فصل 39

CHAPTER 39

THE SIGNAL

“HURRY!” BELLOWED CHEEKY O’NEAL. “We’re running out of time!”

He and his men had spent the past few hours dragging jungle vegetation up to a lava pool near the top of the massive volcano that formed the center of Mollusk Island. Above them was the rim of the volcano’s crater, a smoldering cauldron nearly a quarter-mile across. This morning the crater was belching steam. O’Neal hadn’t seen it do that before. It gave him an uneasy feeling.

Below them was the jungle. It was shrouded in the dense morning fog that covered most of the island. But dawn had started to redden the horizon. In minutes the sun’s glare would fill the sky; it would quickly burn off the fog.

O’Neal needed to send the signal soon, because when the fog cleared, the Mollusks would see the smoke from their village far below. O’Neal looked out at the vast dark sea, praying that the ship was still close enough to spot the signal when the sun came up. This was the only hope that he and the other three had of completing their mission and getting off this island alive.

McPherson, DeWulf, and Kelly, exhausted from climbing and working all night, were now throwing vegetation into the lava pool to create the signal. Their efforts did not satisfy O’Neal.

“Faster!” he shouted. He stomped over to the vegetation pile, grabbed a bunch of palm fronds in his huge hands and threw them into the lava pool. A thick cloud of smoke billowed upward.

“I want to see more smoke like that,” O’Neal said, “or I’ll throw you into that hole.”

McPherson, Kelly, and DeWulf, tired as they were, jumped to it. They had seen O’Neal do some scary things when he got mad. One time he’d pulled out most of a man’s hair by the roots. He’d reached into another man’s mouth and yanked out a gold tooth. They figured he was perfectly capable of using their bodies as fuel for smoke signals.

The three heaved palm fronds and chunks of jungle wood onto the pool. Soon a thick column of smoke rose into the sky, now turning a bright blue. O’Neal grabbed a cluster of huge palm fronds and waved them through the column, interrupting it. He stopped, then waved the fronds again, repeating this process over and over. The result was a broken line of smoke rising ever higher, like dark thread stitched in blue fabric.

Suddenly the ground shuddered. O’Neal staggered and almost fell into the lava. The main crater blew a huge blast of steam. The men looked up and saw molten rock coursing down the hill like honey down the side of a jar, a thick finger of death pointing right at them.

“Run for it!” said McPherson.

“NO!” shouted O’Neal. He needed the signal a little longer and higher, high enough to clear the top of the mountain, long enough to be seen from any side of the island, for he had no idea where the ship was.

For a second, the other three looked as if they might run. But the fire in O’Neal’s eyes was hotter than anything the lava could produce. The three men frantically threw the rest of the jungle plants into the lava as O’Neal used the big fronds to break the smoke into dashes. Up, up it rose.

“All right,” O’Neal shouted. “Go!”

The four men started down the slope, into the jungle, half-running, half-sliding down a steep ravine. But the thick jungle slowed them down, and the lava was gaining. They felt its heat behind them.

“We’ll never outrun it!” Kelly shouted.

O’Neal glanced back and saw McPherson was right; the glowing wall of lava was gaining on them, igniting the jungle as it went, causing trees to explode in flames. O’Neal looked around frantically. A few yards below he spotted a thick moss-covered log, the remains of what had once been a huge jungle tree. He stumbled down to it, and, using his massive strength, spun it so it was pointing down the steep ravine.

“Come on!” he shouted to the other three. They stared at him, not understanding.

“GET ON THE LOG, you imbeciles!”

McPherson, Kelly, and DeWulf clambered onto the log, their legs straddling it. The hissing, roaring wall of lava was right behind them.

“Hold on!” shouted O’Neal. He put his shoulder to the back of the log and lunged forward with all his strength. The log started sliding down the ravine, quickly picking up speed. As it shot ahead, O’Neal managed to dive forward and wrap his arms around the trunk, hanging on for his life; in front of him, Kelly, McPherson, and DeWulf were doing the same. The men screamed as the big log bucked and bounced, crashing through the thick jungle vegetation like a runaway buffalo. After a steep, terrifying, thirty-second drop, the men felt a violent jolt as the log hit a rock, flipping up on its end and catapulting them forward. They landed, sprawling, in a clearing—somehow still alive, somehow not badly hurt. From above them they could hear the lava still coming, but they had enough of a head start now to outrun it.

O’Neal looked up at the sky, now bright blue. The volcano had sent up a billowing cloud of ash and smoke. But above that, still clearly visible, was the dashed line of smoke he and his men had created. It was a clear signal, visible from long way off.

O’Neal smiled. He was sure of it now: the ship would come.