The Lost Island

63

Deep in the necropolis, Gideon could hear nothing. Slowly, his eyes had adjusted to the dimness. He had chosen a good spot, well hidden, with a clear view of the entrance and the opposite niche holding the bones of Polyphemus — and the last of the lotus. The movement of air came from the opening into the cavern: he was downwind of the entrance. For that reason, he hoped the Cyclops would not be able to smell him.

Lying on the cool stone, he played out various scenarios in his head. It was impossible to predict what would happen when the Cyclops arrived, but arrive he would. The big question was Amiko. He would have to play it by ear.

He waited, listening. At the edge of audibility, he thought he heard something far away — a faint rumble of explosions or gunfire? After a moment it seemed to fade away.

Still he waited. Minutes passed.

And then he heard something else. At first he wasn’t sure what it was, or even if it was. Perhaps it was just in his own mind. But then he heard it again: something low, faint, close. A breath? The soft sound of a footfall in sand?

He had arrived.

The sounds became more distinct as the creature approached, still unseen, in the huge antechamber outside the central necropolis. He could hear the sound of stertorous breathing, wheezing — then, diffusing through the still air, he smelled a vile mixture of diesel fuel, burnt hair, and animal foulness. The creature was wounded, struggling. He heard the sounds of eating, crunching, and then the faint smell of the lotus reached him. And a voice — a soft voice.

Amiko.

She was with him. She was helping him, caring for him. He listened as they rested in the antechamber, Amiko speaking softly.

Gideon made up his mind what to do. “Amiko?” he called out.

A sudden grunt of fury; a cough; then Amiko’s soft voice soothing the beast, talking to him in Greek, calming him down.

“Gideon,” she said in a low, sharp voice. “What are you doing here?”

“I came to help save the Cyclops. And to find you.”

A silence. Then: “It’s too late.”

“It’s never too late. Please talk to him. Glinn knows he screwed up. We can work things out now so the Cyclops can stay on the island.”

“You don’t understand. The Cyclops will kill you. He’s killing everyone. I can’t control him. Get out, now.”

“You have to make him understand. Listen to reason. I want you to help me reach him.”

“It’s too late.”

“I’ve got a weapon. If he comes through that door, he’s dead. Tell him that—”

His talking was interrupted by a roar, a cry so laced with hatred and fury that it turned Gideon’s blood cold.

“Just get out now!”

More angry sounds came from the Cyclops, growls of repressed fury, with Amiko’s urgent voice suddenly raised in warning: “Gideon! He’s coming for you—!”

A flash in the doorway, and the Cyclops came tearing through. Gideon had aimed at the opening, but despite all of Amiko’s warnings he found himself hesitating to kill. It was only for a split second — but it was enough to miss the opportunity. The creature was moving so fast that by the time Gideon had repositioned the rifle it was already below him, climbing up the stone face with long hairy arms, coming for him with a howl. He fired as the Cyclops vaulted into the niche, slamming violently into him, tumbling him backward into the vertical shaft, and they fell together, in sudden free fall, through a dark void, the Cyclops roaring and clawing at the air.

I’m about to die, Gideon thought with what seemed like remarkable clarity. I’m about to die.

They landed in water, ice-cold, and Gideon thrashed about in pitch black, his head below the surface. He felt himself dragged down by the rifle, a current plucking him along. He managed to free himself of the gun, sending it to the bottom as he clawed his way up, breaking the surface and gasping for air. He could hear a bellowing, choking sound as the Cyclops fought the water.

He can’t swim, Gideon thought.

It seemed they had fallen into some kind of underground river. The water was flowing faster now, and he could hear, growing in volume, another sound: the sound of a waterfall.

Unable to see, Gideon instinctively swam crosscurrent and moments later hit the rough, volcanic wall of the underground stream. It slid past his fingers as the current carried him along with increasing speed. He grabbed at it desperately, caught a ledge, managed to seize a rough projection with his other hand, and pulled himself out of the water onto the rock face. Muscles in spasm with the effort, he managed to find two decent footholds and a handhold in the rough lava, which allowed him to fumble his headlamp from his pocket, turn it on, and pull it over his head.

Son of a bitch. The Cyclops was clinging to the wall not twenty feet from him. He looked shattered, one leg dangling uselessly, skin burned raw, his flanks torn and bleeding from several bullet wounds — but still coming for him, his yellow eye gleaming murderously. Even in his ruined state the creature was preternaturally agile; in a matter of seconds he had gotten close enough to Gideon to reach out with a massive hand, broken nails sharp brown daggers, swiping at his neck.

There was nothing for it: Gideon leapt back into the water and allowed it to sweep him downstream, the creature bellowing in fury.

He swam to the other side of the river and tried to grab at the wall, now flying past in the accelerating current, the roar of the falls almost upon him. Scrabbling at it, tearing his hands on the rough lava, he managed to get a purchase and haul himself out. Once secure on the rock, he again shone the light around. The Cyclops was nowhere to be seen. It had not followed him into the water.

Gasping for breath, he took stock of his surroundings. The underground river was barreling along, boiling down toward a dark hole — a devastating waterfall, bounded by walls of razor-sharp lava. His light showed what looked like an opening above him, a brutal crack that led upward, seamed and riddled with holes, one of which might lead to a passageway out.

Gideon knew that he had to get out as quickly as he could. The Cyclops would undoubtedly know these caverns well, and even wounded as he was, he had the agility and eyesight to hunt down and to kill, quickly and efficiently. Gideon no longer had a weapon — not even a knife.

He started climbing up toward the crack. He managed to reach it, pull himself into it via improvised hand- and footholds, find a lava tube leading off from its steep flanks, and drag himself in. He collapsed onto a patch of sand, breathing hard. His hands were lacerated and bleeding from the sharp lava he’d climbed. Everything hurt.

And somewhere in these caverns was a murderous Cyclops, bent on his destruction. He turned off the headlamp and listened. Over the sound of water he could hear, somewhere, the rumble of labored breathing, the sounds of movement.

It was still out there, still coming for him.