The Naked Jungle Read online

  Their low voices bumped against his consciousness without denting it. The excitement that he felt was all deep within him. It had started from almost the first moment he’d let his gaze move around the island.

  His legs dragged tiredly; his sopping trousers clung to his ankles as he walked in the deep sand. He was conscious of many things: the voices beside him, the pound of the waves against the shore, the sudden flight of birds, the wind in the palms. But mostly he was aware that this was the island he had dreamed about, this was the sort of place he’d been trying to reach: an infinite speck of coral where he could be free.

  The excitement stirred his blood, hurried his heart and made him want to forget his weariness. He turned his head as he walked and tried to see the island, see all of it. It looked green, rich and green. And back from the ocean it looked cool with stunted trees matted together by vines spread like a vivid broadloom over the floor of the jungle. As nearly as he could tell, the island was shaped like a question mark with a lagoon cutting deep into the broad top of it.

  They walked around the lagoon. On this side of the island the waves were still and the wind seemed not to touch it at all. Inside the lagoon, ferns grew tall and thick.

  He was so tired he was breathing through his mouth and yet he wasn’t tired at all. He wanted to keep walking, to explore the whole of the island, but his legs were trembling with weariness.

  Not much to it, Millar,” Krayer said. “And as I thought, no people. Nothing but silence.”

  “The silence is terrible,” Fran said. “Almost as bad as it was out on the water.”

  “It will have to do for a while,” Krayer said, as though considering all angles carefully. “We can take precautions that we’ll be noticed here. I think our chances of being found are about equal to what they’d be on the raft.”

  “We’ll be more comfortable,” Fran said. “I want to stay here. But not too long. I can’t stand this silence.”

  Webb said, “We may as well try to find some place to sleep. Tomorrow we can start making plans about what we’re going to do.”

  Krayer stopped walking. He stood with his shirt open, his bare feet apart. His blond hair toppled over his high narrow forehead. He said, “Millar.”

  Webb stopped, turning slightly, drugged by weariness. He stared at Krayer. “What you want?”

  “I think before we make any plans, there is something ought to be settled. Between us.”

  Webb felt his stomach go empty. He frowned. “What are you talking about?”

  “I’m talking about something that has to be settled. Now. Before we can make any plans about anything else.”

  “All right. What is it?”

  Krayer’s mouth twisted. “Don’t try to pretend with me, Millar. You know what I’m talking about. I’m talking about you and my wife.”

  Webb’s throat got tight. “Me. Fran?”

  Deep lines appeared about Krayer’s sharp nose. “That’s right. Do me the favor of not putting on any act of outraged innocence.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  Krayer’s laugh was a snarl. “The interloper has been saying that since the beginning of time. Well, I won’t waste any of our time arguing with you. I know what has been going on. Between you and Fran. Right from the start. Did you think I was stupid? Do you think I don’t know how you two thrust yourselves together like two animals in a gutter? Do you think I don’t know that Fran lay in your arms for hours last night? Make no mistake about me, Millar. Whatever else you do, never think I’m stupid.”

  Webb said nothing. There was nothing to say.

  Krayer looked him over. “Aren’t you going to deny it?”

  “If you know it’s true, what good would it do?”

  “I think we’d better settle it. On the raft it would have been foolish. I’m never foolish. But now we’re on this island, it’s got to be settled. You’re not to touch my wife again — from this moment. Do you understand that? Never mind. You will. Before I’m through with you, you’ll understand it.”

  Webb stood unmoving with his arms at his side and stared in disbelief. Krayer walked toward him slowly, coldly, completely unemotional. It was as though this were another experiment in a research lab somewhere — something that had to be settled.

  Webb took one step backward, still not believing what he was seeing.

  “Settle it?” he said. “How do you expect to settle it?”

  “The best way I can. I’ll kill you if I have to. I hope I don’t have to. If I must, I will. Whether I do or not, before I’m through, you’ll know to stay away from my wife.”

  NINE

  “ALFRED!”

