Zoo II (6 page)

Chloe steps out into
the wet Paris afternoon, holding Eli in her arms. She had hoped the rain might have let up by now, but the day is getting late and it’s still coming down in buckets.

Screw it,
Chloe thinks, draping a slimy plastic trash bag over her and her son’s heads. She’d rather get a little wet than be out on the street after dark.

And they have a hell of a lot of ground to cover.

It feels like a lifetime ago, but it was only last night that she and Eli barely made it out of her parents’ apartment building alive. She’d flagged down a gendarmerie Jeep, but there was little the exhausted soldiers could do to help. They gave her directions to the nearest emergency government shelter, only a few kilometers away, but warned it was already filled to twice its intended capacity.

It wasn’t worth the risk. Chloe ducked inside the first suitable place she saw—an abandoned bakery—and hunkered down with Eli for the night.

Using napkins and pastry boxes as tinder, she started a small fire—not just for warmth, but in hopes that the flames would help hide her and her son’s scents from any nearby creatures. Chloe also found a few ancient mille-feuille pastries still in the cracked display case, which she shared with Eli as a little treat. They were hard as rocks but, given the circumstances, tasted absolutely
delicious
.

Early the next morning, the rain came. Chloe considered staying inside the bakery, where it was nice and dry, but decided against it.

Oz would likely be calling the apartment to check in, and he would grow sick with worry when no one answered. Chloe knew she had to let her husband know that she and Eli were all right. She’d memorized his satellite phone number, thankfully, but how could she—

No. First things first. Chloe had to get somewhere safe. That was the priority.

But where? She racked her brain. Government shelters were bursting at the seams, and she’d heard horror stories about the conditions inside. She still had a few old friends and distant relatives in the city, but no way of contacting them or even learning if they were alive—let alone if they’d take her and Eli in. She could try to get ahold of Oz, but even if he pulled every string he could at the highest levels of the American government, an evacuation would take too long.

There
was
one other option.

About a week ago, Chloe had overheard her stepmother speaking with a neighbor, a middle-aged political science professor named Pierre. He’d heard from a colleague that a few hundred people had built a shelter, or a fortified commune, at Versailles—not inside the famous palace itself but somewhere close by. It was open to all and apparently safer, cleaner, and better run than any government one.

Chloe has no idea whether this magical place really exists or not. But the Batterie de Bouviers, an old fortification built in the 1870s, is a few miles from the palace gardens and would make the perfect spot for it.

Versailles is over ten miles from the center of Paris, roughly where she is now. That’s a grueling hike with a four-year-old on a perfect day. On a cold and rainy one, with feral animals stalking the streets? Forget it.

Chloe knows she might be insane for putting any faith at all into this too-good-to-be-true rumor. But, really, what other choice does she have?

Pulling the trash bag around the two of them like a shawl, Chloe sets out with Eli.

In the waning daylight, she certainly feels safer than she did last night. But she can finally see in full, stark relief just how hellish things have gotten in her beloved city. The shattered storefronts. The overturned cars and buses. The gutters flowing with human blood.

Clutching Eli even closer, she turns onto Boulevard Saint-Michel. Once one of the city’s scenic tree-lined streets, it now looks like a deserted war zone.

Chloe is hurrying along the sidewalk, staying close to the buildings for cover…when she hears something. A low rumbling. Or growling. Speeding toward her.

She tenses. She says a silent prayer. She looks up.

But it’s not an animal.

It’s a gray Citroën Jumper, a boxy commercial van. It screeches to a halt beside her and its rear doors fly open.

“Mes amis!”
says one of the young women inside, flashing Chloe a clownlike grin and holding what looks like a medieval dagger. “My friends! You must get off the street. It is not safe. Come with us, quickly!”

Like the other seven or eight people crammed inside the van, this woman’s head is completely shaved, and she’s wearing a flowing brown robe tied at the waist.

Chloe stands completely frozen—terrified, but trying desperately not to look it. She’s never seen these freaks before in her life.

But she knows exactly who they are.

“You are…the Fraterre?” she asks nervously.

“Oui!”
the woman happily exclaims. “Now hurry, we don’t have much time!”

The Fraterre, short for La Fraternité de la Terre. The Brotherhood of the Earth.

Chloe has heard rumors about this group, an eccentric cult—part Greenpeace, part Heaven’s Gate. It sprung up across France over the past few months in bizarre, quasi-spiritual
solidarité
with Mother Nature. No one knows much about them other than that they’re a bunch of nut jobs who think HAC is a divine blessing. They have allegedly assaulted and even killed those who disagree with them.

And now a van full of armed Fraterre cultists are ordering Chloe and Eli to get in.

Chloe stutters. Her mind is racing. What about the fortification near Versailles? What about calling Oz? Then again, maybe this group can actually help keep her safe—at least for the time being?

“Merci beaucoup
,
”
she says at last with a big, fake smile.

She climbs inside, Eli in her arms, her heart jackhammering in her chest. The doors are slammed shut and the van peels out.

“Where are we going?”

