Deathgame (9 page)

Frank Hardy's heart hammered in his chest as he ran. Hammerlock was gaining on him. And Frank knew it!

Frank crushed roots underfoot and shoved branches out of his way as he tore through the underbrush. In spite of the obstacles, he was making top speed in the mad race. Only problem is, Frank thought, I'm blazing a trail for Hammerlock!

Frank reached the far side of a palmetto thicket. He stopped and bent over, breathing heavily, his hands on his knees. He saw an open space ahead of him. Got to get across that, find a place to hide. At least I can make some speed here.

He made himself begin running again.

It was a mistake.

Frank knew it immediately.

His feet sank into a quagmire. It quickly oozed up past the tops of his boots. He tried to yank himself free. But the bog held on to his legs like a thousand leeches, refusing to let go.

Behind him in the thicket, he could hear Hammerlock approaching.

A bitter taste filled Frank's mouth. Perfect — a choice of deaths! Sink slowly until this quicksand strangles me, or let Hammerlock blow me away!

THE QUICKSAND WAS the consistency and color of maple syrup, and it clung tenaciously to Frank.

His first panicked efforts to pull himself free had resulted in pushing him in deeper, up to his thighs. Mud slipped inside his boots, like cold worms crawling past his socks to his feet.

Hammerlock had stopped running. Frank could imagine him, just beyond the patch of quicksand, standing very still as he had on the trail. He would be listening, trying to figure out why Frank wasn't making any more noise.

Perhaps he expected another trap. He would proceed cautiously.

That would give Frank a few precious extra seconds. But for what purpose? If Hammerlock discovered him stuck helplessly, he only had to stand and watch until the ooze slid over Frank's head and bubbled with his last tortured breaths. Or he could use Frank for target practice. Knowing Hammerlock, Frank fully expected to be used as target practice.

Even though he had stopped moving, the quicksand had managed to suck Frank down to his waist. Looking around frantically, he raised his hands so they would not become trapped.

Snap!

Hammerlock was on the move again. Slowly, but on the move!

And heading directly toward Frank!

Frank's hands reached back, searching desperately above his head. They closed over something wooden. A branch? What? He twisted around to see, sending himself deeper into the quicksand.

He had grabbed onto a set of palmetto roots, hanging over the embankment, and thrusting down into the quicksand.

Another footfall, quieter this time. No snap of wood, just a slight squeezing noise, a bending of grass underfoot. He wouldn't have heard it if Hammerlock had not been so close.

Think, Frank! Think! You're always telling Joe to analyze a situation. Make the most of whatever is at hand, Frank said to himself.

But what was at hand? Quicksand that would clutch at his hands and hold them prisoner. Palmetto roots that had been arcing down into the quicksand depths for decades.

And then he had a vision of his girlfriend, Callie Shaw, back in Bayport. Could it be just a few days before that they'd been swimming in the clear water of the ocean? The idea came to him just then.

Maybe he could convince Hammerlock that he had already died. Frank grabbed hold of the palmetto roots and started to push himself down, down, under the slime.

Holding tightly on to the roots, Frank started making as much noise as he could, twisting and thrashing in the mud.

Hand over hand he forced himself down into the muck. Up to his chest. Clammy goo slid wetly under his armpits. Up to his chin!

He couldn't do it. His brain fought too hard against him.

Suppose you can't pull yourself back up, he thought. Suppose you only think you can. Suppose you force yourself under, and the ooze enters your mouth, and your nostrils, and you suffocate? If you can't pull yourself free, what then?

You cannot do this, he told himself.

He heard Hammerlock, just on the other side of the palmetto trees. Two, three steps at the most. Then the colonel would be standing over him, aiming that gun. He forgot what the name of it was, but he remembered Hammerlock telling him what it could do to a water buffalo!

He pulled himself under.

The muck squeezed over his head. It ran into his ears. It tried to force its way past his closed eyelids. It seeped between his clenched lips. He could taste grit against his tongue, feel it grind between his teeth. Mud spread slowly into the back of his throat. He was gagging!

Then his hands began slipping on the muck-covered roots!

Pull yourself up! Pull yourself up! his mind screamed.

