Savage Lands

by Andy Briggs

  Jane heard a crackle in the headset she was wearing to minimize the rotor noise. Greystoke’s voice filtered through. “We’re almost there. Get ready for landing.”

  Jane was unsure how to get ready, and the quizzical look of the others showed they were thinking the same thing. The chopper suddenly rose, causing Jane’s stomach to plummet as they climbed up the steep banks of a mountain. The jungle canopy was closer than ever and she couldn’t shake the thought that the pilot was going to crash. But he was skillful, and pivoted the helicopter over the gray shards of stone that poked from the mountaintop and revealed the vista beyond. Jane craned to get a better view through the cockpit canopy between Archie and Clark. What she saw made her heart sink.

  A huge swathe of jungle had been cleared for several miles, exposing the red clay beneath like an ugly scar in the landscape. The ground was laced with dirty brown streams that fed polluted water back into the rivers, and everywhere she looked bulldozers and excavators tracked to and fro, open-pit mining the landscape. Clark peered through the window as they flew over the site, impressed at the scale of the operation. A couple of boats and a floatplane were moored on the river, adjacent to a pair of large metal fuel tanks. It seemed as if Greystoke had everything he needed to stay in the wilderness.

  The helicopter pivoted over a landing pad, nothing more than a slab of concrete set into the mud a hundred feet from a set of portable cabins that fanned out across the site like a shantytown. The scale was greater than Karibu Mji and the devastation was above and beyond anything they had achieved even after months of logging.

  They landed so smoothly that Jane didn’t feel a thing. The rotors quickly wound down and a pair of ground crew rushed over to help Greystoke out. They kept their heads bent down as they passed under the slow-spinning rotor blades, despite the fact that there was more than enough clearance.

  The side door cranked open and the ground crew gestured for them to exit. One of the crewmembers wore a perfectly white shirt that looked out of place in the dirty mine around them; he looked like the poster boy for a corporation with more cash than morals. He walked ahead with Greystoke, and the group caught the name Edward from a snatch of conversation. The other was a woman with flame-red hair. She didn’t look happy to see them, but was apparently under orders to be hospitable.

  “Welcome,” she said with an Australian accent.

  The smell of dust and diesel struck Jane. Every breath she took tasted of dirt. “What are you mining?” she asked. The woman ignored her and helped Archie, who grinned at her with all the charm he could muster, out of the helicopter.

  “An absolute pleasure. Lovely to meet you. I’m Archie.”

  “Idra,” acknowledged the woman.

  Jane rolled her eyes and hurried over to Greystoke and Edward. Greystoke was gesticulating, his voice raised: “Don’t let any more of those damned pygmies in here. How hard can that be?” He shot a scathing look in the direction of a dozen barefoot Mbuti men carrying heavy machinery. Unlike the people they had encountered in the jungle, the men wore grubby Westernized clothing and their faces bore a pale unsmiling mask. Jane thought they looked more like slaves than workers.

  “What are you mining here?” she asked, pushing herself between Greystoke and Edward and looking around. She noticed Archie was still chatting to a bored-looking Idra as Robbie and Clark took in the site, Clark occasionally pointing to huge pieces of digging machinery.

  Greystoke hesitated, obviously not used to being spoken to so casually in front of staff. He shot Edward a look before answering. “Coltan.”

  “Never heard of it,” said Jane crossing her arms and turning to face him. “I guess it’s pretty valuable, otherwise you wouldn’t be poisoning the land?”

  Edward raised his hand and smoothly moved in between them, a job he was no doubt amply paid for. “This is a fully legal operation we have out here, miss.”

  His tone irritated Jane, but she didn’t let it show. Instead she forced a smile. “That’s not what I asked, Edward.”

  Greystoke nudged his spokesman aside. “Coltan is very valuable and we need it,” he said primly. “You use it all the time, everybody does. In your phone, car ignition systems, lights, computers—just about every electrical item uses coltan, and it just so happens that one of the world’s largest supplies is under this jungle.”

  “So you’ll rip up the rainforest just to find it?”

  “Ah, now you’re a flag-waving eco-warrior are you? Spend a few months in this hellhole and you think it should all be preserved?”

