Authors: Brian Keene
Eventually, the pain in my legs became too much to ignore,
overpowering even the cramps in my empty stomach. Groaning, I stood up and
stretched. My muscles were so numb that I almost fell over, but the tingling
subsided after a bit. I debated trying to meditate, something I’d learned to do
in my occult studies, but decided against it. Yawning, I pulled the sword and
handgun close and lay down. Using a rock for my pillow, I waited for night to
come. It never did, but I slept anyway.
I HAVE NO IDEA
HOW
long I slept that first sun–filled “night.” All I know is that I
woke feeling unrested, sore, and afraid. My exposed skin was covered with bug
bites, my back and neck muscles ached, and my head throbbed—both from having a
stone for a pillow and from hunger and thirst. I vaguely remembered thrashing and
turning in my sleep, unable to get comfortable. No matter what position I’d
lain in, rocks and debris had dug into my skin. Worse, I kept waking up with no
idea of where I was. The irony of that fact was not lost on me.
I stretched for a while, trying to work out the kinks in my
muscles. When that didn’t help, I meditated. Sadly, that was just as futile. I
found it impossible to clear my mind and calm my inner self, which is the key
to successful meditation. Instead, I found myself thinking back over all of the
occult lore and spells I’d learned and was somewhat stunned to discover that I
knew nothing helpful. Oh, I could create a circle of protection to guard me
from an evil spirit, or I could bind a low–level demon, perhaps, but so far, I
hadn’t encountered the need for either of those skills here in this strange
place. It was frustrating. Why had I never learned how to dowse for water or
how to create fire via magical means? Those would have been far more useful
given my current predicament. Instead, I would have to rely on my wilderness
survival knowledge and my skills with swords and firearms. I doubted a magical
circle of protection would help against the snake men I’d seen the day before.
Although I didn’t feel the urge, I decided to relieve myself. I went
outside of the cave to do my business, on the off–chance that I might have to
sleep there again should a better shelter not prove viable, and I didn’t want
it reeking of piss. I stood next to a boulder and unzipped my fly. My kidneys
throbbed and my stream was weak—more evidence of dehydration. Resolving to find
food and water before anything else, I collected my few belongings and started
back down the treacherous hills.
The first difficulty I encountered was freeing up my hands to
climb. The pistol was safely ensconced in my waistband again, resting against
the small of my back, but the sword proved more difficult and unwieldy.
Finally, I fashioned a makeshift sling out of the cell phone charger wires and
cables I’d salvaged from the Jeep, tying one end around the hilt and blade of
the sword, and then looping the middle around my neck. The weight wasn’t enough
to choke me, and it freed up my hands. The only drawback was the steel sword
bouncing against my back and shoulders with each step that I took. That quickly
became annoying. I had tied the plastic bag to my belt loops again, and it
rustled as I climbed. Although game had been scarce in the rocky hills, save
for the bird, lizard, and a few insects, that noise would scare away any
potential food once I was back amongst the trees. Worse, the bag was starting
to get holes in it. I would have to find another means of carrying my gear soon
before the plastic tore to the point of uselessness.
I made it back down to the lowlands without incident, but the
physical exertion left me winded and dizzy. I paused to rest in the shade of a
particularly large palm tree, but the weakness in my limbs didn’t abate.
Despite a careful search, I couldn’t find the trail I’d taken the day before.
Cursing, I untied my sword and used it to hack at the curtain of vegetation.
Insects swarmed me, buzzing in my face. My progress was slow.
As I slashed through a particularly thick tangle of vines,
several of them wrapped around the blade and tried tugging it from my grasp.
They were insistent, and their strength surprised me. Gritting my teeth, I
wrenched the sword free and attacked, slicing the vines into ribbons. They
withdrew, dripping greenish sap. The severed tendrils wriggled and curled on
the ground, oozing into the dirt. I prodded one with the tip of my sword. It
curled weakly around the blade, but was easy enough to dislodge. They twitched
for a few moments, and then lay still.
