Alligator (32 page)

"It's not worth the chance," screamed Lee.

"Go on alone, if you want!" Rye yelled. "I'll pull it through myself!" Rye was out of control. He held on to the boat desperately, as though it was his last link to civilization.

"You're a fool! You're a goddamned fool!" Lee screamed. He jumped into the water next to Rye and, cursing himself for not just allowing Rye to burn, he pushed at the boat until finally they jarred it loose.

Lee checked the horizon. The black slash of smoke had grown thicker, darker, more ominous. "It's movin' fast," he said with a sigh. "It won't do us any good to head back in the direction we came. The water's so shallow, we don't stand a chance of reachin' the fork before the fire catches up to us. Our only hope is to follow this channel and pray it leads to open water fast."

Lee cut two lengths of rope, secured them to the bow, and handed one end to Rye, keeping the other for himself. "Tie it around your waist," he said. "That way you'll have your hands free to push aside the grass."

Rye wound the rope around his middle and secured it with a knot. Lee tested the knot, then tied himself to the boat. Having hitched themselves like oxen, they began to pull the boat through the thick tangle of weeds, plodding forward slowly, straining against the drag of the grassy water, all the while keeping their eyes on the heavy black line of smoke that advanced on them.

Rye could not stand to watch the quickly growing streak of black, and forced himself to keep his eyes on the water ahead. But he couldn't block out the unsettling rumble. It grew louder and closer, until it seemed to be coming from inside him.

Slowly he began to realize that if they didn't leave the skiff and run, they would never get out alive. Torn between his fear of the fire and his fear of leaving the boat, everything jammed up in Rye. He stopped, cornered.

Lee screamed to him, "What the hell are you stoppin' for?"

Shaking himself loose from the fear, Rye once again pulled at the boat, until the futility of it hit him, and he stopped, undecided and fearful, like a deer in that startled moment before flight. Rye stood staring into space, paralyzed with fear.

Suddenly animals darted out of grass and rushed past them. They were coming from all directions, deer and boars, raccoons and bobcats rushing wildly through the sawgrass. The noise was terrific. The crack of dry sawgrass being crushed beneath their feet mixed with their frantic howls, drowning out the rumbling of the fire.

"Get down!" screamed Lee. He forced Rye behind the skiff just as a terrified boar rushed at them.

The animal passed right over Rye, and he could see, only inches above his head, the obscenely pink belly covered with coarse bristles. Rye covered his head with his arms, pressing close to the side of the skiff, as a buck leaped over the boat and landed only six inches from him.

"Keep down!" Lee screamed.

Rye didn't need a warning. He shrank closer to the boat, instinctively collapsing himself down as small as possible, not so much to make himself a smaller target as to get away from the terrifying noise of fear and the zoolike acrid smell. But he was surrounded by it. He clasped his ears with his hands; he hardly dared breathe. Still the sound and the smell of fear engulfed him.

In less than a minute, it was over. Even when Rye could hear the noise of the animals fading into the distance, he stayed where he was, for the smell remained, and the sound of their cries still echoed in his mind. Finally, he pulled himself up and looked at the sky. Over half of the sky was blackened with smoke. There was no longer any question of taking the boat.

Lee was bundling some of the supplies into two blankets. He hardly looked at what he was taking; there wasn't much time to be choosy. As he handed a bundle to Rye, Lee realized that something helpful had come out of the stampede. The animals were heading in the same direction, so at least they knew they were going the right way. Lee threw his bundle over his shoulder, checked to make sure of Rye, then fled into the sawgrass like the animals.

The fire was less than a quarter of a mile behind them, and was moving forward very rapidly. Incandescent flames sheeted across the swamps, rolling over the shallow water, racing up trees and leaving them blackened and parched skeletons. The muck heated up, then slowly began to creep forward. The ground of the swamp slipped under the fire and rushed ahead of it, boiling and steaming like molten lava.

