Page 45 of The Most Dangerous Games

Except for the sting.

Except for the heat blooming under his skin, spreading outward like somebody poured something hot and wrong into his leg.

Jack takes another step.

His leg buckles.

Jack feels his heart beating hard enough that he’s surprised he can’t hear it over the sound of his own breathing and the sounds of the jungle.

Don’t panic.

First the shark.

Now this.

Am I about to die?

He tries to catch himself, but the trail is too steep—maybe shock, maybe fear, maybe the beginning of something worse. He slides, catches himself, ends up seated on the trail, breath coming too fast.

He hears footsteps coming down the trail.

Jack looks up and sees Ant Tipton coming down the path, moving like nothing can touch him.

“McHenry,” Tipton says, almost friendly. “You look like crap.”

“Spider,” Jack grits out.

The burn in Jack’s leg spread. Not a massive stab of pain, he knows enough to know it doesn’t work that way. But it’s there. He can feel it starting to swell up without being able to see it.

Tipton crouches. Not close. Not kind. He glances at Jack’s leg, then at Jack’s face. Fast assessment.

“Unlucky.” Tipton shrugs. “Lot of that going around.”

“Help me,” Jack says. Simple. No pride.

“You feel dizzy?” Tipton asks.

“No.”

“Nauseous?”

“No.”

“Good,” Tipton says, like it was a checklist.

Tipton’s hand drifts to the chain at his neck, thumb rubbing the clasp like it’s a habit he hates. For a second his eyes go far away—then the mask snaps back into place.

He reaches into his pocket and tosses Jack a small strip of bright surveyor ribbon, the kind used to mark trails. It lands on Jack’s chest.

“Wrap it tight,” Tipton says. “Keep moving.”

He stands.

Jack stares at him. “You got a radio? You got a phone? Call it in.”

“I’m not your medic,” he says.

“You left Luca,” Jack says.