by Greig Beck
“Ralph!” Ben yelled, and the name echoed against the cliffs, but it still didn’t bring the shark to the surface. Ben pushed off the rock as the sun began to peek over the top of the breakwater, and he took a few steps toward the lagoon’s edge.
And then froze.
The devil was in there, watching him.
And when he saw it, it knew he saw it.
And it attacked.
The giant sea crocodile exploded from the water, and a mouth larger than Ben was opened wide.
Ben threw his arms up and stumbled back, but only took two steps before falling beside the only rock on the beach.
The massive creature’s jaws struck the rock, and that split second gave Ben the chance to sprint away for his life. Ben didn’t stop until he was up the cliff face and into his cave. Only then did he turn and look back with his heart beating fast and hard in his chest.
“Oh shit.” His spirit sank.
The massive fallen tree he thought he had seen last evening hadn’t been a tree at all. In his lagoon was a crocodile that must have been 40 feet long if it was an inch. It was close to the shore, and just its eyes and snout were at the waterline—it had reset its ambush, perhaps hoping Ben would try for the water again.
“Ah shit, Ralph.” Ben sat back. He knew his friend was gone for good. He also knew he’d never get close to the water again.
Ben sat watching for another few hours as the sun rose higher and higher. The crocodile pulled itself up onto the sand to sun itself. It was a monster.
The crocodile’s jagged skin rose like spikes all along its body and down to a flattened tail-like a paddle. The claws were massive and broad, and the body was wide as a bus. But it was the mouth that was its most fearsome attribute—the jaws gaped open as it rested, and Ben could see shreds of flesh between its tusk-like teeth—he knew it was his friend. Ralph wouldn’t have stood a chance being trapped in the lagoon. His speed was useless when he was within a confined space.
Ben remembered from his time in Florida that modern crocodiles nested at certain times of the year, and also stayed close to their nests if they found a good spot—like this one.
Ben looked up at his cave wall with all the calendar marks. “Well, looks like I’ve been evicted.” He gathered up all his things into his woven mesh bag, strapped his spear to his back, and packed a few pterodon eggs in for his travels.
He turned to the rear of the cave. “Goodbye, kids; it’s been fun.”
The small pterodons just squawked their response. Ben then went to the cave mouth and looked down one last time.
“Hope Ralph gives you indigestion, you big bastard.”
Then he started up along the ledge to the top of the cliff.
PART 2 – THE GODS CAN’T PROTECT EVERYONE
“One must wait till it comes” – Arthur Conan Doyle, The Lost World
CHAPTER 14
Eagle Eye Observatory, Burnet, Texas – 5 Days to Comet Apparition
“Here we go.” Jim Henson stared into the viewing piece of the 12.5-inch Newtonian reflector. The massive steel tube of highly polished glass lenses and mirrors, plus large view aperture, gave the man crisp images of the solar system.
“Just like clockwork.” He squinted and used one hand to gently turn the imaging dial with the precision of a safe-cracker.
“Huh?” Andy Gallagher leaned away from his computer screen. “P/2014-YG332?”
“No-ooo. Not even close.” Henson pulled back from the telescope. “P/2018-YG874, Primordia—look at the date.”
Gallagher checked his calendar. “Oh right—the magical number 8.” His eyebrows rose. “Hey, did you know that ‘8’ is a lucky number in China? It means—”
“Yeah, yeah, money, luck, good fortune, or something.” Henson waved it away and then squinted back into the eyepiece. “I love this little guy. He isn’t big, and probably originated in the Oort cloud over a hundred million years ago. But he’s perfectly formed—good coma, tail, and nice glow, which undoubtedly means there’s some sort of iron base, rather than just being a lump of super-compressed ice.”
“Venezuela,” Gallagher said. “That’s where it’ll be closest, i-iiin…” He typed on the screen. “…five days, forty-seven hours, forty minutes, and counting down.”
