Warren Murphy: Bamboo Dragon

Too late.

The living nightmare made a wish and ripped Sparks down the midline of his body, spilling him into the dirt. It had a mouthful when it glanced around at Hopper, following the sound of his demented scream.

Oh, Jesus! Run!

He ran.

There was no conscious planning, no time left for that. A part of Hopper's mind knew he was barefoot, fleeing in his underwear, but there was nothing he could do about it. If he stopped to grab his clothes, much less to put them on, he would be caught inside the tent, join Sparks and Eakins as a tasty midnight snack.

The clearing wasn't large. A dozen strides brought Hopper to the tree line, and he kept on going, heedless of the rocks and thorns that gouged his feet, ignoring the potential threat of serpents. He knew well enough the danger waiting for him if he stuck around the camp. All else was secondary, something he could deal with if and when it came along.

The urge to run was instinct, something primal, triggered by adrenaline. His mind was barely functional, still dazed by the transmission from his eyes, part of him hoping this would prove to be a dream within a dream, the latest in his panoply of nightmares.

No such luck.

He stumbled in the darkness, threw both hands out in a desperate bid to catch himself and felt a jagged branch sink deep into his palm. Blood marked the spot as Hopper freed himself, the sharp pain banishing all hope that he was still asleep.

Was he insane? Had fever and fatigue snapped his connection to reality? What if he stood his ground and waited for the monster where he was?

A heavy thrashing in the jungle answered that one for him, kept him moving as the beast pursued him. Could it see him in the darkness? Was it following his scent?

He ran as if his life depended on it, lost, surrendering to panic. Part of Hopper's mind was still coherent, though, and it was telling him that he'd been mistaken in his dreams. The dark, relentless hunter didn't snarl and roar. It hissed. A great steam engine racing after him, immense and indestructible.

He thought about the river, which lay somewhere to the north of camp. If he could only get his bearings, make it that far in the dark—a mile or two at most—he still might have a chance. It worked with bloodhounds in the movies; water threw them off the scent of their intended prey and gave the hapless fugitive a break. If nothing else, the river might be deep enough to slow his adversary down, perhaps dissuade the demon altogether.

His lungs were burning, and a rush of dizziness came close to overwhelming him as he stumbled to a halt. He braced himself against a tree trunk, leaving a bloody palm print as a signature, bent double to reduce the stabbing pain from stitches in his side. His feet were torn and bleeding. Hopper felt as if he were standing on a bed of razor blades.

And silence.

Had he done it? Was he safe? It seemed impossible, but how could anything that large move silently?

He felt the strike, a stirring in the air above his head, before the gaping jaws descended. Hopper squealed and threw himself aside, rolled over twice and vaulted to his feet. It was impossible for him to choose a direction; there was only life and death to think of as he turned and sprinted through the trees.

Behind him, hissing its rage, the predator came on, its nostrils flaring at the scent of blood and warm, wet flesh. It recognized no law but hunger, no imperative except to feed.

The forest swallowed Hopper up alive.

Chapter Two

His name was Remo, and he reckoned it should be a serious felony for any person weighing upward of three hundred pounds to wear the kind of skintight stretch pants that looked painted on, revealing every dimple, lump and divot on their grotesque derrieres.

The two Americans in front of him were prime examples of the problem. Matching rings told Remo they were married, and the way they clutched each other's hands suggested they were either newly weds or else intimidated by the act of wandering around a foreign city on their own. So far, they had confined themselves to window-shopping, browsing at the sidewalk stalls that offered everything from hand-stitched clothing, jade and native handicrafts to cobras stuffed and mounted in the posture of attack.

Between them, Remo guessed they must have weighed at least 650 pounds, most of it lodged below the waist. With matching horn-rimmed glasses, frizzy hair and garish tourist clothes, they looked a bit like cartoon figures, something from "The Far Side," and a number of the street merchants couldn't keep from giggling after they had passed. It would have been bad form to laugh in a potential buyer's face, of course, but after they were gone… well, what was there to lose?

He didn't know their names, but Remo thought of them as Fred and Freda Frump. It was a fluke that he had crossed their path, but Remo's tagging after them wasn't an accident. He was concerned about his cover, shaky as it was, and shied away from prowling through the city on his own. One round-eye in an Asian city was a curiosity, while three or more together made a tour group.

He hadn't spoken to the Frumps and didn't plan to. Remo didn't need a friend to help him see the city; he was merely riding in their slipstream for a while to see if he was being followed and avoid attracting undue notice to himself. The less his hefty escorts knew about his scam, the better it would be for all concerned. Let them draw the attention, while he moved unnoticed in their wake.

Malaysia had become a tourist destination almost by default in recent years. It had a hard time keeping up with Thailand, where the lures ranged from ancient culture—monks in saffron robes, surrounded by impassive gilded Buddhas—to the cutting edge of sex and drugs. Hong Kong and neighboring Macao eclipsed Malaysia when it came to international finance, and Taiwan offered more in terms of cut-rate souvenirs. Exquisite dancers stole the show in Bali, while Brunei hogged much of Southeast Asia's oil and gas. The Philippines and Indonesia offered island living at its best, for those who could afford the going rate.

Malaysia, in comparison to its successful neighbors, was a relative late bloomer in the rush for tourist dollars, and was better known from dated novels by the likes of Ambler, Black and Maugham than from reality. Of late, though, it had grown into a favored destination for the sort of tourist anxious to relax in an exotic land without the worry of outrageous prices, crowded sight-seeing attractions and daunting language barriers. Whatever might be lacking for the die-hard culture vulture was made up, and then some, by the first-rate service in hotels and some of the most striking beaches in the world. An additional benefit for safety-minded Western tourists was that Malaysia was also rated as the only Southeast Asian country where a round-eyed tourist could feel truly safe while touring in a private rental car.

No wheels for Remo, though, when he set out from his hotel to see the nation's capital. Kuala Lumpur—or "K.L." to its familiars—was a rapidly expanding base of education, politics and industry. The latest guesswork census placed the city's population at one million, but the tourist guidebooks estimated nearly twice as many residents packed into the onetime colonial town that had initially grown around tin mines and kept going from there.

Kuala Lumpur's name translated literally as "muddy river junction," for the nearby merger of the Gombak and Kelang, but there was little to recall those early years in modern-day K.L. The architecture was a blend of early-weird and modern-functional, the arabesque atmosphere of Kuala Lumpur's public buildings—the central railway station, town hall and national mosque—contrasting sharply with the sweeping, functional lines of the newer high-rise school. Both styles collided in the neighborhood of Market Street, along the banks of the Kelang, where the central market drew tourists and locals alike in search of bargains as iron filings are drawn to a magnet.