The croc swam just a few feet above the bone layer, its head cocked to the side so that it could look down.
It knows I’m down here. It just doesn’t know where.
Hawkins jumped when the crocodile lunged out with its open maw and snatched a skull. The loud snap of the jaws closing on the old bone felt like an electric jolt, but it wasn’t nearly as frightening as when the skull imploded under the croc’s crushing bite.
With a twitch of its tail, the agitated crocodile surged through the water. Hawkins couldn’t tell if the beast was furious, injured, or just impatient, but there was no doubt it was growing more dangerous. It dredged a path through the bone yard, snapping at everything it passed, and sending chunks of white pluming into the basin.
It passed just a few feet to Hawkins’s right, pushing a femur hard into his ribs, but the impact didn’t hurt nearly as much as the ache in his lungs.
You’re going to die down here, he told himself. In a few months his flesh would be picked clean by fish and crocs. In a few years, his bones would be just another polished, water-worn skeleton.
Be aggressive, he thought. Stop hiding!
Hawkins clenched his hands and realized that he still held his hunting knife. He looked for the croc. It circled near his head, angling to make a pass. He slowly twisted his hand around, pointing the blade up.
Aggressive. He repeated the thought like a mantra. Be the more aggressive predator.
The tip of the croc’s jaw appeared over his eyes as it swam just a foot above him.
Aggressive.
The croc’s head and neck passed, revealing its true size. The creature could easily fit a man down its gullet.
Attack!
Hawkins thrust the knife up. A momentary resistance of tough crocodilian skin quickly gave way and the seven-and-a-half-inch blade slid into the croc’s lower jaw, all the way to the hilt.
The crocodile’s reaction was immediate and violent. It thrashed forward, which only increased its pain as the blade cut down the length of its lower jaw. Before Hawkins could withdraw the knife, it struck bone, dug in, and stuck. Unwilling to release the weapon that had now saved his life from three top predators, he held on tight.
The croc accelerated through the water like a torpedo bound for the surface. Hawkins was yanked from the bottom, rising with the croc, attached to its belly like a remora on a shark. The pressure on his lungs lifted, but the ache to breathe increased.
The light of day grew brighter as they ascended, then struck him with its full force as he and the croc launched from the water. Hawkins gasped loudly, sucking in air as the panicked reptile continued swishing its mighty tail, propelling them both higher into the air. They crashed through the waterfall’s spray, through the rainbow-colored mist, and toward the concrete bridge.
Seeing the bridge, Hawkins wrenched the knife free, pushed away, and twisted around. Had he not turned around, the impact with the concrete bridge might have broken his back. As it was, he took the collision in the gut. What little air had found its way into his lungs was driven out. Pinpoints of multicolored lights danced in his vision, but he managed to cling to the bridge for just a moment, which was long enough to realize the croc had also landed atop the bridge.
The giant continued thrashing as blood dripped from the wound Hawkins had inflicted. But it had no interest in him. It was trying to flee from the more aggressive predator, or the very lucky one—Hawkins couldn’t decide. His mind was a fog and his vision fading. He tried to breathe, but his body hadn’t recovered from the blow. He slipped back toward the basin, slowed more by the water rushing past him than his grip.
Then something took hold of his wrists. Through pinhole vision he saw Joliet above him, shouting at him. Her voice was indistinct, but he understood what she wanted: a little help. As she pulled him up, he managed to swing a leg up onto the bridge. With Joliet pulling and the water pushing, he soon found himself on his hands and knees on the bridge, gasping for air.
“It’s okay,” Joliet said. “Just breathe.”
After sucking in a few desperate breaths, Hawkins asked, “The croc?”
“Gone,” she replied. “Whatever you did to it worked. It took off downstream. What did you do to it?”
Hawkins lifted the knife from the water. “I was the more aggressive predator.”
She shook her head. “I’m starting to think that knife is lucky.”
“You might be right. Where’s Drake?”
“Bray took him uphill. Followed the goat.”