Warren Murphy: Bamboo Dragon

And he had done all right… until this time.

He told himself that he was being foolish; there was nothing in the jungle hereabouts that he hadn't previously encountered somewhere. Same snakes, or close enough. Same frigging spiders, ants, flies, gnats, mosquitoes, body lice. Same natives, more or less, with their innate suspicion of outsiders who had screwed them in the past and might again if they let down their guard.

It wasn't anything, in fact, that he could put his finger on. But beneath the sweat, sunburn and jungle rot that came with any mission to the tropics, there was… something else.

A nagging sense of dread.

And he wasn't the only one who felt it, either. Starting with the local tribesmen who had balked at sharing information, much less renting guides out to the expedition, forcing Hopper to pay well beyond the going rate for native help. He didn't mind—it wasn't his cash, after all—but their reluctance, verging on a state of superstitious terror, set the tone for everything that followed.

Eakins, the geologist from Houston, had been first to show the signs among the three of them who counted. You could see him getting edgy, checking out the shadows While they marched and staring past the firelight into darkness when they camped. Before the second week was over, he had started dropping hints and questions, getting curious about the natives, predators, whatever. Still, it was his first time in the heavy bush, and there were bound to be some nerves involved.

The fear crept up on Hopper next, and took him by surprise. So far, he thought that he had done a fair job of concealing it, though the lack of decent sleep was wearing on him in the stretch and threatening to breed mistakes. He wrote it off to age at first—the big four-oh was coming up in August—but there had to be some other reason for the nightmares and the grim, oppressive sense of doom that dogged his waking hours.

Now, unless he was mistaken, even Sparks was feeling it. Sparks was their troubleshooter, muscle with a military background who had drifted into mercenary work and on from there into the nebulous preserve of what they liked to call "executive security." For fifty grand a year, plus traveling expenses, Sparks might be dispatched to twist an arm in Washington, tap phones in Birmingham… or baby-sit an expedition slogging through the shit a thousand miles from anywhere.

Sparks knew his job and calculated the attendant risks before he made a move. When there was danger brewing, he could kick ass with the best of them. There was a hazy but persistent rumor, stateside, that his killings weren't confined to Third World civil wars.

But he was getting nervous now, no doubt about it. You could see it in his eyes, the way he kept his rifle close beside him, with the safety off.

It had to be imagination, Hopper told himself, since nothing much beyond the ordinary had occurred so far. There was continued reticence among the guides and porters, but you got that sometimes, where taboos and superstition were involved. The trek itself, while beating any Hopper could recall for sheer exertion and fatigue, wasn't otherwise especially dangerous. The nearest he had come to outright peril was a close encounter with a cobra on the fourth day out, when he had left the trail to take a bladder break.

Shit happened in the field, but he couldn't escape the nightmares, even so.

They always started out the same way, Hopper tramping through the jungle, lost, with darkness coming on. He knew the camp should be ahead of him, another hundred yards or so, but when he called to Sparks and Eakins, no one answered. Haunting bird calls echoed through the forest, unseen rodents scuttling in the undergrowth, but nothing human seemed to share his space.

Time was elusive in the dreams, but after a while Hopper would gradually come to understand that he was being followed. Something large and hungry stalked the trail behind him, keeping out of sight but coming close enough that he could hear it breathing. Christ, it must be huge, with lungs like bellows. Now and then, when trees got in the way, it snapped them off and sent them crashing to the forest floor. In panic, Hopper would start running aimlessly, with thorny branches slashing at his clothes, his face. The scent of fresh-drawn blood inflamed his nemesis, producing snarls of hunger that reminded him of King Kong on the prowl. At last, he'd glimpse the camp ahead, apparently deserted. Sprinting for the tents and the illusory protection of the fire, he always stumbled at the far edge of the clearing, sprawling on his face. The massive predator behind him, bearing down on top of him, until he smelled the foul rush of its breath. The teeth—

His eyes snapped open, just like always, saving Hopper from the moment when he had to face his terror in the flesh. Between the nightmare and the sleeping bag, his body was awash in sweat. And he was trembling like a little kid.

He sat up on his cot, the metal legs spiked into cans half-filled with water to defeat the creepy-crawlies, swung his legs out of the sleeping bag and glanced around his feet for safety's sake before he put them down.

The dreams were getting worse, goddammit. This time he could feel a tremor in the earth as his pursuer closed the gap between them. Jesus, if he didn't shake these nightmares soon—

A tremor in the earth.

No way, he told himself. No fucking way at all. It had to be a muscle spasm in his legs that made him feel as if a giant was approaching, almost close enough to burst upon the camp, with the vibrations registering through Hopper's naked feet.

The scream brought Hopper vaulting off his cot, snared in the mesh of the mosquito netting till he ripped it down and struggled free. By that time, he could hear the guides and porters shouting gibberish, a startled curse from Sparks.

The echo of his rifle sounded like a thunderclap.

Outside the tent, Hopper stumbled into pandemonium. The natives were evacuating, running every which way, two of them stampeding through the fire and out the other side without a yelp of pain to mark their passing. Fear would do that to you, numb the other senses, a survival mechanism saved for desperate times.

He looked around for Sparks and Eakins, and located the troubleshooter standing near his own tent, dressed in boxer shorts and crew socks, with the rifle at his shoulder, pointing skyward at an angle close to forty-five degrees. Another crack, and Hopper saw the red-orange muzzle flash.

What was he shooting at? And where was Eakins? It had sounded like his scream, if Hopper had to guess, but what—?

He saw it then. The hulking shadow-figure from his nightmare striding forward, beckoned by the firelight, swiveling its head to scan the camp. A rag-doll figure was suspended from its gnashing jaws, blood streaming down across the lips and chin. The flaccid doll wore khaki pants, a matching shirt, all stained with crimson.

Eakins.

Sparks cranked off another shot, to no effect. The walking nightmare turned in his direction, shook its head and spit the bloody rag doll out. Sparks had to jump aside, the body bouncing once before it wound up in a twisted, boneless heap. The troubleshooter was about to fire again, but he never got the chance.

No slouch, this shambling nightmare, when a bit of speed was called for. It appeared to hop, the motion almost birdlike, but its landing caused the ground to tremble under Hopper's feet. Sparks didn't notice, since the monster's bulk came down on top of him and crushed him to the earth, arms splayed, the rifle spinning out of reach. The demon beast ducked low, like a giant chicken pecking corn, and found him with its flashing teeth.

It took a heartbeat for the scream to register, another beat for Hopper to discover it was coming out of him, then he clapped both hands across his mouth.