The Zone Unknown 06 - Night of the Bat by Paul Zindel

Author:Paul Zindel
Language: eng
Format: mobi
Publisher: Graymalkin Media
Published: 2011-07-28T05:00:00+00:00

10

SOUNDS

Dr. Lefkovitz took the first two-hour shift as (lookout, feeding the campfires in case the bat decided to come back. The terror of the night and jet lag had knocked Jake out. He fell into a deep sleep.

Several of the younger men worked on their life-size effigies long into the night, until the silhouettes and mud faces looked eerily real in the flickering firelight. Two of the strongest workers took the second shift, and Magyar asked to handle the watch closest to dawn—when he’d have to be up anyway preparing food for the men.

Magyar waited until everyone was asleep before he decided to scout the perimeter of the camp. He found the morning shift more inconvenient than frightening. He hadn’t seen the bat himself, and, in truth, he was used to the exaggerations of his tribesmen. They were always coming to him with tales of a ten-foot carp they’d seen in the river, or an alligator as long as a tree. Magyar knew, as a rule, to cut in half the size of any animal or lizard or fish anyone ever claimed to see anywhere.

He’d seen the bodies of the two men, but small bats and ocelots or a jaguar could have inflicted the same mutilations. He knew there was a large bat that had been blamed, but he’d seen as few as a handful of rodents and large beetles devour half a dead human within a day or so. They, too, went for the eyes, the easiest entrances to soft, moist flesh. Carcasses of any sort never lasted long in the jungle.

What Magyar was concerned about was the meat supply for the two weeks remaining before the expedition was to head back to Manaus. As he scouted close to the edge of the jungle, he heard sounds of small animals and, perhaps, night herons scurrying about in the undergrowth. He knew the men would be happy if he could make a fresh kill. A roast tapir or a few large white monkeys would pick up everyone’s spirits. He could hear the praise he’d get if he could serve something freshly caught.

One deep rustling caught Magyar’s attention where the jungle thickened into a hammock of mangrove trees at the river’s edge. There, amid the vines and branches, he’d harvested several large snakes and turtle eggs over the last few weeks. He took a hunting dart from his chest sling, slid it into his blowpipe, and headed into the shadows.

He heard the rustling again.

Magyar could feel his mouth go dry and his pulse begin to quicken. The hunt always excited him, and he was certain he’d outsmart whatever was hiding in the maze and darkness of the mangrove roots. He could already smell the fresh animal flesh cooking on a spit turning over the fire. He knew he’d use the drippings of a fresh monkey or parrot to mix with flour into a blood paste, a delicacy among his tribesmen. He knew a good blood paste would boost everyone’s morale, and they would forget about the silly bat.

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