The Terminals (5 page)

Ward watched him out of the corner of his eye. “Only about half of you hit the water, in case that's what you were thinking about.”

“I was thinking that this lake is kinda creepy.”

“And kinda beautiful, eh?”

“I suppose. Anyone die in there?”

“Not yet.”

They reached the area above the rope ladder and turned into the trees, where the heavy heat of the forest bathed them in a warm layer of instant sweat. Ward seemed to glisten, while Cam simply dripped like a melting candle. When he wiped his face with his shirt, he found the cotton fabric already saturated. Curious yellow flies buzzed around him in a cloud, like insect groupies excited by his arrival. They discovered every exposed patch of skin, and each bite left a pinpoint of blood where they'd worshiped him. They seemed to ignore Ward. Perhaps the familiarity of his flavor bored them, Cam thought. He, on the other hand, was tasty new cuisine.

Cam was pleasantly surprised that Ward spouted information like a happy tour guide as they trudged through the dim understory of the forest. Pilot had told him almost zilch. Ward confirmed Cam's suspicion that he'd landed in a kapok tree, explained why the flies liked him so much—Cam's U.S. diet probably included a lot of sugar and salt, which made his sweat smell especially tasty to them—and he pointed out various flora and fauna as they passed or trod upon it. Cam heard monkeys chattering in the distance, and birds called to each other in full, rich voices unmuted by fear of humans, telling him that he was the stranger here.

“What's the most exotic place you've ever been, Cam?”

“The Tiki Room. Frontierland. Space Mountain. A lot like this place, only with paved paths and hot dog stands.”

Ward laughed loudly.

They walked for miles, or at least it felt like miles—the terrain was difficult, and as much time was spent crawling over downed trees and wriggling through thick brush as walking. The beauty of the jungle was wearing off. Cam was hungry, tired, and could feel a blister starting on his left heel.

“When do we get where we're going, anyway?”

“Now,” Ward said as he hacked a path through a wall of thorny bushes with his machete.

Beyond the bushes, the world opened up. Light streamed in, and Cam found himself peering out over vast open water. The ocean. They stood atop a high cliff.

“Down there,” Ward said, pointing to the beach below.

Cam could see faint dots in the distance spaced at intervals too regular to be natural. Some sort of man-made structures.

“How do we get down?”

“We climb.” Ward pulled off his pack and began to unload rope and harnesses. “There's no path to the beach. It's safer that way.”

Cam wondered what was safer about climbing down a cliff to get to their destination, and then realized that Ward must mean the destination was safer from
others
trying to get to it.

Ward secured the rope to a sturdy tree, strapped himself in, and motioned for Cam to follow his lead. Cam stepped into the harness, fiddled with its straps and buckles, and then looked up at Ward.

“Is this good?”

“Good enough. Let the rope out gradually as you descend.” With that, Ward stepped backward over the edge of the cliff.

Cam was a good athlete, and he could already bench-press fifty pounds more than the year before. But halfway down his teeth were gritted, his fingers were cramping, and his biceps burned. He clung to mouse-sized handholds, not trusting the rope, and the toes of his unsized boots were jammed into cavities in the cliff surface or crowded onto tiny rock protrusions.

“Ward…,” he called, groping blindly with his foot. “I'm slipping.”

“Don't,” came the reply. “I'm not down yet. I haven't got you.”

“I am going to fall,” Cam said evenly. “And then I am going to die.”

“Climb back up to the last good resting point,” Ward advised. “Hold out there for one minute until I'm in position. You can do it.”

Cam strained upward, his muscles screaming. He was able to reach a better handhold. Then Ward was down.

“Got you!” he called.

“Do I let go?”

“Yep. Trust me.”

Cam had no choice. Even with the better hold, his arms were failing. He let go. There was a slight jerk as the slack in the rope tightened, then he hung suspended over the rocks on the beach below, clinging to the rope with his feet braced against the cliff.

“Do you lower me now?”

In answer, the rope began to play out, and Cam rappelled down, his feet hitting the wall every couple of yards. He pushed off and swung out, then swung back, smacking against the rock and flailing to keep his legs in front of him.

“Stop bouncing!” Ward yelled up to him. “Just walk.”