My back and knees
are killing me. Sweat is stinging my eyes. What I wouldn’t give right now just to stand up straight for a few seconds and blot my brow.

But I know that would probably be a death wish.

Freitas, Sarah, the other scientists, and I have been crawling through the underbrush on our hands and knees for what feels like ages. We’ve been moving slowly, deliberately, painstakingly. We’ve been careful not to make a sound or get too close.

Why?

We’ve been following a small band of
feral humans
.

Yup. We found the bastards.

And they’re freaky beyond belief.

Freitas spotted them first, though he didn’t even realize it. After Chang’s jackal bite, two of our guides offered to lead the scientist out of the jungle to get first aid. Less than ten minutes later, Freitas noticed a group of people out in front of us. Initially he thought they were members of our team who’d somehow gotten lost. He nearly called out to them—until I literally cupped his mouth with my hand, grabbed his high-powered binoculars, and took a look for myself.

All I managed to croak was, “Mother of God.”

I counted five of them. Adults. A mix of men and women, black and white, old and young. They were wearing clothes, normal ones, but dirty and tattered, as if they’d been living in the jungle for weeks. One was carrying a bolt-action rifle, the others a mix of knives, shovels, and other tools. They were walking upright but slightly hunched over, their arms swinging unnaturally, almost gorilla-like.

They looked, in a word,
primal
.

Even from so far away, I could see a scary deadness in their expressions. They were regular humans on the outside. But was there any soul left inside?

Freitas immediately gave the order for all of us to crouch down and follow. We crawled behind them, maybe fifty or sixty yards, tracking as the group lumbered deeper and deeper into the nature preserve.

At one point I asked Freitas in a whisper what our plan was. How much longer would we be stalking these “people”? How would we ever capture one? He admitted he didn’t know yet. For now, he just wanted to observe them in their natural habitat.

Yeah, right. What we’re looking at? Nothing “natural” about it.

Fine, I thought. Let’s see where this goes. Let’s see where they lead us.

Let’s see what they do next.

That was almost half an hour ago. We’re still crawling along after them, inching our way through the prickly vegetation. We pass a babbling brook. My hands and face are getting rubbed raw, but I push on.…

When suddenly the five feral humans freeze. They prick up their ears. Their senses switch to high alert. They raise their weapons.

I trade nervous glances with Freitas and Sarah. Do they know we’re behind them? Have they picked up our scent? Are we in danger?

The “leader” of the pack grunts something, and in a flash the five humans start running—
away
from us, farther into the jungle.

“Go, go!” Freitas commands. “After them!”

Too surprised to argue, we all leap to our feet and pursue. But, damn, are those rabid humans fast! Even our African guides are having trouble keeping up.

At last we reach the crest of a small hill. Gasping for breath, I spot the five humans in the valley below—and I gesture wildly at Freitas, Sarah, and the others to hang back and duck down again.

I’ve just realized why they’ve been running.

They’re
hunting
.

But not us. Their target is a kudu, a grayish-white antelope they’ve managed to separate from its herd and surround.

I expect the animal to start attacking the humans any second. But instead, it nervously leaps and prances every which way, looking for an escape. Carefully, the lead human raises his rifle and fires a single shot—striking the antelope’s hind leg. The creature falls to the ground, crippled but very much alive.

Now things
really
start to get weird.

The five humans encircle the animal and all place their hands around its neck. Slowly they tighten their grip, choking the helpless antelope as it wheezes and struggles, finally exhaling its last breath.

In unison, the humans bow their heads. They release a low, guttural moan, almost as if in prayer. I’m reminded of the waiter in Bali, who attributed the island’s lack of animal attacks to the Hindu respect for all life.

Then they bare their teeth and sink them directly into the antelope’s flesh.

They viciously tear through its fur, exposing the crimson muscle tissue and tendons underneath. They rip jagged chunks off with their mouths, like a pride of lions eviscerating a fresh kill. They gulp down the raw meat whole, without chewing. Their mouths and cheeks are covered in blood.

Freitas, Sarah, the scientists, our guides, and I watch this feeding frenzy with a mix of disbelief and revulsion. It’s like something straight out of a horror movie, except it’s happening maybe three hundred feet in front of us.

“Still want to try to capture one of ’em?” I whisper to Freitas.

He just flashes me a grim look. Of course the answer is yes.

But we both know the task just got a whole lot scarier.

Before long, the antelope carcass has been reduced to virtually a skeleton. The feeding is slowing down in speed and intensity. The meal is almost over.

We’re all holding our breath. Waiting to see what these wild humans will do next…

When a digital beeping noise suddenly pierces the jungle air.

Jesus Christ—my satellite phone is ringing!

The humans all turn and look up in our direction. The leader lets out a deep, furious roar.

They’ve spotted us.

“Don’t shoot!” Freitas desperately
implores, but it’s no use. He’s lost all control over our group. It’s every man for himself.

And it’s absolute bedlam.

Many team members have already run off, but a few guides and scared scientists stay behind. They use our elevated position to their advantage and let loose a torrent of gunfire at the feral humans in the valley below as they scatter in all directions.

