The one with the axe hooked over his shoulder stepped forward. He was shorter than Marty, stocky yet muscular.

“It’s okay,” Marty said to him. “We’re leaving.” He pointed the way they’d come.

The man’s dark eyes showed no sign of understanding. The frown lines between his eyebrows bunched tighter.

“Follow me,” he said to Rad and Jacky.

He only took two steps when three of the tribesmen moved with the quiet stealth of hunters to stand shoulder to shoulder, blocking his path.

“Shit,” he muttered.

“What do they want?” Jacky hissed.

The one with the axe spoke, a quick, short burst of words.

“Did either of you understand that?” Marty asked.

“No,” said Rad.

“No,” said Jacky.

The man, presumably the leader of the pack, turned and walked away from them. He looked back over his shoulder and issued that same burst of unintelligible words.

“I think he wants us to follow him,” Marty said.

“I don’t want to follow him,” Jacky said.

“We don’t have much of a choice, do we?”

∆∆∆

They had been walking for at least half an hour, allowing Marty time to try to make sense of the situation. Judging by the indigenous tribe’s primitive dress and weapons, they had lived on Demon Island for a very long time with little communication with the modern world. He doubted they had randomly crossed paths with Marty and the girls. The island was too large for such a coincidental encounter. It was more likely they had spotted the Oannes yesterday or today and had been watching it. Which meant they would have been aware of the inflatable boat coming to shore. Perhaps they had been shadowing the three of them from the forest the entire time. The question was, why? What did a few outsiders matter to them? Mere curiosity? Yet if that was so, why intercept them? Why march them like a chain gang to…where? To their village?

Did they, like other primitive tribes unaccustomed to Westerners, consider Marty with his lighter skin to be some sort of ghost person? An evil spirit? Were they going to find him guilty in a kangaroo court of witchcraft and punish him? Execute him? God forbid, eat him?

Holy hell, no. Surely the Sri Lankan government knew about these people. If they were indeed cannibals, they would have been reported in the news. The public would have been warned. This was the bloody twenty-first century, after all.

Marty cast a sidelong glance at Rad. She had her head down, watching the ground where she stepped. Sweat saturated the front of her singlet, creating a damp V. She must have felt his eyes on her because she looked up at him. Her face was drawn tight, etched with distress. He almost didn’t recognize her.

He offered a reassuring smile; she smiled back, though it was thin and forced.

The terrain angled upward. The leader kept up a brisk pace, walking easily despite the moist heat. Marty, already tiring from the long trek, began breathing heavily. Sweat stung his eyes. His thighs burned. Rad and Jacky, he noted, were also struggling.