by David Meyer
Caplan’s fingers still ached and his muscles were close to exhaustion. But at least he was no longer supporting Pearson’s weight. At the same time, the loss of ballast allowed the chopper to climb just a bit faster and on a more even keel.
Morgan wrenched herself to the cabin door and fell flat on the carpet. With Mills holding her legs, she reached out and grabbed Caplan’s wrists. With the extra support, Caplan was able to shift strength to his lower half.
The saber rose up on its hind legs. Snarling and spitting, it lunged at the chopper.
Swinging his body, Caplan kicked his legs into the air. The saber’s paw passed beneath him, so close he could feel the creature’s bristling fur.
Quickly, he hooked his legs around the landing skid. Waves of pleasure and pain flooded his arms as he relaxed his fingers.
The chopper soared higher and higher, rising well above the saber. Then Perkins leveled out the craft and they hovered above the inferno, shrouded in thick columns of gray smoke.
Morgan released his wrists and grabbed his shoulders. With her help, he grabbed onto the cabin door and then dragged himself into the craft. As he flopped on the ground, sputtering out smoke and ash, Morgan slammed the door shut.
“You okay?” Perkins called out.
“Just …” Caplan hacked a few more times. “… peachy.”
Perkins nodded. “Well, where to?”
Where to, indeed? The question sent Caplan’s mind spinning off in all sorts of directions. Back to New York? Somewhere else?
And what would they do when they landed? Return to their lives as if nothing had happened? Go underground in case someone came looking for them?
And so on and so forth. Truthfully, Caplan didn’t know what to do, now or at any point in the future. It was all just a complete blank. At the same time, he noticed the others looking at him expectantly, waiting for his answer. They would, he realized, follow him anywhere. That fact scared him more than anything. Well, almost anything.
“Just head south,” he said. “To the nearest airfield.”
“Will do.”
More questions filled Caplan’s head. What, if anything, should he do about the coming extinction? Should he tell the world, even though he knew no one would listen? Should he put his survival skills to the test and find a place to bunker down, to ride out the storm? Should he invite the others to join him?
His coughs faded away. His breathing normalized. He slid to the minibar and pressed his back against it, feeling its coolness through his shredded and mud-laden shirt.
He felt something in his pocket. Reaching inside, he pulled out the amber-colored pill container. It was chock full of tablets. Glancing at the cockpit, he cleared his throat. “What do you know about HA-78?”
“Not a lot,” Perkins admitted. “It was one of James’ side projects. I was vaccinated months ago along with a whole bunch of his inner circle.”
“He created it?”
“Not him. One of his research teams.”
“The tablets … if I take one, will that cure me?”
“I’m afraid not. The tablets don’t cure anything. They just suppress symptoms. So, you—all of you—are asymptomatic carriers.”
“So, we’re contagious.” Caplan frowned. “Forget the airfield. Take us to … I don’t know … someplace without people.”
As Perkins returned to the controls, Caplan stuffed the container back into his pocket. Great, just great. They were infected with a disease none of them understood. All he knew was that anyone who came within shouting distance of them required a tablet to stave off death.
Guess I can forget about New York, he thought.
Morgan looked at Elliott, then at Mills. “Is she okay?” she asked with a nod at Elliott.
Mills shrugged.
“Back in the forest, you said something about a barn-like building,” Morgan said. “And she mentioned wheels and tubes.”
Mills’ gaze shot to the minibar where it lingered for a few seconds. Then she exhaled. “We saw smoke and followed it to a building. An electric fence surrounded it. The power was out, the fence had been knocked down, and the building had been set ablaze. We’d seen these elephant-like animals earlier in the day. One of them probably did it.”
“These animals … were they woolly mammoths?”
Mills nodded.
Caplan exchanged knowing glances with Morgan. The Blare had most likely caused the power outage. Some 1-Gen woolly mammoths had overrun the fences, killed everyone, and set the building ablaze in the process. And that burning building, he thought, might just explain another mystery. “So, that wildfire … that came from the building?” he asked.