“Of the nearly 6,000 known comets visiting us in the inner solar system, we only get to see around one per year with the naked eye. But Primordia is a real beauty.” Henson pulled back, snapped his fingers, and pointed to Gallagher’s screen. “Get some pictures, will ya?”
“Right.” Gallagher started typing furiously at his keyboard. Beside them, the enormous computerized 25-inch aperture Truss-Dobsonian reflector came to life. The powerful computerized telescope looked like a barrel on a robotic arm, and it whined as it lifted and swiveled to gaze into space.
The Truss-Dobsonian sent its images directly to Gallagher’s computer. “Here we go.” He focused on the small streak in the sky. “Our baby is just passing by Venus now.”
Gallagher folded his arms as he watched, but from the distance of 162 million miles, it seemed stationary even though it was probably traveling at around 50 miles per second in space.
“I’d love to be there,” he said dreamily. “To the closest planetary point where its apparition becomes observable, I mean.”
“Meh.” Henson wrinkled his nose. “There might be some sort of aurora borealis effect, and you’d see the coma for sure, but would that be worth trekking into the center of the Amazon jungle?”
Henson and Gallagher looked at each for a few seconds.
“Hell yeah!” they both shouted.
They chuckled for a few moments, and then Henson sat back.
“Maybe one day.” He spotted something on the desk beside Gallagher. “Hey, Pete, toss me those Doritos, will ya?”
Gallagher picked up the bag, twisted it shut, and then tossed it into the air. “Look out; it’s Primordia—incomi-iiing!”
CHAPTER 15
2018 – South Eastern Venezuela – 2 Days Until Comet Apparition
Emma shifted in her seat and then reached for a bottle of water. She was parched dry from all the airline travel, and her back hurt; both her legs were going crazy from inactivity, plus her nose, lips, and eyes were so dry she felt like she had just crawled out of Death Valley.
She shifted to try and straighten a kink in her back, but gave up and slumped again. She felt fatigued already…and scared, and resentful, and anxious as all hell.
It wasn’t like this was the first time she had flown into Venezuela. She remembered the youthful exuberance, the excitement, the curiosity…the damned stupidity. Now, ten years older, and with full knowledge of what she was getting herself into, she couldn’t help feeling just as stupid.
She looked around and sighed. She knew what awaited them, but the others didn’t. Even though she had made them read her report, cover to cover, she knew there was no way they could fully comprehend what they were walking into. Her expression dropped as her mind took her back there for a moment.
Who could possibly believe that there was a place where creatures from Earth’s primordial past lived and breathed? That it was a land of brutality, miasmic swamps, and horrors waiting to tear them limb from limb?
She drew in a breath and let it out slowly. Maybe it was for the best that they didn’t really believe the truth. Would she have been able to get them to come with her if they did? She doubted it.
She let her eyes touch on her team. Including her, she now had a party of nine: her soldiers, Drake, Fergus, Brocke, and the foreboding Ajax. There were her paleontological experts, Andy and Helen Martin. Plus two extra gatecrashers: Camilla and her cameraman, the large and jovial Juan Marquina, who to her amazement, had even won over Drake and his team with his good humor and his serious knowledge of the Amazon.
Emma knew she might be leading them all to their deaths. She felt a wave of guilt wash over her and screwed her eyes shut for a moment.
Then they slowly opened, and the
steely resolve had returned. This was a rescue mission, she reminded herself. That’s what really mattered.
Following the many hours and 2,300 miles of flying, they had a smooth landing into Caracas. Their cargo was unloaded, and Camilla had earned her keep by negotiating a low level of scrutiny over what they contained, for a handsome amount of extra fees.
Along with their cargo crates, they were hustled to a large truck, and then headed directly to the Rio Caroní to wait for their flying boat to arrive.
“Looks good.” Drake nodded to the sky as a twin-float seaplane circled and then came down to glide smoothly along the surface. “DHC3 Otter; that’ll do nicely.”
“Good STOL,” Fergus observed.
“STOL?” Andy asked.