No! Not yet. Please, not yet. Maybe Hammerlock is standing up there, watching the spot where the mud closed over your head.

His fingers were growing numb, aching. Mud seeped into his nostrils. He tried to exhale and force it out, but somehow the stuff managed to flow in deeper.

He couldn't wait any longer!

He wanted to reach up, to grasp higher, almost afraid to let go of the root. He threw his hand up and it slid. It slid down!

In the darkness, behind his tightly closed eyelids, he could feel his blood pounding. The darkness of the mud pressed in on him relentlessly. It was getting hard to concentrate. Which way was up? The pounding in his chest grew fiercer. He felt as if he'd breathed flames into his lungs. They were burning!

He forced his arm up again, forced his fingers to close tightly around the slippery root.

I've got to breathe! My lungs are going to burst, he thought, his mind beginning to race.

He could feel blood rushing in his temples.

Mud oozed deeper into his ears. Mud was everywhere! He was never going to get out.

He yanked himself upward, fiercely. His head thrust up through the quagmire. Rivulets of muck slid down from his hair, over his forehead. Frank yanked ferociously on the tangled root. Now his nose and lips were free. Coughing, nearly choking, he finally drew in a sobbing breath. Air! Fresh air!

Straining, battling the unyielding pull of the quicksand, he finally reached a dry area.

I beat you! he thought fiercely as if the bog were a living enemy.

Frank was almost afraid he'd look up to see Hammerlock's gun pointed at his head. Finally he forced himself to see if he was alone—and took a long, shaky breath. He was.

As he pulled himself free he felt another surge of triumph over the swamp and the mud.

He crawled into the grass and lay there, gasping. He knew he had to get back to Joe and the others. But he needed just a few moments to breathe, to wipe his hands clean, to try to get the mud out of his ears and mouth.

He was still lying in the tall swamp grass, his breathing getting back to normal, when he heard the voices. Frank lay still, listening to the sounds of several bodies forcing their way through the palmetto thicket.

"Let's hurry this up," one voice said. "I heard gunshots coming from over here somewhere."

Frank peered through the grass, to see Major Brand carrying a submachine gun. Two of the counselors from the Ultimo Survival Camp accompanied him. They, too, were armed.

Brand checked the action on his weapon as he passed within six feet of Frank's head. He never noticed his quarry. The mud on Frank's body acted as a natural camouflage.

"Those grunts and Hammerlock can't be far ahead." Brand laughed. It sounded shockingly loud in the quiet jungle. "Let's finish up this turkey shoot. Then we can take our cool million!"

He snapped the action of his gun, then led his team onward. They moved confidently, crashing through the brush, not even trying to hide their progress.

Frank managed to get to his feet. He clung to one of the palmetto trees.

He had to warn Joe and the others! He had to reach them in time!

And he had to do it without running into at least four people who wanted him dead!

THE HARDEST THING for Joe Hardy to do was to keep his imagination from dwelling on the ways Frank might die if Hammerlock caught him.

He worked beside Terry and Lauren on a new trap they had talked about as a backup for their first trap. They had planned it back when Frank was still with them, before their ambush had failed so disastrously. How had it gone so wrong? How had Hammerlock known where they were? Joe had difficulty concentrating on the hard work at hand.

At any second, he kept expecting to hear gunshots in the distance — abrupt, brief, and fatal for his brother.

If he had any idea in which direction Frank had fled, he would have attempted to follow. But he didn't have a clue. His last glimpse of Frank had been during the brief scuffle with Hammerlock, before they'd all taken off running. He and Lauren had picked up Biff. Then they'd found Terry crouching in the brush, some distance from the tree where he'd almost been shot. The severed branch had saved him from a full impact with the ground.

"Frank!" Joe had said nervously, looking around. "Where's Frank?"

Terry had shaken his head. "I'm sorry, Joe. I don't know. I hit the ground hard, and people were running all around me. I thought Hammerlock would appear at any moment, aim that cannon of his at me, and that would be it! Bye - bye time."

Terry had paused, and his almond eyes had expressed his pain and sorrow even before he spoke. "Hammerlock didn't chase you, or Biff, or Lauren, or me. There's only one target left, I'm afraid."