  “I’ve only just got here and I can see what you’re doing is wrong.”

  Greystoke laughed, his eyes narrowing. “Oh, the irony of such a statement coming from the daughter of a logger.” He shook his head condescendingly.

  Jane tensed, ready for an argument, but Archie and Clark caught up with them.

  “Nice operation,” said Clark casually. Greystoke didn’t see the look he shot at Jane. It spoke volumes: Shut up. “You must extract a lot of ore from here.”

  Greystoke sniffed at the idea and walked toward the cabins, forcing the others to keep pace with him. “It used to be a lucrative mine. My father set it up on the assumption the coltan reserves ran deep. Alas, he was mistaken. We’ve taken about all we can from this area.”

  “Is that why you wanted the survey plans from the airplane?” said Robbie suddenly. “You think whatever’s in the lost city of Opar is worth more than this?”

  As he reached the cabin, Greystoke spun on his heel and glared at Robbie with deep-rooted annoyance. “Much more! But those plans alone cover a huge geographic survey of the region. My uncle spent millions surveying this land.” He waved his hand toward the jungle. “And with thousands of square miles still un­explored. Who knows what’s out there, waiting for us? An inconceivable fortune …”

  “And it’s all yours?” said Jane sarcastically.

  Greystoke opened the door of a cabin, pausing only to look back at her. “It is there for whoever takes it first,” he said with a sardonic smile. “Survival of the fittest.”

  • • •

  Deep underground, Tarzan sprinted along a straight tunnel that angled further down, following the sound of screaming. The temperature was increasing and sweat glistened on his skin. It was more cloying than the humid rainforest above, a dry unforgiving heat.

  A light ahead burned with more ferocity than the luminous vegetation clinging to the walls. Tarzan slowed his pace, dropping to all fours and pressing himself against the smooth stone as he approached the opening.

  There was a bigger cavern beyond, and the tunnel Tarzan was in offered a view from midway up. It was a colossal natural cavern. Steps led down to the massive floor below, carved from the stone by hand. Several single-story buildings, now nothing more than ruins, spread across the floor in what would have once been a subterranean town. Luminous lichen and half-moon fungi clung to the rubble wherever it could, giving an almost dreamlike quality.

  In a wide area, like a town plaza, the Targarni had gathered—more of them than Tarzan had ever seen before. They were pale from spending too much time underground, but none as pure white as Goyad, who stood on his knuckles on an elevated platform. The apes appeared to be watching the captives. Tarzan could not see the humans as the few buildings remaining standing blocked his view. But he could hear the female’s screams.

  He edged closer to the top of the staircase. If he were seen, only his head start would prevent him from being torn limb from limb. Almost nothing frightened Tarzan, yet the thought of fighting an inevitable losing battle with the apes made him cautious. The steps fanned out in a graceful one hundred and eighty degrees, allowing Tarzan to edge down the side flanks, which offered better cover from prying eyes. Luckily, the Targarni’s interest was focused on Goyad.

  A quarter of the way down the steps, Tarzan was able to see around the buildings. Most of the
light came from a pair of massive stone bowls standing on plinths, etched in strange pictorial symbols. He could only just see the tongues of flames licking over the edges. The flames provided dramatic under-lighting to a thirty-foot-tall pair of coiling snakes looming over the bowls, carved out of stone, their mouths open, ready to strike and revealing black stone fangs. Their features were harsh and finely detailed, unlike the carvings near the entrance, which had been dulled by time and weather. The snake’s eyes seemed to sparkle with living malice.

  Tarzan’s gaze was dragged back down to the scene unfolding at the base of the snake’s mighty stone coils. Two of the human captives lay on a massive slab of stone—the female and the man who had been struck by Goyad. Where the third was, Tarzan could not see; perhaps he was too late to save him. Narrow stone blocks across their hands and legs restrained the man and woman. The female struggled, but the man was still unconscious. Tarzan frowned, wondering what Goyad’s intentions were. He placed a hand on the step below, intending to lower himself to the cavern floor—but froze suddenly as another figure appeared at the altar.

