Sometimes winding, occasionally zig-zagging, but always descending, the tunnel led them down into the stony heart of Isla Diablo. It quickly became too dark to see, but Evan produced a finger-sized mag-light from one of many pockets in his Old Navy cargo shorts. In that moment Ally silently congratulated herself for stifling any disparaging comment on the earnest biologist’s fashion sense. And yet, she marveled at her newly found sensitivity. She needed no flashlight to find her way in the dark – her senses of hearing and touch told her where the tunnel walls where, or where she should duck to avoid bumping her head on a low-hanging rocky protrusion. When Evan turned on the tiny light, it flattened the world to her senses, robbed it of dimension.
“As long as we continue to veer to the right, I think we will be heading in the right direction,” Evan announced.
“You think?” asked Ally. “Because you sold this tour as a sure fire short cut when we were standing in the light of day.”
Evan shrugged. “It just stands to reason…”
“Wait…” interjected Ally. They had just skirted a fork in the tunnel, a junction where another passage intersected the principal lava tube on the left side of the curved rock wall. Ally stopped cold, took several steps toward the dark portal. “There’s something down there.”
“Phew… something dead,” commented Evan at her side, fanning the stagnant air from his face. “That’s the smell of muscle protein in a state of rapid composition, but not fish.”
“Yeah, but I’m getting something else,” pressed the seventeen year-old in the red bikini. “Like… foul breath. And this will sound totally woo…”
“I adamantly refuse to do woo.”
“I didn’t ask, did I? As I was saying, it’s a sense of… coldness. Like a darkness, but not the lack-of-light kind of darkness.” Ally searched her impressive vocabulary for the right word, but had to settle on an imperfect descriptor. “Best word I can think of is malevolence.”
“Even if I accepted your woo sensibility, it’s impossible. What you are describing would indicate intelligence.”
“You are sharp as the white crayon in a well-used box of Crayolas,” countered Ally. “It’s def intelligent. But here’s the hook: I’ve felt it before.”
“Hold it,” said Evan shaking his head, having heard enough unsubstantiated, zero blind studied, lack of control group or peer-reviewed reasoning for one day. “Felt? What is this felt?”
“Look, I can’t explain it. But ever since we got to the island I’ve felt like I’ve never felt before, and by felt I mean… known stuff I shouldn’t know, sensed things that I shouldn’t sense. It’s like my brain and body are on steroids, but the kind that let you see what nobody else can see. I know it sounds crazy, but I know for a fact that there is something down that tunnel, and it’s the same thing that we saw picking through dead turtles on the bottom of Smuggler’s Cove. And it’s bad…really bad. Like dark lord slash demon slash republican bad.”
The stale blood and meat odor of death wafted over them from the side passage. Evan pulled Ally back into the middle of the main tunnel, because even he, without the benefit of her woo, sensed that something unnatural was happening somewhere down in that dark place. And then came a sound that pierced the darkness. It was a long, shrill-yet-guttural animal moan, not unlike a cow giving birth.
“Go,” he told her. “We gotta get out of here.”
Ally took Evan’s hand and they fled down the main passage of the ancient lava tube, neither one of them looking back at the dark place where both knew that a nightmare was festering.
The afternoon Caribbean sun spattered the jungle floor with mottled light and shadow. The Seattle-born PhD and the lass from north-o-Sunset reemerged into daylight, sending a pair of brilliant green Hispaniolan parrots screeching angrily into the forest canopy.
The tunnel had deposited the couple at the base of a jungle-covered slope. Ally observed that the lava tube exit was remarkably well-kept, as if often used. They stumbled into the brilliant sunlight, onto a patch of sand where they paused to catch their breath, still clasping each other’s hand.
“We did it,” shouted Evan.
“You’ll know damn well when we’ve done it,” admonished Ally. “You’ll be a changed man, I daresay.”
“No doubt,” agreed Evan, “but I meant – arrived where I was hoping we would. Rodrigo’s boat can’t be far.”
“So the white whale has a name,” mused Ally.
“It wasn’t hard to figure out who the slime bag is. I asked around the village,” explained Evan. “He grew up here. Does a lot of handy work for local folks – very well-connected, if you know what I mean.” He made if you what I mean sound like a bad thing.
“I do indeed,” said Ally, clucking her tongue. “Where I come from, agents and other bottom-feeders say that all the time – and very well-connected means that they have a single client, and are about to lose her.”
“Come on,” said Evan, gently pulling on the girl’s hand. “The beach is this way.”
A narrow, but surprisingly well-worn path led them out of the sandy clearing and into the lowland jungle that skirted most of the island. The trail was unmarked, just a simple foot track of calcified soil and sand, winding through the mahogany, coconut palms, and mango trees.
They had been following the jungle path for several hundred yards through dense tropical foliage when they found themselves approaching a rusted metal shack, partially overgrown with creepers. If the structure had ever been plumb, it was no longer so. It had a definite tilt in the direction of the geographical rise. Sides and roof were made of the same, corroded sheet metal. There was a door on the nearest side.