She nodded. “We thought we’d put it out. Unfortunately, it blazed up again.”
“And the wheels?” Morgan asked.
“They were in the basement. Tricia and I went down there while Brian kept watch. She opened one and we saw this dead guy.” Mills winced. “At first, we thought the wheel was an isolation chamber. But the guy was plugged into it with wires and tubes. Tricia guessed it was some kind of life-support system and that the power failure had killed him. But who builds over a dozen life support systems in the middle of nowhere?”
A barn-like building? Life support systems? A corpse? Apparently, Corbotch’s Vallerio-based projects weren’t restricted to Hatcher Station. And that thought made Caplan’s skin crawl.
He studied Mills for a moment. She was frazzled and in desperate need of a shower. The large logbook he’d seen earlier sat neatly in her lap. She held it with both hands as if her life depended on it. “What’s that?” he asked.
“This?” She glanced at the book. “Truthfully, I don’t know. I don’t even know why I still have it. All I know is that I found it near the wheels.”
Caplan’s eyes traced the leather cover and he saw the title, etched in fine bronze lettering. Apex Predator? he thought. What the hell is that?
“Sweet Jesus.” Perkins whistled in awe.
Elliott stared straight ahead, apparently still stuck in some kind of mental hell. But Toland, Morgan, and Mills all swiveled toward the nearest windows. They tensed up. Their jaws fell agape.
Caplan, well past the point of physical exhaustion, waited for someone to say something. But other than the whirling of rotors and the quiet buzz of electricity, the cabin remained silent.
With a sharp groan, he struggled to one knee. Twisting around, he looked out the side window.
They’d flown clear of the fire and so he saw pristine evergreen and deciduous forest in the darkness. It was thick and green and full of ancient mysticism. This was the Vallerio he wished to remember. The Vallerio of hidden secrets and youthful dreams. But there was no going back to that Vallerio. For him, the forest had undergone an irrevocable change and …
He frowned. Leaned closer to the window.
Wide paths zigzagged through the forest, veering in all directions. It looked like someone had taken an army of bulldozers to the place, chopping away at the trees with reckless and directionless abandon.
He focused on one of the paths. Pressed his forehead against the window and watched as a patch of textured blackness cut a gigantic path below him. Abruptly, the textured blackness shifted like ripples in an ocean. And then it started to rise.
Caplan recoiled in shock. The textured blackness … it was fur. Distinct wiry fur. He couldn’t believe it. It was the same short-faced bear that had chased Morgan and him in the lab facility with one key difference.
It was larger.
Much larger.
The creature’s shoulders rose some forty feet off the forest floor. It rumbled through the forest with ease, causing the ground to quake and once-mighty tree trunks to fall before its wrath.
Abruptly, it paused. Then it glanced over its shoulder. As if sensing Caplan’s gaze, its orangish eyes shot toward the helicopter. Its body froze. Then it spun around in a slow circle and rose up and up and up. All the way up to its full height of some eighty feet.
/> Caplan’s jaw hung from its hinges. Other than maybe a blue whale, it was easily the largest mammal on Earth.
“I feel like … like …” Toland stared out his window. “… like Professor Challenger. Exploring that plateau deep in the Amazonian basin, watching iguanodons and stegosauruses and … and …” He trailed off.
Wait, Caplan thought. He’s not looking out of this window.
Turning around, he looked out the opposite window. He saw a second path. Then a third one. His heart pitter-pattered against his chest. Everywhere he looked, he saw giant animals.
Behemoths.
“There must be dozens of them,” Mills whispered. “Maybe more.”
“Where are they going?” Morgan asked.
“Every animal that came out of Hatcher seemed determined to go on a killing spree,” Caplan said slowly. “And since those ones aren’t attacking each other, that must be looking for new targets.”
