The younger male pliosaur moved slowly toward the other two, stopping fifty feet away. The female was in surprisingly good shape. Many of her teeth were broken or missing, and from her shaky movements, it was likely she’d cracked ribs as well. But teeth grew back and ribs healed. She would live.
The one-eyed bull was not so fortunate. Already listing in the water with black blood oozing from his mouth and nostrils, the ancient male had sustained horrific internal injuries from the fall. Barely able to keep himself afloat, he paddled laboriously to the stony edges of their escarpment. There, in the shallows, he beached himself. His breathing was exhaustive and excruciating. Once a voracious predator at the top of the food chain, the nearly seventy-foot marine reptile was now just another victim of the catastrophe that enveloped his entire world. As the remaining pliosaurs watched, great shudders wracked his mottled body. His dark blood continued to spurt in great gouts, clouding the surrounding waters. In minutes, he was gone.
Alone in the caldera, the two survivors drew closer to each other. Although the female had ceased exuding estrus hormones, the male moved next to her with surprising boldness, nudging aside the body of a dead Tylosaurus. Cruising slowly along, the two giants surveyed their rock-lined prison. Around them, burning embers continued to fall, though with less frequency. The winds died down, but the sky continued to grow darker – an ominous indication, considering it was midday.
Suddenly, a small group of fish broke the surface of the water dead ahead. Then, off to one side, a dead plesiosaur twitched spasmodically. Next, a turtle began to bob up and down. It became apparent that the death toll was not complete. Vast schools of herring, salmonids, and even larger fish and squid had survived the maelstrom, just like the pliosaurs, and were coming to the surface to feed. The two giants had an available source of food lurking beneath the murky waters.
Outside the caldera, the skies grew dark and the air temperature became noticeably cooler. High up in the atmosphere, vast amounts of sulfur dioxide blasted into the sky blocked out the sun. An impact winter would soon engulf the once green and fertile world. Within a matter of days, all remaining life would struggle to survive in a pitch-black deep freeze that would last for months.
Snow was falling.
The surviving pliosaur pair had never seen snow before. Regardless, they knew one thing right away: They didn’t like it. Their flanks shuddered as the tiny pieces of white fell upon them, and they blinked irritably whenever one of the icy particles touched their huge ruby eyes. They began to move, grumbling cantankerously in the growing shade. Though it was early afternoon, in their rocky prison it was twilight. Infinitely worse, the air temperature was dropping rapidly. Within days it would reach the freezing point and stay there. For reptiles of any kind, even ones their size, prolonged deprivation from the sun’s warmth was a veritable death sentence.
The two pliosaurs cruised toward the center of the caldera in an effort to keep warm. The chilling precipitation continued to melt when it landed, and a strange mist rose off the surface of the water. Though the air temperature continued to plummet all around them, the waters of the caldera retained their temperature. Heated by permanent magma reservoirs lying directly beneath the surface of the dormant volcano, they would never freeze like those outside. Though nowhere near as balmy as the tropical paradise they were used to, the tepid climate of their new world would enable the two beasts to survive the night.
Side by side the pair remained, comforted by each other’s presence. The snow continued to fall, and the darkness closed in. Outside the protective walls of their enclosure the rest of the world still burned, the ongoing fires lighting up the darkness. Soon, the entire planet would sleep – a deep, frozen sleep from which few would awaken. Ignorant of the incredibly fortunate hand dealt them, the pliosaur male and female waited patiently. They could not have known or even conceived that they would soon be the last of their kind.
A short while later, the world around them was black and blanketed in cold. The wildfires were gone, and even the embers extinguished. Motionless, the enigmatic reptiles remained where they were. Soon, nothing but the glow of their luminescent orbs was visible.
Alone, they shivered in the darkness.
TWENTY-SEVEN
“Willie, hang in there!” Amara pleaded. She was propped against a bulkhead, sitting in a steadily widening pool of blood. She gritted her teeth and shifted position, cradling her wounded friend’s head against her bloodstained bosom. “Please, don’t give up! We’ll get out of this somehow, I promise!”
