Megalania

by Robert Forrester

  Samuels nodded, but the guide seemed reluctant to go and continued calling for his friends. Samuels placed a hand on the man’s shoulder. ‘We have a few hours,’ he said. ‘They might find their way back.’

  The guide turned but hesitated, looking mournfully over his shoulder before he followed Samuels and the others back through the clearing to camp.

  Or what was left of it.

  They couldn’t have been gone more than a couple of minutes, five at the most, but in that time, the entire camp had been trashed. Sample boxes had been upturned, tents ripped from their guide ropes and their supply of food spilled all over the ground.

  ‘What the hell has happened?’ Hendricks said, as they surveyed the devastation.

  ‘There goes our communication,’ Samuels said, lifting up the satellite phone. It had been flattened, the casing snapped in half, wires hanging out like the entrails on road kill.

  ‘Who the hell could have done this?’ Samuels asked.

  Campbell couldn’t figure it out. He glanced left and right at the trampled tents and smashed equipment. Something had swept through the camp like a Kansas tornado. His first thought was bears. A similar thing had happened to him during an expedition in Yellowstone a few years earlier, but Papua New Guinea had no bears, certainly no known species.

  Then what?

  A hiss from the undergrowth signalled they were about to find out.

  Everybody froze, eyes scanning the greenery. The guide, standing closer to the bush than the others, backed up, and matching his movement, something slowly appeared from the undergrowth.

  First its head, and then slowly a large, grey body.

  It looked like a giant crocodile, only stockier, and it stood hip high, with muscular legs supporting its wide body, and instead of elongated jaws, it had more of a muzzle, out of which flickered a forked tongue.

  ‘Nobody move,’ Campbell said, as the others backed up.

  The creature stepped forward, hissing, its mouth gaping and revealing two rows of serrated dagger-shaped teeth. It was huge, perhaps weighing more than Campbell’s car, and a good twenty feet from head to stocky tail that swung left and right as it slowly made its way forward, while the tongue flickered in and out of its cavernous mouth.

  ‘Run!’ Samuels shouted, which not only spurred the others to flee, but also caused the creature to lunge.

  Its mouth clamped on the guide’s hip as he turned to escape. His flailing arms knocked Campbell to the ground. Campbell not only saw the screaming guide being dragged into the foliage, arms and legs thrashing as he rested helpless in the creatures jaws, but also his colleagues running square into another one of the beasts.

  It had emerged from the other side of the camp. This one was slightly smaller, but no less aggressive, snatching Hendricks around the calf, throwing her in the air before its jaws dived at her torso, clamping around her waist as she screamed.

  Samuels kicked the creature in the head and managed to pull her free, but neither of them got very far.

  Two more of the lizards burst from the undergrowth. One clamped its terrible jaws around Hendricks’ head as Samuels tried to haul her up. The other lunged at Samuels’ arm, catching hold before violently shaking its head. The limb popped clean from its socket, leaving the animal with the arm in its mouth, and Samuels bleeding helplessly on the ground.

  Campbell didn’t see what happened next, aware only that their screams intensified over the next few seconds and then were silenced abruptly.

  His attention had been drawn to the first creature, the larger of the pack. Having dragged off the guide, it had returned, a grisly red smear around its mouth like grotesque lipstick, its tongue flicking in and out as it lumbered towards the stricken Campbell.

  Scrambling backwards, Campbell raised his hands to his face as the creature’s jaws opened and released a hiss. A blast of putrid air, the stench of death and decay, hit Campbell in the face. He screamed, but his cries were soon muffled when the creature lunged forward and clamped its jaws around his neck, encasing his head in its mouth.

  ‘Some help you turned out to be,’ Suzanna said as they made their way from the excavation site and back down the valley towards their camp.

  ‘What would you have had me do, shoot them?’ Yates snapped, while clambering over a fallen log. ‘If you’d not been so stupid and tried to take pictures of them, none of it would have happened. We’d have got all the evidence we needed to tell the world what they are doing up there.’

  ‘Well, it sounds like they’re getting their just desserts without our help,’ she said, clambering on the log.