  The sudden agonized cry from Fran went through Webb like a chill, making him weak. He forgot Krayer and the threat the man had made to kill him. He spun around to where Fran stood, watching them.

  Krayer stopped, too. Webb glanced at him, but he saw that the agony in Fran’s voice had been enough to penetrate even Krayer’s one-thought mind. Krayer watched Fran, his eyes wide. He stood tense with his hands spread out at his sides.

  “Alfred — oh my God, you’ve got to stop.” Fran’s voice was high pitched, and she was wailing as though she didn’t know what she was saying.

  She stood still a moment, hands pressed against her flushed face. She was trembling all over as if she were caught in a cold seizure.

  At first Webb thought she was staring at Krayer, but then he saw she didn’t have her gaze focused on either of them. She looked straight ahead and he watched her, still disbelieving what he saw happen.

  Her face was even more violently fiery than it had been on the raft, as though all the blood in her body was pounding into her head under the sun-blistered flesh. Her eyes were dry and bulging. As he watched, her eyes dilated, her knees sagged. She cried out once and then slumped into the sand.

  Krayer sprang to her and sank to his knees. Webb moved forward woodenly, still staring at Fran. Her eyes were back in her head, the whites exposed and looking frighteningly white against the fiery flushed red of her skin. She did not stir.

  Webb watched Krayer’s slender hand close over Fran’s forehead. He saw Krayer react as though burnt. Then his hand touched her forehead again, and Webb watched Krayer’s head move slightly, side to side.

  “What’s the matter with her?”

  “Sunstroke.” Krayer caught Fran’s wrist and felt for her pulse. For what seemed an eternity there was silence. Webb wasn’t even aware of the waves against the shore.

  Krayer looked up. “Her fever is over hundred-five. Almost no pulse. We’d better take her where we left the raft. Coolest, quickest place I know.”

  Those were Krayer’s words, but there was no action to suit them. He stayed there on his knees, pulling at her lower lids, checking them.

  Webb waited only a moment. He went around Krayer and knelt beside Fran. He put both arms under her and stood up, lifting her. Her arms toppled down, her head fell back. She was dead weight.

  Webb felt fear strike at his loins. “Is she dead?”

  Krayer got to his feet slowly. “She may be. Soon. May be now.”

  Webb just looked at him a moment and then turned, hurrying with her across the sand toward the thick matted jungle. Krayer hurried ahead of him. Panting through his open mouth, Webb plodded along. He thought bitterly, Krayer had been waiting for him to lift her. That was sheer habit from Krayer’s pattern of existence. Krayer had the ideas, the thoughts. Somebody else always furnished the labor, the muscles.

  Webb felt a cold stab of anger and hatred. Sure, somebody else always furnished the labor, muscles: somebody completely dominated by Alfred Krayer, one way or another. Hadn’t that been what Krayer had meant back there on the beach?

  He brushed the thought aside. The hell with it for now. Krayer meant to settle it. Krayer must have thought it possible to settle a fight in Krayer’s favor or he’d never have instigated it.

  For the moment it didn’t matter. His legs wobbled under the weig
ht of Fran’s body and his urge to speed with her through the tangled undergrowth.

  Krayer stopped beside the fallen palm. The sun couldn’t push a finger of light through the foliage.

  “Put her down there in the grass,” Krayer said. “If she isn’t already dead, we’ll do what we can to save her.”

  “She isn’t dead.” The words pushed through Webb’s dry throat. They were savage and full of hatred.

  Krayer glanced at him and for a second their gazes clashed — hard, brutally.

  Krayer’s thin-lipped mouth pulled. “That will have to wait. Right now we’ve got to try to save her. There isn’t much chance, but we’ll do what we can. First, we have the rain water in the raft. It will be cool, not cool enough, but it will have to do. We’ll have to bathe her body with that water until the water gets as heated as she is or her fever abates. If we can’t get it down two or three degrees at once, she’ll die.”

  Again Webb realized Krayer had told him what must be done and had made no move to do it. Webb felt that helpless anger throb in his temples. He had to close his eyes against the pounding of blood behind them. If Krayer had looked up then, he’d have seen it — but good.

