The Judas Strain - James Rollins [137]
Monk felt a momentary misgiving at abusing their superstitions in this regard. Many of them would die. But if Lisa was right, the whole world was threatened. He had no choice but to use the resources at hand.
They had to reach Ryder’s boat. Get Susan out of here—and hopefully rescue Lisa. Monk refused to believe his partner was not still alive.
Monk pulled himself up the ladder.
He climbed through the whipping tangle of camouflage. Even in the eye of the storm, the gusting winds sought to kite him from his perch. He beached himself out onto a narrow ribbon of planking, bolted atop the net. It was a crude utility bridge. The span offered a means to crisscross the net, to maintain it, to refresh its camouflage as needed.
Already the forefront of his army headed across the bridge, on its belly, clinging to the bridge’s slats.
With rain sweeping down in stinging sheets, Monk scooted after them. Occasional winds thrummed through the net, jumping and rolling it under him. Like riding Aladdin’s flying carpet.
Monk craned around. Overhead the cloud cover had thinned enough to reveal a few stars, but all around dark clouds churned in a continual whirl. The eye of the storm was smaller than Monk had hoped. To all sides, lightning flashed and thunder rumbled.
Monk hurried onward. He and his army had to be off the net when the storm’s eye swept away from the island. He recalled earlier lightning strikes, the cascades of electricity ripping across the metal skeleton.
It would be death to be up here then.
Slowly, they inched toward their goal.
As he followed, Monk stared below, between the slats. At least, Susan was out of harm’s way.
4:02 A.M.
HER FACE GREASED with ash to hide her glow, Susan sat on a boulder, buried in the jungle, not far from the lagoon. She had spent the past hour trekking back down to the beach, to await Monk there.
But she was not alone.
A dozen tribesmen, her royal escort, stood guard in the jungle, buried in the forest. Only a woman, whose name was Tikal, kept her immediate company, knelt beside the rock, her forehead pressed to mud. She had not moved since they had stopped.
Susan had attempted to engage her, but the woman only shivered.
So Susan waited, seated on her rock. She wore a cloak of dried pigskin, draped with feathers, shells, and polished stone beads. Her head was crowned by a circlet of rib bones, tied to her forehead by bark fiber. All the bones splayed outward, like some macabre flower. She was given a polished staff, topped by an impaled human skull.
All fitting apparel for the witch queen of Pusat.
And despite the ghoulish ornamentation, the cloak was warm and her staff proved useful in climbing down from the highlands and back to the beach. Her escort had also woven a temporary shelter of thatched palm leaves overhead, keeping their mistress dry.
Susan stared up toward the vast netting. She had known she was too weak to attempt to cross with the others. So she had not argued when Monk ordered her down to the beach, to keep hidden, to await the outcome of the cannibal assault upon the cruise ship.
But she knew it would be a long vigil.
Too long.
Abandoned, she began to absorb the full impact of all that had happened after waking aboard the cruise ship. Though alive herself, those closest to her heart had not survived.
Gregg…
Her husband flooded back to her: his crooked grin, his galloping laugh, his dark eyes, the musky scent of his skin, the taste of his lips…on and on.
He filled her up.
How could all that be gone?
Susan knew she was still far from fully comprehending her loss. But she knew enough. Her body felt physically bruised, all the way down to her core. Her throat closed up, and she began to tremble. Glowing tears swelled and ran over her ash-blackened face.
Gregg…
She rocked in place for a long stretch, merely letting her grief rack through her. It was