  ‘Yeah, what do you think that was then, a crocodile?’ Yates asked, helping her down.

  She bent down, resting her hands on her knees. ‘I need a breather.’

  Yates shouted for Kange to stop. He shrugged, took out his tobacco and squatted on the floor while Suzanna and Yates sat on the log, both taking out their water.

  ‘I’m not sure,’ Suzanna said, wiping her mouth following a deep gulp. ‘Only saltwater crocs grow that big, and there won’t be any up here, not this far from the coast, and the inland crocs they have here are way smaller.’

  ‘Perhaps it’s a new species.’

  She shook her head. ‘Maybe, but I know crocs and those tracks just didn’t look like them.’

  ‘You sure?’

  ‘Of course I’m sure. I grew up in Australia.’

  He edged a way a little. ‘I wasn’t doubting you, just trying to figure out what could it be? Isn’t there a large monitor in New Guinea, one like the Komodo dragon? They’ve been known to kill people, haven’t they?’

  ‘Komodos have, yes, but not the Salvadori monitor, which is what you are referring to. It’s actually longer than a Komodo, growing up to eight feet, but they’re nowhere near as big, forty kilos maximum. No way could a Salvadori bite a man’s head off. Even a fully grown Komodo couldn’t do that.’

  Yates stood and stretched his legs. ‘Whatever it is, I don’t want to run into it. I suggest we get back to camp, tell the others.’

  Suzanna sighed in agreement. She was tired, hungry, hot, but the quicker they got back to camp, the sooner she could have a lie down. She looked skyward. The hilly sides of the valley had petered away, so she took out the radio.

  ‘Base camp, this is Suzanna. Anybody read me?’

  The radio hissed, so she tried a few more times, as she ambled after the other two, but got nothing back but static.

  ‘Are you sure he’s taking us in the right direction?’ she said, nodding to Kange.

  Yates stopped for a moment and removed the GPS from his backpack. ‘Yep, we’re nearly there.’

  ‘Then why aren’t they answering,’ she said, trying the radio again.

  ‘Probably haven’t heard it. C’mon, last one into camp makes the tea.’

  She let him jog ahead past Kange. Where he got his energy from, puzzled her. She could barely stagger, but she shuffled after him, the prospect of removing her boots and slathering them in Campbell’s ointment driving her on.

  They passed the place where they first saw the stream, and Suzanna felt tempted to splash some if its cold waters on her face, but didn’t fancy developing a rash thanks to whatever the miners had pumped into it, but the sight of the spot at least signalled they were close to camp and her spirits lifted.

  But the sight of the demolished campsite dashed them instantly.

  Nobody spoke, not Suzanna, not Yates, not Kange. They just stood amid the carnage, incredulous as to what could have happened. The entire campsite had been destroyed. Tents were torn down, the canvasses lying all over the place, the contents of the sample boxes and food bins were scattered all over the ground, the equipment, including the satellite phone lying wrecked.

  ‘It must have been bandits,’ Yates said, plucking a discarded hat from the ground.

  ‘I don’t think so,’ Suzanna said, staring at the ground.

  Pools of blood glistened under the afternoon sun and she could
see track marks in the ground, tracks that bore an uncanny similarity to those they had seen at the excavation site.

  A squeal caused her to look up.

  Kange was stood in the centre of the camp, his eyes focussed on something lying under the Orientalis tree that they had used as a support for one of the canvas shelters.

  It was Campbell.

  At least it was most of him.

  His portly body and lobster red legs were easily recognisable, but his body was missing its head.

  Chapter 7

  ‘So what we going to do, chief?’ Franks asked, as they sat in the coolness of Kruger’s air-conditioned office. ‘We’re going to struggle to convince the other diggers to get that site up and running again, not with what happened.’

  ‘Then we’ll keep it to ourselves,’ he said, slugging back a mouthful of bourbon. ‘They won’t know what’s gone on if we don’t tell them.’

  They had tidied up the excavation site as best they could, burying what was left of the Papuan and Jackson, at least he thought it was Jackson, but Loudon didn’t look convinced.

