Savage (Apex Predator Book 2)

by David Meyer

  For seventeen months, Caplan had protected his friends from the ongoing apocalypse. From the behemoths, the reborn megafauna, the Holocene extinction, and everything else. He’d deliberately kept a low profile, refusing to join up with Danter. He’d run from danger and hid in the shadows. In short, he’d done everything right. And yet, everything had gone horribly wrong. Perkins was dead. Morgan had been captured. Elliott had left. Now, he and the last remaining members of his group were cornered.

  “You got us into this mess,” Toland muttered under his breath. “So, get us out of it.”

  Caplan shifted his eyes from side to side. Armored vehicles littered every level of the mountainside. He saw no holes, no gaps. Running for it was a non-starter. “I can’t fix the engine from here.”

  “What good are you then?”

  “We don’t have a choice.” Leaving the key in the ignition, he cracked his door open. “I’ll go first.”

  Climbing outside, he took a few steps away from the vehicle. The wind picked up speed, assailing him with tremendous force. He stared hard at Roberts’ lean visage. Her hooded eyes stared back at him, watching his every movement.

  He pulled out the twin axes and placed them on the ground. Then he turned in a slow circle, lifting his shirt, letting them know he didn’t carry any hidden weapons.

  “Good,” Roberts said. “Now, the rest of you.”

  Toland and Mills climbed out of the van. Hands raised, they joined Caplan on the gravel road.

  “If it isn’t Bailey Mills, famous for being rich and utterly useless.” Roberts eyed Mills with disdain. “We heard you were dead.”

  Mills forced a smile. “Those reports were greatly exaggerated.”

  Roberts cocked an eyebrow. “Where’s Tricia?”

  “Dead,” Caplan said without missing a beat.

  “You said the same thing about Bailey.”

  “Yeah, but I’m telling the truth this time.”

  “I bet.” Roberts nodded at Mills and Toland. “On the ground. Now.”

  They dropped to their stomachs. A couple of soldiers shackled them, then hauled them to their knees.

  “Very good.” Roberts switched her attention to Caplan. “You met a man the other night. A guy with big muscles and a bright red face.”

  “Oh, I remember him. What was his name anyway? Steroid Sam?”

  “Kevin. Kevin Pitt. We were lovers.” Her lip trembled. “And you killed him.”

  Technically, that wasn’t true. The deathblow had come from one of the Danter residents. But hey, he was willing to shoulder the blame. “You dated that creep?” He shook his head. “Truthfully, I did you a favor.”

  She let out a deep breath. “There’s something you should know about me. I like to kill people. I really do. Especially cocky little pricks like you. There’s something about it that’s so … fulfilling.” She shivered with pleasure. “Know what I mean?”

  “Not really. Then again, I’m not insane.”

  She regarded him for a few seconds. “Under different circumstances, you’d already be dead. But Mr. Corbotch wants you alive.”

  “I guess it’s my lucky day.”

  “It depends on your point of view. You see, I might not get to kill you.” A smile, sweet and full of venom, crossed her visage. “But I do get to break you.”

  He held her stare. He didn’t see insanity in her eyes. But there was definitely an edge to them that set his nerves abuzz.

  Quick as lightening, she unleashed a right jab in his direction. He saw the blow coming. There was no time to dodge it, so he decided to roll with the punch. But when her fist struck his cheek, excruciating pain exploded inside of his head. His legs wobbled and he slumped to the ground.

  Dazed, he looked up. Roberts stood over him. Smiling, she rubbed her knuckles. Her brass knuckles.

  “You’re obviously used to ruling your own roost. Finding food, running from colossi. Helping your little friends, maybe even doing them if you catch my drift.” She stared into Caplan’s eyes. “All that ends today.”

  Kneeling down, she lashed out with her left fist. Caplan tried to roll away, but the last punch had left him sluggish. Her fist struck pay dirt and searing pain slashed up his side.

  Another fist hammered into his right shoulder. Colors exploded in front of his eyes and it took everything he had to keep from passing out.

  “I’m in charge now.” She wiped grime and blood off her gleaming knuckles. “If I say jump, you jump. If I tell you to act like a dog, you’d better start barking. Do you catch my drift?”