"Frank," Joe whispered numbly.

They had searched briefly for some clue as to where Frank might have fled. But the jungle kept its secret. They had no idea when—or if—Frank would return.

Joe's mind kept returning to the one thought: How? How could Hammerlock have known they were there?

He reconstructed the ambush in his head. Two images kept haunting him. Lauren, high in the tree, her knife shining in the sunlight. An accident? he asked himself. Then there was Terry, disappearing into the jungle to get the supplies for his survival punch. But gone long enough to give us away, he thought.

Joe shook his head. You can't think like this. You're depending on these people to help save your life. Another thought pushed its way forward. They may already have cost Frank his life. Joe squashed that thought, too. They had to start work on the second trap. They had to.

As he and Terry picked out the two small trees they would use to build their trap, memories of Frank plagued Joe. He could hear his brother's voice, as clearly as if it were real, saying he would back him no matter what. He saw Frank's face, looking at him with concern, when Frank had thought he really fell down the mountainside.

Then came the nightmare memory that always surfaced when he was upset. A vision of the moment their car had exploded, with his girlfriend, Iola Morton, caught inside. Joe had not saved her. He had failed Iola—as he had just failed Frank.

Come on, get to work, Joe told himself. This is what Frank would have wanted you to do. But the thought gave him little comfort.

He and Terry twisted open the tops of the handles of their Malin M-15 survival knives. They each withdrew the wire saws coiled within. They were really ingenious little gizmos — eighteen inches long, with razor-sharp teeth.

Joe hooked one of the saw's ringlike grips over his finger, then dug out the nylon fishing cords tucked tightly inside the handle. Terry did the same, placing them beside the trunks of the chosen trees.

Terry stretched the nylon cord between his hands and tugged. The line bit into the palms of his hands. He pulled harder. His flesh creased more deeply, but the line held firm.

"It'll hold," Terry said.

Joe barely heard. He was still brooding about Frank. If Joe survived this thing and Frank didn't, how would he explain it to their parents? He imagined his mother fighting back tears. Joe's own eyes began to sting and fill. He quickly blinked back the tears before the others could see them.

Terry began to use the saw on one of the small trees, carving notches into the bark. Joe half-heartedly ripped his saw's teeth across the second trunk. Could he have given us away? he asked himself.

Lauren stopped beside him. Sunlight glinted off her blond hair.

"You all right?" she asked, standing above him as he watched wood shavings spew away from the saw.

"Yes," he said, but did not mean it. That knife reflecting the sun. A dead giveaway, Joe thought.

Lauren knelt beside him. Her clear blue eyes were full of concern.

"I have a lot of brothers and sisters," she said after long seconds in which the only sound was the saws chewing through wood.

"So you said." Joe stopped sawing, glanced up into her eyes, then turned away.

"I may have wanted to do something to prove myself, apart from them. But if one of them were hurt — if something happened to any of them, I don't know what I'd do. I'd be lost." She paused. "Please, don't blame yourself."

"It's my problem," he muttered. The saw stuck in the wood, and he jerked at it savagely.

Lauren grabbed his arm, stopped him. One hand touched his cheek and turned his face back to her.

She smiled grimly. "No, Joe. It's our problem. We're all a team here. We're working together. It's the only way we'll get out of this alive."

Joe's voice was sarcastic. "You sound like a football coach giving a pep talk."

Lauren smiled. "Maybe. But I wouldn't give up on your brother. From what I've seen, he's pretty resourceful. I'm betting he'll outwit Hammerlock."

The day became instantly warmer. Joe knew it was only because of Lauren.

"You're right. I shouldn't be counting Frank out," Joe said.

He stared into her eyes, and found himself liking Lauren for her never-say-die spirit and her compassion. "I — " he began. And then he felt a sudden sharp stab of guilt. Iola. The explosion.

The day went cold again, as if he had betrayed Iola's memory. She had been the only girl he'd ever really cared about. Could anyone ever really take her place?

"Joe, are you okay?" Lauren asked. "You just stopped speaking so quickly. And you look so— hurt. What is it?"