  ‘Might be easier said than done, Mr Kruger. The Papuans know only Lawa returned yesterday, and they’d have seen us flying out today. They’ll know something is wrong.’

  ‘But they won’t know what,’ Kruger said.

  ‘You know what my people are like,’ Loudon said, displaying his palms. ‘A hint of something amiss and they’ll be blaming the devils of the forest.’

  ‘Then make sure you tell them there is nothing wrong!’

  Loudon nodded feverishly.

  Kruger pointed his finger like a gun at them both. ‘And neither of you, say anything to anyone. Understood?’

  Franks nodded too. ‘So, do you think it is a gator then, chief?’

  Kruger exhaled whiskey fumes. ‘Maybe, yes. Can’t think of what else could have done that. No tigers or lions out here. Must have been a crocodile of some sort.’

  ‘That Australian chit didn’t reckon so, though.’

  ‘Everything she knows would have come out of a textbook,’ Kruger snapped. ‘Half the creatures out here ain’t even been classified before. Hell, since I’ve been here, I’ve seen moths the size of eagles, a kangaroo that lives in the trees and a fish that bites people’s balls off.’

  He filled his whiskey glass again, but didn’t offer any to Franks of Loudon. After taking a gulp, he pointed his index finger at Franks. ‘No, I’m telling you, there’s a croc out there and a big one, but we can’t let it interfere in our operations. I want that site back up and running tomorrow.’

  ‘Who you gonna send?’

  ‘Bud, he’s a decent digger, and Stephens too.’

  ‘The Brit? Kinda young, don’t you think?’

  Kruger shrugged. ‘He’s the only geologist we have left, now that Jackson’s gone. And fill the rest of the seats with locals, and make sure they are all armed.’

  Franks nodded. ‘I’ll go speak to them now.’

  As he turned to scurry out of the hut, Kruger stopped him. ‘I want you out there too. All day.’

  Frank’s face whitened. ‘Me! I’m no digger.’

  Kruger stood and walked to the back of his hut and opened the steel cabinet. ‘I ain’t asking you to dig, just oversee everyone and keep your eyes open.’

  He took out one his 12-gauge pump-action shotgun and tossed it Franks, who looked down at it as if it were a live snake.

  ‘And if you see that thing,’ Kruger said, striding back to his seat. ‘You better make sure you kill it.’

  They buried him. Not from any reverence for the dead or out of religious beliefs, Suzanna doubted the professor had any, and she certainly didn’t, but it was automatic, autonomous. They just picked up some of the shovels lying strewn in the camp and dug a hole. Only after they had put Campbell in, refilled it and patted the ground, did anybody speak.

  ‘What do you think happened to the others?’ Suzanna asked.

  Yates didn’t answer. He didn’t need to. There was enough blood and destruction about to indicate that they were no longer alive, dragged off to God only knew where by God only knew what.

  ‘Maybe it was some aggressive tribe or bandits,’ he said.

  She shook her head. ‘Eric wasn’t decapitated. Those were teeth marks on his neck.’ She took several deep breaths, trying to contain the tears she felt welling up in her eyes. ‘What the hell are we going to do? We’re stuck in the middle of nowhere with God knows what lurking in the bushes, no satellite phone to call the helicopter, which isn’t due for another week.’ She waved her hand at the trashed rations. ‘And we have no food or ... supplies ...’

  Her last words were lost as she began crying, something she hadn’t remembered doing since she was a teenager.

  Yates put his arm around her. ‘Let’s try and stay positive. Things are not that bad.’

  He released her and slung his pack off his back, emptying the contents before them.

  ‘Let’s take stock of what we do have.’ He shook his water bottle. ‘Okay, that won’t last long.’ He nodded to their spilled water supply in the camp. ‘But some of those butts are not completely empty. We might be able to salvage a few litres. Same for the food. There’s still some dehydrated packets lying around, and we have the GPS unit, admittedly the batteries are low but we can turn it on when we need it.’

