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.
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.