  He’d already lost the fight. That much was clear. But he had no intention of going down like a coward.

  “Is that all you’ve got?” He spat out a mouthful of blood. “I’ve had tougher fights with the common cold.”

  Her fist cracked his jaw. His head snapped back, striking the gravel. He coughed, spitting up more blood.

  He felt himself flipped over. A knee plunged into his back, driving the wind out of his lungs. His limbs turned spastic. But the knee kept him pinned down.

  Hands grabbed his ankles, fitted them into restraints. Other hands cuffed his wrists. The knee lifted off his back and Caplan felt himself pulled to his feet.

  Everything was blurry. He blinked a few times, clearing his vision. Mills stood nearby, her face twisted with fury. Despite her restraints, it still took three soldiers to hold her back. Meanwhile, Toland stood still and sullen. A single soldier guarded the grizzled old writer.

  “Don’t worry about your friends.” Roberts snapped her fingers. A black hood slid over Caplan’s face. The drawstring cinched tight. “Worry about me.”

  Chapter 26

  Date: ?; Location: ?

  The feminine screams, terrible and helpless, pierced Caplan’s ears, driving him out of a deep, dreamless sleep. His eyes flew open and he stared at infinite blackness. Where was he? How had he gotten here? And who was screaming?

  Heart pounding, he tried to sit up, to move. But leather straps, bulky and rough, kept him locked in place.

  A squashing noise, flesh on flesh, sounded out. The screams turned into gurgles. Then into whimpers.

  Then into silence.

  His head swirled in the darkness. He couldn’t see anything. He didn’t know up from down, left from right. It was enough to drive him to the brink of insanity.

  He closed his eyes. Took long, deep breaths. Then he focused on his other senses. He felt a soft, thin mattress beneath him. A cotton sheet stretched across it, covering his itchy, aching body. Leather restrained his ankles and wrists. Ah, he was lying in a bed, his limbs locked down with leather straps.

  Faint footsteps struck a hard surface. Light metallic clatters, like forks striking plates, filled his ears. The air smelled of blood, excrement, and body odor, partially masked by a thick layer of disinfectant.

  He decided he was in a hospital. The thought relaxed him until he recalled the leather straps. His heart raced again and memories poured into his skull with waterfall force.

  He recalled the hood cinching tight over his head. He’d been hustled into one of the armored vehicles, then driven to a nearby helicopter. A needle had pricked his arm. His mind had grown foggy. Everything after that was a complete blank.

  What had happened to Mills and Toland? Were they still alive? What about the van and its audio equipment?

  A stinging ache erupted in his forehead. He clenched his teeth, biting off a yelp. The ache intensified and his muscles began to quiver. Colors exploded in front of his closed eyelids. A scream formed inside his throat. He fought to keep his jaw shut, desperate to avoid the uncertain fate of that other screamer.

  The ache got worse and worse until it felt like his head might explode. Then, as quickly as it started, the pain eased. The colors faded. The scream died away. And then he felt fine again, as if nothing had happened.

  He inhaled, exhaled. Then he opened his eyelids and stared into the darkness. Gradually, his vision adjusted to the dim light. Shifting his head, he noticed
tiny beams moving throughout a vast area. It took him a few seconds to realize the lights came from headlamps. Who was wearing them? Doctors? Nurses?

  He turned his head to the right and noticed a long row of beds and machines, stretching into the darkness. A woman with a bulging forehead and big hands lay on the closest bed, half-buried under a web of tubes and IVs. There were at least a dozen of them, sticking into her arms and shooting underneath the sheet to connect to other parts of her body.

  Turning to the left, he saw the row of beds and machines continue into more darkness. Glancing forward and then over his shoulder, he saw more beds, more machines, more darkness. One thing was certain. This wasn’t an ordinary medical facility. In fact, it looked a lot like a field hospital, albeit one with a ton of sophisticated machinery.

  Looking to his side, he saw a single table. It was empty save for a clipboard. Squinting, he made out two lines. The first one read, Savage Station Medical Chart, in big bold letters.

  Hey, look on the bright side, he thought with dark mirth. You found Savage Station.

