outcroppings of a dark, sharp rock. It dominated their view in one direction, hiding whatever lay beyond. In the other direction, west and south-west, the grassland drifted away towards a hilly, heavily wooded area. Steam rose from this jungle, drifting straight up into the air until it was caught by an invisible breeze and condensed into wispy clouds. A few birds swung to and fro high above the island, rarely flapping their wings. They circled higher, swooped down, circled again. Roddy felt observed.
“This is a horrible place,” Norris mumbled.
“Why so?” asked Max. His voice was a drone. It sounded as though he needed to hear other voices, without caring what they said. Even if it was Norris doing the talking.
“Don’t know,” Norris shrugged, apparently disappointing him. They walked in silence for a while, then Norris spoke out once more. “Just feels horrible. Like a hillside before rain. Loaded.”
“Loaded with your bad luck,” Butch muttered, but for once Norris did not retort.
“Where are we going?” Roddy asked. He looked back the way they had come and saw a series of wavy lines marking their progress. It could have been scattered dew, but the grass was dry.
“What, you want a plan?” Butch said, almost smiling.
“To the top of the hill,” Norris said, nodding north. “If it’s a small island we’ll see all of it from up there. If we’re lucky enough to have landed somewhere more substantial — ”
“What, like the moon?” Butch quipped.
“- then we’ll be able to see where to head for,” Norris finished. He ignored Butch, much as an adult disregards a permanently annoying child. Maybe that was why Norris was not really liked. He had no humour.
“Let’s stop and rest,” Max said. “Have a think about it.” They sat in the grass, only fifteen minutes after setting out from the beach. Norris remained slightly apart. Butch picked a blade and slipped it into his mouth, but spat it out with a disgusted grimace.
“I’m so hungry,” Max said, verbalising all their thoughts.
Roddy closed his eyes and leant back, supporting himself on outstretched arms. He was aching all over. His flesh felt weak and weighed down by hunger. “We must eat, Max,” he said. “Let’s leave finding out where we are for later. For now, we’ve got to eat. And drink.”
“Wonder where that tortoise went,” Butch said. All four men quickly stood.
They headed across the meadow to where they thought the stream would be, hiding itself beneath the lush covering of trees it had encouraged. Where there was water there would be food, fruits and berries at the very least.
Roddy felt the silence turn from intimidating to threatening, as though they had passed an invisible boundary. He thought of what Norris had said, the calm before the storm, and looked up into the sky. But the unfaltering blue depressed him, holding no promise of shade from the sun or fresh water to catch in their cupped hands. The thought of the stream made him go weak, because he had seen the dead things in it. And he had drunk the water.
If the island would kill its own, then what of the invaders?
The thought came from nowhere, but it chipped away at his mind as they walked towards the trees. Ernie was already dead, victim of his own knife. But even that was simplification; the blade had not killed him, it had merely been a tool. Something deeper and darker had been Ernie’s undoing. He had been a fair and reasonable officer, but the minute he set foot on the island he had changed. Praising God to high Heaven, but still missing Him, still sensing His absence. Mumbling prayers in the night as if they would bring him closer to God. Or bring God back to him.
God is everywhere, Roddy’s parents had impressed upon him. He had believed them because they were his parents, he always did as he was told, and he knew that his elders were wiser than mere children. As he passed through his teens he took on board his own views, and the duty-bound faith he had been given as a child had slowly dwindled, leaving a black hole in his heart where belief should sit. God had, effectively, vanished.
Roddy was often terrified of what He would think if He really did exist. God is everywhere, his parents had said.
Not for Ernie. Not last night. Last night God had not been here, and Ernie had been abandoned. He was no longer on God’s Earth, and Roddy could only hope that he had found his Heaven. Or maybe he was nothing more than a mutilated corpse rotting in the sand.
As the grasses gave way to bushes and trees, and the sound of running water drew them on, the men perked up. Butch came out with a shallow quip, Max snorted, Norris remained mercifully silent. Roddy felt shadows close about him, but they did not bring the cool relief he had been craving. The sun no longer struck his cracked skin, but the heat was just as intense, and pain still bit in from all sides.
“More like a forest than a jungle,” Max observed. He was right, though the trees were higher and more closely spaced than in forests back home, their roots visible as if trying to escape the soil. Silence pervaded the scene, a pregnant peace. All four men could feel eyes upon them, and they glanced up into the canopy of leaves and hanging vines every time one leaf whispered to another.
The forest floor was covered with a low, rich green crawling plant, its questing tendrils wrapped around trunks in an endless attempt to climb to the heights. Hints of movement caught Roddy’s eye, but every time he turned to see what was causing it only stillness stared back. The light was good, even under the trees, but dormant night vision was teasing him.
“I can hear the stream,” Butch said, head cocked. “This way. Christ, I’m thirsty enough to drink the Thames.”
“Stupid enough, too,” Norris muttered.
They headed towards the distant chatter of the stream. Roddy jumped as something tapped against his ankle. He cursed and staggered several steps to one side, until a tree stopped him.
“What?” Max asked.
Roddy shrugged. “Something in the undergrowth. Don’t you see?”
“Probably — ” Butch began. But he did not finish.
The ground around them burst apart. Shrill cries accompanied the movement as the low lying undergrowth parted and shuddered. Shapes scratched at their knees and thighs, then fell back to the ground, scurrying away under and across the foliage. None of the shapes were ever still enough to focus upon, so Roddy could only make out a disjointed montage of what they had startled into action. He saw curved blades catching the sun, domed heads jerking up and down as the creatures moved. Feathers floated in the eddying air. Red splotches marked the underside of beaks, like identical spots of wet blood.
He backed against the tree and tried to force himself up towards the branches, but then he shook his head and laughed to quell his racing heart. “Birds,” he said. “Don’t panic.”
The others had reacted in their own instinctive ways. Max was kicking out left and right, Butch jumping up and down on the spot, Norris scrabbling around on his hand and knees, trying to regain his lost footing. As Roddy’s words registered and the small, gawky birds jumped and fluttered away from the men, the panic eased.
“Scared the living shit out of me!” Butch shouted, laughing with nervousness and relief. Max closed his eyes and shook his head. He looked around, catching Roddy’s eye and smirking. Norris stood and brushed at his filthy clothes. He stretched his neck in unconscious mimicry of the fleeing birds. He did not speak, and when he caught Roddy’s eye he turned away in embarrassment. His knees and elbows were dirty and damp from his frantic squirming on the ground. His face was red from the same. Roddy almost felt sorry for him.
“At least we know we’re not alone,” Butch said, “though I didn’t think much of yours, Max.”
“Scared the hell out of me,” Max said. He was rubbing beaded sweat from his head, flicking it at the ground. “I didn’t realise I was so on edge.”
Roddy thought he was lying. He thought Max was more than aware of the tension squeezing the four men. An anxiousness built up from outside, as well as in, and threatening to snap at any moment. Perhaps the birds startling them had been a good thing, a release valve for the growing pressures of their unforeseen situation.
“Never seen birds like that before,” Butch said. “Like fat chickens.”
“Quails,” Max said. “At least, I think so. Flightless.”
“Why the fuck be a bird and not be able to fly?” Butch asked. His fringe, greasy and lank, annoyed his eyes, so that he had to keep blinking. “Like a fish that can’t swim.” He glanced at Norris, obviously about to come out with some cutting witticism.
Max barged in before Butch could get himself into trouble. “No need to fly, because there are no predators
