Behemoth (Apex Predator Book 1)

by David Meyer

  “So, why are you so secretive about your little free-range zoo?” Caplan asked. “You should be shouting about it on the rooftops.”

  “Bureaucracy has its benefits, but dealing with revolutionary ideas isn’t one of them. If the authorities discover the truth about the Vallerio, they’ll shut me down. They’ll seize the animals, maybe even the whole forest.” Corbotch looked out the window. “No, I need to keep this under wraps. At least for the time being.”

  Caplan sensed a note of finality in Corbotch’s tone. Just then a tiny airborne object outside the front windshield caught his eye. It was a cargo helicopter, built for utility rather than comfort. Small letters etched upon its side read, Blaze.

  Caplan nodded at it. “How many people are in there?”

  “Twelve,” Corbotch replied. “Actually, thirteen with Cam Moline.”

  Cam Moline was the real name for the baller from the alley. Although he’d sustained a multitude of cuts and bruises, Moline had quickly recovered from the fire escape fall as well as from the beating Caplan had dished out to him.

  Caplan shook his head. “That’s too many people.”

  “Don’t worry. They’ll remain out of sight until you’ve secured entry into Hatcher and gotten a chance to assess the situation.”

  “So, I’ll be alone?”

  “No. Julius will accompany you.”

  “But—”

  A blaring noise, akin to a billion sirens sounding off in unison, filled the air. It flooded Caplan’s head, turning his brain to instant jelly. He clutched his ears, but it didn’t help. The noise was everywhere, inescapable.

  “Derek,” Corbotch shouted. “What is that?”

  There was no response from the cockpit. Or maybe there was, but the blaring noise had drowned it out.

  Tremendous heat, hotter than fire, engulfed the cabin. Sweat beaded up on Caplan’s face, his chest, and his legs. It poured down his body, soaking his clothes and the seat beneath him. He tried to breathe. But the air was thick and he had trouble getting oxygen into his lungs.

  A brilliant light flashed to the north. A cold shiver ran down Caplan’s back as he stared out the side window. Just a few minutes earlier, he’d marveled at the Vallerio’s darkness. But now, that had changed.

  Raging flames engulfed the forest. And yet, the flames didn’t burn. Instead, they cast an eerie glow, pulsing in perfect rhythm with the blaring sirens.

  “What the hell …?” he muttered under his breath.

  The glow appeared to originate from the north, growing lighter with distance. It was fairly bright under the Blaze, less so under the Rexto 419R3.

  Sweat dripped down Caplan’s forehead. It oozed past his lashes, stinging his eyeballs. It slipped into his mouth and he tasted salt on his tongue.

  “Are you seeing …?” His voice trailed off as he looked at Corbotch. The man twisted in awkward fashion, moving in time with the fluctuations of the strange blaring noise. His hands covered his ears. His eyes were clenched shut. His teeth ground against each other.

  But Caplan barely noticed those things. What really captivated his attention was the man’s body.

  It was glowing.

  He blinked, just in case his eyes were playing tricks on him. But when he took another look, he still saw the pulsing orangish light surrounding Corbotch’s body. The guy looked like a phantom. A burning phantom. And he wasn’t unique in that respect. Quick glimpses at Pearson, Perkins, and himself confirmed that all of them had been transformed into glowing flame-like creatures.

  The air morphed around Caplan, growing freakishly solid. The odors of chemicals and metals filtered into his nostrils. Streaking bolts of electric icicles jabbed at him, jolting him over and over again.

  Caplan released his ears. The blaring noise continued to assault him. How much time had passed since he’d first heard it? Ten seconds? Ten minutes?

  The sirens continued without fail, pounding at his eardrums, his skull. His gaze shot back to the window. The strange non-burning flames continued to pulse through the forest. Glowing lights shot across the sky, stabbing the darkness, retracting, and then stabbing it again. The ample light provided Caplan with a view that seemed to stretch for miles. But his eyes remained glued to a specific spot in the sky.

  “What the hell are you doing?” he whispered through clenched teeth. “Get higher, damn it.”

  But the Blaze, surrounded by intense light, continued to descend at an alarming rate.

  Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his watch. Took note of the time. Seventeen seconds past 1:27 p.m.