  But his mirth quickly melted away. According to what Mills had overheard, Savage Station held hundreds, if not thousands, of prisoners. Those prisoners were forced to endure vicious torture.

  And apparently, he was now one of them.

  The second line on the clipboard contained his name as well as the date, November 26, 2017. Ahh, that was a bit of good news. It meant he’d been unconscious for less than twenty-four hours.

  He squinted harder, but was unable to read the rest of the chart. The ache reappeared in his forehead. Gritting his teeth, he fought it off in silence and continued to lay in the bed, restless and hyper-aware. Part of him wanted to call out to the strange people with the headlamps. To bombard them with questions. But he stayed quiet.

  The strange woman to his right began to squirm. And then Caplan saw it. A surgical scar stretching along the back of her scalp. The stitched skin looked fairly normal, indicating the procedure had been done some time ago.

  Looking left and right, he studied the other beds. The machines kept him from seeing much. But he glimpsed a few other heads. All of them sported identical scars.

  His eyes narrowed. It wasn’t a field hospital. Nor was it some kind of weird torture chamber. It was a research station. And that meant he and the others weren’t really patients or even prisoners.

  They were guinea pigs.

  Chapter 27

  Date: November 26, 2017, 10:46 p.m.; Location: Savage Station, Vallerio Forest, NH

  “Where …?” Caplan worked his tongue, trying to get moisture into his mouth. “Where are you taking me?”

  The rolling bed halted. Footsteps scuffed the floor. Then a shadowy figure appeared overhead. The bright headlamp kept him from seeing the person’s face. But he could see the syringe. A long, dripping needle positioned inches above his neck, just begging to put him to sleep.

  He nodded. Fine. He’d be quiet. For now, anyway.

  The bright light left his eyes. Footsteps scuffed the floor. The bed jolted forward.

  Caplan lay still for the most part, conserving his strength. But every now and then, he’d shift his gaze. To the other beds, to the research subjects that lay upon them. He saw lots of men and lots of women. Many of them were burly with short limbs and large noses. All of them, as far as he could tell, sported identical surgical scars.

  Did he have a scar, too? He rubbed the back of his head against a thin pillow, but didn’t feel anything unusual.

  He continued to roll forward, passing more beds and more people. He kept his eyes peeled for Morgan. For Mills and Toland, too. But he didn’t see any of them.

  He turned his gaze to the high ceiling. The room felt like it yawned on forever. But was it really that large? He couldn’t tell, not with all the darkness.

  The bed reached the end of the row and turned right. As it headed down a new row, he shot a glimpse to his left. He saw drywall, painted beige. Tables and chairs were pushed up against it. Corkboards hung on the wall. Notes, work schedules, and warning signs covered every inch of their surfaces. Oddball posters were pinned up between the corkboards. One particular poster caught his eye. It depicted a handsome man and a beautiful woman, happily clinking wine glasses in front of a mushroom cloud. The caption read, These Are The End Times … And It’s About Time!

  And these people are going to operate on my head? he thought. How comforting.

  He felt himself pushed to a pair of doors. They opened automatically. The bed rolled forward again and he entered a long hallway. He barely had time to look around before he was pushed into another room. In nearly all ways, it was different. Instead of beds in neat rows, he saw giant wheel-shaped objects standing on end. Bright lights from overhead fixtures cast a harsh glow on the wheels. Individuals roamed the room. They were clean-cut and dressed in white uniforms.

  A kindly face appeared. It belonged to a bearded, elderly man. “Hello.”

  Caplan looked at him, but kept his mouth closed.

  “Ahh, I see.” The man cast a withering look at the person who’d been pushing the bed. “Your services are no longer required, Joel.”

  Footsteps scuffed the floor, growing fainter by the second. Meanwhile, the bearded man rolled the bed to one of the large wheels. He kicked the brake into place and cranked the mattress into a sitting position. “I’m sorry about that. The orderlies aren’t known for their bedside manner.”

  Caplan didn’t respond. Instead, he looked at the wheel. It measured about eight feet tall and was four feet thick. It was built from a tough, opaque material. Kind of like plastic, but definitely harder. He shuddered inwardly as he noticed a placard taped to the wheel. Block lettering read, Zach Caplan.