A boar slipped on the liquid ground and with a shriek of terror fell into the burning muck. Suddenly, flames flared all around him. He rolled and recovered his footing, but red-hot fiery fingers of flame had already caught at his bristles. Streaking fire like a comet, he ran wildly, trying to get away. It took only a minute for the fire to roll over him. There was an oily popping noise as the thick, black, greasy smoke flared into fire. For a moment the boar glowed white-hot, his skeleton lighting up as if he were under X-rays; then he collapsed into a smoldering heap.

As the fire swept across the swamp, it reached the skiff, igniting the fuel tank, blasting pieces of wood into the air. Rye heard the explosion and shuddered, but he didn't look back. The intense heat of the fire was blowing over him, and he tried to make himself move faster, but the sawgrass was so thick that it was almost impossible to get through. The knife-edged grass slashed at his clothes, stripping the cloth away and slicing large jagged wounds into his exposed flesh. The air itself seemed to be on fire, blistering his throat and searing his skin with molten heat.

Just a few yards behind him, the muck was smoking. In less than a minute, the ground started to move forward in a great wave of seething mud.

Lee threw down the supplies and dipped his blanket into the ankle-deep water. He figured they didn't have a chance of making it. Within a minute or two the flames would be up to them, eating at their flesh just as it had eaten everything else in its path. Still, he threw the dampened blanket over his head, knowing that, at best, it would only give him an extra thirty seconds of living.

Rye balked at throwing away the supplies, though he too feared they probably would never need them. He dipped the blanket into the water and, drawing it around himself, continued to run.

Within a minute they were almost walled in by the fire. It choked off their air and crushed them with its terrifying roar. The ground began to boil under their feet, shooting sparks into the air. Beads of water sizzled on their blankets. They both knew they had very little time left. Still they ran on.

Rye felt heat on his back. A spark landed on his blanket. He looked back with horror and saw a tiny flame leap up and begin to move. He wanted to cry out, but there was no more breath for that. Next to him, he could see Lee's blanket catching the flame. They were in the middle of the fire. In a few seconds the flames would roll over their bodies, sucking out their living blood.

Suddenly Rye felt something cool on his legs. He seemed to be sinking into it. He looked down and yelled out with delight. It was water. He threw himself forward, falling into the water face first, feeling the coolness dousing the flames and chill his seared flesh. The urge to laugh came from deep within him; it was the delighted laugh of a child at the beach, splashing among the waves. Not far away, he saw Lee splashing in the water.

Rye rolled over onto his back. The laugh was still there deep inside him. He paddled over to Lee joyfully, and together they lay on their backs, watching from the safety of the water as the fire raged all around them.

The slatted red light of sunset made the blackened hummock look as though it were still in flames. Rye and Lee sat at the edge of the water, two men, alone in the wilderness, with no boat, no supplies, no guns, nothing to protect them against the swamp.

As Rye looked across the water into the fiery sun, he knew that Lee had been right about the alligator cutting them down to size. There was only one smart thing to do and he knew Lee was thinking it too. Their only chance would be to try to make it to a town. They probably weren't more than a couple of days from somewhere; besides, Lee knew his way in his swamps, so they stood a good chance of making it there. Once in town, Rye could resupply them; then they could come back.

But Rye knew they wouldn't come back. They'd talk about it, but first there'd be the investigation into the deaths of John and Maurice, then he'd have to get back to Miami to straighten out some business, and pretty soon the importance of killing some oversized reptile would diminish. It would be called coming back to his senses by some, including most probably himself, but Rye didn't want to come back to his senses. He felt there was something very important about what he was doing. Even if there wasn't, what mattered was that he thought there was. The failure would be just as big.

Lee said nothing. Rye waited for him to speak first, believing that what he would say was the only thing that made sense, yet knowing it was the only thing he couldn't do. Rye knew he had to continue after the alligator. Without a gun, he had little or no chance of getting him. Trying to kill the alligator with just a knife would be nothing short of suicide, but not going after him would be a form of suicide too.

Rye looked out at the water as the sun dipped low and spilled red light across the calm surface. Somewhere out there the alligator, too, was watching the sun. He could sense the animal's murky brain plotting in its own primitive way. He could feel those ancient yellow eyes keeping watch on him. Rye wanted to scream out in fury, for he knew the alligator was winning.