  He ripped the buttons loose on his shirt and pulled it off. He balled it up in his fist and submerged it in the raft. He felt the terrible premonition of defeat. The water was tepid. He knew it had to be cold. He looked around helplessly.

  “All right,” Krayer snapped at him. “Get busy. Use as much water as you can. Wring the heated water out of the cloth and dampen it again.”

  Webb didn’t answer. He squeezed the water out over Fran’s forehead, letting it run through her hair. Then he bathed her face. Krayer unsnapped the torn half of the tarpaulin and spread it on the grass. He told Webb to move her on to the tarp, and when Webb lifted her and placed her on the tarp beside the raft, Krayer undressed her.

  Webb kept working. It didn’t take Krayer long to remove the shapeless frock, the underpants and bra. Krayer tossed the dress and pants to Webb. “Use these alternately. Let each one cool off a while. That may help.”

  Webb looked at Fran. Even though she was flushed with fever and perhaps dying, he couldn’t subdue the feeling that she was the loveliest thing he’d ever seen, the most perfectly formed, the most beautifully made.

  Krayer’s voice lashed at him. “Hurry, man. Hurry. She’s dying. I don’t know if I can save her. I’ve got to try.”

  “I’ll save her,” Webb said. It wasn’t a boast or even a statement. He wasn’t even thinking about Krayer’s watching him with distended nostrils. It was a prayer, and he said it like a prayer.

  Krayer’s taunt barely reached him. “You’ll save her? What do you know about saving anybody?”

  Webb glanced up but didn’t answer. He soaked Fran’s dress and pants in the water, lifted out the dress and moved it along Fran’s body, all the way from her head to her toes. He moved steadily and without looking up at Krayer again.

  Krayer sat across Fran from Webb without moving, without offering to help.

  Krayer began to speak, his voice low. Webb knew that Krayer was not talking to him; he was considering Fran’s sunstroke, talking out all the angles. Webb kept working.

  “It was the heat,” Krayer murmured. “Both on the raft and on the island. Sometimes the reflected heat off the water is worse than direct sunlight. One thing, she’s still breathing. She has almost no pulse. I should have watched her more closely. We shouldn’t have allowed her to walk with us around the island. It exhausted her, made her sweat out whatever reserve of sodium chloride remained in her body. I should have watched her more closely. Yes. I knew she was dehydrated. I blame myself for this.”

  There was no self-condemnation in his tone; there was nothing except the precise statement of fact.

  Webb said, “Damned big of you.”

  Krayer seemed unaware of him. “I knew her nerves were in a bad state and she was overwrought emotionally.”

  Webb moved his dripping shirt down along her throat and between her breasts. His voice was savage. “And you sure as hell didn’t help her nerves or her emotions any with that little scene back there.”

  Again Krayer ignored him. Webb had the frustrating feeling that Krayer wouldn’t answer him, no matter what he said. There was no doubt. Krayer heard him, heard every word, stored it and its tone away for future consideration. But now his coldly analytical mind had time for one fact only, Fran’s sunstroke — cause and treatment.

  “All those things were contributing factors,” Krayer said. His voice was quiet and thoughtful. He leaned forward and turned Fran over. She still hadn’t responded. “The small of her back, please, and between her shoulder blades, centers of high temperatures.”

  Webb bathed Fran’s back.

  Krayer got up and walked away. He got out the first-aid tin from the raft pocket. He started toward the beach. After he’d gone a few feet, he turned. “In a few moments turn her over again. You mustn’t let the fever get ahead of you in any part of the body if you can help it.”

  “Aye, sahib.” But Krayer ignored that, too, plunging through the green shrubs.

  Webb forgot him. He whispered to Fran as he worked over her, feeling her fever burn his hands through the cloths.

