But none of this was what caused Kowalski to call out.
Gray gaped at the sight before him.
My God . . .
Throughout this flooded savannah moved a herd of massive beasts, a hundred or more in number, each the size of a woolly mammoth. They moved mostly on all fours, though occasionally one would rise up on its hind legs and lumber in an ursine fashion for a few steps, likely surveying its surroundings for danger, before dropping back down. Their faces had short proboscises, like dwarf trunks of an elephant. These prehensile appendages would snatch at the reeds, pulling them up and gnashing them slowly, methodically, like a cow chewing a cud.
“See that moss growing along their flanks,” Stella said.
Gray squinted. He had thought the great shaggy mats hanging from their muscular bodies were fur, like found on mammoths. Only this growth softly glowed in a kaleidoscope of colors.
“We believe the moss has a symbiotic relationship with these beasts, which we named Pachycerex ferocis. The Pachyceri use their body heat to trigger those changes in colors, using it as a way to communicate among the herd.”
“Like fireflies in a meadow,” Jason said, earning a smile from Stella.
Kowalski was less enamored. “Only looks like these fireflies could stomp you to death.” He glanced over to the professor in the neighboring seat. “What about us? Is it safe to continue?”
“Just go slow. The headlamps will likely confuse them enough to let us pass.”
For a species that communicated in soft glows, the herd probably thought the cruiser was yelling at them, like some tone-deaf and deformed member of their species.
“They’ve never truly bothered us in the past,” Harrington continued. “But I’ve never seen such numbers in one place. We’ve spotted a few here and there, and they leave us alone, especially if we stay brightly lit.”
“Maybe it’s mating season,” Stella said. “And this is their breeding ground.”
“In that case,” Kowalski said, “nobody out there better get the wrong idea about us and decide to put the moves on this boxy lady of ours. Getting flattened by a horny elephant is not the way I’m planning on dying.”
“Do what the professor says,” Gray warned. “Move out, but set a cautious pace.”
Kowalski grumbled under his breath as he put the cruiser into gear. They headed through the shallows, making a wide circling arc to stay clear of the deeper pools of the flooded terrain. The Pachyceri meandered out of their path, a few snorting at them, as if rebuking them for the rude intrusion. They rolled past one tall enough to peer into the side of the cab, eyeballing the strangers inside.
“Nosy guy,” Kowalski said, glancing back for approval. “Get it . . . nosy.”
Stella and Jason both groaned.
Gray kept a watch on the rearview mirrors, making sure none of the beasts decided to challenge them, worried that even the stout cruiser might not survive a full-on assault by one or more of these giant creatures.
As he kept guard, a flash of light caught his attention in the mirror, much brighter than the herd’s glow. It came from farther back, where the petrified forest grew thicker. Then he spotted another set of lights to the left, like a pair of xenon-glowing eyes. And a moment later, a third pair joined the other two.
Gray’s fingers tightened on the seatback in front of him.
“We’ve got company.”
4:32 P.M.
No wonder it took us so long to run these bastards down . . .
Dylan Wright stood behind the driver of the largest CAAT, staring out at the expanse of swampland and the lumbering herd of Pachyceri. Far to his right, a vehicle blazed a bright trail across the periphery of the glowing herd, a comet arcing along the floor of the dark cavern.
So they got Byrd’s old snow cruiser moving again.
It must have happened after Dylan and his team fled Hell’s Cape a year and a half ago. But it was no great matter. Land-bound, the cruiser could not match the speed and amphibious dexterity of a CAAT, especially the smaller ones.
Plus the odds were stacked in Dylan’s favor: three against one.
Not to mention, his team already outmanned and outgunned their opponents, likely by the same uneven ratio.
Dylan touched his radio’s earpiece. He spoke to the smaller CAATs to either side. “McKinnon, flank right. Seward, head left. Keep them pinned down. I’ll take the big CAAT and run it right up their arses.”
He got affirmations from both men.
“Go!” he ordered, tasting the familiar lust of the hunt in the back of his throat.
Now to end this.
4:33 P.M.
Jason rode shotgun next to Kowalski as the snow cruiser raced across the swamplands, crushing through the reeds, scattering wildlife, while avoiding the larger obstacles in their path, namely the lumbering Pachyceri. The big beasts trumpeted their complaint, trotting out of the way as best they could. Kowalski jackknifed the big rig back and forth to avoid hitting any stragglers—not necessarily out of concern for the animals, but out of fear that a collision would do more harm to their vehicle than to the thick-hided creatures.
The snow cruiser struck a ridge and jolted up, going impossibly airborne for a moment, then crashing back down on its giant wheels.
Jason clutched the arm of his chair, while keeping watch out his window. Across the cab, Stella crouched in a jump seat behind Kowalski, keeping her eyes glued to the left side of the cruiser.
Lights flared out in the darkness to the right.
“Here they come on our starboard side!” Jason yelled, loud enough for Gray to hear down in the lower cabin.
“Over here, too!” Stella echoed.