"It ain't gonna be easy, but we just might do it," Lee said, as much to himself as to Rye. Rye looked up with such an expression of astonishment that Lee almost laughed.

Rye had been right in thinking that Lee was coming to a decision, though he was wrong about the rest of it. Lee wasn't deciding whether to go on; he was trying to figure out how to do it. He didn't want to speak until he'd come up with a plan. He wanted to sound sure of himself, even if he wasn't, because it would make them both feel better, at least for a while.

"Yes," he said, "it can be done if we're smart and we keep to certain rules. First off, about an hour before sundown, we stop to build a shelter, no matter what. Sleeping on the ground is more than just uncomfortable, it can be dangerous. Besides, the insects are bad enough during the day—no need to tempt them any further. We should try to camp in a place where there are some trees close together. That way, we can string a couple of poles between them with vines and put leaves on top for a mattress."

Lee stood up and began pacing. He felt a great surge of energy at the challenge, and it occurred to him that he'd become as crazy as Rye. It wasn't unpleasant to feel that rush of excitement, that furious urgency and desire.

He pulled a small steel box from his pocket and opened it. There were about fifty matches. It wasn't a lot, but if they were careful, it would be enough. They had three knives—Lee'd been carrying two by some stroke of luck—so even if they lost one, they would still be all right. Their clothes weren't too bad, especially Rye's. The thing about expensive hunting clothes was they were made to do things no rich man would have to do. The cloth of Rye's shirt was singed in a few places; other than that, it was holding up very well. As a matter of fact, Lee could still see traces of a crease in his pants. Lee's clothes weren't in as good shape as Rye's, though he couldn't really complain. Aside from a few places where the material of his shirt was beginning to give and a burn hole in the right leg of his jeans, they weren't much worse than when he left. His boots were older than Rye's, which meant they would probably come apart sooner, but they were softer and would hurt his feet less. All in all, both of them were in pretty good shape.

He stopped pacing and walked back to Rye. "Getting food shouldn't be too hard," he continued, "we just have to plan for it. There's plenty of fish and raccoon; there's birds' eggs and even frogs. Our best bet is to stick with small game; buildin' a big trap takes too long, and we can't take the meat with us. So we don't do any complainin' about the food, you understand?" He glanced over at Rye, enjoying the confusion and delight he read on his face as much as he had enjoyed his anger before.

Lee winked at Rye, then said, "Best trap for us would be to braid some sawgrass into a noose, cover it with leaves, and wait for something to step into it. The big problem is gonna come later. Gettin' a coon with a rope trap is one thing, but getting the gator with a knife is somethin' else entirely."

A look of discouragement flickered across Rye's face. Quickly, Lee said, "It can be done, though, if you keep a few things in mind. Go for his brain, right at the point that would be his forehead. Anywhere else he won't even feel it, I guarantee you that. I've seen gators get five bullets in them and not so much as slow down. But the brain is different. I'll distract him, at least long enough for you to get a good chance. Still, if anything goes wrong, and you can't get him in the brain, next best place is his belly. An alligator's skin isn't so tough there. Chances are you can at least wound him bad enough to stop him for a while, then you go for the brain. Now, if that don't work, there's one more thing you can do."

"What's that?"

"Run faster 'n' and longer'n you've ever run before."

"Very funny," said Rye.

"I ain't tryin' to be," answered Lee. "There isn't a man alive that can beat that gator in the water. It's his home ground. A gator can stay under for a good fifteen minutes without needin' air. They also have what's called a third eyelid. It's transparent and keeps out the water, so they can see when you can't. On top of that, they're fast in water, as fast as a well-equipped skiff. They're fast on land, too. A gator can beat a man, but only for short distances, then he starts to slow up."

Lee stopped and looked over at Rye. "Did you get all that?" he asked.

Rye didn't answer. For the first time, he felt tremendously guilty. It was his fault they had no supplies; it was his fault that Lee was even out there in the first place. "I'm sorry," he said. "If I'd've listened to you, we'd still have our supplies."