  “Come out of it, Fran,” he whispered. “Beautiful. Beautiful. You can’t die. You’re too damned beautiful to die…. Sure, he knows about us. He knew all the time…. Just too damned careful to start a brawl on a raft at sea. Now he wants to show me I can’t have you. Okay, Fran. Let him show me — not you. If I can’t have you, all right, I can’t have you. But let him show me. I don’t believe it, beautiful. I won’t ever believe it. Do you hear me? You’re not half as hot as I am and yet you’ve got sunstroke…. Come out of it, beautiful. You wouldn’t die and leave me alone on this island with that bloodless creep, would you?”

  He stared at her, willing her to move her hands, flutter her eyelids, move her lips. But she lay completely still as though in a coma — or already dead.

  He kept wringing out the clothing and dropping it back in the raft. But when he touched her face, it seemed as hot as when she’d fallen on the beach.

  Krayer returned with the first-aid tin full of salt water. “If we had a fire,” he said, still talking mostly to himself, “we could concentrate this salt. To really do her any good, we should give her a salt solution intravenously. That can’t be helped. I’ll do the best I can.”

  As he worked, Webb watched Krayer. Alfred got one of the coconuts, bored a hole in it and poured some of the milk into the tin. He tasted it, added more milk.

  Satisfied, he knelt beside Fran. “Hold her head up,” he ordered Webb.

  Webb lifted Fran’s head on his arm. “How are you going to make her swallow?”

  Krayer scarcely glanced up. “Why don’t you leave all that to me?” he inquired.

  Webb bit down on his lips, said nothing. It was easy to build up a real hate for this boy.

  Krayer poured some of the salt-milk into Fran’s mouth, then covered her mouth with his hand and pinched her nostrils closed. When he released her, she’d swallowed the milk.

  “Well, she’s still alive anyhow,” Krayer said. He fed the rest of the milk to her the same way.

  Webb laid her head back on the tarp. He glanced up at Krayer, thinking, You’re a smart bastard, but still a bastard.

  He was surprised that he could no longer see Krayer. The man’s face was a blur in the sudden darkness that engulfed the island when the sun was gone.

  “Keep bathing her as long as you can,” Krayer ordered.

  “I can bathe her as long as she needs it.”

  “Gallant. Ah, you gallant. Use your reserve of strength and you’ll be in her place tomorrow.”

  “Maybe. But I’ll have you to pull me through it.”

  “I’m just warning you.”

  “Forget it. I’m not going to let her die just to get a little sleep.”

  “My, that gallant attitude. Straight out of Harold B
ell Wright and M-G-M. And so handsome too. I’ll bet you were a devil with the women back home.”

  Webb almost didn’t answer him, then decided he was damned if Krayer would have the last word. “I did all right,” he said.

  Krayer took a long time answering. “Well, you’re not back home now. When Fran is well, you and I still have a little matter to settle.”

  Webb brought another cool cloth over Fran’s body, moving it slowly, hoping Krayer was watching. “Listen, Krayer. You’ve caused enough trouble.”

  “I? She’s mine.”

  “Is she? The first thing I knew about you two was that she was leaving you in Sydney.”

  “Was she? Or did she merely say she was? Her plans and mine may have been at variance. I’ve never said I’d let her go. I never will. Let us say, if it is any concern of yours and you seem to want it to be, she fills a vital emotional need in my life, and I’m not about to be deprived of it — certainly not by some half-literate tomcat on the prowl in the South Pacific.”

  Webb’s voice was taut. “She’s yours. As long as she says she is. We’re not in Sydney, Krayer. We never got there.”

  “No. That’s right. We never got there. Remember that, Millar. No matter what might have happened in Sydney — we never got there.”

  Webb breathed in deeply, plunged the heated cloth back into the water. Krayer had the last word after all. Krayer was right — again. Krayer was always right. That was the terror of it. You could hate a man a hell of a lot worse for being eternally right than for being occasionally wrong.

  He moved the damp cloth over Fran’s body, wishing he thought her fever had subsided just a little, and knowing that it had not.

  TEN

  THE MOON SPUN up out of the ocean and looked big and bright as a ferris wheel. The two men squatted on the grass in the silence and watched each other across her fevered body. Krayer moved only three times. He got more salt water at what appeared to Webb to be regular intervals, rung out by some mental alarm Krayer seemed to have in his head.