The Lost Island

62

Glinn remained in his tent, surrounded by communications equipment, his aide at one side. Over the open radio channel, he had heard everything that happened to the dog team: the conversation, the shooting, the roaring of the beast, the gruesome sounds of dismemberment and death — and then silence. He also heard some of it directly through the jungle: faint, delayed, like an echo.

It was happening all over again. A single unexpected factor, impossible to foresee, had overturned all his carefully calculated models. It was exactly what had occurred five years before, with the meteorite that turned out — against all odds — to be something else. The failure, sudden and complete, was unraveling around him, in real time. Now they had a completely unpredictable hominid, neither animal nor human, filled with a murderous and vengeful rage, to contend with. Unleashed by a person they had failed to fully understand. Glinn knew, with brutal clarity, that his determination to succeed at all costs had affected his judgment and led them into disaster.

Now they were in uncharted territory. He had lost his right-hand man, Garza — a loss he felt keenly. He had not treated Garza properly; he saw that now. It had been a serious mistake to deceive him. His QBA of Garza had always indicated a thorough pragmatist, a careerist, a man who looked after number one. But now Garza had displayed an unexpected, altruistic side.

Glinn shook his head. These were all lessons he would have to carefully ponder at some later date. But not now. Now, the first order of business was the survival of his men and himself against the fury of this extraordinary creature.

He pressed the TRANSMIT button on his comm unit and spoke to the eight men waiting at the ambush salient. “It’s over. Delgado’s team is gone. Assemble the squad in here for a briefing. Now.”

Moments later the eight soldiers entered the tent. They were frightened but still steady. Glinn had chosen them well.

“The Cyclops,” said Glinn, “is coming for us. Here. In camp.”

“What makes you think—?” began the squad commander.

“He’s wounded. We’ve ruined his island. He doesn’t care if he lives or dies. I believe he’s going to take as many of us out as he can before the end.” Glinn noticed, in passing, that he was now referring to the Cyclops as he, not it. That was his mistake from the beginning: thinking of him as an animal.

“Yes, sir.”

“What’s the status of the electric fence?”

“With the backup generator running again, it’s up and juiced.”

“He’ll go right through it. Now, listen carefully. He knows. He was here, he watched, he saw who was in charge. He’ll be coming for me first.”

“Yes, sir,” said the commander.

“So I’m the bait you will use. Understand? You set your men up to nail him when he comes for me. It’s got to be subtle. That thing is no animal. He’s nearly human and he can think.”

The squad commander nodded.

“Dismissed.”

They exited the tent, leaving Glinn with his aide.

Glinn turned to him. “Bring me my Glock.”

“Yes, sir.” The aide fetched it, checked the magazine, handed it to him. He took it with his shriveled hand and racked a round into the chamber, setting it down in his lap. The Glock 19 was light enough for him to fire with his crippled hand, and it had good stopping power. But he didn’t fool himself into thinking that, if it came to that, the pistol would do much good.

“Open both flaps. I need to see — and so does he.”

The aide complied.

The men had disappeared. Glinn could see no evidence of where they were hidden, waiting for the creature. Good. Another group of men were putting out the last of the fire, and the backup generator was humming. A stench of diesel and burnt plastic and metal hung over the camp. Two remarkably dismembered bodies still needed to be taken care of. Later. The air conditioner in his tent had finally cooled things off. But Glinn didn’t like the noise; he wanted to hear.

“Shut off the A/C.”

“Very well, sir.”

His aide stood at the opening, M16 in hand, quiet, serious, waiting. A good man. All his men were crack, the squad commander the best there was. They would know what to do, how to set up the ambush. He told himself he didn’t have to worry. The Cyclops was big, it was remarkably powerful, but it could be killed like any other living thing, and it was already wounded. Glinn was sure of that. Perhaps it was even dying.

That was a comforting thought.