  Abruptly, darkness swirled around him, clutching him in its cold embrace. He had no time to think, to consider what was about to happen. One moment, he was wide-awake.

  The next, he was out cold.

  Chapter 15

  Date: June 19, 2016, 1:29 p.m.; Location: Prohibited Airspace, Vallerio Forest, NH

  His eyelids fluttered open. His drooped head stared directly at his lap. He saw his watch. Read the face. Nine seconds past 1:29 p.m. He’d been unconscious for a full one minute and fifty-two seconds. Just a blip of time in the big scheme of things.

  But to Caplan, it was everything.

  Blinking, he looked across the aisle. Saw Corbotch. The man’s head was drooped as well. His eyes were open, however, and he seemed to be in the process of waking up.

  Caplan’s brow furrowed. Evidently, he hadn’t been the only one to pass out. But that thought was forgotten as he realized something else. The blaring noise had vanished. Almost as if it had never happened.

  The air felt cool against his skin. It was no longer solid. He smelled the now-familiar odors of oil and Corbotch’s expensive cologne. The shooting electric icicles were gone, too.

  Looking around, he saw no traces of the phantom glow that had engulfed Corbotch, Pearson, Perkins, and himself. The non-burning flames, both in the sky and in the forest, were gone as well.

  His eyes shot to the window as he recalled the downward trajectory of the second chopper. But the sky, growing darker and stormier by the second, kept him from seeing much.

  He shifted his gaze. His eyes bulged as he caught a glimpse of distant forest, far from where he’d last seen the Blaze. Just a short while ago, non-burning flames had plagued it.

  Now, real ones had taken their place.

  Chapter 16

  Date: June 19, 2016, 1:30 p.m.; Location: Prohibited Airspace, Vallerio Forest, NH

  The helicopter jolted severely to the right. Caplan realized the odd events had disoriented Perkins. Conditions were ripe for a second crash.

  Ripe for death.

  He reached for his seatbelt. Fumbled with it for a moment. Finally, he managed to release the buckle. Inhaling a long breath, he rose to his feet. The chopper jolted again, this time to the left. Caplan’s balance failed him and he fell back into his seat. His back hit the cushion hard and the impact emptied his lungs. He gasped at the air, taking a few quick breaths. Then he lunged forward.

  His momentum carried him all the way to the opposite row. He nearly crashed into Corbotch, but swerved at the last second. Reaching into the cockpit, he grabbed Perkins’ shoulder.

  Perkins turned around. His mouth hung agape. His eyes were dull, unfocused. His short black hair stood on end. His mocha-colored face looked strangely ashen. “I was out,” he muttered. “For almost two minutes.”

  Caplan’s eyes widened. But he managed to keep his brain on the task at hand. “Find a clearing,” he said. “And take us down.”

  “Almost two minutes …”

  Caplan looked into Perkins’ eyes. Saw the cloudiness in the man’s once-fierce pupils. “What’s your name?”

  “My name …” Perkins blinked. The cloudiness faded away. “Derek. Derek Perkins.”

  “I need you to take us down, Derek. Can you do that?”

  Perkins swallowed. “Did you see the Blaze? I think it crashed.”

  “We’ll worry about that later. Just get us on the ground.”

  A bit o
f color returned to the man’s visage. He grabbed the controls and the helicopter began a slow descent toward the forest.

  Caplan propelled himself backward. Flopped into his seat. Grabbed his seatbelt and got it buckled.

  He wiped his face, clearing away a mask of sweat. A feeling of pleasant nothingness floated through him. He felt no panic, no need to ask questions. Shock had seemingly stilled his brain.

  But on a much deeper level, he felt something else. A small dark spot on the very edge of his soul. Something had happened to them. Something he couldn’t explain. But he knew he’d carry the memories of the last few minutes for the rest of his life.

  Maybe even into the afterlife.

  Abruptly, a flood of conflicting emotions wiped away his pleasant nothingness. Amazement and horror. Hope and despair. Elation at being alive. Fear at what had happened to the Blaze.

  He looked out the window and gazed upon the forest. It looked different than he remembered. He couldn’t put his finger on it. It just looked … different.

