by Matt James
Just when his fingers were about to make contact, she spun and eyed him with disdain. Something wasn’t right… Abigail couldn’t eye him.
She had no eyes.
Or face.
It had all been stripped away and what was left was a just a rotten mess. The comfortable setting was gone too, replaced with that of the hellish tunnel entrance. The sexy blonde had been swapped with that of a figure he didn’t recognize. He knew the deceased was, in fact, Abigail, but Ian’s mind refused to admit it aloud.
“You could’ve done more, Ian,” her dead mouth said, opening and closing with cracking bone. “You could’ve protected me.”
She reached out for his throat, squeezed and bashed the back of his head against the tiled wall of the shower. Ian tried to reason with his dead spouse but couldn’t get the words out, her grip was too firm to even breathe, let alone speak.
Panicking, he pounded on her face with hard rights that would’ve dropped anyone else. Tears ran down his face as he laid into her harder and harder.
“You could’ve done more, Ian.” Her voice started to fade. You could’ve done more…”
Then, like that, she was gone, and the pressure around his neck and the burn in his chest were too. Ian was released and the world around him dark and unfamiliar. The setting was no longer their home in South Africa but in a large cavern filled with shades of blues and greens.
The sweet aroma was still present, oddly enough. Like his beautiful Abigail and their home, Ian figured the fragrant scent would’ve vanished too. Lifting his arm, he saw why it was ever so present as he looked and saw the fluorescent green muck that covered his forearm and tried to ignore his pounding headache. In reality, Ian was caked in the stuff from head to toe, having slid through it before smacking his head and blacking out.
Well, at least it doesn’t smell like manure.
His grin turned into a scowl. Not even Biff Tannen with a mouthful of horse shit could brighten his day.
Nor should it have.
Standing in front of him, not fifty feet away, was the single biggest land animal he’d ever seen. Ian immediately knew what it was, though. Madagascar, like a few other regions around the world, were known to house a genus of the Sebecosuchia. In this case, the Razanandrongobe was exactly what its name translated to in Malagasy, a “large ancestor lizard.”
Looking like a long-legged crocodile, the “drongo” before him was fifty-feet-long at a minimum. Currently, it was using its front legs to claw up the incline to the peak of the birds nest. As he watched the reptile, Ian saw that the grooves in the rock’s surface matched the vertical swiping motion of the gigantic croc.
History had very little information about the drongo. There were minimal fossil records, but scientists believed it to be one of their era's most formidable apex predators. Ian couldn’t fathom anything else within the island being greater than the thing he was currently gawking at.
There’s no way. He squinted, realizing something. Why hasn’t it detected me?
Inhaling deep, Ian understood. The sweet smell of the algae was hiding his scent. It was acting as a “camouflage of the underworld.” Not entirely trusting the flora yet, Ian stayed perfectly still and watched. While his odor was masked, his movements wouldn’t be. He couldn’t know for sure that the lizard was blind. Ian figured it was, but it wasn’t worth taking a risk.
Plus, everything they’d seen so far, while blind, possessed heightened senses in other areas. The croc was most likely the same. Its hearing and sense of smell were both probably impeccable.
So, Ian stayed put and enjoyed the show, taking in as much as he could. Its rear legs were longer than the front, powerfully built but flexible. The tail wasn’t as proportionately developed as a common croc’s was either, being shorter compared to its overall size. Finally, one of its front claws found purchase, and it started again with its other front foot. When it too caught, it planted its rear legs, pushed higher, and began anew.
It reared its head back and roared. Ian recognized the low, baritone sound like the one he and Babo had heard up on the cliff. He couldn’t believe that a monster of its size was actually scaling the rocky cone he had just slid down. It must’ve had a liking for bird meat.
Next to dig in were its hind legs. Each of the massive talon-tipped toes found purchase, and it climbed higher and higher. Once it was twenty feet off the ground, Ian calmly stood and snuck into the trees directly behind him. Gone was his shotgun, but gratefully, he still had his sidearm and his backpack. Drawing the weapon, he continued deeper into the dimly lit jungle in search of his comrades—except—he had no idea which direction he was supposed to go. With no sun or stars to guide him, it was impossible to tell which way was which.