“Oh, my God.” Morgan’s eyes opened wide. “They’re heading for the exterior fence.”
“And if they get through …” Caplan trailed off.
A moment of silence filled the cabin as everyone pondered the implications of the behemoths breaking out of the Vallerio and going on a multi-pronged rampage. Undoubtedly, the U.S. military would be called in to fight them. But could mere bombs stop animals of that size? Maybe, maybe not. Regardless, Caplan knew one thing for sure. For thousands of years, mankind had reigned as Earth’s apex predator. But between the behemoths and the coming extinction, that rule seemed destined to end.
Caplan glanced at Morgan, then at the others. They stared back at him, eyes boring holes into his skull, waiting upon his words.
“Okay,” he said at last. “Here’s what we’re going to do …”
Apex Predator Logbook
Apex Predator Memorandum
Date: October 5, 2011, 11:55 p.m.
To: Vallerio Foundation, Stage II Team
From: Deborah Keifer
RE: HA-78 compound results, recent security breach
With the first round of tests behind us, I thought it prudent to discuss the efficacy results of the initial HA-78 compound. But first, I would like to take the opportunity to offer all of you, most especially Dr. Bishop, a hearty ‘thank you’ for your hard work on developing the compound. Because of your efforts, I am now confident we can complete Stage II of the Apex Predator project on deadline.
The HA-78 compound showed enormous promise in this, its initial iteration. As you know, fourteen primary subjects were exposed to the compound for various time periods, ranging from three seconds to three days. Each of these subjects was then exposed to three separate secondary subjects of varying age and health.
All primary subjects showed strong symptoms—moist and glassy eyes, purplish lips, foaming mouths, difficulty breathing, etc.—within four minutes of exposure. Similar results were shown in the secondary subjects. And all subjects, primary and secondary, died of asphyxiation and/or massive organ failure within thirty minutes of exposure.
At this point, it appears that the HA-78 compound carries an incubation period and latency period of roughly four minutes apiece. Unfortunately, these results are unsatisfactory for our needs. The compound is simply too effective. A short latency period, of course, is highly desirable. But we require a much longer incubation period if we are to spread the HA-78 compound far and wide without raising the eyebrows of doctors and public health officials.
Your task, Stage II team, is to continue to help Dr. Bishop develop the HA-78 compound to its fullest potential. As part of that, I am moving your operations to a new facility in New Hampshire’s Vallerio Forest. It is my sincerest belief that this will allow you to achieve greater focus as well as substantially reduce the risk of another security breach.
In regards to the unfortunate and recent breach, please know I’m fully aware of and appreciate the terrible moral implications of your work. All Vallerio Foundation personnel, none more so than myself, know the awesome responsibilities we have undertaken. Please remember the Holocene extinction is imminent and will be upon us in approximately five years. Nothing can stop it and the Homo sapiens species will certainly not survive what is to come. This is what makes your work with the HA-78 compound so critical. The only way to save mankind is, unfortunately, to hasten its demise.
Thank you again for your continued support and devotion to this, the most urgent of causes.
END OF BOOK ONE
Author’s Note
Thank you for reading BEHEMOTH, my first foray into the Apex Predator universe. I’ve waited many years to write this book and it all came out in a four-month whirlwind of powerful emotions, late nights, and personal milestones, topped off by that incredible moment my wife and I welcomed our first child into this world.
The seeds for BEHEMOTH were planted during my childhood in northern Virginia. An ancient forest, dreamy yet dark and mysterious, rested within walking distance of my home. Many weekends, I’d strap on my explorer’s belt, take my water-filled canteen from my mother, and hike into the wild with my father. Along the way, he’d regale me with tall tales about ‘giant bears’ and my imagination would run wild. We never did find those bears (although I often heard odd roars whenever my dad wandered off!), but those outings provided me with a lifetime of inspiration.