  ‘And where are we going to go? We’re a hundred miles from anything that barely resembles civilisation.’

  ‘We are not alone out here, remember,’ Yates reminded her. ‘I know they are the last people you would want help from, but I suggest we head back to that excavation site in the morning, and hope those miners return.’

  ‘And if they don’t?’

  ‘Then we go and find them. The main mining camp can’t be far.’

  He placed his hands on both hers shoulders and widened his pale blue eyes at her. ‘Why don’t we get some sleep? We’ll need all our energy for tomorrow.’

  ‘Sleep! Here! What if it comes back?’ Suzanna said.

  Yates looked across at Kange, who stood smoking, the rifle slung on his back. ‘We’ll take it in turns to take watch. And first thing tomorrow, we’re going to get the hell out of here.’

  Chapter 8

  Franks wasn’t afraid to admit he was on edge. Damn it, he was the company’s pilot, not a security guard, but Kruger had been adamant. Taylor’s site had to be back up and running by noon. He had pulled out all the stops too, filling Franks’ helicopter with as many men as would fit in the MD 900, which was six plus him.

  The group consisted of Stephens, a young company geologist, who was fresh out of Oxford or Cambridge or some other Brit school and looked like a librarian with his long thin face and rounded glasses, which he continually took off to clean.

  For experience, they had the old digger Bud, so called because he downed beer by the crateful every night and had the red face to prove it. They also had four local workers.

  Everybody had been issued with a rifle and told to keep it on them. This raised a lot of questions, especially with the locals, but Loudon had given them some cock and bull story about angry tribesmen. As for Franks, he had one task, to keep an eye out for that damned gator or whatever it was.

  As the others got the excavator and trommel working again and the noisy machines cut into the rocks and dirt of the valley floor, Franks kept close to his helicopter, eyes glued to the surrounding long grass and vegetation, hands sweating as he clutched the pump-action shotgun, while gnats and mosquitoes enjoyed feasting on his neck.

  It was miserable. The monotony and wretchedness only relieved by the fact Bud had bought a cooler of beers with him, which he begrudgingly shared when they took their noon break.

  The semi-cool beer and meagre shade of the chopper did little to dissipate the oppressing midday heat. Nobody spoke much as they rested. It was too hot, the men too tired, the humidity too repressive. They just glugged beer and ate dehydrated noodles as the sweat trickled down their brows and spread
from their armpits across their shirts.

  Every now and then, a gentle gust or some hidden critter would cause a rustle in the grass or bush nearby, and Franks would bolt to his feet, followed shortly by the others, all aiming their guns at the sound, unsure of why. Only Franks had any idea of the true danger, and even he wasn’t certain what it was.

  He didn’t know much about crocodiles, if that was what had killed Taylor and his crew, but he’d seen gators when he visited his cousin in Florida. Big, ugly, lumbering things. And that was what confused him. Taylor was no shrinking violet. He was your typical American sourdough, a tough, outdoors man, who if he hadn’t spent the last twenty years digging for gold would have been wrangling cattle or roughnecking it in the Texan oil fields. That meant he knew how to handle a gun. So how did such a cumbersome creature as a crocodile sneak up on him, without Taylor or the geologist getting off a shot?

  It occurred to him that there may have been more than one of the critters, and as that thought tickled down his spine, another rustle in the foliage had him back on his feet, shotgun at his shoulder.

  The others followed suit. This noise was different to the false alarms. It was deliberate and closing, as if something was heading in their direction.

  Nobody said anything. Nobody moved. Everybody stared ahead. The hair on Franks’ neck bristled, the sweat drenching his shirt turned cold. Something was definitely there, getting nearer. He could feel a bead of perspiration trickle down his face, but he didn’t remove his hands from his shotgun to wipe it away.

  ‘What is it?’ Bud whispered, as the disturbance in the foliage grew closer.

  Franks didn’t answer, he just stepped forward, slowly and tentatively, his footsteps exacting and noiseless.

  He glanced back at the others. Bud and a couple of the local workers had fanned out, like a group of desperadoes at a showdown.