Cover

This is a sample of my novel. You can order the rest of the book


http://blueboxpublishing.webeden.co.uk/#

and also see the book trailer on youtube


http://www.youtube.com/watch?v=HJUIR6PTbhw

Enjoy the ride!



Prologue

“They got the right flap and we’re losing height. They must have ruptured the wing tanks and its spraying bloody fuel everywhere,” the captain screamed.
“Mayday mayday.” The co-pilot shouted into the radio.
“What the hell are you doing? We’re not supposed to be here!”
“Sorry Captain, shall I lower the landing gear?”
“Yes, do it while we still can.”
The old Dakota was far too low to use the parachutes; its shot up engines would not allow it to climb out of its descent. It had always been a must to fly as low as possible, to evade being picked up on radar.
“Well gentlemen,” shouted the captain. “I would pray to whatever god you believe in, because this is the only chance you will get before meeting him.”
A large packing crate stored in the corner of the plane shook with the vibration, its precious cargo kept in place by heavily compacted straw.
They had planned the job down to the last detail, having done the same run a dozen times in the past. Deliver and pick up, just don’t ask what‘s in the packages! But then you didn’t need to be Einstein to have guessed that.
The route they had taken had always been the safest way for smuggling via Mexico, Guatemala, Honduras and Nicaragua.
The team knew they had to kill everyone back at the landing strip, there was to be no witnesses, but one of them wasn’t dead. It didn’t matter now whose fault it was, the only thing that they were all sure of was the fact they were going to die!
The plane’s wheels started to clip the tops of the highest trees and there was definitely no clear space to land.
There was a loud bang, which shook the plane, as the last engine spluttered and died.
Both pilots struggled with their joy sticks, pulling back with all their strength, but this time there was no joy; it was too late and the old plane buried itself into the jungle.
Hours later, Morrison opened his right eye, because the left no longer worked as it hung out on his cheek. His right arm was bent in half and facing the wrong direction.
His right leg bone beneath the knee had snapped, driving itself through his skin. Four of his ribs were broken and one had punched a hole in his lung.
The fact that he had been thrown clear of the plane meant little to him right now as torturous pain filled his every thought.
Unbeknown to Morrison, the rest of his team were killed almost instantaneously as the plane crashed, only one other was thrown clear just fifty yards away.
Philips lay helpless and watched as the jaguar pulled out what was left of his intestines. The big jungle cat had casually lain down, with its enormous paws resting on what was left of Philips’ groin and began to feed, its yellow dead-looking eyes staring into Philips’ face as it chewed on his innards, oblivious to the fact that Philips was still alive. His back had been broken in six places and his vocal cords were cut. His mouth lay haplessly agape, while a revolting large rat-like creature pulled at his tongue. Nothing goes to waste in the jungle.
God had not been good to Philips that day, because he lasted two more hours before his heart finally stopped and peace replaced the terrible pain.
Meanwhile, just yards away Morrison contemplated moving but pain filled his body. Slowly, very slowly he sucked up enough courage to move, then when he did the jungle around fell silent - suddenly overpowered by his screams of pain.
He rolled onto his side and looked down at his broken body with his one good eye. His right arm was useless, as was his leg, but as luck would have it, the blood still only oozed out of his wounds that were still in shock. Rolling onto his back again he looked up at the patches of blue through the thick canopy of trees. There was no sign of the plane or anyone else, so he called out.
“Over here, I’m over here, help me!” But the only sound was that of the jungle around him.
This wasn’t the first time Morrison had been in this type of predicament. In just the last three years he done two tours in Angola and one in South East Asia which had kept the money coming in; mercenaries were always in great demand.
A large Howler monkey sat in a nearby tree calling to others to come see the funny looking animal and mock him. The very distinctive cry echoed through the jungle, drowning out most other sounds.
Morrison began to drag himself towards a fallen tree as the pain in his body made him shake like the folds of a belly dancer. Stopping, he picked up a small rotten twig and bit down on it, the foul tasting stick was better than biting though his own tongue. He tried to pull himself into a sitting position against the fallen tree, as tears poured down his blooded face. Strange how an empty eye socket still weeps long after the eye has gone. Morrison unclipped his Mason hunting knife and began to hack at a young tree, hopping to make himself a support crutch.
He knew he had to get off the ground before the giant soldier ants found him; it wouldn’t take them long to make short work of him. Many years ago he had seen them go through an entire village in Africa, eating everything in their path, and leaving nothing but bones.
His blood began to flow faster now as his body shock began wearing off; it was now that the real pain would start. Somehow he had to stem the flow. Pulling off his belt, he struggled to put it around his thigh, tugging it tight and slowing down the flow of blood. Then he tried to stand, which was real hard using his only one good hand. A sudden wave of pain made him throw up; as it told him his ribs were also broken. Again he screamed in pain and the jungle fell silent, just for a few moments, at the new strange animal sound. His head spun and he thought he would pass out. He fought the feeling and it passed.
The jungle is not the romantic place you read about in the eco magazines written by passing visitors who only play at reality of what they think it should be like. It’s really a nasty evil place where everything that crawls, flies and creeps is out to kill or eat you! It doesn’t matter too if you’re alive or dead before they do just that. Under every leaf there’s something laying in wait to eat something else. Kill or be killed. Real life and not at all what they call the civilized world.
It was real hard going; and the pain was unbelievable as he dragged his sorry ass though the maze of lianas that hung down from the canopy above. Except these were like trying to push your way through a car wash as the vines grabbed at his clothing and made the already slow pace slower.
He stopped and took a drink from an air plant that hung from one of the lianas, its brackish water tasting foul, but at least it was water! The thought of catching yellow fever or any other disease was the least of his worries.
Reaching out, he grabbed at a liana to stop himself falling as the ground moved beneath him as he stepped on it. A huge python slithered off in the other direction, pissed that he had been woken from his afternoon nap. Morrison could see the bulge halfway down the snake’s body where it had swallowed its victim, and was thankful it wasn’t still hungry. Steadying himself he continued towards a rocky outcrop that was covered in creeping vines.
As he got nearer he realized it wasn’t natural, but manmade. He struggled around the ancient Mayan building till he found the entrance. Either side of the carved stone doorway stood two carved statues with ugly heads and gaping mouths. They lay at a reclining angle like the ones he’d once seen in a travel magazine. Behind them the darkness beckoned him in, he was weak and exhausted from his effort so far, and he needed to rest.
The jungle always goes quiet at this time of day just before sunset, while the evening orchestra prepares itself for the onset of night. He fumbled in his pocket for his lighter. Flicking its always reliable Zippo wheel, the flame immediately danced into life and illuminated some of the gloom around him.
Morrison struggled as he tried to push the dry twigs into a pile, with his support crutch. The long dead twigs broke into pieces as he pushed them together in hope of starting a fire. Then, as if on cue, the jungle orchestra kicked in: every frog lizard and bug started in unison, filling the air with living sound. Two seconds later Morrison collapsed against the wall, his body rebelling against every move he’d made. Then, slowly, he slid down the wall using it as support and pulled himself over the cold stone floor towards the pile of kindling. It took three attempts before the fire finally sparked into life.
The gloom of the room now took on a different feel as the life of fire filled every dark corner. Morrison was not too interested in the room around him, only in the fact that he was hungry and very, very tired.
He didn’t hear it at first as it crept towards him out of the darkness across the stone floor, intrigued by the sudden heat of the fire.

Imprint

Publication Date: 11-18-2010

All Rights Reserved

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