He realized he was afraid. Not of his own death — but of the failure that would follow. Glinn calmed himself down, used the techniques he had learned to slow his heart rate and breathing, clear his head. He felt a new sensation, one he wasn’t used to. It was not exactly fear. It was more apprehension: concern that he would not be able to complete his work in the South Atlantic. No one else could do it but him. It would be a great tragedy for the world if he perished now, on this island, before having completed his true mission.

Any minute now it, or rather he, would be there. And even as Glinn thought this, he heard him, right on schedule: a brutal, maddened roar that seemed to shake the very fabric of the tent.

Then, silence.

Not a shot was fired. That was good. It meant the men were still in possession of themselves. No point in firing stupidly into the wall of jungle, giving away their locations.

Another long, shuddering, wet roar, this time from a different direction. Wet. Was he shot through a lung? It was like the roaring of lions in the African night.

He wondered what Amiko’s role in this was, if she was even alive. Was she…advising him? The thought was inconceivable, and he dismissed it immediately. Amiko was no killer. She had lost control of the creature.

The roars went on for another ten minutes as the brute circled the camp. Glinn had to admire his patience, his use of psychology. It was bloody unsettling, he had to admit. And it occurred to him that the circling might also be a form of reconnaissance, using sight and smell. He wondered just how the commander and his men had set themselves up, if the Cyclops could discern what they were up to.

His aide stood in the opening, his keen blue eyes roving this way and that. Even he, the most taciturn and composed of men, was sweating.

Now the roars ceased. Glinn was surprised to find the sudden silence even more unsettling. His respect for the creature increased.

His thoughts turned to Amiko again, and then to Gideon. He wondered what Gideon was up to, assuming the creature had not killed him already. Gideon was one of the most competent human beings he had ever encountered, but a man who was very unlike him, who operated on almost pure, seat-of-the-pants intuition. Glinn had never been dismissive of intuition — it was a powerful tool, albeit dangerous — but this notion that the Cyclops could be reasoned with, turned, tamed, somehow domesticated, was wrong, and Gideon would not survive any such attempt.

The silence became prolonged. The tension increased.

It started with a rush, an explosion of vegetation at the edge of the jungle, exactly opposite his open tent. The creature burst straight out in a swirl of leaves and bits of branches, hit the fence with a crackle of electricity; the wires sprang apart like broken piano strings, the alarms going off.

Glinn noticed that — horrifyingly — the creature carried a drysack in one hairy paw. Was it Gideon’s? He did not want to speculate how the Cyclops had gotten possession of it.

Even as the torrent of gunfire came pouring out of the tents surrounding him, the creature made a sudden turn, then another, moving extremely fast, the rounds kicking up geysers of mud and dirt all around him, some hitting home, and now he was moving laterally with a hideously rapid lope, faster than any runner, moving randomly while the converging lines of fire followed him.

And then Glinn saw that his movements were, in fact, anything but random. As he raced past the secondary fuel tanks and backup generator, the fire fell off abruptly — but not abruptly enough. Rounds slammed into the metal tanks, spraying fuel everywhere, and — Glinn could hardly believe his eyes — the Cyclops reached into the drysack, held out a lighter, flicked it on…and the entire secondary fuel dump erupted in a wall of flame.

And here came the Cyclops, on fire, heading straight at him now, items tumbling out of the drysack and hitting the dirt behind him, emitting a bellowing roar, his huge gray tongue hanging out, that fearful, bloody, awful eye looking straight at him.

The aide let loose a burst of fire but his reactions weren’t fast enough. The creature slammed into the tent, flame suddenly everywhere. Glinn had his Glock up, and as the Cyclops charged toward him he fired point-blank into the creature’s flesh, the heavy wheelchair absorbing most of the blow of the creature’s massive arm. Just as fast as he was there the thing was gone, no scream this time…and Glinn found himself sprawled on the ground, his wheelchair smashed, blood and smoke and fire everywhere.