  It was a woman, tall and slender with long dark hair adorned with luminous specks of lichen. She wore a long robe that looked as if it had been fashioned from many other garments. From this distance he couldn’t guess her age, but she moved with utter confidence amongst the Targarni, who seemed to consider her one of their own. She waved her arms over the victims and spoke aloud, her words unintelligible as they echoed around the cavern. Whatever was said drove the apes into a cacophony of wild hooting that rumbled across the broken city.

  The woman retrieved a metal sword from the floor. Even in the dim light the polished blade gleamed. She held it above the female captive who screamed louder than ever.

  Tarzan was transfixed by the spectacle as the robed woman brought the blade down across the unconscious man’s throat. The sight didn’t phase the ape-man in the least—he had done far worse with his bare hands—but the captive woman’s wailing rose in angst as she was splattered with blood.

  Tarzan enjoyed eating raw meat, but something inside him had always cautioned him not to eat ape or human flesh. Instead he satisfied himself on the animals he found foraging in the jungle. Still, even knowing the value of fresh meat, Tarzan was surprised when the robed woman cast the man’s severed limbs into the yowling mob of Targarni. The apes shrieked with bloodlust as they scrambled for the tastier morsels, causing waves of motion in the crowd. Tarzan felt his stomach knot; some deep primal instinct told him this was wrong.

  The woman was saving the tender internal organs for herself and Goyad. Tarzan knew that if he hesitated any further, the female prisoner would be their next kill. He had no intention of letting Goyad or the strange woman have any further barbaric enjoyment.

  Tarzan quickly descended the steps and, hunched low, ran to the cover offered by the ruins. A cautious glance assured him that the Targarni were still indulging in their feast and none was looking in his direction. The robed woman had almost finished her macabre act and Tarzan sensed it wouldn’t be long before she turned on the female. He had to work out a way around the mass of apes. His gaze followed the rough natural cave wall up as it curved toward the giant snake statues. The gap was wide, but he was sure he could make the leap between them.

  With agility honed over a lifetime, Tarzan scampered up the wall. His feet and fingers found uneven edges just wide enough to balance on. His toned muscles pulled him higher and higher. Never once did he consider what would happen if he fell—that had never happened before and the idea had never crossed his mind. In no time at all he had reached a narrow ledge some forty feet up. It provided just enough purchase for him to crouch tightly. He sprang into the void.

  The Targarni below had no reason to look up; instead they were following the blade in the woman’s hand as it danced over the female captive. The apes howled in anticipation of the feast, some baring blood-coated fangs in rictus grins. They didn’t see Tarzan land on the curved stone body of one of the statues. His feet slipped on the smooth surface and for a moment he was in danger of sliding off and dropping into the throng. With honed reflexes, Tarzan’s hand shot out and grabbed the carved crest that ran the length of the snake. His feet cycled in the air, but his single-handed hold prevented him from falling. With every sinew tensed, Tarzan pulled himself up, planting his feet firmly on the statue’s curves.

  With his free hand he snatched the vine rope from his waist and swung the lassoed end up to the flaming bowl, snagging it on one of the ornate carvings on the plinth that supported it. The loose end he tied around his waist with a simple knot. His mind had already plotted the route he needed to take, so he didn’t have to think. He braced himself against one snake, then leaped across and down to the opposite statue. With minimal effort, Tarzan zigzagged his way down between the statues as the robed woman lifted the sword. In the same moment, she looked up. The dazed, almost sleepy expression on her face suddenly transformed into absolute shock as she saw the wild man bear down on her.

  Tarzan landed just behind the woman, shouldering her into Goyad just as the ape recognized Tarzan. With a grunt, Tarzan lifted the stone block from across the captive female’s hands. It was surprisingly heavy, and he had to brace himself to fully lift it aside. It was covered in intricate carvings, which were in turn covered in long-dried blood. He noticed two hollows had been carved from the block, designed to perfectly restrain the victim’s wrists. He hauled the female over his shoulder and spun to face the riled Targarni, who were only just recovering from the unexpected rescue and waiting for a cue to attack.

