Savage Lands (9 page)

“We're gonna be in so much trouble!” he quipped as he clambered over fallen crates, stepping up into the cab. The handcuffs hampered him and when he reached Jane, she pulled the bolt cutters from the floor. Jamming the chain between the blades, she squeezed the cutter's arms together and the chain broke after a brief resistance. Robbie still had the two cuffs on his wrists, but at least he was free to move.

“Come on!” said Jane breathlessly, still not quite believing her plan had worked. “We're going to have to run.”

They leaped from the cab, splashing into the mud, and sprinted for the trees. It was a slog, their feet bogging down with each step. Behind, the workforce was still escaping from the collapsed canteen. The crowd was jostling Archie and only the three burly guards had enough presence of mind to race toward the fleeing figures.

“Come on!” encouraged Jane, as Robbie almost tumbled in the mud. The trees were just ahead.

Then from behind, Baxter's voice carried across the site. “Shoot them! Don't let them get away!”

Jane risked a glance behind as two of the guards drew their pistols. The one Jane had almost flattened ran toward them with an expression of hatred. Shots suddenly rang out as one of the guards opened fire—but he was too wide, intent on not shooting his comrade.

“In the leg, you moron!” Baxter screamed. “Don't kill them!”

Jane ducked as she ran. Another glance behind and she saw her father launch from the canteen wreckage and tackle the shooter into the mud.

“NO!” yelled Archie as he fell hard onto the goon.

Baxter was just behind him, focused on Robbie. But he tripped over the fallen men and landed flat on his face in the mud and found himself entangled with the raging Archie.

“WHOA!” Robbie yelled, suddenly slipping in the mud. He tried to scramble to his feet, but lost precious seconds slip-sliding. Jane doubled back to pull him upright.

The towering angry goon was almost upon them. He glared at Jane with so much hatred she was convinced he wanted to tear her apart with his bare hands. She hauled Robbie up, but they had nowhere to go. Their escape plan had been foiled.

The Congolese man reached for her neck with a massive hand. Then his eyes suddenly bulged, anger turning to pain as he reeled backward with an arrow in his shoulder. A further volley of arrows flew overhead, forcing the remaining guard to change direction and run to the bulldozer for cover. Archie and the gun-toting guard quickly gave up their struggle and crawled toward the safety of the wrecked canteen to avoid the rain of arrows that peppered the ground. Baxter cowered, his arms over his head as he whimpered. The arrows landed around them, but none hit. Not due to bad marksmanship, but intention.

Jane and Robbie spun around to see a pygmy warrior, dressed in plain, traditional loincloth and with bow in hand, wave them nearer. It was the same warrior who had stalked them through the jungle and stolen their provisions. How he had found them again was anybody's guess, but right now, the pygmies looked like a more pleasant option than the mining camp.

Jane hauled Robbie fully to his feet and they raced into the jungle, circled as they ran by a dozen armed pygmies.

K
eeping pace with the pygmies was tough work and sweat was soon pouring from Jane and Robbie as they crashed through the foliage. The pygmies' diminutive size was an asset in the jungle; they seldom had to duck under the low boughs and they never made a sound as they passed. Their camouflage was so perfect that Jane couldn't tell how many of the warriors escorted them; they were mere flickers of movement in the foliage, just enough to guide them onward.

The pygmies must have sensed their wards were tiring because the leader stopped in a clearing with a silver stream running through it, cascading down from a small waterfall. Robbie thrust his head in the water to cool off and drink heavily. Jane splashed the water across her face and took a moment to catch her breath. Then she looked at the pygmy leader. He stood several yards away, watching her with a curious expression.

“I know you don't understand me,” she said. “But thank you for helping us.” She hoped their intentions were good as she couldn't quite shake Greystoke's tales of cannibalistic tribes deep in the jungle.

The pygmy cocked his head back, his eyes always on Jane, and spoke to somebody in the trees. Jane heard the reply, but could see nobody. Then the leader stepped forward and pulled some strips of dried meat from a pouch at his waist. He offered them to Jane.

“Eat.” The word sounded clumsy in his mouth.

Jane took the strips, and handed one to Robbie. He sniffed at it suspiciously, but Jane tore a strip off and chewed, not wanting to offend their new friends.

“You speak English?”

The pygmy smiled and nodded, clearly pleased with his linguistic skills. “Some. It is wise to learn the language of your enemy.”

Jane glanced at Robbie, determined to show no fear, as Werper's stories played out in her imagination. “We're not your enemies.”

“No. Greystoke is the enemy. He threw my people from our own lands and will not let us return.”

“Then Greystoke is our mutual enemy,” said Robbie who had risked nibbling a corner of the dried meat and was satisfied with the taste. He extended his hand. “My name's Robbie. This is Jane,” he said nodding to Jane.

“I am Orando,” the pygmy said. He fixed his gaze back on Jane. “And you are a forest goddess?”

