Komodo

It'd been days, but he was sure it was weeks, and he thought to himself:1

"These past few weeks have felt like months," and then he continued his pained, limping walk.2

The breath of the island pulsated around him; raindrops dripping off of trees, the rustle of wings as colorful birds wheeled through the air, the consistant, pulsating hum of insects roaring up from the jungle depths like it were the voice of the place itself. Far enough behind him so that he could not currently hear it was the most sinister sound the island hand to offer; the lazy hiss of foliage scraping against the rough underbelly of his stalwart pursuer: the dragon.3

The island wasn't Komodo, of that much he was sure. There are many islands in the chain that is Fiji, and none of them bear that name. This particular one probably did not have a name, as he felt fairly certain it'd never been visited before. Otherwise, we would have all seen it by now on the Discovery Channel, or TLC, or even the evening news. If ever he escaped, he planned to put it on any and all. If he escaped. If.4

His name was Jorgen Binshup, and he was an explorer. It was his job to chronicle whatever unseen wonders the world still held, less and less of them every day as there are. He'd made his way to that particular part of Fiji to see some of the last bits of land untouched by man. It was on this island that he discovered the dragons.5

Normally a Komodo dragon is about seven to ten feet long from head to tail and lives exclusively in a strain of islands south of Indonesia. To find them in Fiji would have been news enough, but the dragons Jorgen found were not of the traditional Komodo variety. These had to be at least fifteen feet long, on average, and the one that was pursuing him was probably somewhere near twenty. The span of its teeth alone looked like it was about a foot and a half from the bite mark on his leg, and Jorgen supposed he was lucky that it hadn't killed him right off, though it wouldn't have. Dragons don't work that way.6

The Komodo variety are known for the toxin they carry; a strain of bacteria that lives symbiotically with the beast, infecting its bitten victims and poisoning them with its illness until, eventually, it kills them. The dragon will only bite once, and then slowly follow its prey until it succumbs to sickness and collapses. This variation of the beast did not seem to be much different. Jorgen could see whitish foam forming on his wound again, even after he'd repeatedly tried to cleanse it with salt water. He supposed it may even be curable if he'd time to properly dress it, but the monster behind him never rested. It was always following him; trudging slowly through the foliage just behind him, patient and ominous. At top speed, it could easily run him down and end him instantly, but it seemed content to wait and watch as its poison took effect.7

He'd been running since it'd bitten him, pausing only to drink a sip of water from the small pools of it formed by large, curvacious foliage, or to pick fruit and berries to eat as he hobbled along. He tried stopping to sleep, once, and had awoke to muffled plopping sound of its gangrenous bacterial foam dripping from its mouth and the raspy hiss of its sandpaper tongue sliding across its scaley lips. It was just standing over him, watching, waiting for him to move again so it could continue its pursuit.8

Jorgen felt sure it wouldn't do anything to him until after he died, but being as far away from it as he could felt better than being near it, and, he figured, there was always the off chance that he could make it to his boat and die there, effectively saving his cadaver from the culinary funeral the dragon had in store.9

And so he hobbled on, and sometimes crawled, and sometimes paused to take a long, diaretic shit brought on from a steady diet of strange fruit and probably the bacteria coursing through his system, before doing his best to dash along in order to make up for the lost time. His limp was growing more and more pronounced as his leg grew increasingly numb, however the loss of sensation was a welcome relief from the screaming, incessant pain that the wound had carried when he initially recieved it.10

Jorgen had been following a small, winding creek that led from the island's rocky opposing shore, where he'd been bitten, to the smooth, white beaches where he'd shored his boat. His research team was on another, larger island only minutes away, waiting for him to return. He said he'd only be a few hours, but as it'd turned out, of course, he'd been delayed for days that were weeks that felt like months, and as he choked and sputtered on each ragged breath that he forced through his dry, aching throat, he wondered if he'd ever make it back at all. He felt terrible for his team; Greg and James and Hans, but most of all little pregnant Jeanie. He hoped they would get off that island, even if it wasn't in his boat.11

But most of all, Jorgen felt terrible for his wife and child. How would Rosie, his wife, explain to Edmond, their seven year old boy, that his papa was eaten by a dragon? Jorgen frequently read little Eddie stories about gallant knights heroically overcoming such obstacles by virtue of sword and valor, and he wished he had either to aide him then. He felt like Saint George; injured, alone, and dying. Saint George's dragon had fiery breath and could confuse its prey by surrounding it with its wings, which were covered in staring eyes. Jorgen's dragon had breath of pestilence, and the folds of the rainforest were its wings: the promise of danger ever-present, full of stalking monsters, dread things, and the pursuing vanitas of an inevitable demise close behind.12