“Just gotta keep moving.”
Barely ten feet into the trees, a thunderous boom announced the arrival of something enormous behind him. Swallowing hard, Ian turned and was staring into the milky-white eyes of a veritable wingless dragon. He froze, giving thanks to his SEAL training. Most people would’ve turned and fled, but with the algae still covering his skin, Ian hoped the giant Komodo dragon-like croc wouldn’t find him.
It inhaled hard and tipped its head, listening.
Hands shaking, Ian kept as still as possible. He was utterly terrified and understood his death was just seconds away from happening if he gave himself away.
The croc blinked and turned its head to the side further, leaning in closer. Ian began to shiver as the croc got within feet of him. He could feel his pistol hanging loosely in his hand, down near his thigh, but didn’t know if he could lift and then fire it fast enough without being bitten in two. Plus, the drongo’s hide looked like it was made of Kevlar.
Put a bullet through its eye and into its brain… That’s what he’d try to do, anyway.
Another moment passed, and the monster had yet to budge, patiently waiting for its prey to make the first move. Ian would happily play the game, though. When he was in the navy, he was forced to sit and wait for hours on end sometimes while waiting for the right time to strike.
But Ian’s concentration broke, and his shoulders sagged when the creature faced him, letting out a soft, yet, still frightening guttural bellow. It somehow detected him. And before it could open its mouth and roar in his face, Ian took off running as fast as his tired legs could carry him.
17
Shockingly, Mack came away from the scrum unscathed. Nash…not so much. The Brit was bleeding heavily from a nasty wound to his left shoulder. It was so bad that he couldn’t lift his high-powered rifle. So, instead of him manning the more opposing weapon himself, Mack did, feeling wholly inadequate while doing so. She was scared to death to fire the thing, let alone being the one in line to defend them if trouble came knocking again.
And it will, Mack thought, looking for a safe-ish place to rest.
Nash wasn’t entirely out of the fight, though. He was currently bringing up the rear, guarding their asses with his pistol. Mack knew he was in excruciating pain, but the former SAS man hid it really well. The only sign of discomfort Nash showed was a slight twitch in his jaw. Regardless, they needed to stop and dress the wound before Nash either bled out or something tracked their scent, especially Nash’s.
“Bloody hell…literally,” Nash said grimacing, trying to sound upbeat and jovial.
Up ahead was a large, downed tree. The base of its trunk was split and long-since-rotted. Moving toward it, Mack got a closer look. While ancient looking and clearly dead, the rest of the tree appeared sturdy and strong, perfect for climbing. And, better yet, its leafless canopy was jammed against another tree’s, healthy full canopy. She thanked the natural illumination again. They would’ve been totally screwed without it.
“Up there.” Mack pointed to the tree.
“We don’t have time for—”
“It’s not a request.” She glanced over her shoulder and found Nash grinning at her. “Look,” she explained. “Let’s get you cleaned up. I—we—need you at as cl
ose to full-strength as possible.”
“Please,” he said, scoffing at the idea. He nonchalantly rotated his shoulder. “I’m…ugh…fine.” He sighed, defeated. “Okay, love, you win…but let’s make it quick, huh?”
Slinging the assault rifle around her back, Mack began her ascent, followed closely by Nash. He was still moving well, but couldn’t do much with his left arm, making his own climb slow and clumsy. It didn’t help that the redwood-sized tree was covered in some sort of bioluminescent algae too. Their footing was somewhat slick, and one false step could send either one of them falling to the ground below.
Almost to the conjoined canopies, Mack risked a glanced over the edge and was actually happy to not be able to see the cavern floor. Hopefully, it meant that the creatures below wouldn’t be finding them any time soon. Unlike the treetops, the forest floor lacked a significant amount of light. There was enough for them to navigate the grounds, but nowhere near as much as in the canopy.