Robbie spluttered with laugher and shook Jane's shoulder. “Her? Ha! I never heard that one before.” He jerked his thumb at Orando and continued laughing as he spoke to Jane. “This little guy thinks you're awesome.”

Jane felt her cheeks flush and she couldn't match Orando's intense gaze. “I don't know about that,” she mumbled.

Orando pointed a pair of fingers at his own eyes. “I have seen. You tamed Numa. Only a god has such power.”

Now Jane understood. “Oh, Numa … No, I've encountered him before… .” She trailed off, suddenly realizing he had used Tarzan's word. “Where did you hear the name ‘Numa' before?”

“That's the Lion God's name,” he said simply.

“I've only heard Tarzan use that name before. Do you know him?”

Orando didn't seem surprised that Jane had mentioned Tarzan. “Tarzan is
Munango-Keewati
, the Jungle God.”

Hundreds of questions now buzzed around Jane's head. Tarzan had said he'd only ever encountered a few people before. Had the pygmies helped raise him? That would account for a number of the ape-man's impressive survival skills. But the most pressing question made it to her lips.

“Where is Tarzan? We have to find him. He's in great danger.”

• • •

C
lark
had given vague directions the expedition could follow as they set out. He trailed at the back of the party, his progress still hampered by his injured leg, but he refused to mention the pain shooting through it, instead relying on the wooden stick Mr. David had carved for him. Greystoke kept close, recognizing Clark's difficulty and lending him a hand whenever he could. Clark couldn't decide if it was a genuine act of kindness, or just that Greystoke didn't want anything to happen to him before they found Opar. Idra was always at the back, a hunting rifle over her shoulder. Conversation was kept to a minimum as they focused on the steps ahead.

They took short but frequent breaks. The Mbuti sat away, always somber, never complaining, never exhausted. Greystoke sat beside Clark and offered his water bottle. He followed Clark's gaze to Idra who was stalking around the perimeter of their pit stop, eyeing the trees for danger.

“Don't you ever put your feet up?” Clark quipped. But Idra stared at him blankly.

“She's like that with everyone,” Greystoke confided. “Heck of a shot, though. Should we need her.” Clark didn't reply and Greystoke didn't appear to enjoy the silence. “I'm sorry about your boy Robert.”

Clark was thoughtful for a moment before speaking up. “Jane was right. Quite a coincidence, Baxter turning up with you.”

“My family's business interests here are legitimate. Or as legitimate as anything can be as this country tears itself apart with internal feuding. It serves to stay on the right side of people, and Baxter had been applying a certain amount of pressure on the authorities here. I could hardly deny helping a US law enforcer, could I? You believe Robbie is innocent?”

“Yeah. After everythin' we've been through out 'ere, I think Robbie's shown his real colors. Even if it meant goin' behind my back.” Clark was still angry that Robbie had interfered with their plans to cash in on the Greystoke estate, but on the other hand, he admired his spirit. It reminded Clark of how he used to act: a young free agent at large in the world. Everything had been at his feet, and an adventure was waiting around every corner. He'd always been chasing fortune and glory; even now, being out in the wilderness searching for a lost city was something he used to dream of doing. But age and his injury were wearing him down. He had hoped that finding Tarzan would be an easy venture, and he prayed that this would be his last hike through the jungle.

“So what will you do with this lost city?” he asked, aiming his question at Werper.

The Belgian broke from his reverie and took a swig from his water bottle before answering. “It's my life's quest. Others mocked the idea of a jungle civilization thriving out here.” He indicated to the deep forest. “Here, of all places, the cradle of civilization, where man first stepped down from the trees. Opar will earn me my rightful place amongst scientific circles. Howard Carter and Albert Werper will be the names they teach in history classes.”

“So you ain't interested in the treasure,” Clark asked calculatingly.

Werper hesitated, just enough for Clark to read the unspoken greed underneath Werper's ambitions. “Some money would be an advantage. But money doesn't buy your legacy in the history books, does it?” The last was aimed firmly at Greystoke.

Clark studied Greystoke. For a split second, the loathing he felt for Werper was written all over his face. Greystoke quickly recovered his composure.

“You must forgive Albert. He does not believe in my family's right to our title.” His gaze never left Werper, as if daring him to speak. “He believes wealth and power should not be handed down through families.” He turned to Werper, treating him to a thin smile. “You forget, Albert, I have always been fascinated with the legend of Opar and am fully financing
your
passion to be here.” Werper's jaw clenched, but he didn't retaliate. Instead he stared at the floor.

Clark turned back to Greystoke. “And Tarzan? How does he fit into the picture? I mean, Opar changes everything, right?”

Werper's head snapped up and a nasty smile crossed his face. “Ah, yes. The
rightful
Lord Greystoke. How does he fit into your plans?”

William Greystoke scowled at Werper. But before he could comment, Idra walked across holding a satellite phone.

“I called our position into camp and they have a problem.”

“Need I be there to solve everything for them?”

“The Canler boy escaped from custody. It appears the girl drove a bulldozer through half the cabins to spring him.” There was a hint of admiration in her voice.

