Ben had fought in jungles before, but it had been against human adversaries, not something that wanted to eat you alive.
It took them another full draining hour in the humid mist-filled jungle before they came to the clearing at the edge of the plateau. Ben simply stopped and stared.
“Ho-leeeey shit,” Emma said.
Walt Koenig chortled and cradled his gun. The jungle floor was well over a thousand feet below them, and the canopy cover was an unbroken field of green for as far as they could see.
Above them, the clouds hung heavily, and strangely, they were darker and thicker over the plateau above them. They even swirled slightly like they were in the eye of a cyclone.
But it wasn’t the weather or the jungle that drew their attention, but instead the downed airplane.
“Old,” Jenny said. “Looks like a Spitfire or something.”
“I’m thinking World War II at least,” Koenig added.
“Corsair Fighter,” Ben said. “And yeah, you’re right, World War II. They called them the bent-wing widow-makers — they were tough to land on carriers.”
Ben began to walk towards it. “This poor sap probably got blown off course. They were doing a lot of work in the Pacific and I bet the carrier launched from Guadalcanal.”
“A long way from home,” Koenig said.
“Yep.” Ben took a brief look over his shoulder to the jungle, and then put his rifle over his shoulder. The cockpit window was still sealed and covered over with vines. He laid a hand on the fuselage. “These bad boys had a Pratt & Whitney engine; that gave ‘em 2,000 horsepower, and gassed up, had a range of 1,000 miles.” He stepped up on the wing and rubbed at the cockpit canopy window, cupping his hands around his eyes to peer in.
He snorted softly, gripped the glass, and dragged it gradually back with a painful squeal of corrosion. The skeleton had its head leant forward and he immediately saw that the front of the skull was caved in.
Ben leaned his forearms on the edge of the cockpit. “Crash landing, died on impact. Probably for the best.” He reached in to grab the dog tags still hanging around the bony neck.
“Lieutenant John Carter.” He gripped them and tugged them free. “Rest in peace, buddy.” He tucked the tags into his pocket.
Emma climbed up on the other wing and peered in. “Still in pretty good shape for a 70-year-old plane.”
“Yeah, all we need is a tank of gas, a workshop, and a few hundred hours of a mechanic’s time, and we’re outta here.” He smiled. ‘We probably should have been here when he came down.”
Ben leaned in again, looking at the skeleton. “If we were, maybe we could have… who knows.” He patted the skeleton’s shoulder. “Thank you for your service, airman.” He was about to pull back but paused, looking from the cockpit, the wings, and then to the plateau edge — pretty good shape for a 70-year-old plane, she’d said.
An insane thought began to form, but then was quickly scrubbed away by logic. Nah, he straightened. Not even I’m that mad, he thought, and jumped down from the wing.
He took one last look back. Yet.
CHAPTER 25
Bellakov held up a hand and the group bunched up behind him. He held a finger to his lips, and then just let his senses reach out to the jungle.
The seconds stretched, each one seeming longer than the last. The group peered from him to the jungle and back again, and their eyes were large and round, like those of frightened sheep.
They’re scared, and they need to be, he thought. The fact was, they were being tracked. On both sides of them, some things were keeping pace with them. Their footfalls were light, but he knew they were there.
Bellakov recognized the hunter’s tread, as he was also a hunter. Plenty of times people had tried to kill him, and he knew what it was like to be shadowed by something or someone who wanted to kill, and he knew it now. Barlow eased in closer to him, the fat fool quivering like pink pudding.
“What is it?” he stammered.
“Predators,” Bellakov whispered, and then pointed to Dan and Steve, then his eyes, and then back out into the jungle. He needed their eyes and ears, as well as their firepower.
Though there was no breeze to be up or downwind of, Bellakov knew that with their body odor, perfumes, and deodorants, they’d be leaving a scent trail dozens of feet wide to be picked up by every scent-tracking predator that passed across it.
And that wasn’t all — he gritted his teeth as he looked down at the girl’s leg; the bandage was red and damp — there was nothing like the coppery sweet smell of fresh blood to ring the dinner bell to call in the hungry diners.
“Stand and fight?” Steve asked.
Bellakov had considered it. He liked the kid’s guts, but the fact was they had no idea how many of them there were. Added to that, he saw what happened when you made too much noise — it starts with the little fast ones, and ends with King fucking Kong lizard crashing the party.
He lifted his gun. “Not sure if we could bring one of those big mothers down. Might just piss it off. We’re gonna have to make a run for it.”
His head snapped around — more sound, moving now to get in front of them and cut them off. Time was up. “Lock and load; everyone.”
Steve had the shotgun, but everyone else just handguns. Andrea lifted hers from her holster, the weapon looking big and awkward in her hand. And worse, it shook from nerves.
“Ready?” He looked at each of them; they were wide-eyed and on the verge of panic. Couldn’t be helped.
“Then go!” He charged out in front, rifle held up in two hands, using it as a battering ram and also ready to fire.
The sudden motion excited the creatures to attack, and they came out of the jungle, fast and low; this time, the things were no more than waist height, and a muddy, mottled brown. They ran on two legs and hissed, showing rows of teeth like a serrated knife. Little arms ended in clawed hands that were now splayed wide.
Dan fired first, missing. Steve fired off a round and blew the head completely off one of them. Good lad, Bellakov thought.
Behind them all was Barlow, gasping like a stranded fish. Bellakov turned, sighted, and took down one of the things that made a run at him. He waited, and Dan and Steve shot past him, Andrea came next and as she went to sprint past, he put a foot out, tripping her.
“Hey!” she screamed.
“Go, go, go,” he yelled after the group.
Barlow finally caught up. “I can’t… you have to…”
Bellakov grabbed him by the shirt and pulled him close. “Listen, you fat fuck, you run, or you stay; I ain’t carrying you, got it?”
The man’s wet eyes went wide and he nodded rapidly.
“Then here’s a gift.” Bellakov looked down at the struggling Andrea as she began to get to her feet. He lifted one large boot and stomped down on her ankle. There was a crunch of bone, and she cried out. He bent to rip the gun from her hands.
“Ow, ow, ow.” The young woman held her leg, tears running. She looked up at him, more confused than anything else.
“Let’s go.” He dragged Barlow with him as Andrea wailed, holding up an arm to them.
The rustling in the bushes continued, but then the shriek of pain from behind them told him that the creatures had found their staked goat — just like all predator packs, they’d always go for the weakest, the stragglers, or the injured.
Bellakov stopped and turned. He hung onto Barlow and jerked the man around.