  He shifted his gaze to the distant flames. They were so far away. The Blaze must’ve swerved farther northward while he’d been unconscious. There was a slight possibility the occupants had survived the crash.

  But could they survive the flames?

  One by one, his positive emotions vacated him. Five months ago, a man had died because of him. He’d be damned if he let that happen again.

  He was tempted to call to Perkins, to demand a closer landing point to the fire. But the pilot already had his hands full trying to locate a clearing in the dense forest. And what if the blaring noise struck again while they were airborne? What if Perkins lost consciousness for a second time? No, the smart move was to land as quickly as possible. Then he could figure out his next move.

  He pushed his face against the window, so hard that his forehead began to hurt. Images of Tony Morgan flashed through his mind. Traces of survivor’s guilt began to creep through his veins all over again.

  “Hold on,” Caplan whispered as he stared at the flames. “Just hold on.”

  Chapter 17

  Date: June 19, 2016, 1:38 p.m.; Location: Unknown Sector, Vallerio Forest, NH

  Metal squealed loudly as the landing skids touched the ground. A harsh snapping noise filled the air.

  “Shit,” Perkins shouted. “Just … shit!”

  Corbotch looked over his shoulder. “What now?”

  Perkins fiddled with the controls. The rotors slowed to a halt. “It’s fine, sir. I’m sure it’s fine.” He took a deep breath. “I just need to check something.”

  “What … was … that?” Pearson’s voice, formerly solid as steel, wavered like thin leaves in a gust of wind.

  Try as he might, Caplan couldn’t think of a single rational explanation for all that had happened. “When that Blare hit—”

  “Blare?” Corbotch asked, interrupting him.

  “You’ve got a better name?”

  “No …”

  “Good.” Caplan ran a hand through his hair. “When the Blare hit, the air changed. It got real hot, real thick. And I kept feeling these pricks, like someone was stabbing me with little icicles. Everything started to glow. And then …”

  Pearson leaned forward. “Yeah?”

  “I passed out.”

  Pearson gaped at him. “You too?”

  “You lost consciousness?”

  “Sure as hell did.”

  Caplan’s brow scrunched up in thought. “I saw my watch before and after it happened. I was out for a minute and fifty-two seconds.”

  “Same here,” Perkins called out. “Last thing I recall, the dashboard clock read 1:27 p.m. When I opened my eyes, it was 1:29 p.m.”

  “How about you?” Caplan asked Corbotch. “How long were you out?”

  “I don’t know.” Corbotch checked his limbs for injuries. “But it could’ve been two minutes.”

  “Did anyone else see that fire?” Perkins winced. “I mean the real one.”

  “Hopefully, the others got out before the flames started.” Caplan stared into Perkins’ eyes and felt a sudden kinship with the man. Any enmity between them was—at least for the moment—gone, erased by their shared predicament. “Doesn’t this bird have a voice?”

  “Sure does.” Perkins reached for the radio.

  “Stop,” Corbotch said.

  Pearson shot him an uncertain look. “Sir?”

  “No radio.”

  “Are you crazy?” Caplan’s eyes bulged. “The Blaze needs help.”

  Corbotch stared into Caplan’s eyes. “What if the terrorists pick up the radio traffic? We’ll lose the element of surprise.”

  “What surprise?”

  Corbotch hesitated. Then he nodded at Perkins.

  Turning around, Perkins reached for the radio. Quickly, he fiddled with some dials.

  Static.

  Frowning, he fiddled some more. But the radio just spat more static into the helicopter.

  Caplan massaged his temples. “Does anyone have a phone?”

  No one replied.

  “Anyone?”

  “No,” Corbotch said at last. “And you know why.”

  Caplan cursed under his breath. Corbotch had insisted on leaving all electronic equipment, including phones, back in New York. It was a necessary precaution, he’d said, since even a single call could give away their presence in the Vallerio.

  “Where’s my gear?” Caplan asked.

  “I stowed it behind your seat,” Perkins said. “Next to the HA-78 antibiotics.”

  Leaning over his seat, Caplan opened a small cargo bin. Then he took out his backpack and a small flexible cooler full of syringes and sealed vials. Carefully, he placed the cooler into his backpack.