  Tarzan faced the horde and bellowed the deep challenge of a male bull ape. It was enough to make the apes pause—and it gave Tarzan enough time to yank the rope fastened around his waist. With a mighty rumble, the flaming bowl started to topple from the plinth. Tarzan had caused hell to rain down into the cavern.

  8

  Albert Werper leaned on the table with one hand, the other carefully tracing a finger over the detailed geo-survey maps Lord Greystoke had retrieved from the plane wreck. Greystoke’s archeologist lifted a magnifying glass and leaned closer, examining a contour and double-checking the maps’ color-coded legend. He breathed through his narrow nose, so his nostrils flared and whistled every time he came across an interesting feature.

  After examining the maps for close to thirty minutes, he stood up, his back cricking as he stretched. Then he scratched his scalp, the brown curls now damp with sweat and flat against his skull. He didn’t look at the other occupants in the room, but stared dreamily into space.

  “Well?” Lord Greystoke prompted. He sat in the corner of the modern cabin, logging details of his previous adventures on a rugged laptop. The site nurse had treated his wounds and declared him to be fit, though he had insisted on bandages being wrapped around his midriff and wore his shirt open, sporting the bandages as a brave war wound.

  Werper watched Archie and Clark, who sat at one table finishing a meal. Jane was asleep in a chair, her head slumped awkwardly on the arm. Robbie slouched in another corner, watching Werper intently. The moment he had met the man, he disliked him. Albert Werper was ferrety, his eyes constantly shifting, never focusing on the person he was talking to. When he spoke, it was often curtly, as if he had more important people to speak to. Even with Greystoke he was often snappy and aloof, but the English lord gave no outward indication that he was annoyed. Greystoke had introduced him as an archeologist, but said little more.

  Greystoke sighed, and snapped the laptop’s lid down with a thud to get Werper’s attention. “Are they of use?”

  Werper nodded, then paused. “No, there’s a problem,” he suddenly countered.

  “They are my uncle’s maps, correct?”

  Werper paced the room, gazing thoughtfully through the window. “Yes … Well, you found them on their plane, didn’t you? I hardly think there’s room for duplicity here. They’re very accurate, marvelous
detail.” He paused again, internally working through the problems.

  “So … ?” Greystoke prompted warily.

  “So the landscape is intricately recorded—rock strata, rivers … even coltan deposits.” Werper’s eyes narrowed mockingly when he saw Greystoke get excited. “But there are no markers, no features we can readily identify. They could be maps of any jungle in the world.”

  Robbie smiled inwardly, careful not to look at Clark who made a disappointed huffing sound. Annoyance flashed across Greystoke’s face and he crossed to the map, studying it intently.

  Werper didn’t turn around. “Oh, there are ruins marked on the map. Opar, I can only presume. What other civilization could have created them?”

  Greystoke found the ruins marked on the map—nothing more than three tiny squares. A handwritten legend across the area read “Savage Lands” in small letters. “So these mountain ridges, valleys—all we have to do is transpose them over the maps we have. Surely that will reveal the location?”

  “We have satellite imagery, but nothing showing these contours. Nothing this accurate.”

  Robbie allowed himself to relax a little as Greystoke grew increasingly frustrated. With luck, this whole venture would turn out to be nothing more than a wild goose chase and they could return back to the camp, leaving Tarzan at peace. During his time spent with the ape-man, Robbie discovered an affinity with him. His life had been in Tarzan’s hands so many times, yet the wild man had asked for nothing in return… . Unlike almost everybody else Robbie had encountered in the past.

  “There are rivers here,” said Greystoke persistently. Clark rose and limped across to look at the map.

  Werper’s laugh contained no humor. “Do you know how many rivers are out there? Most haven’t even been mapped. This is a fool’s errand, Bill.” Greystoke flinched at the common use of his name. Werper didn’t care; his temper was rising. “Do you know what it’s like to be this close to something you’ve searched for all your life”—he held up his thumb and forefinger fractionally apart—“only to have it tease you? Prove impossible to achieve?” His hands bunched into fists and it looked like he wanted to punch something, but was too timid to try. “Maybe … maybe it’s all wrong. Maybe Opar is nothing more than a Mbuti myth.”