“It’s an ammo case,” he said.
“Ammo doesn’t usually slosh, right?”
He set the box down on semidry ground next to the root and flipped the latch up with the knife, opening the case the same way. Miracle of miracles, nothing exploded, and no poisonous snakes, spiders, or frogs slithered, crawled, or hopped out.
Joe dumped the contents on the ground.
Two more bottled waters, more energy bars, and a party-sized bag of potato chips, which Joe snatched up before I could touch it.
“You’re gonna share, right?”
He ripped the bag open, grabbed a handful of chips, and then held the bag out to me.
Junk food had never tasted so good.
“Seems to me,” he said in between bites of salty, greasy goodness, “that whoever set up this gaming board doesn’t want us dying too quickly.”
“Gaming board?”
Joe nodded. “Haven’t you noticed? This whole setup is like one big Dungeons and Dragons game. You find treasure in one room, and traps in another, and—”
The water in front of us exploded in a geyser of brown-and-white foam. Joe threw himself into me, knocking me to the ground as a reptilian nightmare snapped huge jaws shut in the spot where I’d been kneeling seconds before.
A scale-plated tail thrashed, spraying mud and water all around, and what had to be at least a ten-foot crocodile twisted around faster than anything that size had the right to move. I just knew it was looking for me. I lay on my back in shock, stunned at the impact of Ledger and the jungle floor, not to mention the sight of this thing bearing down on me.
Before its jaws could close on my leg, Joe grabbed it around what passed for its neck, looking like something on the cover of an old Men’s Adventure magazine. All torn shirt, muscles, and… well, crocodile wrestling. Croc and Joe rolled over in the mud several times before Joe managed to shove the point of the KA-BAR in one of the thing’s eyes.
It thrashed for a few seconds, churning up mud with its tail and feet in its death throes before finally subsiding into stillness. Joe lay sprawled with the croc across his thighs and hips, one arm still looped around the croc’s neck, the other hand still holding the handle of the KA-BAR. When the croc didn’t move after a good five minutes, Joe finally unclenched his grip, still half-pinned by one very heavy dead reptile.
“You really did build the Eiffel Tower out of brawn and steel, didn’t you?” I observed.
Joe shot me the bird without bothering to look at me.
I heard the moan before I saw the zombie dragging itself on its stomach out of the water. It had been a well-built man, the sodden remains of khakis and a black T-shirt still clinging to its body. Its degloved fingers grabbed Joe’s ankle, using it to haul itself out of the mud and water with a squelching sound. One of its legs was missing below the knee, deep gouges in the thigh where some nasty-ass teeth had dug in.
Joe gave a surprised and disgusted yelp and tried to pull his leg free from Swamp Zombie’s grasp, but couldn’t manage it what with being pinned by however many pounds of dead croc. It would be difficult for the zombie to bite through the leather and khaki covering Joe’s lower parts, but there was plenty of exposed meat on his arms and torso, and I had a feeling the zom smelled blood. Joe tried to pull his KA-BAR from the croc’s eye socket, but it was wedged in too tightly for him to extract from his position.
My turn to save his ass.
I rolled to my feet in what I’d like to say was one smooth movement, but what was in reality an awkward, painful lurch. Just as the thing opened its mouth to sink green moss — covered teeth into Joe’s shoulder, I jammed my forearm into its mouth, giving a yelp of pain as it chomped down right above the Kevlar guard into my wrist. I grabbed my tanto and jammed the point into one rotting ear before the zombie managed to tear out a piece of flesh.
“Son of a bitch,” I muttered as it flopped down across Joe and the croc.
I shoved it off to one side, then lifted up the tail end of Mister Croc so Joe could extract himself. He then grabbed the hilt of his knife, braced one foot against the zom’s body, and pulled the blade free.
“You’ve been bit.”
I shrugged. “Occupational hazard.”
“You’ve been bit!”
The we’re truly fucked tone in Joe’s voice made me look up. The knife in his hand and regretful expression on his face made me step back.
“You’re not planning on using that on me, right?”
“I’ve seen what this shit does to people, Ash. It’s almost as bad as being eaten alive. Do you really want to go through that?”
“Wild card, remember?” I peeled back the sleeve of my right arm and held it out for Joe’s inspection. The scars of my original bite mark were still clearly visible.
“A small percentage of the population is immune to this shit,” I added. “A very small percentage.”
Joe shook his head. “I guess I thought it was too good to be true.”
“Well, I wouldn’t call anything about the process ‘good’ other than the not dying part. It hurt like hell.”
I retrieved the water bottles and held one out to Joe. He ignored it in favor of checking out the corpse. He flipped it onto its back, the movement accompanied by a slight jingling. Then he yanked the dog tags off Swamp Zombie’s neck, studied them up close, and then looked at me.
“Well, shit. Say hello to a member of the last team.”
This was not a good thing.
“How did he die?”
Joe shrugged. “Far as I can tell, a croc got him. No bullet or knife wounds.”
“And his teammates?”
“Either zombies or croc chow about now, I’m guessing.”
“Do you think this”—I gestured at the croc—“is part of the game?”
“Given the placement of the cache?” Joe gestured toward the estuary. “I’d say it’s the equivalent of rolling the dice and either getting lucky or getting eaten.”
“But why?”
Something glinted in a beam of sunlight that had managed to sneak through the trees. It was a very small video camera hooked up to a branch.
Somewhere, someone was watching us.
Joe shook his head. “Just when you thought reality TV couldn’t get any worse.”
I stared at him in disbelief. “This kid’s parents have influence with the DZN and DMS. So this rescue mission has to be a legit one, right? I mean…”
My voice trailed off as Joe shook his head. “It may have started out that way, but it doesn’t mean someone else hasn’t stepped in.”
“One of your enemies or one of mine?”
He shrugged. “You tell me. I have a few.”
“I thought I’d killed mine,” I said.
Joe gave a laugh that held little amusement. “Don’t you hate it when they keep coming back?” He dug in his pocket and then groaned.
“What?”
Silently he held out the GPS, which looked as though it’d been stomped. Or possibly rolled on by a very heavy crocodile. I stared at it.
“Well, shit.”
“Yup.”
“So what now?” I asked.
“Find the kid and get the hell out of the jungle before it gets dark. And if we see any more cameras?” He took out his knife, reached up, and shattered the lens with one solid blow. He smiled grimly and finished, “Smash the shit out of them.”
Joe’s plan seemed simple enough, but it turned out to be one of those “easier said than done” types of things. The jungle seemed endless and both Joe and I suspected we were, if not going in circles, at the very least retracing our steps. Our worst fears were confirmed when we found ourselves at the edge of the banyan grove. Several of the dead croc’s buddies had dragged its corpse down to the water and were chowing down on it.