’s muscles rippled with energy.

And the water, calm and serene, parted for a pair of yellow eyes.

A snout appeared next, framed by a V of rippling water.

Hawkins registered the motion, but the bull either didn’t concern itself with the approaching crocodile or simply didn’t see it. But in the second that Hawkins should have jumped to the side, he saw that the croc was also headed straight toward him. Once the bull was done with him, the croc would finish him off.

Hawkins drew a sharp breath when he realized that he couldn’t avoid the bull. He leapt anyway, throwing himself back and away. At the very same moment the bull’s head connected with his airborne legs, the water at the edge of the lake exploded and two barbed tentacles shot out.

But the squid limbs weren’t aimed for Hawkins. The croc had a much bigger meal in mind. With a slap, the tentacles snagged the bull’s back and pulled. The bull’s one-ton assault was immediately arrested by the equally heavy crocodile.

Hawkins saw it all as he spun through the air and landed in the grass. He pushed himself up and watched the beginning of a monumental struggle. The bull bucked and kicked, reacting to the pain of having two lines of hooked tentacles embedded in its meaty back. The croc simply held on, no doubt waiting for the heavy bull to wear itself out.

When a second croc rose from the lake, the bull seemed to realize the amount of trouble it was in. It planted all four feet in the mud, gave a snort, and began walking backward. The croc let out a deep vibrato of a roar as it slid through the water toward shore. When it reached the lake’s edge, the chimera croc dug in its claws and let the dead weight of its massive body battle the rolls of bovine muscle.

Hawkins climbed to his feet and stepped away from the scene. This croc was even larger than the one they’d encountered in the river. The second didn’t look nearly as big, but if it got close enough to the bull, he didn’t think it would last long. When a third and fourth croc showed up, Hawkins realized he still might find himself on the menu and double-timed his retreat.

With the sound of the angry bull and hungry crocs behind him, Hawkins ran across the rolling field. He had no real destination in mind, he just wanted to get the hell away. After sprinting for five minutes, Hawkins climbed to the top of a grassy hill and saw the end of the field. And what he saw waiting for him stunned him into stopping. Not because it was horrible or frightening like any of the other horrors on this island, but because it was so damn normal .

A red barn, like something out of a Norman Rockwell painting, sat at the edge of the field. Chickens danced around, pecking at the ground. A silo rose up behind the building, which looked fairly new, or at least impeccably maintained. Realizing that there might be people working here, Hawkins dropped to the ground and flattened himself out. He watched the barn for several minutes, looking for any sign of a human presence.

He saw nothing.

A loud moo drew a surprised shout from Hawkins and spun him around. A lone cow stood on the decline behind him, chewing its cud and staring at him. He saw no malice in the creature’s eyes or body language, just mild interest. It swallowed, lowered its head, and gnawed on the grass.

If someone is there, they know where I am now , Hawkins thought as he got to his feet. He ran to the barn as fast as possible, hoping to minimize his time exposed. The chickens hopped about, flapping their wings at his approach. But the racket drew no attention. Hawkins scanned the area and found it empty. The place seemed abandoned, but recently. He found a side door on the barn open and let himself in. Inside were two long rows of stables, likely for the cows when they were done grazing. He saw equipment for milking, bags of feed with English-language labels, and lines of farming tools—shovels, hoes, rakes, and more.

The island is self-sustaining , he realized, thinking about the goats, cows, and chickens he’d come across. An honest-to-goodness Homestead 731 .

A door at the back of the barn lead to a butcher shack. Blood stained the concrete floor, where drains had been installed. It looked eerily similar to the laboratory’s second-floor surgical suite, except for the chains and hooks that hung from the ceiling. But what really held Hawkins’s attention was the array of butchering tools hung neatly on a Peg-Board. Hawkins helped himself to a machete and tested the blade. Not as sharp as his knife, but with a little power behind it, it would probably be capable of severing a limb. There was no sheath for the blade, so he slid it under his belt.

As Hawkins headed toward the door, he spotted what looked like a spray nozzle for a garden hose, but it looked too heavy duty. He picked it up. The device was all metal and the weight felt similar to a handgun. Out of context, he might not have realized what it was, but here, in a slaughterhouse for cows, he recognized the device as a bolt stunner. Before cows are drained of blood, they must first be rendered unconscious. The bolt stunner worked by shooting a stainless-steel rod into the cattle’s forehead, punching a hole in the skull, destroying brain matter, and knocking the animal unconscious without killing it—the bloodletting did that. It only worked when placed up against something, so it was an ineffective long-range weapon, but if Hawkins encountered the creature that took Joliet again, it might do some damage. The downside was that the compressed-air cartridge had to be replaced after each use. He put the bolt stunner in his cargo shorts pocket along with two replacement cartridges.

Armed with the rifle, bolt stunner, and machete, Hawkins felt a little more confident, but not much. An antitank missile would have felt more appropriate.

After scanning the area for signs of life one more time, Hawkins slipped out of the barn’s main door. There were no roads or paths leading to the farm like there might be on the mainland, but there was a tractor. And a garden lush with vegetables and even a scarecrow. Rows of neatly arranged trees, heavy with fruit, lined the near acre of crops.

This could support a small village , Hawkins realized, and in this part of the world, the vegetables would grow year round.

Standing out in stark contrast to the farm was a building beyond the orchard. It stood at least three stories tall—all concrete-lined like the other World War II-era structures—was round, and sported a domed room. Square windows wrapped around the building, giving it the look of a Roman coliseum, and perhaps that’s what it was. Knowing what Unit 731 had done on the island already, an arena where their victims, or perhaps creations, fought to the death for their entertainment, or even research, wouldn’t surprise him at all.

His first instinct was to head away from the building, but Joliet might be there. He had to check it out.

Halfway across the garden, his stomach growled and ached. He knelt down and yanked a carrot from the ground. After brushing it off, he placed the tip in his mouth, took a bite, and stopped midchew.

The scarecrow was gone.

He’d only seen it from a distance, standing still, dressed in overalls, arms outstretched. Given its posture, immobility, and position in the garden, he’d assumed it was nothing more than an inanimate scarecrow. But he’d been duped by the serene setting.

He spun around with the carrot in his mouth and the rifle in his hands. But the scarecrow, or whatever it was, had disappeared.

Moving fast and wary, Hawkins crossed the garden and slipped into the cover provided by rows of apple, pear, and orange trees. The sweet scent of fruit made his belly grumble again. But he forgot his hunger upon hearing the shuffle of feet and a dull, grumbling voice.