A Pirate's Life for Mei

The Jaguar Eats Tonight

Moore

Moore watched the first officer charge towards one side of the tree in pursuit of the prisoner. Thinking himself clever, he tripped over himself trying to go around the other side of the tree to cut her off. But as he passed through the curtains of hanging vines, more people plummeted out of the branches.

He grunted and lashed out as nearly-naked bodies piled atop him, crushing him into the wet ground. Dizzy from a blow to the head and with the breath knocked out of him, he fought back as bare fists and feet battered at him from every direction. A stone knife cut him on the arm. Another prodded his side. He kicked someone in the loincloth and speared someone between the nude breasts, causing them to scream. Pulling the trigger, he might have shot someone else in the face. Then the musket was yanked from his hands, leaving him defenceless.

Slipping on ground slick with mud and blood and scared out of his mind, he got to his feet and fled, wanting nothing more than to get as far away as possible from the angry Caribs shouting at him and trying to murder him.

He ran wildly, paying no heed to what direction he was going. He must have gone a hundred meters through dense jungle before the vegetation opened up and he careened into a deep puddle and fell forward into the shallow water.

Sputtering, he rolled over and backed up on his hands and feet. Something caught in the ground and dug into his back. Only then did he realize that he had a second musket slung behind him. He scrambled to get it into his hands. Frantic fingers went for the other bayonet at his hip but, to his immense dismay, it was gone. It must have fallen away when he'd been attacked or running.

He brought the musket up and pointed it where he expected pursuers, only to see that the protective cover over the pan was broken and water had gotten in. A countdown timer in red showed that he had minutes before the gun was dry and usable again and, even then, only if he could keep it dry in this drizzle. "Curses!" he swore. Heaving himself to his feet, he ran again rather than wait for the natives with a gun that couldn't shoot and that lacked a stabbing element.

Going pell-mell through the jungle, he was surprised when the volcano rumbled again, and the earth shook beneath his feet, sending him sprawling in his haste. He landed hard on his chest, right on a stray rock that got him right in the solar plexus and drove the air from his lungs. His diaphragm spasmed, and he couldn't breathe. Panicking, he lay there, unable to think or do anything as the ground trembled and he focused on getting air again.

Time passed indistinctly. His ability to breathe slowly returned, for which he was grateful. Then it occurred to him that maybe he wasn't being chased. If he had been, surely they would have caught him by now?

His hands muddy and bloody, scratches on his face, pants torn over one knee and bleeding from multiple wounds, he crawled into a nearby hollow at the base of a tree, dragging the musket alongside him. He sat within, with his back to the trunk. A weary, defeatist glance told him that the timer on the musket was not going down because he'd yet to keep the pan or barrel dry.

There was enough room to curl up and kind of hide in. So he lay there, panting, chest heaving, and wondered what the hell he was going to do now.

What a mess, almost from the moment they'd left port. They'd been bleeding men, one after another. And so easily. As far as he knew, even First Officer Williams could be dead by now too, which meant that he was alone. Alone and trapped on this island with a bunch of dumbass Indians who wanted him dead.

Gah! He helplessly kicked at the dirt with a heel and was so pissed off that he threw the useless musket at the bushes nearby. The moment it left his hands, he knew that it had been a stupid move, but he was too stubborn to get up and get it. He would. But not right now. Right now, he just wanted to sit and hate the world.