It occurred to me how utterly alone I was in this place. I’d
never been an extrovert, but I’d had a few friends and a loving, caring family,
and I missed them now. Worse, I just missed people in general. Back home, it
had been nothing for me to go a few days without speaking on the phone or
emailing someone, especially when I was involved in my studies. The difference
was, had I been lonely back home, I could have reached out to someone. Here, I
had no such option. Unless I wanted to initiate contact with the snake men, or
conjure up the ghost of John LeMay, I was alone. The realization left me feeling
gutted and helpless, and my overall despair deepened. I longed for someone to
talk to, even if the conversation was only about trivial things—sports scores
or politics or the latest celebrity gossip. I’d abhorred such topics in the
past, but they would have been a comfort to me at that moment, because they
would have been familiar, and therefore, reminders of home. I’d never felt so
far away from everyone and everything I held dear as I did at that moment, and
although there have been times since then when I’ve felt just as lonely, it was
never deeper than it was that morning.
Coming across a massive, moss–covered log, I probed it
experimentally with the tip of my blade. The wood was soft and the sword sank
into it easily. Kneeling, I dug into the log with my fingers. Moist wood
disintegrated under my touch. I uncovered white grubs, black and red ants, and
other insects. I had no way of knowing whether any of them were poisonous or
not, but at that point, fueled by hunger and desperation, I didn’t really care.
I decided to try the grubs, rather than the ants, as there was less chance of a
reaction, based on what I knew of their biology back home. I snatched a plump,
wiggling grub from the wood pulp and popped it into my mouth. After a moment’s
pause, I chewed. The worm exploded inside my mouth, popping like an overripe
cherry tomato. Grimacing at the taste—something akin to sawdust and sushi mixed
with motor oil—I waited to see if there were any side effects. Other than the
foul taste, there didn’t seem to be, so I ate the rest of the grubs, albeit
slowly. I waited a few moments, but other than the urge to vomit from the
nauseating taste, there didn’t seem to be any side–effects. Satisfied that I
wouldn’t get ill, I then continued on my way.
The jungle came alive around me. The trees and bushes echoed with
the chorus of a multitude of insects and birds. Some sounded identical to ones
that I’d heard all of my life. Others were entirely alien to me. Their cries
reminded me again of how alone I was in this place. I considered shooting a few
birds, but I was reluctant to waste my limited supply of ammunition, and most
of them were small enough that by the time I field–dressed them, there wouldn’t
be more than a mouthful—if the .45 left even that much behind. Feeling
helpless, I plodded on, pushing through the undergrowth, and I swear it sounded
like the birds were laughing at me.
At one point, a noise like thunder rumbled overhead. It seemed to
go on for a long time, yet when I looked up at the sky, it was still clear and
cloudless. I considered the possibility that it was an earthquake or an
explosion, but saw no signs of either. The ground wasn’t shaking and the trees
weren’t swaying, nor did I see any disturbances around me. Perhaps more
telling, the sound didn’t seem to disturb the wildlife. After a few minutes,
the roaring faded.
A little while later, I discovered a patch of what looked like
watermelons growing wild across the jungle floor. They were of the same size as
the ones back home and had the same green and white rind, but I remained
suspicious. I wrapped my knuckles on one and found it solid. More so, it
sounded ripe. Cautious, I cut the melon open with my sword. It was pink and red
on the inside, and the black, teardrop–shaped seeds were certainly familiar.
Most convincing was the smell. My mouth watered at the prospect, and so, I
tried one. My first tentative taste confirmed that they were indeed
watermelons. How they’d come to be here on this level I had no idea, nor did I
very much care at that point. I grunted and sighed happily as I gorged myself
on an entire melon, gnawing it down to the white of the rind, enjoying a taste
of home. My stomach cramped a few times, but I kept it all down. I sliced open
a second melon and devoured it at a more leisurely pace. When I was finished,
my fingers and face were sticky with watermelon juice, my stomach was full, and
my thirst had been slaked. Even better, I could no longer taste the grubs I’d
eaten earlier. The sugary fruit had banished the taste from my mouth.
Satisfied that I wouldn’t starve to death for a while, I decided
to find or build a shelter close to this known source of food. While the cave
had suited my purposes the night before, I didn’t savor the thought of having
to trek back and forth every day for nourishment. Intending to explore the
immediate vicinity a bit more, I notched the bark of a few trees with my sword
so that I could find the location again, and then I untied my plastic bag of
belongings and hid it safely inside a hollowed out stump. Then, armed with only
the sword, handgun, and my binoculars, I ventured farther into the jungle in a
pattern of concentric circles. I marked several more trees as my search
widened, ensuring I wouldn’t get lost. I saw a few other fruits, but none of
them were as easily identifiable as the watermelons had been. Growing on
several trees was something that looked like a cross between a pineapple and a
carrot. A few birds pecked at them, so I assumed they were safe to eat. All of
the strange, tubular fruits grew high up in the branches, far out of my reach.