Not that the creatures here can see.
Mack wasn’t sure that was entirely accurate, though. Just because they couldn’t see them visually, didn’t mean the underworld’s inhabitants couldn’t see them by other means. It reminded her of the “vision” that the Xenomorphs possessed in Alien: Covenant. While blind in the normal sense of the word, the voracious space monsters could still “see” their prey by some sort of natural sensory detection system.
“Probably heat sensitive,” Mack muttered, reaching out her hand. She snagged one of the healthier branches belonging to the second tree and turned to help Nash. Begrudgingly, he accepted her offered hand and was pulled up the rest of the way up the dead tree’s trunk. Carefully, the pair climbed into the dense treetop and made their way around to the opposite side, away from their entry point.
Mack was happy to see that the largest of branches, all thick enough to sit on semi-comfortably, met and formed a type of V-shaped landing. She shrugged off the rifle and slipped out of her backpack. Nash carefully did the same with his own pack, trying not to aggravate the wound any further.
He growled in discomfort but sighed in relief when he dropped the bag at his feet. With the sleeve of his shirt already torn to ribbons, Nash didn’t have to remove either his protective vest or shirt to see the injury.
“What did this?” Mack asked, drawing her a knife from her belt. Carefully, she cut away the remaining fabric and frowned at what she saw. There was one giant slash mark, cut horizontally through the outer half of Nash’s shoulder. Besides blood loss, she knew there was nothing else life-threatening about the wound’s location.
“Bloody Big Bird caught me with a kick, nearly took my head off.” He snorted. “Luckily, it snuck up on me—scared the ever-living-shit out of me too.” He cringed when Mack poured some water over the deep cut. “I stumbled and fell on my ass and took the blow in my arm instead of here.” He pointed at his neck. “Bastard tried to decapitate me.”
“I don’t think I could’ve fixed that,” Mack said, smiling.
Nash looked down at her while she examined the wound. “And you can fix this?”
She shrugged. “Have any alcohol?”
“Um,” Nash replied, skeptical, “why?”
“Because…” Mack dug into her pack and removed her small first-aid kit. Opening the lid, she procured two things that made Nash’s face pale upon seeing them. A needle and a coil of thread. “…this is gonna hurt.”
“You’re fuckin’ kiddin’ me, right?” The mercenary’s eyes were wide.
“Nope.”
She reached into her front pocket and pulled out a Zippo lighter, flipping open its top on her thigh while striking the small wheel at the same time, igniting the flame. Then, she held it under the needle, sanitizing the metal.
Nash’s shoulders slumped. “Fuck me…” He sat on a branch. “Ian gets Big Bob as his mate on this excursion, and I get bloody Dr. Quinn, Medicine Woman.”
“And if it saves your arm?”
He shrugged. “Well, I guess that means I’ll have to buy you a pint and say a proper thank you.”
Mack just shook her head and rolled her eyes. When she first met Nash, she felt incredibly uncomfortable with him being a part of their team. His brashness mixed with his outgoing, flirtatiousness made him someone that Mack immediately hated. But with every new challenge met, he seemed to be changing, possibly reverting into a different man.
She carefully inserted the needle into his slick skin. “Why do you act like such an asshole?”
“What?”
She glanced up at him. “Back at your place. You were unnerving and despicable.” He smiled. “Ian wanted to kick the shit out of you.”
Nash actually laughed but quieted when she began pulling the thread through the first stitch. “Well, I uh, you see…” Mack looked up at him again, stone-faced. “Look…in this business, you have to put on a strong front, or you’ll get stepped on, or worse, taken out. Believe it or not, it’s been a long time since I’ve been with, um, a woman. It seems that I’ve come up on an extended dry spell.”
Mack guffawed loudly, accidentally pulling on the thread a pinch. He whined, and she quickly apologized and settled down, continuing the impromptu surgery.
