The Cavern

by Alister Hodge

  “Which ones?”

  Captain Starling clenched his jaw. “The paramedics, Sam and Mia. They’re the only ones left in quarantine, who else would I be talking about?”

  A slight smirk creased the doctor’s mouth, obviously amused at getting a rise out of him. “If they provide another set of clear samples this week, I’ll declare them safe for release. You understand, Starling, we’ve had to be exceedingly careful. They are the only people to survive physical contact with the alien spec...”

  “Don’t say it out loud, for god’s sake,” he muttered. “Not even here. If word escapes of what’s been found, there’ll be panic. Something the government can ill afford in an election year.”

  “Who gives a fuck about an election? If the Prime Minister pulled his head out of his arse for five minutes, he’d be more concerned about the biological threat this discovery poses than something as inconsequential as a god damned election.”

  “And that brings me to my other question. How likely do you think we can contain these species within the local area?” asked Starling.

  The doctor sighed, rubbing her fingers tiredly at a patch of greying hair over her right temple. “Honestly? I don’t know. They’ve survived dosing with multiple toxic agents, which renders gassing the cave system as likely ineffective. And if we poison the water, we put every farmer using a bore at risk. Maybe if we attempted to burn them out…”

  “But?”

  “They’re semi-aquatic, and fire will only kill those stranded out of water. Look, I think we’re fighting an uphill battle. We have no idea if this cave system links up to others. It’ll only take a handful of those creatures to escape and we’re back to square one.”

  Captain Starling wasn’t surprised to hear the Doc’s verdict, privately he’d been thinking along similar lines himself. “I’ve already organised a geological survey with ground penetrating radar to try and identify all existing mine shafts and cave tunnels. And I’m prepping another team to return underground as soon as we have the survey results in hand. Anything else you can think of to give ourselves the best chance to achieving total eradication?”

  The doctor sighed as she took off her glasses. “Every inch of those tunnels, above and under water will have to be searched and cleared. We know the Miner’s Mother was breeding. That paramedic found one clutch of egg sacs, but what if there’s more in a different birthing chamber? And there’s also the fact we never found the body of the matriarch. If she somehow survived that wound, then...”

  Unconsciously, the Captain’s hand dropped to the butt of his pistol. “Then I’ll kill her properly the next time.” A familiar buzz entered Starling’s chest at the thought. A mix of excitement, fear and the heightened sensory awareness he always experienced before battle as adrenaline flooded muscle and brain. It was the only time he felt truly alive, and the warrior in him welcomed the sensation.

  He turned on his heel and stalked out without another word, leaving the airconditioned confines of the lab for the baking heat outside. Red dust puffed out from around his feet, as he made for his Land Rover. Come the morning, he’d lead his men in a search and destroy mission like no other the Australian SAS had fought. Man against alien in a fight to the death.

  Read on for a free sample of The Devil's Trench

  Acknowledgements

  First of all, thanks to Severed Press for taking on The Cavern and turning out a polished and amazing looking book. To Alan Baxter, your insights and mentorship during the writing of this novel have been greatly appreciated. Thank you to my beta readers, especially Sue Jackson for your time and suggestions. To caving and cave diving subject matter experts, Jill Kinna, Al Warild and Tina Willmore, thanks for your time and knowledge. Any mistakes on caving and dive procedure are mine alone. And to my wife Lee and our awesome daughters Emily and Audrey, thanks for your endless support, belief and patience.

  CHAPTER 1

  As happens, the tide rolls in, drowning all life in its wake.

  The sky is old blood draining from a sour wound. Such blood, Ig Hawkins remembers well. A life she wishes to forget. But the ghosts of the past never stay dead. They never stop haunting…

  She watches the tide rise over the rocky beach and fill Liar’s Cove not far to the north and sucks in a quick puff from her inhaler. The waters won’t reach her where she sits on the grassy area above the beach. But it’ll be close. Close enough for what she needs.

  Overhead, seagulls cry, searching for anything they can scavenge. Too bad for them, they won’t find much. Not yet anyway.

  Ig’s gaze drifts out over the vast Pacific Ocean and wonders if Em is watching. And if she is…what does she think of Ig doing what she’s about to do?

  Doesn’t matter.

  Ig stands as the tides roll closer toward the grasses of the upper beach.

  It’s almost time.

  She unhooks the mesh sack from her belt and readies herself.

  An ancient secret handed down from her grandfather, Ig stares at the creeping tide. She stands, slightly hunched, legs apart, mesh bag dangling.

