Day of the Predator - Alex Scarrow [65]
Kelly was first across and waited for the next with a helping hand extended.
Everyone also had a weapon now, either a spear or metal-shard hatchet, or both. Juan had even managed to produce three surprisingly good bows from suitably sturdy branches and a quiver full of arrows from sharpened bamboo canes, with fletching made from thin strips of bark. The arrows had proved to be rubbish against the hard wood of a tree trunk, splintering on impact. But, tested on the long bulky carcass of one of those huge fish, the arrows had gone almost entirely through.
Liam wondered, however, if a volley of their arrows would do little more than irritate a T-rex, if they met one.
Sixty miles. He hoped the terrain ahead of them was as free of lumbering prehistoric monsters as this jungle had so far proved to be. Other than those ugly mudfish in the river, and that bloody carcass they’d encountered over a week ago, the only living things he’d seen had been dragonflies the size of seagulls and bugs the size of rats, although at night the jungle seemed to echo with the curious haunting calls of a host of unknown creatures.
The others were mostly across now, wet from the spray of the river and the sweat of exertion in this hot and humid jungle. Becks was the last one across. She walked nimbly and confidently along the flexing trunk. Perfect balance and absolutely no fear of falling into the turbulent froth beneath.
Liam pursed his lips, jealous of that. To know no fear, to not have that gnawing sensation of terror in your stomach every time something thudded heavily out there in the dark of the jungle. Not that he could afford to show it. His stupid grin and the casual flick of his hand was all he allowed himself every time something happened that made him want to whimper. For example, he truly wished they’d not happened across that bloody ribcage. That meant something – or things – was out there sharing the jungle with them. Something they’d yet to see.
Becks jumped off the end of the log on to the silt riverbank beside Liam. ‘Are you ready to proceed, Liam O’Connor?’
He sucked air through his teeth as he glanced around at the others. They all seemed to be looking at him to lead the way. ‘North-east, you say, Becks?’
Becks’s eyelids fluttered once as she consulted onboard data. ‘Three hundred and eleven degrees magnetic,’ she said, pointing her finger towards the thick apron of trees ahead of them. ‘We must proceed in that direction.’
‘Right, then,’ he said, grasping his spear in both hands. He looked back over his shoulder at the four they’d left behind on the far side of the river, and cupped his mouth. ‘I’ll have a pint of stout to celebrate when we get back!’
They cocked their heads and looked confused. So did everyone on this side.
‘Stout? … Ale?’ he said. ‘You know?’
Whitmore scratched his beard thoughtfully. ‘Do you mean beer?’
Liam shook his head. ‘You Americans really have no idea what a good beer is, do you?’
Whitmore shrugged. ‘I had a Guinness once.’
Becks shook her head earnestly. ‘Liam O’Connor, we do not have any alcoholic beverages in the camp. You will not be able to have a stout.’
‘Oh, doesn’t matter,’ he sighed. ‘I was only trying to be funny. Shall we just get on with this?’
‘Affirmative.’ She looked up. The sun was breaching the tree tops, sending a scattering starburst of rays across the morning sky. ‘I calculate we have nine and a quarter hours of daylight before the sun sets again.’
‘Then let’s get a wriggle on,’ said Liam. ‘We got a lot of miles to cover.’
Broken