“Sorry,” she said, feeling terrible about injuring the man even more. He did save her life after all. “For what it’s worth—and I’ll kill you myself if you tell anyone—I’ve come up on a dry spell of my own.”
She could see Nash grinning like a fool in her periphery. Then again, look how she just reacted to his admission of unwilling abstinence. Unlike his, Mack’s was mostly intentional. Mostly. Getting intimately close to someone new was something she balked at every time the opportunity came about. Whenever a relationship started heading around the basepaths, she’d end it.
Except for Ian, she thought. He’s different.
Her eyes snapped up to Nash. “And before you ask, no this isn’t an invitation to make a move on me. Remember…” she winked, pulling on the thread a little.
“Okay, okay, I get it, I get it, just finish the bloody stitches so we can get moving.” He gave her a wink back. “I’ll make my move when we’re safely aboveground and away from this godawful place.”
Mack didn’t react. Instead, she focused on her duty. She needed Nash more than he needed her. If things went further south from here, she’d need him as healthy—and as willing to help as possible.
“Where did you learn to do this?” Nash asked.
Halfway done, Mack took a moment to wipe her hands clean before starting once more. “My dad taught me. He was out in the field a lot and not always near a hospital. He even stitched me up one time after I took a nasty spill while we were backpacking in New Zealand.
“Kiwi country, huh? I’ve been there once or thrice on one of my off-the-books jobs.”
“So,” Mack said, starting up the stitches again, “a mercenary, huh?”
Nash laughed again. “Not quite, love. I work as a private contractor sometimes, yes. I’ve even killed my share of people too. But I don’t take jobs that are required to end someone's life.” He flashed a grin. “I may be an asshole, but I’m not a coldblooded one. Even I don’t go around shooting people willy-nilly. I’ve got morals… Well, sometimes I do—you get the point!”
Mack finished up on Nash’s shoulder a few minutes later, applying a generous amount of antiseptic and a handful of butterfly bandages to the wound before wrapping it in gauze and medical wrap. Nash still couldn’t lift his arm very high, but at least he wouldn’t be bleeding out any time soon. He stood but was stopped.
“No,” Mack said standing first. She pushed him gently in the chest, making him sit back down. He did and accepted her offered gift. “High-dose ibuprofen. Let these get in your system first.” Nash threw the pills in his mouth and washed them down with the remains of his water bottle.
“Thanks,” he said, “for everything.”
Mack nodded. “No problem. We need each other now more than ever.” She grabbed his rifle
and held it. “Which means I need your help with this thing if you want me to use it properly.”
Nash scooted over and patted the thick branch next to him. Then, he began to go over the basics of the weapon’s design with her. Thankfully, he used laymen’s terms, keeping Mack engaged in the technical gunspeak. Mack had fired rifles before, but nothing like the one Nash had brought with him. She understood that every variant of weapon had its quirks and nuances and she wanted to know them all before feeling semi-ready to use it.
Especially with another person’s life in the balance.
While Nash rested, Mack stood and stretched, taking a closer look at their hideout. The long, thick branches jutted out in all directions, having little to no pattern in their placement. It was a beautiful chaos of growth, reminding her of an ancient oak tree she once climbed when she was young.
And like that old oak tree…this one had a bevy of full-time residents. She just didn’t notice them hiding in the shadows until now.
She sighed and inwardly did her best impression of Nash.
Bloody wonderful…
18
Ian ran as fast as he could and as fast as the terrain would allow. The ground rose and fell like the hills of Scotland, a landscape he’d only ever seen while unwillingly watching golf with his in-laws.
He’d always dreamt of vacationing there, hiking the banks of Loch Ness while camping on its shore. It wasn’t even the Nessie lore that drew him. What called him there was the calm and beauty the country seemed to radiate. Plus, if he was being sincere, he really loved the various alcohols that were produced within the land’s borders. Trying them in their homemade land seemed too good to be true.
The ear-splitting roar behind him reminded Ian that he was most definitely not in Scotland—but there was, in fact, an otherworldly predator chasing him. Only, it wasn’t Nessie…