As I sit here on this warm September afternoon, my newborn son nestled safely in my lap, I find myself thinking about the cyclical nature of life and relationships. In a way, BEHEMOTH is about those cycles—mass extinction and speciation, the extinction and possible de-extinction of individual species, breaking up and coming together again—and how we might handle them.
So, what’s next for Zach, Amanda, Bailey, and everyone else? That depends on you. I have many stories to tell and many ways I want to tell them. Graphic novels, lost journals, films, video games, and so on. But none of that will happen without your support.
Please post reviews for BEHEMOTH on Amazon, other book sites, and on social media. Tell your friends and family members about it. Create Apex Predator art and send it to me (maybe it’ll end up in a future book!). Anything you can do to help spread the word is much appreciated.
Finally, make sure to sign up for my newsletter to ensure you’re the first to know about upcoming stories.
Thanks for your support!
David Meyer
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The Cy Reed Adventure series consists of four books, CHAOS, ICE STORM, TORRENT, and VAPOR. Follow along as treasure hunter / salvage expert Cy Reed crisscrosses the globe, searching for ancient relics, battling mythical monsters, and unraveling ancient mysteries of history!
Prologue
The Omega (March 6, 1976)
The long, twisting tunnel should’ve been empty.
Fred Jenson’s heart skipped a beat as he examined the gigantic black shadow that rose menacingly out of the darkness. Why was a subway car still in the tunnel? Had it been damaged by the fire?
Sweat poured from his forehead, soaking his grimy face. His hands shook as he lifted the plastic bottle of bourbon and tipped a few ounces down his throat. It didn’t burn. It never burned.
Not anymore.
He stared at the car through bleary eyes. Must be fire damaged. That was the only explanation that made sense. But if that was the case, why did it look so normal?
Jenson inched forward. He didn’t want trouble. He merely wanted to see the destruction. The old-timer who slept in the maintenance shack said it was the worst disaster he’d ever seen. Maybe even the worst disaster in the history of New York’s subway system.
Earlier that evening, a mysterious fire had ravaged the Times Square station, destroying a five-car length strip of the terminal. The 42nd Street Shuttle had quickly ceased operations. The Metropolitan Transportation Authority, or MTA, had shut down the route. Maintenance workers had converged on
the station, eager to complete repairs before the morning rush.
Three R36 ML subway cars had supposedly been crippled by the blaze. Scores of people had suffered burns, with at least four confirmed fatalities. While the cause remained unknown, the old-timer swore he overheard police officers chatting about it.
And they thought it was arson.
Jenson clenched his teeth as a thousand invisible knives pierced his skull. He dropped to a knee. His vision crumpled from the corners and blackness enveloped him. A roar of pain screeched out of his belly. Slamming his mouth shut, he cut it off, just like he’d done thousands of times before.
Breathe. Just breathe.
Jenson began to count, slowly and methodically.
One. Two. Three …
Ignoring his throbbing head, he continued his count.
Twenty-four. Twenty-five. Twenty-six …
His pulse slowed. His nerves relaxed. Finally, the knives vanished and he exhaled with relief.
His vision firmed up. Lines and shapes began to poke out of the darkness. Just ahead, he saw the concrete trough. The dull running rails. The rotten wood ties.
He still clutched the plastic bottle in one hand. Rising unsteadily to his feet, he lifted it to his lips and poured more bourbon into his stomach. Cheapest medical treatment he’d ever known. And far safer than those horrid Veterans Affairs hospitals. He had that thing that was all the rage these days … what did the papers call it? Post-traumatic stress disorder?
He took a few more swigs from the bottle. Sixty seconds. That’s all it had taken. Sixty seconds to normalcy. Sixty seconds for his body to forget those other sixty seconds, the ones that had shattered his soul into billions of pieces.
The moment the boat had hit Iwo Jima, Jenson and his four closest friends had stormed the beach. Unfortunately, it was no ordinary beach. As they ran forward, they quickly found themselves sinking into volcanic ash. Before long, they were waist-deep in the stuff.
And then the shooting began.