On both sides, twin spears of headlamps flanked the barreling cruiser, racing about thirty yards out, running faster and more nimbly than their cumbersome rig. The smaller CAATs were plainly trying to get ahead, to slow them down. A larger CAAT trailed, but it was closing fast, its buoyant treads allowing it to skim across this watery landscape.
“We need to go faster,” Jason mumbled under his breath.
Kowalski heard him. “Got it floored, kid. Unless you want to go out and push, this is it.”
Jason shared a worried glance with Stella.
They’d never outrun these hunters.
The flanking CAATs began to squeeze closer, drawing tighter in a pincer move, attempting to cut them off. Gunfire erupted. Rounds pelted the side of the cruiser and chipped the front windshield. The thick glass held—for now. The cruiser had been built for the harsh terrain of Antarctica, to withstand avalanches and icy crashes, but there were limits to its World War II–era technology.
They needed to break free of this snare. It was now or never. The hunters were as close as they dared let them get to the cruiser.
“Get ready!” Jason yelled down to Gray.
Stella pointed ahead and to the left. “Over there . . . that one!”
Jason nodded and hollered. “Port side! Got a big bull on the port side!”
“Do it!” Gray called back.
Kowalski leaned over the rig’s wheel. “Hold on to your asses.”
4:35 P.M.
Gray had belted himself into the last seat in the cabin, facing the back of the cruiser. Harrington sat on the opposite side, equally secure in place.
The snow cruiser suddenly swung to the side, making a sharp right turn. It lifted up on two tires, rubber squealing across wet rock, teetering precariously as it still spun to the right, swinging its tail end around to the port side.
Gray held his breath, sure they would topple over—but the cruiser finally righted itself and crashed back down to all four tires.
“Now!” he yelled to Harrington.
The professor hit a large black button above his seat.
Bolts blew near the top of the back wall—and the rear door fell open, dropping away to form an exit ramp. The far edge struck the ground, and the ramp got dragged along behind the cruiser, rattling and bouncing across the cavern floor,
plowing through shallow puddles or streams.
Harrington bellowed to be heard above the racket of steel on stone and the bugling of the frightened herd outside. “That must be the one!”
The professor pointed to where an exceptionally large Pachycerex came into view out the back door, thundering along, trumpeting its anger. The bull stood a third taller in the haunches than the others. Beyond its bulk, one of the small CAATs raced, still trying to compensate for the sudden maneuver by the large rig.
Gray raised his DSR rifle aiming for the rear quarter of the massive bull Pachycerex. He waited until the pursuing CAAT drew abreast of the beast—then fired.
The recoil of the electric rifle slammed his shoulder. He got enough of a backwash from the pulse to set his teeth on edge. The sonic bullet struck the flank of the bull. He could tell because its hide had been glowing a dark crimson—then suddenly flared in a splatter of blue, as if Gray had fired a paint gun into its side.
The bull roared and reared up on its hind legs, twisting away from the noise and pain. It dropped back to all fours and charged in the opposite direction—straight toward the CAAT racing along that side.
The bull took its wrath out upon this intruder in the herd. It lowered its head and struck the vehicle broadside with a ringing crash of bone on steel. The smaller CAAT got knocked off its treads, going airborne, flipping sideways. It struck the pond’s far bank, landed on its side, and skidded away in a grinding flurry of sparks.
One down.
Knowing they were outnumbered, Gray had come up with this plan to use this harsh world as a weapon, to turn it against these hunters.
Kowalski threw the rig in the direction of that crash, sending the rear end swinging around again. Gray got tossed hard against his seat’s straps, almost losing his grip on the rifle. The cruiser aimed for this new break in the closing snare, intending to burst free.
The lumbering vehicle roared past the crash site. In the distance, the larger CAAT fell back. Gray stared toward those fading headlamps, sensing his nemesis was aboard there.
Bring it on . . .
4:36 P.M.
Dylan caught a glimpse of a shadowy shape through the dropped rear gate of the snow cruiser. The flare of his headlamps revealed a figure belted inside, holding a long rifle. Though it was too far and too brief a look, Dylan remembered the man from twenty-four hours earlier, seated atop a Sno-Cat, firing up at his Twin Otter, almost taking out the plane.
It had to be that same American.
So the bastard survived . . . made it to the station anyway.
A trickle of respect flared through him. He now understood why Harrington kept eluding him. The old man had help, someone skilled and competent.
Dylan’s fingers found the butt of his Howdah pistol and tightened on the antique wooden grip, readying for the challenge to come.
The CAAT’s driver slowed as they neared the crash site. The smaller vehicle lay on its side in an island of light, treads still spinning uselessly at the air. The exit ramp had torn open with the impact. Gunfire flashed from inside the cabin.
Someone was still alive, still fighting.
And with good reason.
Through that open hatch, the world of Hell’s Cape—riled and angered by the chaos—pushed into the upended cabin in a riot of flesh and acid. Shadows lurched and crawled and slithered, piling one atop the other, likely drawn by the blood of the injured inside. One man burst out against that deadly tide, stumbling and struggling. Something scabrous and spidery clung to his shoulder and neck. Long legs pierced his flesh, digging a firm hold.
It was Seward, the team leader of that squad. The man fought through the reeds toward the approaching headlights, an arm raised in a silent plea.