Cam settled onto the wall and began to step backward as he descended. Soon he was hiking down at a steady pace. With the proper technique it was surprisingly easy, yet when he hit the beach, he still breathed a sigh of relief.

Quiet waves crept up and swirled around Cam's feet in the sand before slinking back into the ocean.

“There you go,” Ward said, “you learned something. Remember to use your feet for support next time. Don't hang by your arms—your legs are a lot stronger. Any questions?”

“Just one. Now that I'm at sea level, I can't fall to my death anymore, right?”

*   *   *

As they walked the beach, Cam marveled at his new surroundings. Behind them, the towering cliffs dove straight into a bed of sand and dozens of scattered boulders shed over the centuries. The blue ocean swept in over the sand and slammed directly into the cliff wall, cutting off any retreat in that direction, which appeared to be south. The waves had carved the rock so that the slope was oversteepened and looked ready to collapse. Ahead of them to the north, the widening tan belt of sand between a high bluff and the sea created a safety zone—a beach that would have looked fabulous on a travel brochure. In this protected flatland Cam saw small thatched-roof buildings on stilts. Five of them.

“Huts?”

“Quaint, eh?” Ward said. “We call them the ‘condos.' They stay dry and usually survive the weather. If a storm gets too bad or the moon drags the tide too far up the beach, we move to higher ground. You'll be in the last one there with the empty bed and Ari.”

“What's an Ari?”

“Your roommate.”

They passed several huts. Cam could see that they were solid one-room structures, not makeshift or rickety. Each was slightly different—all built by hand—but they appeared to be roughly the same size, and about the dimensions of the living room in the house he was supposed to be renting with his friends at the university. Farther up the beach and wedged against the bluff was a large square building built from cinder blocks, with narrow openings instead of windows. It seemed to be the central and primary structure in the compound. Its stark, angular gray walls contrasted with the vibrant and textured green jungle behind it and the churning blue water before it. It reminded Cam of a jail with arrow slits.

Beyond the block building lay a natural lagoon with shallow, calm water protected from the open sea. Cam strode past the drab structure to the lagoon edge, curious. The pool was light blue, like the sky, and so clear that, as they approached, Cam could see flashes of color darting between the rocks that dotted the sand on the bottom.

“Fish!” He stared for a time, fascinated.

Ward chuckled. “Yes, they come with the ocean.” He tapped Cam on the shoulder and motioned him back toward the compound. “Let's go. You can come back and visit them during off time or during hunter-gatherer sessions, if you feel like sushi.”

Cam followed Ward, wondering what hunter-gatherer sessions were. He didn't ask. There was too much to take in. Past the lagoon, the north end of the beach was hemmed in by more cliffs. Cam noted that these appeared impossible to climb, as they were worn completely smooth, with few visible hand or footholds.

As they walked back toward the main building, a cluster of small, orange monkeys appeared on the roof and began hopping up and down, chattering among themselves and watching them come, like excited fans in bleachers.

“They want food,” Ward explained. “The irony is they
are
food. They just don't know it yet.”

“Are you saying we eat monkey?”

“If you're hungry.”

“I'm not hungry.”

“You will be.” Ward laughed again.

Cam was disturbed by how often Ward laughed. Not everything he laughed about was funny. If someone told Ward he'd just stepped on a jaguar's tail, he'd laugh about that too, Cam thought. Although, he'd probably also know exactly what to do and wind up with jaguar-skin gloves he crafted himself. Maybe that's why he was laughing—he knew what he was doing. Cam, on the other hand, had no clue.

“When do I meet the others?”

“How about now?”

“Okay.” Cam waited, but Ward didn't take him to the big building. “Uh, where are they?”

“All around us.”

Cam turned. He saw no one.

“You're fast, right, Cam?”

“Reasonably.”

“Do you think you can get back to your condo without getting tagged?”

“Tagged? Like touched?”

“Something like that.”

“Last hut on the end?”

“Yep. Ready?”

It was a game. A test. A something. Cam scanned the beach. He still didn't see anyone. “Sure.”

“Go!”