  “Never trust the sea,” her grandfather used to say. “It is the sea which cannot be claimed or ruled over. Ah, but her tides, Iggy…her tides bring great bounties if one pays attention.”

  And she does pay attention. Has for years.

  Now—

  Oh, hell, now is not the time to be thinking.

  The tides roll up to the grasses. And when they recede a bit, she’s left with what has always been in this region. One of the only incomes she’s ever had. Though fewer and fewer as time goes on.

  The milky pods stick to the sand as the waters slip away. Working quickly, she gathers the pods into the sack until it’s full. She’s finished before the tide returns, flooding the rest of the beach.

  Ig backs up, hefting her harvest. An okay haul. Not great like it used to be, but it’ll do.

  She swings the sack over her shoulder as the small, translucent pods squirm and mewl.

  ***

  “That’s it?” Berkley shifts, wooden chair creaking at his considerable weight. He squints at the small haul with his remaining eye. “Ya got some dark ones too.”

  Ig rolls her eyes. “You know they’re overharvested, Berk. A deal’s a deal.”

  The fat, old man scratches near the empty socket of his left eye with the long nail of a chubby pinky finger. The elderly ship rocked sluggishly back and forth in a soothing rhythm to the waves.

  Once upon a time, the old ship used to sail the oceans, Berkley its captain. Many years ago, right after Earth had enough of humanity’s shit. It flipped and jumbled climates. Earthquakes broke everything. The super volcano under Yellow Stone exploded, laying waste to almost everything in America. The ash was enough to blot out the sun. Many died during that transition. Those who were able to avoid the fallout for years.

  Not Ol’ Berkley, though. He’d been riding the seas, hunting treasures said to be here or there buried by pirates, when the ocean surged and, as he tells it, a “real-life godsdamn Kraken” attacked his ship. His crew fought the thing, but not before one of the two-foot-thick tentacles bashed the side of Berk’s face, knocking “m’eyeball right out its damn socket. Popped right out,” Berk had said. “Clean as ya please. Had to cut the pink stingers with m’knife or that ol’ eyeball would be just floppin’ all over m’face.” They managed to fight the “kraken” off, but it left the hull of the restored pirate ship with a hole that took in more water than they could bail out or fix.

  Those who survived the attack escaped on lifeboats, including Berkley.

  The next day he paid to have his ship resurrected and brought to Andi Docks where the hole was patched and the ship secured to the final dock. The one never used by fishermen. And there it remained, becoming a center of trade and sales hub for the Northern Pacific of the more…exotic.

  Some called Berkley a thief. Some called him a conman. A fraud. Some called him a tycoon.

  He’s all of those to some degree, but not
heartless.

  Now, he fetches a sigh, picks the sack of elish pods up and plops it down on a scale. The digital numbers blink 5.6lbs.

  Berkley grunts. “Things must not be spawnin’ like they used to, eh?”

  “They’re dying off, Berk. Overfished, and we keep taking their offspring. What did you think would happen?”

  Nodding, he pulls open a drawer in his desk, sifts around a bit, and tosses a banded stack of bills. “Rounded’er up to six pounds. That’s ten.” He gave Ig a very rare smile and tossed a smaller stack of bills next to the first one. “That’s your severance pay.”

  “Severance pay?” Ig frowns at the old man. “You’re firing me?”

  He slides the money drawer shut and eases himself into the padded chair. “Lyvs are goin’ extinct. Can’t sell pods if there aren’t any.”

  By lyvs, he means the strange reborn livyatan species that really isn’t so much whale or fish, but something of both worlds. Instead of eggs or live birth, they spread fertilized pods.

  “So, let them spawn. Let them rebuild their numbers again. I could gather something else. I could—”

  “I’m shuttin’ down, kid.” He sighs, lowers his head a bit. “Getting’ too old to be swimmin’ with the sharks. Gonna pull up anchor and go south.”

  Ig opens her mouth, closes it.

  His cheeks puff out with a breath. “I gave your name to an old friend. A very rich old friend. He should be contacting you for work.”

  Still not sure what to say, Ig nods. She picks up the stacks of money, turns to leave.

  “I’m not finished, kid.”

  Ig stops and faces him for the last time. The ship rocks, groaning and creaking.

  His haggard, grizzled face softens some, remaining eye shimmering in the pale light above the desk. “How long have you worked for me?”

  “Ten years.”

