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.
64
Eli Glinn lay in the sand as two medics pulled the wreckage of his wheelchair off from on top of him, cut away his shirt, and undertook a quick examination. He was vaguely aware of his injuries, but he felt detached from them, distant, as if all this had happened to someone else. He struggled to make an inventory of his condition. His shoulder, broken. His crippled arm, lacerated and bleeding. A cut on his head, with perhaps a mild concussion. Burns. They hurt already; very soon, they would hurt much more.
He could hear the roar of the fire, see its angry glow through the ruined and tattered tent fabric. This was far worse than before. There would be no controlling this fire. He could already hear the popping sounds as it moved into the jungle, branches crackling, seedpods bursting, treetops erupting in noisy flame. Fanned by a rising wind.
Painfully, he turned his head to one side. His aide lay on the ground, in three pieces, connected only by strings of tissue. The man’s surprised blue eyes stared into space. The man’s body, and Glinn’s wheelchair, had absorbed the blow. It was a miracle Glinn was still alive.
The medics finished fitting a neck brace on him. They lifted him gently, then placed him on a stretcher.
“We’re going to get you on the chopper,” the chief medic said.
“Not ahead of the others.”
“I’m doing the triage around here,” the chief medic said tersely as they headed for the door.
“I said no. I’m stable now. Set me down. Take the others out first. I’ll go with the last group.”
A hesitation, and then the medic nodded. “Okay, Mr. Glinn. Have it your way.” He disappeared out the door.
Glinn raised his head from the stretcher, looked around, spotted a soldier. He beckoned him over. “You’re my aide now. You’ll relay my orders.”
“Yes, sir.”
Glinn grasped the man’s collar, pulled him close. “I want an immediate general evacuation of the island. First the wounded, then the others. We have two choppers left — it’ll take four trips. The mission hospital in Puerto Cabezas, south on the mainland, will be our destination. There’s a helipad there. Do it quickly.”
“Yes, sir.”
“Second order: abandon the firefighting effort. It’s too late. The remaining soldiers—everyone left on the island — are to maintain the perimeter, defend against the creature, until the evac is complete. Is that understood?”
“Understood.”
“Good. Now go.”
“Yes, sir.” Glinn released his hold on the man’s collar. The soldier jumped up and immediately disappeared around the corner of the tent.
Glinn lay back on the stretcher, on the ground, staring upward at the canvas, bright with the light of the fire. According to Gideon, Garza had gotten one lotus root out. Just one. He hoped beyond all hope that it would be enough.
65
Gideon forced himself to sit up, his head spinning. He had to get the hell out of here before the Cyclops found him. There would be no communication between them, no mercy. Glinn was right about that, at least: he’d been a fool to think otherwise.
He strained to listen. Save for the low rush of water, a deep silence had descended. Gideon waited in the darkness, trying to catch his breath. And then a slow growl came rumbling out of the black tunneclass="underline" a howl of hatred, fury, and pain. It grew in volume until it ascended into an ululating wail.
Staggering to his feet, gripped by panic, Gideon flashed the light around briefly, saw nothing, and ran down the passageway, a lava tube with many branches. He took one at random, then another, sprinting as fast as he could, using his headlamp in his hand and turning it on and off just enough to keep from running headlong into the walls. He had lost all sense of direction. He had no idea where he was. His only desire was to get away from the beast.
Silence — and then another, low growl. It sounded like it was ahead of him. Could the creature really have moved that fast? Had he himself, in his panic and confusion, doubled back? Stopping abruptly, almost tumbling into the sand, Gideon turned and ran back the way he had come, veering down a new tunnel, scrambling over the fallen rocks of a cave-in. He paused to listen again. Where the hell was it?
He could hear, faintly, the Cyclops moving: huge hoary feet biting into the sand. Again it seemed to be ahead of him. He could feel it, feel the electricity of the creature’s hatred, its desperate need to kill. And then — quite suddenly — he could smell it.
Looking around, he saw an opening in the ceiling of the lava tube and he leapt for it, pulling himself up and climbing fast. One hand found a horizontal passage leading off from the pipe and he climbed into it and paused to reconnoiter. The tunnel was small — perhaps too small for the Cyclops.
He crawled down its length for a hundred yards, cutting his knees on the rocks that jutted up from the sandy floor. He could make out a dim light ahead, a faint smear of white. As he approached he saw it was the glow of the crystal cavern, framed by a rough opening.
…And then, suddenly, the black silhouette of the creature appeared against the light, blocking his way. With a cry, Gideon fell back. The Cyclops was playing with him — torturing him. Scrambling backward, he noticed a vertical hole to one side of the narrow passage. Shining his light down it, he saw that, after a few feet, it leveled out and widened. He climbed down and found himself in a dark passageway, apparently some rear section of the necropolis. There were ancient bones everywhere, crumbling into dust, along with crude stone tools, polished pieces of obsidian, and other artifacts. But Gideon was too panicked to pay much attention. He sprinted down the passage, chose another branch at random, then another, and another, the beam of his flashlight streaking wildly across the walls.