Island 731

25.

The water pounding down from the waterfall above the basin helped propel Hawkins deeper. He followed the bowl-shaped slope of the basin toward the bottom. He hoped that the crocodile, whose eyes were positioned atop its head for spotting prey on or near the surface, wouldn’t spot him below.

A look up told him his plan was working. The silhouette of the croc circled the basin above him. Its massive body blocked out the already diffuse sunlight and cast swirling shadows on the basin walls. Hawkins paused his descent, willing the croc to give up the hunt. He couldn’t hold his breath forever.

He quickly noticed that the crocodile’s search pattern brought it deeper with each pass. It would soon be able to spot him.

And then, Hawkins thought, I’ll be lunch.

He pushed deeper. Water pressure squeezed his ears and compressed his chest. He let out some air. The bubbles made for the surface and as they passed the croc, it snapped at them.

Hawkins didn’t watch to see if the predator was smart enough to realize the bubbles had come from him. He just kicked for the bottom, which he could see just ten feet below. He’d have nowhere left to hide, but figured he could push off and maybe sneak past the croc long enough to reach the surface. He doubted it, though.

As he neared the bottom, he noticed it looked different from the walls. The water depth coupled with the turbulent surface conditions and the croc’s shadow had filtered a lot of the sunlight, but the difference in color between the gray stone wall and bright white bottom was easy to see.

Is there sand at the bottom? he wondered, but decided against it. Any silt below the waterfall would most likely be gray, like the volcanic stone that made up the cliff and basin walls. In fact, with the swift current swirling around the basin, he doubted there would be any sand at the bottom at all. So what is it?

A shrieking face appeared out of the gloom. He reeled back and let out a bubbly shout. When his mind finally registered that he was looking at a human skull, he calmed, but then cursed himself for shouting. The croc had undoubtedly heard the sound. It had also cost him most of the air remaining in his lungs.

But his thoughts lingered on the skull, and the field of bones surrounding it. There has to be at least fifty people here, he thought. The bones covering the basin floor looked deformed. Not deformed, Hawkins realized, worn down, like sea glass. These bones have been here for a long time.

Hawkins dug an arm into the loose collection of bones and found that they shifted easily. He reached down to his shoulder and didn’t find the bottom. His guess about the number of bodies lodged at the bottom of the basin had been grossly conservative. There might be hundreds of bodies!

A change in water current tickled Hawkins head as a large shadow shifted around him. Without looking back, Hawkins twisted himself down, piercing the layer of bones like a drill. When the shadow returned, he froze. He lay on his back, covered by bones, but with a view of the basin.

The croc swam just a few feet above the bone layer, its head cocked to the side so that it could look down.

It knows I’m down here. It just doesn’t know where.

Hawkins jumped when the crocodile lunged out with its open maw and snatched a skull. The loud snap of the jaws closing on the old bone felt like an electric jolt, but it wasn’t nearly as frightening as when the skull imploded under the croc’s crushing bite.

With a twitch of its tail, the agitated crocodile surged through the water. Hawkins couldn’t tell if the beast was furious, injured, or just impatient, but there was no doubt it was growing more dangerous. It dredged a path through the bone yard, snapping at everything it passed, and sending chunks of white pluming into the basin.

It passed just a few feet to Hawkins’s right, pushing a femur hard into his ribs, but the impact didn’t hurt nearly as much as the ache in his lungs.

You’re going to die down here, he told himself. In a few months his flesh would be picked clean by fish and crocs. In a few years, his bones would be just another polished, water-worn skeleton.

Be aggressive, he thought. Stop hiding!

Hawkins clenched his hands and realized that he still held his hunting knife. He looked for the croc. It circled near his head, angling to make a pass. He slowly twisted his hand around, pointing the blade up.

Aggressive. He repeated the thought like a mantra. Be the more aggressive predator.

The tip of the croc’s jaw appeared over his eyes as it swam just a foot above him.

Aggressive.

The croc’s head and neck passed, revealing its true size. The creature could easily fit a man down its gullet.

Attack!

Hawkins thrust the knife up. A momentary resistance of tough crocodilian skin quickly gave way and the seven-and-a-half-inch blade slid into the croc’s lower jaw, all the way to the hilt.

The crocodile’s reaction was immediate and violent. It thrashed forward, which only increased its pain as the blade cut down the length of its lower jaw. Before Hawkins could withdraw the knife, it struck bone, dug in, and stuck. Unwilling to release the weapon that had now saved his life from three top predators, he held on tight.

The croc accelerated through the water like a torpedo bound for the surface. Hawkins was yanked from the bottom, rising with the croc, attached to its belly like a remora on a shark. The pressure on his lungs lifted, but the ache to breathe increased.

The light of day grew brighter as they ascended, then struck him with its full force as he and the croc launched from the water. Hawkins gasped loudly, sucking in air as the panicked reptile continued swishing its mighty tail, propelling them both higher into the air. They crashed through the waterfall’s spray, through the rainbow-colored mist, and toward the concrete bridge.

Seeing the bridge, Hawkins wrenched the knife free, pushed away, and twisted around. Had he not turned around, the impact with the concrete bridge might have broken his back. As it was, he took the collision in the gut. What little air had found its way into his lungs was driven out. Pinpoints of multicolored lights danced in his vision, but he managed to cling to the bridge for just a moment, which was long enough to realize the croc had also landed atop the bridge.

The giant continued thrashing as blood dripped from the wound Hawkins had inflicted. But it had no interest in him. It was trying to flee from the more aggressive predator, or the very lucky one—Hawkins couldn’t decide. His mind was a fog and his vision fading. He tried to breathe, but his body hadn’t recovered from the blow. He slipped back toward the basin, slowed more by the water rushing past him than his grip.

Then something took hold of his wrists. Through pinhole vision he saw Joliet above him, shouting at him. Her voice was indistinct, but he understood what she wanted: a little help. As she pulled him up, he managed to swing a leg up onto the bridge. With Joliet pulling and the water pushing, he soon found himself on his hands and knees on the bridge, gasping for air.

“It’s okay,” Joliet said. “Just breathe.”

After sucking in a few desperate breaths, Hawkins asked, “The croc?”

“Gone,” she replied. “Whatever you did to it worked. It took off downstream. What did you do to it?”

Hawkins lifted the knife from the water. “I was the more aggressive predator.”

She shook her head. “I’m starting to think that knife is lucky.”

“You might be right. Where’s Drake?”

“Bray took him uphill. Followed the goat.”

Hawkins glanced downstream. There was no sign of the crocodile, but that didn’t mean there weren’t others. If there were, they’d surely be drawn out by all the blood in the water. “We should go.”

With Joliet’s help, Hawkins made it to shore. He rested again, just long enough to steady his adrenaline shakes and sheathe his knife. Then they started up the hill. The path wound around in a big loop, moving steadily up and around the waterfall. The jungle rose with them, but at the top of the hill, blue sky greeted them. The path exited the jungle and cut through what looked like a manicured lawn. The dirt path shot across the grass, ending at a six-foot-tall chain-link fence.

Beyond the fence sat a concrete building, beneath which the river flowed. The building was large and stark, like something from Cold War Russia. The concrete was worn and barren of any markings. But something about the large structure felt ominous. Had the trail of footprints not led directly to the gate, he might have circumvented the landmark.

Bray emerged from the open doorway, his face ashen. There was no greeting. No relief at seeing Hawkins alive. He simply walked over to them and said, “Guys, you need to see this,” and stepped back into the dark entryway that swallowed him whole.