  Perkins looked out the front window. “As near as I can tell, we’re about seven miles from Hatcher, sir.”

  Corbotch glanced at Caplan. “Got a compass in there?”

  “Don’t need one.”

  “Good, because time is short.” Exhaling, he checked his watch. “I need you and Julius to head to Hatcher. You’ll pass by that fire on the way. Hopefully, it’s burnt itself out by now. If you can, look for the Blaze. But don’t take long. I need you to secure entry into Hatcher and find a way to distribute those antibiotics to station personnel as soon as possible.”

  Caplan frowned. If the Blaze had indeed crashed, then he and Pearson were on their own. “What about the terrorists?” he asked.

  Corbotch looked at Pearson. “Think you can handle this?”

  Pearson’s gaze tightened. Then he nodded and made a move toward the cabin door.

  “Wait.” Caplan searched his pack. Pulled out a can of insect repellant. Closing his eyes, he aimed the nozzle at his body. One second later, the cool spray hit his exposed face and cheeks.

  Caplan tossed the can to Perkins. Perkins doused his body and passed it on to Corbotch. Then he opened his door and climbed out of the chopper.

  Corbotch and Pearson covered themselves liberally with the repellant. Then Caplan returned the can to his pack. Shouldering the heavy bag, he opened the cabin door. A breath of fresh forest air, stuffed with flies, wafted into his mouth. He nearly choked on it.

  He jumped to the ground. The soil was muddy, a direct result of a recent storm. Wet grass, standing tall, reached his waist. The cabin light shone on it, causing the stalks to shine brighter than Christmas lights.

  He trudged away from the helicopter, his shoes squelching in and out of the dark muck. His eyes searched the nearby trees for cameras, but saw nothing.

  Holy shit, he thought. I think … yes, this is 48A.

  He tensed up as horrible memories rushed through him. Then he shot a glance at Corbotch, who was still situated in the cabin. Did the old man know about Sector 48A and the electric fence surrounding it? Unfortunately, there was no way to be certain.

  Looking around, he saw the chopper had landed in a small clearing, one ringed by towering trees. The trunks, thanks in part to the growing cloud cover, looke
d like dark columns. The spaces between them, pitch black, looked like long-forgotten corridors. His spine tingled. He’d forgotten how much the Vallerio reminded him of an ancient city, full of lost ruins and mystical, evil energy.

  Soft curse words filled the air. Ignoring them, Caplan turned his attention to the north. He heard plenty of sounds—rustling branches and wet leaves, dripping water, buzzing flies—but nothing unsettling. No snarling, no frenzied movements.

  He took a deep breath, forced himself to listen for other sounds. Fortunately, he heard no crackling flames, no distant cries for help. Peering hard, he looked for signs of the fire. But the Vallerio hid its secrets well.

  More curse words rang out. Spinning around, Caplan spotted a section of bent grass near the chopper. “What’s wrong?” he called out.

  “We hit a rock.” The grass rustled and Perkins’ head and shoulders appeared above the tall stalks. The man’s face, illuminated by the cabin light, appeared red. “I couldn’t see it in all this damn grass.”

  “What’s the damage?” Corbotch asked as he climbed out of the cabin.

  Perkins scowled. “A busted landing skid.”

  “Is that a problem?”

  “Hell yeah, it’s a problem.”

  “We can still fly, right?”

  Perkins’ head bobbed. “Sure, but we can’t take-off or land. At least not safely.”

  “Can you fix it?”

  “I think so. But it’ll take time.”

  Caplan inhaled a long breath through his nostrils. He could scarcely believe how much had transpired in such a short time. The fake mugging. Learning about the terrorists, about HA-78. Flying to the Vallerio. The Blare. The Blaze crashing into the forest. Their helicopter landing safely, only to be rendered useless. No radio, no phones, no working communications. And now, Sector 48A.

  What a day, he thought, shaking his head. What a hell of a day.

  Chapter 18

  Date: Unknown; Location: Unknown

  Bailey Mills swallowed and a large slug of mud slid down her throat. She gagged on it. Her eyes snapped open. Immediately, she lifted her face off the wet muck. Coughing and choking, she swallowed down the disgusting hunk of soggy dirt, earthworms, and blades of crushed grass.