Greystoke quickly stood. “What?”

“Edward thinks they're heading this way.”

Even Werper's cynical smile vanished. “If they get to Opar before us, it could prove problematic.”

Clark stood up, confused as to why everybody was so concerned. “Why is that a problem? We simply won't get there in the first place.”

Greystoke was furious. “Those two have done nothing but throw a wrench in the works. Having them roam free will not help us at all.” He snatched the satellite phone from Idra and punched in a number. “Get ready to move out. The rest break is over.”

• • •

T
he
pygmies' knowledge of the land was invaluable and Robbie and Jane's progress was swift. Orando stayed with them, but the other pygmies remained unseen, dashing ahead into the jungle to clear the path. They made rapid progress along a network of animal trails, only stopping once when they caught up with a scout who was kneeling, examining broken branches. They talked rapidly, the scout pointing to indentations in the mud. Orando translated.

“People have moved through here very recently.” He indicated to a branch that had been cleanly severed through as somebody had pushed by. “Ten people. One who walks with a stick …”

“Clark,” said Robbie.

“This is Greystoke's party,” Jane added. “How far ahead are they?”

Orando rubbed the leaking sap from the branch between his fingers, judging how long ago it had been cut. “Not too far. They move slowly, like clumsy elephants. We will overtake today.”

Jane started down the track, following the wake of Greystoke's safari. “Then we can't waste any time. Let's go.”

Orando pointed off at a forty-five-degree angle. “This way. Their trail takes them through the swamp. Faster this way.”

Without another word, he began to follow a faint track through the bush that had been invisible to Jane.

• • •

M
i
dges
circled Clark's head with a monotonous buzz. He swatted at them and slapped his neck, killing another blood-hungry pest, but his cheek and the right side of his neck were already covered in itchy bite marks after five minutes of being in the swamp.

After a several hours' march, the trees petered out into a wide area of marshland. Greystoke told them it was part of the river where they had been airlifted from the day before, but they were farther upstream in a tributary. Once through the marsh, he promised they would have some relief, as he had called in the floatplane to meet them at the river. They would have to find a clear stretch of water for it to land on, but Greystoke was gambling that, if it could take them even just five miles farther, they would have enough of a lead over Robbie and Jane.

As Clark waded through the foul water that came above his knees and stank like dirty laundry, he was beginning to think Robbie and Jane would have no trouble overtaking them. The others were struggling too, but none more than the Mbuti porters who were up to their midriffs and constantly getting bogged down with the heavy equipment.

“We should break the boats out,” said Werper as he stumbled through the mire, briefly sinking his arm into the water and lifting it out with three leeches the size of his fingers clinging to his arm. He swore in French and yanked one off, only succeeding in ripping the soft body in half, leaving the head anchored to his skin.

“Leave it,” Clark cautioned. “You'll only get another bite, an' you don't wanna infect the wound with this dirty water.”

Greystoke ignored Werper's discomfort; he was focused only on his own. “We can't break the boats out yet. We need solid ground to inflate them, and the engines will just get choked up in this stuff.”

They pressed on, everybody muttering in a variety of languages as they stumbled through. Several times, Clark saw movement in the water, the still surface rippling menacingly. He feared a crocodile attack, but nothing happened.

After hours of toil, the water became shallower and they saw solid ground ahead, bathed in the red hues of the lowering sun. They all clambered out and dropped to the ground, exhausted, removing the leeches still clinging to them. A pair of cigarette lighters were passed around the group and used to burn the leeches' heads so their jaws unlocked and they fell off with ease. Idra broke out a large first-aid kit filled with field dressings, anti-venom, and a range of medicine to keep an army afloat. She disinfected her wounds, then tended to Greystoke and Clark. She clearly had no fondness for Werper or the Mbuti because she handed the antiseptic and gauze to them so they could tend to their own problems.

Only when they had cleaned up and were ready to press on did Clark glance back at the swamp and notice a huge crocodile basking in the dying light. It was the largest specimen he had ever seen, the armor-plated skin and mouthful of jagged teeth hinting at its prehistoric heritage. It was a lethal predator and they had been fortunate it hadn't been hunting them.

They headed upstream, keen to get away from the midges and stench of the swamp, before finally settling down on the bank and lighting a fire so they could eat and dry out. Greystoke radioed the floatplane and everybody settled back, exhausted and in pain.

• • •

C
lark
had nodded off, only waking when the sound of the plane buzzed into his consciousness. Idra had identified a length of water she judged to be deep enough and she guided the aircraft in with glowing batons so the pilot could judge the touchdown.

The aircraft banked low and lined itself up to the straight section of river, startling a flock of long-necked wading birds on the riverbank. With minimal fuss, the pilot landed, the two pontoons skimming along the surface as the plane came to a graceful stop. The pilot idled the twin engines, steering the aircraft toward the bank. In the late afternoon, the two propellers sounded like buzz saws and Clark could hear the blood pulsing in his ears the moment they stopped.