Cam began trotting down the beach. He skirted the first of the condos, figuring the others must be hiding inside them. Instead he hugged the bluff on the landward side. He moved quickly, but didn't run at first. He needed to scope things out. With his eyes fixed on the structures, he didn't see the padded pole until it hit him in the head.

The packed sand beach was harder than it looked, and his thoughts were muddled for a moment before he looked up and saw a perfectly camouflaged person separate from the bluff. The figure was male, his age, and taller than him, with a chest and abdomen like a rippled wall. His body was smeared with dirt, and he held a pole with pads on each end. He shook a drooping plant off his head, an ornament that had helped him blend into the hillside.

“Pretty good shot, huh?” camouflage said. “I'm Donnie, and you'll want to remember this. Now stay down and tap out, and I won't have to tag you.” He raised the other padded end of the pole. It was red and glistened in the sun.

“Whoa … okay,” Cam said, stuffing his hands into the sand and trying to rise to one knee.

“You have to tap out,” Donnie said impatiently. “Three times on the ground so Ward can see.”

“Just a sec. You hit me so hard. I'm loopy. Is this really…?”

Cam threw two fistfuls of sand in Donnie's face and rolled hard to his left. The pole came down with incredible speed and force on the sand where he'd just been, but he was already up and running. There was a short pursuit, but the guy was still rubbing his eyes and stopped at the first hut. He barked a single profanity and gave a loud whistle.

One down
, Cam thought, but the whistle sounded an awful lot like a signal. There would be others, perhaps eight of them. He stayed away from the bluff. He had barely started toward the next hut when he felt something was wrong. Nothing was happening. No one emerged to stop him. No one leaped from the bluff. It was a wide open space. Too easy. He glanced left and right. Only the shadow of a bird moved on the beach, drifting toward him. He looked up. A shower of red paint rained down, and he barely had time to duck back under Donnie's hut to avoid being splattered. It hit the beach like a red bomb. Cam guessed that getting painted red ended the game.

The shadow turned away, and Cam peeked out.
Hang glider!
He broke for the bluff as the triangular aircraft maneuvered for another pass. Cam arrived and hugged the wall as the glider dove after him. There was nowhere to go. He'd trapped himself. But the glider couldn't operate near the bluff. Still, it came on.
He's crazy
, Cam thought. He could see the guy now. He was red-haired and grinning maniacally as he flew headlong toward the wall, getting another bucket ready. At the last moment, he swerved, but it was too late. One of the fabric wings clipped the rocks and dirt, and it crumpled, sending its freckled rider to the beach. He tumbled three times and came to rest in the sand, where his second tagging bucket slammed into his back and covered him in red paint.

It was a hard landing, and Cam almost ran to offer help, but he heard the unlucky pilot utter a loud whistle and realized the game was still on.

Cam ran past the second hut. He didn't stop, but instead zipped to the water side of the third structure and kept going. There was movement inside. He twisted sideways, zigzagging into the white fingers of surf groping up onto the beach. A sharp prick in his upper arm told him he'd been right to dodge. He glanced. A dart hung there, its point buried in the flesh of his shoulder.

“Friggin' oww!”

He tried to shake off the dart as he ran, but his arm wouldn't move. A tingle ran through the flesh of his bicep and forearm, but they refused to respond. The entire limb had gone limp and numb, like a cold summer sausage. He grabbed the dart with his other hand and yanked it out, wondering what might have happened if he'd been hit in the neck or face.

His next challenge was sitting on the steps of the fourth hut. Another guy his age, maybe a year younger or older. He stood as Cam approached, rising higher and higher as his long legs stretched out, until he stood at least six and a half feet tall. He was also thick, with heavy apelike arms. Two giant steps later he'd planted himself directly in Cam's path.

With his size, Cam figured he couldn't run. Cam altered his angle and headed toward the bluff again. The giant followed. Speed was Cam's greatest physical asset. He was fast. He had to be to earn the starting right wing spot on a college soccer team. But somehow the big guy kept up. Cam risked a look back. The guy cranked his powerful legs awkwardly, but rapidly, looking almost as though he was unused to his own surprising speed. Cam turned on the afterburners, his feet churning in the sand. Still, he heard heavy breathing close behind.
Impossible
, he thought.
A guy that big running that fast would have to be a pro football prospect, not a dying tumor patient.