It lowers its head, touching a pink nose to the ground. A low growl builds in its throat. The animal stalks closer, eyes locked on my face. I try to stand perfectly still, but I’m hyperventilating and it makes holding myself together extremely difficult.
As the animal moves in, its shoulder blades rise and fall like waves in an ocean. I allow myself to believe for one fraction of a second that it’s only curious. It’ll see that I’m not a threat, that I’ll give it no chase, and will tire of me and leave.
But then the beast lifts its enormous head and releases a bloodcurdling roar only the king of a jungle can.
CHAPTER NINE
The lion rushes toward me in an instant, and all I can think about is how I once heard that lions don’t actually live in jungles. Today, I will die at the hands of a misconception.
My legs shake as the animal closes in, his muscles rippling as he moves. There’s too little time to dream of fleeing. No chance to react, to run for my life. I close my eyes and wait for the impact. But at the last minute, I can’t help but peek. It’s the wrong move. My eyes fall on the lion’s open mouth, on the dark shadows cast by his ivory teeth.
I choke on a scream as the lion leaps.
“M-4,” I hear a deep voice bark.
The lion touches down an inch away from me and stops cold. Then he glances over his shoulder.
From out of the brush, the serial-killer guy strides toward me. He slaps his thigh once. “Now.” The lion pads toward him and stops near the guy’s leg, turning to keep both bright yellow eyes trained on me. When the guy steps closer, I notice he has a scar cut through his right eyebrow and that the bottom of his left earlobe is mangled.
He’s wearing the same brown scrubs I am, but he also has two straps across his chest that attach to bags at his hips. When I see what’s in the bags, my stomach rumbles. They are both overflowing with some kind of fruit, and I even catch the scent of raw meat. I have no idea where he found food or how he knew what was safe to eat, but I consider taking on him and the lion for just a taste.
“What are you doing here?” The guy’s voice is as sharp as it is rough, and he steps toward me when he speaks. An intimidation factor, no doubt. His shirt pulls tight against his chest, and I realize just how easily this guy could kill me. Muscles bulge beneath the fabric, and thick veins run along his tanned, sculpted arms. I yank my eyes away from his shoulders to meet his gaze.
“What do you mean?” I clip. “I’m in the race, same as you.” The lion at his side stirs, licks his chops. “What is that thing?” I should be more afraid, but I’m still too weak from exhaustion and hunger to run, and it seems this guy has a handle on the animal. The answer hits me when I realize he’s not carrying his massive egg. His Pandora hatched. My brain stutters trying to comprehend this, that a lion was inside an egg. I glance at the animal and wonder at the possibility. He’s bigger than I ever imagined a lion would be in real life. For one small moment, I feel envy.
The guy’s got a good Pandora.
Shame fills my chest, and I absently stroke Madox’s egg inside my bag.
His eyes travel down the length of my body, and I recall that my wet scrubs still cling to my skin. His gaze finally lands on the feather in my hair, and his eyes narrow. Looking up, he jabs a finger at me. “Stay away from me.”
I plan to do just that, but when the guy turns to leave, I spot something in one of his bags. It’s electric blue cloth, and I know instantly what it is.
He’s found a flag.
“Wait.” I remember the deal I made with myself, that if I found another Contender, I’d suggest we search for base camp together. This isn’t exactly the kind of person I’d hoped to partner with, but it’s better than traveling alone.
“Wait,” I repeat, stumbling after him. “Maybe we can, you know, help each other.” The guy walks quicker, but I keep talking to his broad back. “I mean, when we get close, it’s every person for themselves, but in the meantime, why not have company?” I pause, trying to think of what skills I possess. “I can be funny. I mean, I used to make my best friend, Hannah, laugh so hard, she’d pee. I can entertain you while we walk.”
The guy flicks his hand and the lion at his side turns on me. He throws his head back and roars so loudly, I can feel it in my bones. I see every thick tooth in his mouth, and a bolt of fear twists my stomach.
I raise my hands slowly. “Okay.”
The guy moves away and the lion trots to catch up with his owner.
I’d like to yell how sorry he’ll be, how when my Pandora hatches, he’ll beat up his Pandora. I look into my bag and smell the sour odor. It’s getting stronger, and I wonder if Madox is already gone. If he never hatches, I’ll be alone. And as much as I hate to admit it, I fear isolation worse than the jungle itself.
The guy has food, but more important, he has a flag. Maybe he already knows the way to base camp. He certainly looks like the kind of guy who treks through jungles for fun. I remember once, in my Business Basics class at Ridgeline High, my teacher got on this rant about research and development. I don’t remember the details of his spiel — I was more concerned with the text Hannah had sent me about a jewelry sale at Forever 21 — but it was something about how McDonald’s puts all this time and resources into finding the absolute perfect location for a new store. They believe if they buy the right real estate, the burgers will sell themselves. The kicker was that other burger joints just watch to see where McDonald’s puts a store, then they plop a store nearby and save themselves a boatload of cash on all that blasted research.
At the time, this story seemed pretty shady; I mean, those other stores seemed like copycats, and that’s just lame.
But now I’m standing here in a jungle in the middle of God knows where, watching a convict and his lion tramp through creepy-looking plants and all I’m thinking is: Homeboy’s got a flag. He’s got the right real estate. So maybe all I need to do is follow his ass.
And so I do.
For two days, I follow this guy … and I learn that I have no business competing in this race. Not when Green Beret is here, sniffing out berries that I assume are safe to eat, or listening for strange sounds I don’t recognize, or finding safe places to sleep I never would have seen.
To give myself credit, I don’t think the guy knows I’m following him. I’ve stayed far enough behind that the jungle masks the sound of my footsteps. I eat what he eats (which is Disgusting with a capital D), I drink from the streams he stops at, and I sleep when he sleeps. Each morning, I wake up to the sound of him moving about. Though he’s quiet most of the day, in the morning, he’s louder than any alarm clock I’ve ever owned.
For the most part, following him is working out all right. The problem is the guy hasn’t found any more flags, and I’m starting to wonder if maybe finding the first one was a fluke.
Night falls quickly in the jungle, which isn’t good. I hate the night, the time when I feel utterly alone, even though Green Beret is only a few yards away. Plus, it gets cooler at night, and for some reason, my skin is doing something funky that worsens in the evening. It feels and looks thinner where the brown scrubs touch my body, and a pink rash covers my chest and back. It freaks me out to no end, but I can’t tell what the issue is. I think maybe I’m allergic to walking this much.
I watch the guy find a place to rest. Last night, he slept in the trees, which I find wildly disturbing. But tonight, he pulls up plants by the fistful and lays bark and twigs onto the ground he cleared. Then he covers that with dead leaves. Finally, after he’s been working and inspecting the site for several minutes, he sits down. The lion pads toward him and leans back on his haunches. The guy rubs the lion under his chin, and a warm, rich purr erupts from the animal’s throat. A small ache twists through my chest. I’d do almost anything for that kind of companionship right now.