Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [145]
Pendergast shone his light into the water and dropped a pinch of dirt from a cup overboard, testing the current. “A mile or less,” he murmured, going back to the maps.
She poled, walked back to the stern, pulled the pole up, walked forward, stuck it into the muddy bottom again. She felt as if she were drowning in the greenish black jungle that surrounded them. “What if the camp’s gone?”
No answer. The moon rose higher, and Hayward breathed the deep, moist, fragrant air. A mosquito flew into her ear, buzzing frantically. She smacked it, flicked it away.
“Up ahead is the last logging channel,” Pendergast said. “Beyond that lies the final stretch of swamp before Spanish Island.”
The boat nosed through a patch of rotting water hyacinth, the sour vegetative smell rising from the water and enveloping them.
“Turn off the spotlight and running lights, please,” Pendergast said. “We don’t want to alert them to our approach.”
Hayward switched off the lights. “You really think there’s a ‘them’ there?”
“I’m quite sure something is there. Why go to such lengths to stop us?”
As her eyes adjusted, Hayward found herself surprised at just how much light there was in the swamp under the full moon. Ahead, through the tree trunks, she could see a lane of shimmering water. In a moment the boat had slipped into the logging channel, now half overgrown with duckweed and hyacinth. The branches of the cypresses knitted together overhead, forming a tunnel.
Suddenly the boat stopped dead. Hayward lurched forward, using the pole to keep herself steady.
“We’ve snagged something beneath the surface,” Pendergast said. “Probably a root or a fallen tree branch. See if you can’t pole around it.”
Hayward pushed herself against the pole. The stern of the boat swung around, impacting heavily against a cypress trunk. The vessel shuddered and swayed, then came loose from the obstruction. As Hayward leaned into the pole, preparing to launch them back into the logging channel, she saw something long, glistening, and black slip from the branches overhead and fall across her shoulders. It slithered around the skin of her neck, cool and dry, and it was all she could do to keep from crying out in surprise and revulsion.
“Don’t move,” said Pendergast. “Not a muscle.”
She waited, willing herself to stay still, as Pendergast took a slow step toward her, then stopped and balanced himself carefully on the arsenal that lay in the boat’s bottom. And then one hand shot forward, grabbed the thick coiling presence from her shoulders, and flung it away with a vicious snap. Hayward turned to watch the snake writhing through the air, easily more than a yard long, before landing in the water astern.
“Agkistrodon piscivorus,” Pendergast said grimly. “Cottonmouth water moccasin.”
Her skin tingled, and the nasty slithering sensation refused to go away. Taking a deep breath, she shuddered and grasped the pole. They moved back into the channel and continued deeper into the overgrown fastness. Pendergast took a look around, then returned to his maps and charts. As she poled, Hayward kept a cautious eye on the braiding of tree trunks above her. Mosquitoes, frogs, snakes—the only thing she hadn’t yet encountered was an alligator.
“We may have to get out and travel on foot soon,” Pendergast murmured. “There would appear to be obstructions ahead.” He glanced up from the map, looked around once again.
Hayward thought about the alligators. On foot. Great.
She placed the pole, gave the boat another shove. Suddenly, in a silent flash of black, Pendergast lunged at her, tackling her at the waist, and they both tumbled over the gunwale of the boat into the black water. She righted herself underwater,