“Sir?” the driver asked, still slowing.
Then a huge dark shadow swept across the glowing tops of the reeds and speared the man through the ribs, lifting him off his feet and carrying him away.
Three other men had been aboard the crashed CAAT.
But by now all gunfire had ceased inside.
Nothing to be done.
Dylan turned his attention forward and pointed his arm at the retreating rear end of the cruiser. He still had a mission to complete.
“Keep going.”
4:39 P.M.
Gray guarded the open rear door with his rifle. The back gate was too damaged to close. The end of the ramp bounced and sparked as it was dragged along the cavern floor behind the cruiser. Exposed to the elements, the cabin was at great risk. He fired his DSR at any shadows that came too near, but the rig’s knee-rattling pace, along with its belching fumes and roaring engines, continued to be their best defense.
Then a sharp whistle blast cut through the cacophony.
It was Kowalski, laying hard on the cruiser’s horn.
Now what?
Gray glanced over a shoulder to see Jason and Stella come flying down the ladder from the rig’s cab.
“Kowalski needs you!” Jason called out, then nodded to Stella. “We’ll guard the cabin.”
The young woman reached Harrington’s side. “You should go, too, father.”
“Wait.” The professor had found an old pair of World War II–era binoculars and stared out into the darkness. He lowered them and pointed. “Looks like Wright’s heading away from us.”
Gray turned and saw Harrington was right.
The CAAT’s headlights swung away from the rig, angling to the left, taking the vehicle farther out into the swamplands, toward the darkness at the back of the cavernous Coliseum.
Where’s he going?
Harrington motioned with his binoculars. “I saw something lashed down atop that CAAT. It looked like—”
A tremendous boom blasted away his last words, echoing throughout the cavern, momentarily silencing the screams and cries of the maddening life outside. It sounded far off.
As the thunder rolled away, Gray turned to Harrington. “Was that your bunker busters?”
Dread clutched Gray’s throat.
Had Wright just collapsed the far end of these tunnels?
Harrington’s eyes had gotten huge—but from a different fear. “No. If those big bombs had blown, the blast would’ve been much louder. Would’ve shaken this entire system.”
Then what was it?
The professor answered his unspoken question. “I think Wright set smaller charges, enough to blow a hole through the Hell’s Cape station.”
“Why would he do that?”
Harrington pointed toward the vanished CAAT. “I was trying to tell you . . . Atop his vehicle, he had a large disk strapped down, partially covered by a tarp. I think it was an LRAD dish. Had to be four times the size of the ones guarding the station.”
Gray stared in the direction of Wright’s trajectory across the cavern, aiming for the deeper sections of this lost world.
He suddenly understood Wright’s plan.
He pictured a hole blasted through the superstructure of Hell’s Cape, exposing this biosphere to the larger world above. If Wright got far enough into this system and swung that large LRAD dish back toward the mouth of these tunnels . . .
“He intends to flush this world out into the open,” Gray realized aloud, picturing that sonic device driving the creatures of this land toward his newly blasted exit.
Harrington looked sick. “The damage wrought by these aggressive XNA species being set loose upon our established ecosystems would be incalculable.” He shook his head. “Why would anyone do that?”
“The question of why can wait,” Gray said. “For now, we’ve got to stop that from ever happening.”
Stella nodded. “If we could reach the Back Door, set off those bunker busters, and collapse the tunnels at the far end, we could still keep everything bottled up. Regardless if Wright turns on that massive LRAD dish.”
It was their best hope.
The rig’s horn blasted again, now a continuous wail for attention.
Gray pointed to the bouncing ramp, yelling to
be heard. “Jason, Stella! Don’t let anything in!”
If Harrington was right, they couldn’t let anything slow them down.
After he got nods from Jason and Stella, Gray rushed toward the front of the rig, drawing the professor in his wake. He vaulted up the ladder and helped Harrington into the upper cab.
Kowalski scowled back at them, letting go of the chain that led to the blaring horn. The wail finally cut off. “’Bout time.” A thick arm pointed forward. “Doc, is that your Back Door?”
The rig’s massive headlamps cut a swath through the darkness, revealing an installation encrusted like a steel barnacle high up the far wall. The gondola cables along the roof dove down to meet this small base, which from its interconnected series of boxy rooms and sealed tunnels could be mistaken for a grounded space station.
“That’s the substation,” Harrington agreed. “We wedged it into a natural crack, a fissure that led almost to the surface. We drilled a tunnel the rest of the way up.”
Creating this rear exit.
“Then we have a problem,” Kowalski said, lowering his arm and drawing their attention to the terrain directly ahead.
Between the rig and the Back Door, a wide tributary cut across their path. The flow churned swiftly, frothing its path through jagged rocks and sharp stalagmites. It looked too deep for the snow cruiser to cross on its own.
But all was not hopeless—or at least not completely hopeless.
“What do you think?” Kowalski asked.
Off to the left, an old wood-and-steel bridge arched over the river. During their passage through the Coliseum, the remains of other spans dotted this watery landscape, likely built by the Americans who first explored through here. It must have been a daunting undertaking.
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