Curls of bluish smoke curled up from a rusted metal chimney pipe.
“Shhhh,” shushed Evan, then continued in a course whisper. “He could be inside!”
“After all this, he’d better be,” scolded Ally in voice un-hushed. “Just bar the door from the outside and trap him in there while we fetch the authorities – easier than pairing Italian heels with an Argentine handbag.”
“I’m gonna make him pay,” hissed Evan, forming his hands into fists and making an unintentionally comical scowl.
Ally burst into laughter, then covered her mouth. “Sorry, it’s just that…” She grabbed one of Evan’s clenched mitts. “First of all, I’m an LA girly girl, and I can make a way better fist. And second… never use flesh and bone in a serious fight when you have one of these lying about.” She shoved a meter-log section of mangrove limb into Evan’s hand.
Evan looked repulsed at the bludgeon, looked at Ally – who crossed her arms over her chest – then held up three fingers and counted down silently.
One… two… three!
Evan rushed the door of the rusty sheet metal shack, but it easily withstood his assault. He fell back clumsily on his ass, then jumped at the stubborn portal once again, this time kicking it and beating at it with the makeshift Billy-club.
“Here,” said Ally, rising onto her tippy toes and pulling a knotted line that dangled from a hole next to the door frame. A mechanical clunk reverberated through the metal siding. The door swung inward. “You’re welcome,” she mouthed silently.
The single room had no structural floor, just an area rug laid down over the sandy soil. A trail of leaf cutter ants was traversing the corner of the room, entering from under one wall, exiting under another. The room was not large, and was filled to capacity with a sleeping cot pushed to one side, a frayed wicker armchair, a small table with red Formica top, two stools, and small wood stove crafted from an oil drum – a sizzling cast iron skillet sat on top.
“He was just here,” said Ally, picking a cigarette butt out of an ashtray made from the bottom half of a Budweiser can. “Still warm.”
Evan looked crestfallen.
“Relax,” reassured Ally is her most soothing voice. “I’m sure it wasn’t that near-ultrasonic girly scream you let out when you smashed your knee against the door.”
“No? Oh good.” And that Evan seemed truly relieved Ally found adorably charming.
“More likely it was that seemingly endless stream of cow town expletives right afterward that did the trick,” she said, as if clarifying her point.
Evan rumpled his tanned and freckled brow. “Really, Miss Sassy Frass? Sarcasm at our worst hour?”
Ally snorted a truncated laugh. “Our worst…oh, no. There’s lot’s more darkness ahead. I can feel it. Hell, you’ve not yet met my mother! She’s a prelude to every apocalypse I’ve ever witnessed. Carol is a walking/talking omen of doom.”
“He was cooking something,” Evan observed, stepping closer to the converted oil drum wood stove. “Looks like fish.”
“Apparently recalcitrant Rodrigo was in the middle of lunch when he heard us coming and took off,” deduced Ally as she bent over the red Formica tabletop to examine a chipped ceramic plate with a partially eaten fillet of mystery fish swimming in grease, lime juice, and jerk seasoning. From under the plate, a corner of pink paper caught her eye. She pulled it out and read the bold faced black print aloud:
ANNUAL ISLAND FISH FRY!
6 o’clock PM, Friday, September 13th
Featuring Harry Simpson’s Flat Water Trio
ALL YOU CAN EAT!
“Are you asking me to dinner?” asked Evan, eyebrows jumping up his forehead.
“It’s tonight – I would never ask a gentleman, nor even a starving man of science, to dinner on such short notice.”
“That’s too bad,” bemoaned Evan. “I was going to say yes. I love fish.”
But Ally didn’t hear Evan’s retort. She was focusing on the large font that formed the words FISH FRY! The dot of the exclamation point was moving. As Ally watched, the dot wriggled to the top of the pink flyer, paused on the edge, then fell onto the plate and the half-eaten fish. Tossing the pink paper aside she craned her neck and focused her strong young eyes on the greasy, overly seasoned fish. The wiggling speck burrowed into the meat. With edge of Rodrigo’s tarnished fork, Ally gingerly scraped back the outer crust of black pepper, salt, chili, thyme, cinnamon, garlic, and nutmeg – and recoiled. The flesh beneath, despite being well-cooked, was rippling with movement from countless speck-sized larvae.
“Merde,” whispered the Bel Air beauty. “The heat should’ve killed these things. Hey, Evan, take a look at…”
Behind the biologist a human shape appeared out from under the tattered mattress. It was Rodrigo, the turtle killer. Before Ally could shout out a warning, Evan was spinning toward his nemesis, then flustered, stepped backwards to steady himself, but instead, his head thumped with a ripe melon tonality against the shack’s smooth center post. He went down like a sack of eels.
“Isn’t that just perfect,” muttered Ally, as Rodrigo, grinning fiendishly, stepped toward her.
Author’s note: Bikini Zombie Warrior is now featured on the Top Horror Blogs & Sci Fi Blogs list!