Island 731

The problem was that to be aggressive in this situation meant letting go of Drake. He had no doubt that if he let go, Drake would be pulled into the croc’s jaws before he could do anything about it.

At the moment, they were in Joliet’s hands.

“Aim for the tentacles!” Hawkins said.

The shot echoed off the cliff. Then a fourth. And a fifth.

“I can’t hit it!” Joliet shouted. She stood just short of the water. The croc’s tentacles were close enough that she could have nearly placed the barrel against one of them, but the crocodile had begun to thrash, yanking its limbs—and Drake’s leg—back and forth. Shooting Drake along with the monster was a very real possibility.

An idea, as crazy as it was stupid, came to Hawkins. But he didn’t see any other choice and his feet were now in a half foot of water to the side of the submerged concrete bridge. Drake was even deeper. In a moment, the crocodile would be able to reverse course and quickly catch them.

A tearing sound preceded a sharp scream from Drake. A portion of the large, tentacle clubs had come free, but left a series of open puncture wounds in their wake. Blood oozed from the line of holes.

Drake’s grip loosened. “Let go.”

Hawkins ignored him. “Bray, when I say, let go of both of us.”

“But—”

“Just do it!”

Crack! Another shot. Another miss.

Hawkins let go of Drake with his right hand and reached down for his hunting knife, sheathed on his belt. The strain on his left arm quickly became unbearable, but at least Drake, who had seen him go for the knife, held on with both hands. With his shoulder feeling like it was about to be popped from its socket, Hawkins shouted, “Bray, now!”

Bray unlocked his arms and opened them. The result was something like the freeing of a catapult arm. Drake and Hawkins were suddenly airborne. But they were far from helpless. As the croc pulled them in, Drake and Hawkins pulled, as well. The combination of forces acted like the classic roller derby slingshot, propelling Hawkins over Drake.

As Hawkins overtook Drake, he looked down and saw the tentacles attached to Drake’s leg. He also saw the large jaws and twitching beak awaiting them. In fact, he was now poised to enter the monster’s jaws before Drake, and headfirst.

Joliet’s fear-filled voice shouted from shore. “Mark!”

Hawkins took careful aim and swung out with the knife. He felt a gentle tug on the blade, but the sharp metal had no trouble slicing through the soft squid flesh. A deep red, two-inch-deep wound opened up on one of the limbs and then began to tear.

Both tentacles instantly released and shot back into the croc’s mouth as it thrashed and sped away. While apex predators like the crocodile—and squid—are essentially killing machines, they’re also terribly fearful of injury.

Without the limbs pulling them, gravity became the dominant force. Hawkins and Drake plunged into the river. Hawkins surfaced a few feet beyond the concrete bridge. Drake came up next to him. Without asking if the man was all right, Hawkins shoved him toward the bridge, where Bray waited to pull them out. The current was strong, but they could move against it. Slowly.

Bray caught hold of Drake’s hand and pulled him onto the bridge.

“Go!” Hawkins shouted, nearly at the bridge. He got his hands on top of the bridge and began pulling himself up while the other two men ran to shore. He heaved on shaky arms, fighting the swifter current flowing over the bridge, and pulled himself halfway up.

Crack! The rifle shot startled him more than before and he nearly fell back in. But Joliet’s next words spurred him forward. “It’s coming back!”

With a quick glance back, Hawkins saw a large, triangular head closing the distance.

Crack! A geyser of water erupted next to the croc.

There was no time for Hawkins to climb atop the bridge and flee to shore. At best, he’d wind up in the same situation as Drake. At worst, he’d be plucked from the bridge and eaten. He’d injured one of the tentacles, so the crocodile might not use its long-range weapon, but the giant reptile wouldn’t have much trouble snatching him from the bridge old-school croc style. If it worked on zebras, it would work on a man.

So instead of standing and making himself a larger target, he slipped over the top of the concrete bridge and pushed himself into the waterfall’s basin. Partly concealed in mist, he turned around and shouted. Massive jaws snapped closed and stopped just short of his face. The crocodile had bitten the bridge. As the croc let go and moved back, Hawkins fled in the only direction left available to him.

Down.

25.

The water pounding down from the waterfall above the basin helped propel Hawkins deeper. He followed the bowl-shaped slope of the basin toward the bottom. He hoped that the crocodile, whose eyes were positioned atop its head for spotting prey on or near the surface, wouldn’t spot him below.

A look up told him his plan was working. The silhouette of the croc circled the basin above him. Its massive body blocked out the already diffuse sunlight and cast swirling shadows on the basin walls. Hawkins paused his descent, willing the croc to give up the hunt. He couldn’t hold his breath forever.

He quickly noticed that the crocodile’s search pattern brought it deeper with each pass. It would soon be able to spot him.

And then, Hawkins thought, I’ll be lunch.

He pushed deeper. Water pressure squeezed his ears and compressed his chest. He let out some air. The bubbles made for the surface and as they passed the croc, it snapped at them.

Hawkins didn’t watch to see if the predator was smart enough to realize the bubbles had come from him. He just kicked for the bottom, which he could see just ten feet below. He’d have nowhere left to hide, but figured he could push off and maybe sneak past the croc long enough to reach the surface. He doubted it, though.

As he neared the bottom, he noticed it looked different from the walls. The water depth coupled with the turbulent surface conditions and the croc’s shadow had filtered a lot of the sunlight, but the difference in color between the gray stone wall and bright white bottom was easy to see.

Is there sand at the bottom? he wondered, but decided against it. Any silt below the waterfall would most likely be gray, like the volcanic stone that made up the cliff and basin walls. In fact, with the swift current swirling around the basin, he doubted there would be any sand at the bottom at all. So what is it?

A shrieking face appeared out of the gloom. He reeled back and let out a bubbly shout. When his mind finally registered that he was looking at a human skull, he calmed, but then cursed himself for shouting. The croc had undoubtedly heard the sound. It had also cost him most of the air remaining in his lungs.

But his thoughts lingered on the skull, and the field of bones surrounding it. There has to be at least fifty people here, he thought. The bones covering the basin floor looked deformed. Not deformed, Hawkins realized, worn down, like sea glass. These bones have been here for a long time.

Hawkins dug an arm into the loose collection of bones and found that they shifted easily. He reached down to his shoulder and didn’t find the bottom. His guess about the number of bodies lodged at the bottom of the basin had been grossly conservative. There might be hundreds of bodies!

A change in water current tickled Hawkins head as a large shadow shifted around him. Without looking back, Hawkins twisted himself down, piercing the layer of bones like a drill. When the shadow returned, he froze. He lay on his back, covered by bones, but with a view of the basin.

The croc swam just a few feet above the bone layer, its head cocked to the side so that it could look down.

It knows I’m down here. It just doesn’t know where.