  “My name is Dr. Luke Barden.” The man glanced at the chart. “And it says here your name is Zach Caplan. Tell me something, Mr. Caplan. Are you famous?”

  He ripped his eyes away from the wheel. “Well, I don’t like to brag about it, but yes. It’s me. Two-time winner of Warden High School’s ping-pong tournament.”

  Dr. Barden hid a slight smile. “You see, I rarely work this late. But Mr. Corbotch sent word that I was to take personal care of you, Mr. Toland, and …” He checked his notes. “… Ms. Bailey Mills.”

  “You work for James?”

  He nodded.

  “Then take a good look.” He cast a glance at his restrained, sheeted body. “Because this is your future.”

  “Let’s start with your vitals.” He produced a blood pressure cuff and wrapped it around Caplan’s arm. “In the meantime, I imagine you’ve got questions. I’ll try to answer them if I can.”

  “Where are we? I know we’re in the Vallerio Forest, but where in the Vallerio?”

  “I’m afraid I don’t know much about the surrounding geography.” He finished taking Caplan’s blood pressure and jotted it down on the chart. “But I can tell you that we’re in an underground silo right now.”

  “We are?”

  He nodded. “You know those silos from the Cold War? The ones used to house Atlas ICBMs? Well, Savage is kind of like that.”

  “Ahh, those were the days. When people just worried about an apocalypse rather than actually living in one.”

  “Yes, well …” He looked uncomfortable. “Anyway Savage predates the Cold War. The foundations were laid in the late 1800s by Miles Spencer Corbotch. From what I understand, he used this facility to conduct all sorts of strange experiments.”

  “So, nothing’s changed, huh?”

  Dr. Barden’s face turned pink. Silently, he continued his examination.

  Nearby, Caplan noticed a bank of computers and machines. Thick cables connected them to the wheel as well as to fifteen other wheels. The wheels, he realized, weren’t placed randomly throughout the room. They were positioned in a circle. Something about the set-up nagged at him. “What exactly are you doing here?”

  “Well, that’s a complicated question.” He stroked his beard. “Imagine a man with a terminal disea
se. Now, imagine that a cure exists for that disease, only the man isn’t aware of it. He can’t even fathom its existence and thus, would utterly refuse it if offered the choice. Someone should provide him with the cure, yes?”

  “Not if he doesn’t want it.”

  “Even if it could save his life?”

  “It’s his decision.”

  “Not if he’s inclined to make the wrong one.”

  Bewildered, Caplan furrowed his brow. “If you’re trying to say I’ve got a terminal disease, then you’re right. But HA-78 doesn’t affect me. I’m an asymptomatic carrier.”

  “It’s not HA-78. And honestly, the exact nature of your affliction doesn’t matter. What matters is that we can help you.”

  “Help me how?”

  “As you know, the world has changed quite a bit these last seventeen months. It’s become nearly unlivable for our species. We would like to help you adjust—to evolve, if you will—to this new world of ours.”

  Caplan’s brain zoomed back to the clearing outside the cabin, to his face-to-face confrontation with Corbotch. I don’t look younger, the man had said. I am younger. Not all of my genetic engineering efforts went toward megafauna, you know.

  Did that explain Dr. Barden’s cryptic remarks as well as the surgical scars? Was he reengineering people at a genetic level? Was he making them stronger and faster? Was he prepping them for the post-behemoth world? If so, why?

  “Just what I always wanted,” Caplan said. “Unnecessary brain surgery.”

  “Brain surgery? I don’t …” His face brightened. “Ahh, I get it. You saw the scars back in the clinic. Well, you have nothing to fear. All of our patients underwent the same procedure. It’s perfectly harmless.”

  “Then why don’t you have a scar?”

  “I’m Savage Station’s only practicing surgeon, Mr. Caplan. And I can’t very well operate on myself, can I?”

  “I’d be happy to do it for you.”

  “No, thanks. But rest assured the procedure is quick and painless. I’ll be implanting a small microchip under your skin.” He nodded at the nearby wheel. “Among other things, it’ll help you bond effectively with your module.”