I watch two of the humans get hit. But the other three don’t—and quickly disappear into the dense foliage, dashing back up the hillside in our direction.

“Come on!” I yell to Sarah and Freitas as I turn around to run back the way we came. I see Sarah is on board, but Freitas is pointing somewhere else.

“I think if we cut across the hill, we can probably make it back—”

“Sorry, doc. You’re on your own.”

I’m already on the run for my life. I’m not about to risk getting lost on top of that.

I start hauling ass back through the jungle. Branches scrape my arms and face as I whip past. All around me I hear gunshots ringing and screams echoing.

Sarah’s sprinting just to my left. But after I pass the bubbling creek I remember crawling past minutes earlier, she’s suddenly disappeared. I’ve lost her.

“Sarah?” I call, slowing down the tiniest bit.

She doesn’t respond. But I do hear
another
voice.

This one is deep and scratchy. With a South African accent. It comes from close by, but it somehow sounds distant. Haunting.

“We…are…human!”

Holy shit!

I do a quick 360-degree spin, searching for the source. My eyes dart everywhere, but I don’t see a soul.

“Hello?” I shout. “Where are you?
Who
are you?”

“Do not…be afraid! We…will not…hurt you. Please, listen…to me!”

I turn now toward the direction of the voice and aim my rifle at it—not easy to do with my adrenaline pumping and my hands trembling.

For the briefest moment, I wonder if maybe this feral human is being honest. The way they ate that antelope was savage, but how they killed it was almost reverent. Maybe they do have respect for human life. Maybe they
aren’t
vicious killers like the rest of the animal kingdom. Maybe we pre-judged them too quickly. Maybe—

“Arrrrrgh!”

One of the males lunges out of the tree line and charges at me, baring his teeth and brandishing a pickaxe.

I squeeze the trigger and pepper his chest with rounds. But he keeps coming, swinging his axe wildly.

At the last possible moment I crouch down and spear my bayonet up and into his chest—piercing him clean through the heart.

He releases his axe and flails. He gurgles blood. Finally he goes limp, and I shove him to the jungle floor.

“You…you sneaky son of a bitch!” I shout at his bloody corpse.

I’m livid. I can’t believe I doubted for even one millisecond that he wanted to kill me. These savages are
worse
than the animals. They have tools at their disposal. I don’t just mean guns and pickaxes. They have language. Cognition.
Trickery
.

I take off running again, equal parts furious and fearful. I yell team members’ names—Sarah, Freitas, Kabelo, and some of the others—but I get no response.

I keep moving. I hope I’m still headed in the right direction, but I’m starting to feel light-headed. All the trees and shrubs are starting to look alike.

“Help, help me!” I hear a woman scream, from somewhere not too far away.

That
voice is one I instantly recognize: Sarah’s.

I switch course and sprint toward it. Not wanting to give up the potential element of surprise, I don’t yell back.

And I’m very glad I don’t. When I finally see her, she’s being chased by a lone female feral human holding a pitchfork—who is quickly gaining.

I raise my rifle but can’t get a clean shot, so I loop around to outflank her primal pursuer.

As soon as they reach a clearing, I plow into the woman like a linebacker and tackle her to the ground.

We roll around in the underbrush together, grappling viciously. For such a small woman, she’s strong as an ox.

Grunting and straining—employing some of the moves I learned on my JV high school wrestling team—I finally manage to flip her on her back and pin her down.

She starts speaking to me in that same eerie, scratchy voice the man had, in an African language I don’t understand. I assume she’s begging for her life. Or trying to trick me again somehow.
Not this time
. I swing my rifle around from behind my back and position the bayonet blade inches from her throat…

“Oz, don’t!” yells Sarah, rushing over to me. “Remember? We need her alive!”

Damnit
. She’s right. After all that talk of how we were going to trap a feral human, I’ve just done it by accident. Still, staring into this woman’s beady, almost ghostly eyes, the desire to end her miserable life is overwhelming. But I resist.

“Grab her legs,” I order Sarah. “Until we can find the others.”

“You mean us?”

I look over to see Dr. Freitas, Kabelo, and many others hurrying toward us.

They practically pile onto the thrashing woman, helping me restrain her. I’m grateful for the assistance—she’s incredibly strong.

“Is everyone all right?” I ask Freitas, still trying to catch my breath.

“Dr. Langston…he didn’t make it. His death was…ugly. And our guide Dikotsi was mauled pretty badly. Some of the others are tending to him now.”

I ease myself off of the feral woman and help flip her onto her stomach, allowing Kabelo to zip-tie her hands. Freitas and the others just stare at her, seemingly numb.

“Very well done, Oz,” he says, patting my shoulder. “We’ve got what we came for. I’ll call our pilot and tell him we’re ready to fly.”

“Really, now,” I say skeptically. “And how are you gonna do that?”

Kabelo looks up at me and flashes a crooked grin.

“The white man forgets
again
he is carrying a cellphone?”

Everyone laughs. Including myself. It feels good. A release.

Even the feral woman starts to cackle.