The redheaded soldier grinned. “Short take-off and landing; STOL for short. In these parts, if you’re gonna navigate narrow rivers with all sorts of bends and twists, you might not have a lot of clear water to come down on. A shorter landing and take-off craft is better for getting you closer to your target insertion or extraction point.”
“Got it.” Andy nodded, and then walked a few paces over to his sister. He pointed to the plane. “DHC3 Otter; got good STOL.”
She frowned at him, and Fergus chuckled.
Emma watched as the single-propeller craft eased into their wharf. There was a single pilot, middle-aged and grey-bearded, who touched his cap and masterfully maneuvered the floats and rudders to guide his plane in against the wood. Ajax and Brocke grabbed it, pulled it in close, and then tied it off, the propeller slowing and then jerking to a stop.
It only took them 15 minutes to load up and board, and after she met the pilot, Jake, a retired Canadian commercial pilot, she supplied him with their destination coordinates.
He nodded and whistled as he looked at her map.
“You know it?” she asked.
“No one really knows it. But been over there,” he said, pushing his red cap up on his forehead. “Not much down there. Just miles and miles of nothing.”
“That’s what I’m expecting. How long?” Emma asked.
“Good weather, so, two hours, give or take.” He straightened his cap. “Say the word.”
She grabbed his shoulder and squeezed. “Word.”
Emma headed back into the cabin. Just two more hours, she thought. It had taken them nearly an entire day to come down via boat the last time.
She found her vacant seat and dropped into it. The DHC3 only took 10 passengers, and with the bulk of Drake and his oversized buddies, it felt crowded as hell inside. And hot. But right now, and for the next couple of hours, it was all up to Jake’s flying and navigation skills.
Emma settled back as the propeller started up, and the craft vibrated all around her. She leaned her head on the backrest and stared out the window. They were here, and now they were closing in. When Jake dropped them in the middle of nowhere, it would all be down to her memory and a truckload of luck.
The DHC3 began to ease forward, and Emma let herself relax and settled deeper into the seat. She closed her eyes.
*****
Emma perched on the precipice, one hand on the cliff edge and the other gripping onto the wrist-thick vines. Around her, the wind howled like the scream of banshees, and debris was whipped around so hard and fast it stung her exposed skin and forced her eyes into slits.
Over the roar of the tornado, she yelled for Ben to run toward her. But instead, he backed away, not from her, but from the monster that reared up before him.
She went to climb back, but he turned to her and held a hand up to stop her, and then shook his head.
As she watched, the giant snake, the Titanoboa, lifted the front of its 70-foot body nearly 20 feet into the air. Its soulless glass-like eyes were fixed on the man, and its huge muscular body emanated the raw power of an alpha-apex predator.
Ben turned back, seeming transfixed by the thing or maybe just resigned to his fate. He just stood there, a mouse before a cobra. He finally held up a gun, pointing it at the creature, but it was rusted and old, and eventually, his arm dropped to let the ancient revolver fall to the ground.
The snake gathered itself in behind it, coiling its huge muscled body. Emma saw Ben half-turn to her, and her eyes met his. He mouthed something to her. Was it: Hear me? Help me? She couldn’t hear it clearly, but knew it was the most important thing he wanted to tell her.
Emma became frantic and began to clamber back up over the cliff. Ben turned to the snake, distracting it, and then he took a step toward it.
“Don’t!” she screamed.
The snake struck, its massive diamond-shaped head moving faster than her eyes could follow—or for Ben to react. One second, the man she loved had been standing there, and the next, he was in the thing’s mouth. The snake lifted its head, and gulped, letting Ben slide deeper into its gullet.
“No-ooo!” She clambered up onto the cliff. “No-ooo!”
The snake spotted her, and then faster than anything its size should be able to move, came at her like a heavily scaled river of terror. She backed up and felt her foot right on the cliff edge. A hurricane-like blast of wind pushed her sideways, and she overbalanced and fell. Her legs dangled, and she scrambled for the vines as her body began to slide into the abyss.
Emma looked down, barely making out the jungle thousands of feet below her, as everything seemed oily and distorted. She had one arm on the cliff edge and she began to slide.
