The Beast of Cretacea (40 page)

The rope around Ishmael’s wrists is cut, and he clambers up the tree, anxious to get a closer look at Queequeg. But when he starts for his friend’s cage, Kalashnikov aims his rifle.

“Tut-tut, poppet. You’re not up there to play nursemaid.”

Reluctantly, Ishmael lowers himself into the basket next to Queequeg’s. Glock is sent up to clamp each basket shut, then settles himself on a platform hammered into the juncture of the tree limb and trunk. The night watch, Ishmael assumes.

Poked and scratched by the sticks that make up his new accommodations, Ishmael squats and peers worriedly at the shadowy shape in the next basket. Pale and ghostly in the dark, Queequeg looks frighteningly gaunt.

“Queek?”

His friend stirs. Ishmael feels a great wave of relief. He’s alive! Just barely, perhaps, but alive all the same.

Ishmael considers his options. There are only two paths for escape: get past Glock somehow, or drop into the beast-filled swamp and face certain death. And that’s assuming he can figure out how to get out of the basket. For several minutes Ishmael quietly feels around the latch overhead, but it won’t open. The basket itself is lashed together tightly, making it impossible to spread the sticks enough to squeeze through. Ishmael shifts uncomfortably, his thoughts casting fitfully about for a solution.
Can it be that this
time there really is no escape?
He lets his head lean back. Maybe all he can do now is wait for the explosions that will seal the cave and destroy the pirates’ supply of gunpowder. At least the islanders will be safe.

The minutes pass, and jungle noises fill his ears. Below, a wobbly, long-legged animal with white-spotted brown fur slinks out of the dark and makes its way to the swamp’s edge. No sooner has the creature lowered its snout to drink than one of the gnarled beasts bursts from under the surface, clamps its toothy jaws around the animal’s throat, and drags it into the swamp. The water roils briefly while spindly legs thrash . . . then vanish into the murk.

The swamp becomes quiet again. There’s nothing for Ishmael to do except wait for the explosions and try not to imagine what these vengeful pirates will do once they realize what those blasts mean. So it’s a complete surprise when he hears snoring from the platform where Glock is supposed to be watching them. Once again, Ishmael pokes his fingers up through the sticks that form the roof of his basket, trying in vain to reach the latch.

In the basket next to him, Gabriel is also feverishly exploring the gaps between the sticks overhead. If they can get out before Charity and Billy blow up the hut and the cave entrance, they just might be able to escape!

But despite their desperate attempts, the latches prove impossible to breach. With every passing second, Ishmael grows more distressed. The explosions should have come by now, and he’s beginning to worry that something’s gone wrong. If Charity and Billy have been discovered, not only will they all be doomed, but the islanders as well.

Just then, in the shadows of the dark trees that circle the swamp, movement catches his eye. It’s Charity and Billy, tiptoeing through the underbrush.

Ishmael’s gut twists with consternation. Why didn’t they blow up the cave and gunpowder hut? They probably think they’re being heroes by coming to save him, Gabriel, and Queequeg, but they’re risking everything!

Billy reaches the base of the tree and begins to climb.

Snap!
A twig breaks.

On his platform higher up, the dozing Glock snorts and shifts position. Ishmael cranes his neck to see if Gabriel is aware of what’s going on. He is, watching with gritted teeth and fearful eyes. Billy remains motionless until the pirate’s snoring becomes steady again. Then he reaches up for another branch.

Snap!
The second twig is even louder when it breaks. Glock jerks his head up and blinks. Ishmael can hardly breathe. If the pirate glances down, he’ll be looking directly at Billy.

It feels like forever until Glock starts to doze again, and Billy continues climbing. Nerves on jagged edge, Ishmael can’t see how Billy expects to get them out of the baskets and past Glock without waking him.

But Billy doesn’t stop at their branch. He keeps climbing.
What does he think he’s doing?

A minute later Ishmael is startled by sudden loud crashing that comes from above. It sounds like something is tearing through the foliage.

On the platform, Glock’s eyes burst open and he jerks his head up.

Too late.

Wham!
Swinging through the branches on a vine, Billy knocks the pirate off the platform.

“Ahhhh!”
Screaming, Glock plunges into the swamp with a loud
splash!

The scaly beasts are on him instantly, tails thrashing and jaws snapping. With a strangled gurgle, the pirate disappears into the dark, turbulent water.

Billy swings back to the limb from which the baskets are suspended. Scampering agilely along the thick branch, he pries open the latch of Ishmael’s basket, then reaches down to him. “Time t’go, my friend.”

“What about blowing up the cave and hut?” Ishmael asks.

“No worries.” Billy gives him a hand.

“But the pirates must have heard Glock scream.” Ishmael climbs out of his basket. “They’re probably on their way here, and we don’t have time to —”

Ka-Boom!

The explosion is so enormous that it shakes the trees, sending small rocks and twigs showering down and splashing into the swamp — and almost knocking Ishmael off the branch.

Billy grabs him. “Steady!”

“Think that was the cave or the hut?” Charity calls from the base of the tree.

Ka-Boom!

More debris rains down around them.

“Both.” Billy rakes dirt and bits of leaves out of his hair.

Ishmael shakes his head in wonder, then helps Billy to free the others. Queequeg is so weak that Gabriel and Ishmael must carry him down together.

On the ground, Charity greets them with hugs, but the celebration is short-lived. Angry shouts echo through the jungle from the pirate camp.