These were Jorgen's thoughts as he threw himself across length after length of cluttered forest floor, disturbing massive insects and lizards in his wake that scurried out from around him. He recognized certain landmarks: a boulder that served as an eddy in the middle of the creek, a great, majestic tree that resembled a banyon which he had stumbled over the pronounced roots of when he was fresh off his boat, walking the other way. If he pulled himself into a crouch and was able to lift his head high enough, he could even see the endzone; the bleached sand of the beach, and the shining ivory white of his boat dancing on the shallow waves. He managed to double up his pace and, before he knew it, he'd cleared the treeline and was dragging himself across scalding hot sand.13

Jorgen's shoreboat was a sad-looking thing; wooden and dilapidated. He'd had a rubber one, but had wrecked it accidentally with a harpoon during a recent dive. The paint was all but gone, the water-tight seals were cracking and failing, and one of the oar rings was so broken that the enormous metal spike that was supposed to hold after being driven into the wooden side of the boat now occasionally slid free. It'd broken on Jorgen's paddle in, and he supposed he'd have to fix it before rowing out to his boat again, which would be incredibly hard to do. He'd have to pound the ring in again using a rock of some sort, though at least he'd have time. He'd kept a good pace that day, and his slow pursuer was probably far, far behind him.14

Jorgen picked up the oar and managed to pull himself into a standing position as he looked around for a sufficently heavy rock. His head reeled from sickness and dehydration, but that was alright. There were antibiotics and water on the boat, and, for the first time in days that were weeks that seemed like months, it seemed that everything would be alright.15

That's when he heard it; the crash of underbrush from behind him. Before he even had time to be afraid, it was upon him. The dragon had caught up to him, perhaps sensing the opportunity at escape its prey had and losing its patience at last. Jorgen stared into its yellow eyes as it sprinted from the shadows and thought of Saint George, surrounded by the dragon's eyes, his sword aimed to strike.16

He swung the paddle with all the strength left in him before he even had time to think about it. The oar ring slid down to the point of impact and the metal spike on the bottom plunged through the lizard's skin at the base of its head, pinning its neck to the ground. It thrashed about for a moment, its enormous tail whipping and shredding the underbrush behind it and its claws kicking up great gouts of sand, until, at last, it grew still. Blood ran from its foaming mouth and pooled around Jorgen's feet. He stared, for awhile, at his slain dragon; the great, predator beast that he'd conquered in one determined instant after long days of running. Then he smiled, thought of his son, and how he'd tell him this very story when next he had the opportunity, and then cried when he realized that he wouldn't be able to. He was going to die, right then and there, laying in the blood of his slain monster, just like Saint George did.17

Then darkness came to claim his waking mind, and Jorgen fell into a deep sleep that, for him, might as well have been death.18

When he finally came to, he was floating, and he thought that he'd finally slipped from his physical body into the afterlife. That would have explained lots. For example, he was no longer in pain, a sensation he'd become so accustomed to in his days that were weeks that felt like months that the absence of it seemed out of place, and bizarre.19

"He's waking," said a female voice. Two blurry figures hunched over him as he floated along, the flourescent lighting above him so blinding white that wherever he was may as well have been heaven.20

"Can you hear me, Mr. Binshup?" Asked a male voice.21

Jorgen nodded. "Yes, doctor," he managed to say.22

"You're going to be alright," said the man, who was actually only an intern. "The infection was not localized, but it is still very treatable, and it will take a day, tops, for it to leave your system."23

Jorgen wanted to say thank you, but all he could manage was a grateful smile. He supposed that his research team had gotten off their island, and had come for him instead of the other way around. He had no idea HOW it'd happened, but right then, that didn't matter. What did matter is that it happened, and he was safe, finally; back in the real world where the only thing pursuing him would be the constraint of a schedule.24

And as he smiled and prepared himself to drift back into morphine-induced slumber, he heard the strangest noise; the slow click of its claws on the hospital's cold tile floor as it kept pace with the gurney. As he opened his watering eyes, he could almost see it; an enormous, shadowy frame, moping after his, the oar ring's metal stake still protruding from its throat, its mouth oozing blood and pestilent froth with every step.25

And he wanted to scream, but his throat was siezing up, and he couldn't gather enough breath to even whimper. Besides, no one else would see it, anyways. It was there just for him, and it would always be there just for him; watching, waiting, patiently.26

Eventually it would catch up, he knew. Eventually. But as of then, he could do nothing about it but sleep, and dream of days that were weeks that seemed like months.27

.the end.28