The snake must be close now, she thought, and she tried to find the cave to leap into—it was there—she could make it. Emma went to swing into it but was jerked to a stop—it had her arm.
She screamed.
Emma’s eyes shot open as she furiously slapped at the thing on her arm that held on, shaking her. Her teeth were bared.
“Whoa, easy there.” Helen backed up, holding her hands up and away. “Nightmare much?”
“Huh?” Emma blinked away the images that still floated in her mind. “No, yes, I’m okay. What is it?”
“The pilot,” Helen said over the sound of the propeller. “He’s calling for you.”
“Oh, okay.” Emma unstrapped and launched herself toward the cockpit doorway. Inside, Jake turned to nod. He lifted some earphones, held them out to her, and she slipped them on so they could talk to each other without being drowned out by the engine.
“Look outside,” he said.
She did, seeing nothing but the endless green of an impenetrable tree canopy, with the dark highway of the river splitting it in half.
“This is where your instructions and map has put us.” Jake glanced from Emma to the cockpit windscreen. “Are you sure about this?”
The river continued into the distance, narrowing here and there, the occasional small clearings at the water’s edge. But for the main part, it was unbroken, and there was no evidence at all of any side rivers.
“Yes, I am.”
But she knew they were down there. Plus, she had a secret weapon. That was if Camilla proved to truly be of value.
“Bingo.” She pointed.
Camilla had succeeded—about a mile or so in the distance, there was a ribbon of smoke rising lazily into the humid air.
“There; that smoke, put us down there,” Emma said.
“Yes, ma’am.” Jake accelerated in the air, and in no time, they were over the top of a tiny clearing, and looking down, she could see a single canoe pulled up and a fire burning.
“Yeah, that’s it.” Emma felt her confidence soaring.
The pilot half turned. “Taking her down. Make sure everyone is strapped in.”
Emma got to her feet and scurried to the cabin where she yelled instructions, getting everyone to sit down, redo seatbelts, and prepare for a fast disembark. Once done, all heads turned to the small porthole windows.
The DHC3 banked, lining the river up, and then they came in fast as though Jake was in a hurry to get them down. In another few seconds, there was the thump and bounce of the flying boat’s floats meeting the
flowing waters. Even though it seemed smooth, the plane rattled and jerked over even the smallest of ripples until they slowed and settled.
The pilot brought the craft around and then eased it in toward the shoreline. Emma saw from the window a single nut-brown man with a bowl-cut hairdo and round belly watching solemnly—she knew who it was, recognizing him even after all the years—Ataca, their original guide and her eventual savior.
Jake guided them into the shoreline, and the nose of the plane bumped up onto the bank. Drake was already up with his men and they threw open the door to leap out, immediately setting to secure the plane with ropes, hammering in spikes to lock it in place.
Jake cut the engine, and after another moment, the sound of the jungle came alive around them, and with it the rush of humid heat, and the smells of decaying vegetation, acidic sap, strange blooms, and brackish water.
Emma leaped down and staggered for a moment on the soft earth. She quickly straightened and waved to the solemn-looking Pemon Indian. As she approached, she saw that he had aged—so had she, but obviously years in the jungle were a lot harsher. The once fierce-looking young man with a smooth face, black bowl-cut hair and daubs of vivid paint on his cheeks, now looked shrunken and less colorful.
She smiled broadly. It was Ataca that had helped her a decade ago when she had staggered from the jungle, more dead than alive, babbling and fevered. Emma went to him and held out her hand, knowing that hugging was not something that the Pemon understood or even wanted.
“Ataca, my friend, thank you for coming.”
He took her hand and held it rather than shook it. His felt like bone and leather, and to him, she was sure hers was silk, and not designed for a life lived here.
“You come back,” he said in soft, halting Spanish.
She smiled. “And you learned Spanish.”
“A little.” He hiked sharp, brown shoulders. His face became serious. “The wettest season comes. And you are here for your friend.”