Tying the sword behind my back again, I shimmied up the nearest tree to pick
one and try it.
Doing so saved my life.
I was just about to pull the nearest fruit free of its branch
when I smelled something odd. The odor reminded me of cucumbers mixed with moth
balls. As a boy, that same peculiar musk had always accompanied the appearance
of copperheads, black racers, and other snakes, and I had always known to steer
clear of an area when I smelled it. Just like it had in my youth, the smell
filled me with dread.
As the stench grew stronger, I noticed a group of ferns swaying
back and forth down below. I clung to the tree, trying to remain still, as the
ferns parted and a group of figures plunged into the watermelon patch. It was
the same group of serpent men I’d spotted the day before. I knew this because
they wore the same mismatched armor and carried the same variety of weapons as
the group I’d previously spied upon—swords, crossbows, and those strange rifles
like something out of a science fiction movie. This close, the flayed human
leather armor was particularly horrific. The dried, stretched faces looked as
if they were screaming. I was close enough to even make out one of the tattoos
on the tanned skin—a cartoonish, Big Daddy Roth–style four–wheel drive truck
with four demonic looking characters behind the wheel.
The snake men had an additional member of their species with
them, also dressed in leather armor and equipped with an olive–colored canvas
backpack. They also had three captives in tow. I suspected that perhaps the
four new additions had been left behind at a campsite the day before, which
would explain why I hadn’t seen them. All three prisoners had their hands bound
at the wrists and behind their backs with some sort of durable vine. The same
had been done to their ankles, giving them only enough slack to walk with a
shuffling sort of gait. Each captive was flanked by two of the creatures. All
three captives were naked. The first was a human male, approximately my height,
but a lot older than me and much thinner. That’s not to say he was skinny. He
wasn’t. He just lacked any discernable body fat. His chest, abdomen, arms, and
legs were lean and sinewy and corded with muscles. His brown hair fell to his
shoulders and was peppered with silver strands. His long beard had the same
coloration.
The second captive was a male, but I knew that only from his
rather prominent genitalia. His penis and the fact that he was bipedal was
where all similarities with a human being ended. For starters, he was covered
in thick, blackish–blue fur, the texture and length of which resembled a shag
carpet. The captive had pointed, cat–like ears and bright yellow eyes. Both his
fingers and toes were tipped with black talons, several of which were broken,
as if from recent conflict. Most incredible was his long, prehensile tail—a
hairless, grey appendage half as thick as his arm, that reminded me of a worm.
The serpent men had wrapped the tail around the unfortunate creature’s body and
tied it with more vines, which led me to wonder if the prisoner could use it as
a weapon. Despite being bound, the tail moved and twitched, straining to be
free. One of the captors noticed the movement and angrily prodded the furry
creature with the tip of its sword. The captive stumbled and tensed, flashing
whitish–yellow fangs behind black lips. Then, it continued on. As they passed
under my tree, I saw the creature’s nostrils flare. For a moment, its eyes
flicked upward, but it gave no sign to its reptilian tormentors that it had
caught my scent or seen me concealed in the branches.
Then the third captive stumbled into view, and I nearly tumbled
out of the tree when I saw her. To say she was beautiful just wouldn’t do her
justice. I’d heard the term breathtaking before, and until that moment, I had
always dismissed it as a literary device. But when I saw her limping along
between her captors, my breath literally stopped in my chest. Her luxuriant
chestnut and auburn colored hair spilled around her shoulders and curled just
above her full, ample breasts. Her skin was bronzed. At first, I thought it was
a tan, but after a moment, I realized it was her pigmentation. The sunlight
glistened off her flat stomach and the tiny beads of perspiration that dotted
the thatch of soft–looking pubic hair between her golden thighs. Her legs and
armpits were unshaven, something I’d never seen on the women back home. It was
shocking, but also strangely alluring. Compelling, in an exotic, primal sort of
fashion. When I saw her eyes, my breath hitched in my chest a second time. The
irises of both her eyes were two colors—green and blue. The colors were
separated by her dark pupils.