Both of us were covered with blood, but he was visibly weaker. It was no longer a fight; we were too exhausted for that. We pawed at each other feebly, and I could detect something oddly like fear in him now. He couldn't hold me—but neither could I finish him.
I gathered my last remaining strength into one last blow. My torn fist smashed into his bloody face. He toppled to the ground and I fell beside him, too spent to move. I lay there panting, watching him.
He rose to his hands and knees and came crawling toward me, trembling with weakness. I felt his smothering weight pinning me as he fell across me. He twisted slowly, his fanged mouth gaping to bite again. His jaws closed on my arm. I was done—beaten—too weary and bruised to care. He had won. But his teeth couldn't break my skin. Like me, he was finished.
We lay there as the sun beat down, glaring at each other with fear and hate. And suddenly—over us—loomed the familiar faces of my crew and the tall tower of the Two Two Four.
Somehow I had reached the ship and safety!
I awoke. I was bathed with sweat. My muscles were aching and my head was a ball of fire. I looked around. Everything seemed normal. My menticom was on my head and I was lying on the bed in the tree house. Painfully I rose to my feet and staggered into the main room.
"My God! Skipper, you look awful!" Allardyce's voice was sharp with concern. "What's wrong?"
"I don't know," I muttered. "My head's splitting."
"Here, sit down. Let me take a look at you." Allardyce produced a thermometer and stuck it in my mouth. "Mmmm," he said worriedly. "You've got fever."