  He nods. “Long time these days. Loyalty is a rare trait.” His chubby fingers drum the desk for a moment. Then he yanks open the drawer again and tosses an even larger stack of bills at her. He lifts a quieting hand when she begins to protest. “Don’t wanna hear it, kid. You’ve collected, harvested, and given me everythin’ I asked for all ten years. Consider that compensation for loyalty.”

  “I…I don’t know what to say.”

  He smiles, and for the first time (a night for firsts, apparently), it’s almost grandfatherly. “No need to say anythin’, kid. Thank you for all those years you had to deal with my sour ass. Now, go. My friend will be contactin’ ya soon.”

  There feels like more should be said and she stands there trying to think of the right words for almost a minute.

  Finally, she manages, “Thank you.”

  He smiles. “Get home, kid. Take care of yours. Don’t ever stop being you.”

  She can’t help but smile back at him. He gives a nod and she leaves the ship, never intending to set foot on it again.

  The night is cool on her sweaty skin. It’s always unusually hot in Berkley’s ship. She stuffs the cash into her satchel and hurries away from the docks. With the beach and Berkley’s ship at her back, she wades through tall grasses toward home.

  The tall grasses aren’t the safest of places, but it’s faster than going around the mile-long swath of grass. She keeps her hand on the butt of her revolver. Things hide in the grasses, be it deranged humans…or something else. The world was never safe before the climate shifts, but now, mutated things stalk every region. Some are escaped lab experiments, others from unknown origins. People have become just as dangerous. As resources deplete, they’re reduced to scavenging and pillaging. They group up into militias and form their own communities and the Government doesn’t care. If it ever had in the first place, these days, they let America crumble while lining their big pockets with blood money.

  America, in every sense of the word, has become an assassin nation. Killing and covering up and getting paid decently for it. Ig wouldn’t be surprised when another power asks them to annihilate all of America. Commit genocide.

  Such is surviving in America now.

  A dark, foreboding hellscape in most regions east of what used to be the Rocky Mountains. Luckily, the West Coast, nothing but a narrow, tattered strip of land about forty miles wide and stretching seven hundred miles long, despite its dangers, is one of the better regions to live in. Earthquakes and rising sea levels about drowned the entire state during the climate shifts.

  At least, with the climates finally switched and jumbling no more, everything has fallen into a strange kind of norm. For now, anyway. Who knows when the world will turn itself upside down and inside out again. But, until then, Ig has other, more important things to deal with.

  Her heart sinks at the very thought, the weight of it all as she drags herself toward home.

  ***

  Crickets and frogs do their nightly orchestra thing. Other than this and ocean waves at her back, the night is calm. Silent. Practically dead.

  Ig steps out of the tall grasses and into a swamp. Nothing marshy. The ground is like walking on a sponge, but other than that, only a few pools of stagnant water here and there. The only thing bad thing about the swamp is the smell. Like wet, dead leaves and mud. Of something almost moldy. The dank and sour stench of decaying vegetation.

  She walks the trail, scraggly trees soon closing in on either side. A swamp giving way to woods. Soon, the inky night sky with its sliver of moon disappears as the tree canopy thickens overhead. Always feels like she’s walking through a large tunnel.

  It awed her when she was young, and still does now.

  The twists and snarls of the branches. The curves of the trunks. Shiny plants and sharp weeds swaying in a mild breeze. This is her safe place. Nothing bad has ever happened to her out here in the woods. This natural tunnel. It’s more home than home, these days.

  Eventually, the woods open to a small meadow and standing about center is a small, elderly house. Little more than a shack, really. Ah, but it’s home.

  Or, used to be anyway.

  All the lights are off, as usual. No electricity out here.

  Once, there had been a time when she’d emerge from the woods to find all the windows aglow in candlelight. On chilly nights, pale smoke would swirl from the chimney and the sweet smell of burning wood never failed to bring a smile to her face. Times back then weren’t exactly simple or easy, or safe, but there seemed to be much more warmth and things to be happy about. Things to be grateful for. She’s not sure what happened besides getting older and seeing the world with gradually jading eyes…or if her view of everything changed a year ago.

  Perhaps both.

  Ig, satchel full of bills, makes her way to her home.

  She stops, forehead resting against the cool, splintery wood of the door. Her hands clench into tight, shaky fists for a moment, then relax. A long breath, too heavy to be a sigh, blows out of her.

  “It’s okay,” she whispers to herself. “I’m okay.”

  Then she unlocks the door, and steps inside her house.

  The Devil's Trench is available from Amazon HERE!