“This way!” Billy leads them into the dense greenery. But it’s slow going as they fight their way through the trees and brush in the dark, getting tangled in vines and tripping on rocks and stumps. Carrying Queequeg on his back, Gabriel frequently stumbles, and the others must help steady him.

When they finally emerge from the thick vegetation and run onto the beach, the soft sand slows their pace even more.

From the jungle comes the furious crashing of pirates storming through the underbrush. It sounds like they’ve split into two groups: one headed for the beach, the other charging ahead, hoping to cut the fleeing group off.

“Come on!” Billy urges. “Faster!”

Gabriel falters, and Ishmael drops back to help him. They each take one of Queequeg’s arms, leaving his feet to drag through the sand.

Bang!
A shot rings out, and they all cower but keep going.

Bang!
A bullet whistles past Ishmael’s ear. He risks a glance back. Some of the pirates have reached the beach behind them.

“Hurry!” Charity urges, but the only way to go any faster would be to leave Queequeg behind.

Bang! Bang!
More bullets whiz past, and Ishmael can hear the second group of pirates bounding through the jungle, closing in. But the chase boat isn’t far now, less than fifty yards away.

If they can just reach it . . .

Twenty yards ahead, two pirates burst out of the trees, breathing hard and holding guns. A moment later, several more join them.

Ishmael and the others stop on the beach and fight for breath. There are pirates in front of them and behind them. To their left is the ocean; to their right, the jungle.

They’re trapped.

With weapons raised, the pirates approach them from both sides. From the group ahead, a single beam bursts on, blinding Ishmael with its glare. As his eyes begin to adjust, he sees that it’s Kalashnikov holding the light.

The white-haired pirate leader stops half a dozen feet away and regards them coldly. “Did you really think that destroying our cache of gunpowder would protect your tree-dwelling friends?”

“No,” Ishmael admits. “That’s why we also made sure to seal the cave forever.”

A moment of shocked silence follows, and then Kalashnikov’s eyes bug out in rage. “Kill them!”

Gabriel and Ishmael lower Queequeg to the sand and clench their fists. Charity grabs a piece of driftwood from the beach. Billy picks up a round piece of coral.

Better to go down fighting . . .

“Unh!” a pirate cries and falls face-first onto the sand, his hand reaching for the side of his neck. The others look down at him, trying to figure out what happened.

“Ach!” another pirate howls, then staggers a few feet and falls.

The pirates begin to look around, the light sweeping across the tree trunks lining the beach. “What’s going —?” a third pirate starts to ask, then grabs his side and doubles over. The others begin to back away in fear.

“Aah!” When a fourth pirate goes down, the rest start to scatter, running in panic into the jungle.

“Return at once, you wriggling invertebrates!” Kalashnikov shouts. But his men don’t listen. Left alone, the pirate leader spins around and aims his gun at Ishmael. “I was so hoping not to have to sully my hands. Alas, you first, poppet.”

Ishmael’s heart is pounding so hard he can feel it in his temples. He can’t believe that this is how it ends — never finding Archie or seeing Petra and Joachim again. . . .

Suddenly the gun falls from Kalashnikov’s hand. In the light, Ishmael can see a projectile sticking out from Kalashnikov’s forearm. It’s bigger than a blow dart, but beyond that, Ishmael can’t make sense of it. The pirate leader stares at it, then starts to bend down for his gun.

“Argh!” His hand goes to his shoulder, where a second projectile now juts.

But he yanks it out and picks up his gun.

Again he aims at Ishmael. “Sweet dreams, poppet.”

The next projectile hits him in the hand, knocking the gun away again.

The next strikes him in the knee.

With a roar of frustration, Kalashnikov turns and disappears into the jungle.

Ishmael and the others are alone on the beach. Small waves fold onto the shore, and up in the night sky more stars are beginning to peek out from behind the clouds. In the distance they can still hear the pirates thrashing in retreat through the trees toward their camp.

“What happened?” Charity asks.

Ishmael shakes his head.

Then a scrawny figure emerges from the dark jungle.

It’s Blank . . . and his crossbow.

The pirate gestures down the beach at the chase boat. “Got room for one more?”

The
Pequod
’s brig is sweltering. Close by, the ship’s nuclear reactor is running full ahead. According to Starbuck, they’ve been in pursuit of the Great Terrafin for the past month — and Ahab was none too pleased to have to slow down to let a few deserters back on board three days ago.

Ishmael lies shirtless, his face and chest slick with sweat. With sleep impossible, there is nothing to do but reflect on what’s happened since they saved Queequeg.

Ishmael was thrown in the brig the moment he returned. Stripped of his rank of skipper, disqualified from whatever share of the pot might have been his, he has been relegated to the position of prisoner, no longer even a member of the crew. He surmises that the only reason he hasn’t been sent back to Earth is that there’s no one aboard who knows how to operate the stasis chamber.

After they’d spent a week on the island, waiting for Queequeg to regain some strength, Charity and Blank decided to stay. They and the islanders had wanted Gwen, Queequeg, and Ishmael to remain, too. Even Diana had tried to change their minds; not only was she grateful for what Ishmael had done to disarm the pirates, but she had finally learned from Gwen how, exactly, the pirates had found out about the terrafin pens in the first place.

“Art sorry to have doubted ye,” Diana had told Ishmael. “Ye’ve been a good friend. We shall be honored t’welcome ye to our island.”

But despite the temptation, Ishmael couldn’t accept. Not as long as Archie, Joachim, and Petra were somewhere out there, no doubt as worried about him as he was about them.