At the sound of her voice, the tall sonar operator opened his eyes. Amara’s throat tightened and she swallowed hard. Her tears flowed non-stop. She reached down, peeling up the edge of the shirt she held tightly against his gaping abdominal wound. It was heavy with blood. She peeked underneath and paled, averting her eyes.
“Dat’s . . . what I taught,” Willie said resignedly. He started to close his eyes.
Amara sensed him beginning to fade on her. The thought of losing her best friend caused an agonizing series of spasms within her chest, as if her heart was trying to punch its way through her sternum. She shook him gently by the shoulders. “Come on! You’ve got to fight!”
Willie sweat-soaked head lolled limp, the difficulty of hanging on showing more and more on his strained countenance. He opened his mouth to speak, but what came out was an airy whisper. “All we see and seem . . . is nothing but a dream.”
“Is that Shakespeare?”
“No.” He cracked a smile despite the pain. “Dat is Mistah Edgar Allen Poe. I . . . taught he was . . . more appropriate den . . . da usual stuff . . .”
Willie’s eyes closed, and he collapsed into her arms. His face turned a horrible shade of gray and his breathing became raspy and erratic. A minute later, she realized he was dead.
Amara began to shake uncontrollably. She took in a deep breath to scream, but before she could vocalize her grief, a disturbingly familiar voice spoke in low, mocking tones.
“Well, well, well,” Markov said as he strode into the room. “Isn’t this touching?”
Amara’s anger momentarily quelled her considerable fear of the sinister-looking mercenary, and she lashed out without thinking. “You murderous son of a bitch, did you come to gloat over your psycho boss’s handiwork?”
“Nah, I came to do some of my own, actually,” Markov said. He grinned evilly, drawing his bone-handled machete ever-so-slowly from its tattered sheath, and glared menacingly down at her.
Amara felt her heart descend into her bowels. Her mind raced desperately, and she tried to bluff her way out of it. “What the hell do you think you’re doing?” she demanded as imperiously as possible. She became acutely aware of Willie’s still-warm body weighing her down, and tried to shift as much off herself as she could. “Did that asshole put you up to this?”
“Oh, no, my dear.” The huge scar that ran down Markov’s face glowed blood red as he started to move toward her. “That fat fuck actually sent me to tie you up. You know, to make sure you go down with the ship. But my way is much more sure, and a hell of a lot more fun.”
Markov leered at her. His narrowed eyes were full of amusement as he relished the pure terror oozing from Amara’s pores. He raised his notched weapon high overhead, wiping at the stream of drool that ran down his chin. “Well, bitch? Any last requests?”
“Yeah, go fuck yourself!” she hissed through trembling lips. She knew she was about to die, but remained defiant to the end.
“Nah, but I think I’ll fuck you.” Markov’s lips curled into a nasty little smile. “After you’re dead!” Laughing maniacally, he reared back with his heavy-bladed chopper and swung it at Amara’s head with all the strength he had.
“That’ll be enough out of you, mister,” Jake admonished. He tightened his grip and shifted his weight forward, using the iron head of the ancient whalers’ harpoon to complete his parry of Markov’s overzealous attack. He exhaled through his teeth and pulled up hard on the lance’s h
eavy wooden handle, forcing the shorter man’s weapon upwards and backwards with a powerful thrust. The two weapons rasped noisily against each other and the sudden loss of balance sent Markov staggering.
Stepping boldly between the astonished merc and his equally astounded victim, Jake drew himself to his full height. He chanced Amara and Willie a quick glance with his peripherals. The girl was bloodied, but alive.
Willie . . .
Jake cursed vehemently. He’d been on the scene of enough shootings to know a dead man when he saw one. His expression turned to ice and he leaned back on his heels, the harpoon held before him like a spear. “Okay, tough guy. Let’s finish this.”
Markov bared his teeth and flew at Jake like a demon, hacking at him from every possible angle as he ruthlessly tried to cut the taller man down.
Jake hopped nimbly backward, using the metal head of his weapon to parry the barrage amidst a shower of sparks, and keeping its sharp point constantly in his opponent’s face.
Markov cursed and retreated a few steps as he sized up his foe. Faced with a weapon that increased Jake’s already substantial reach, he changed tactics. He went on the attack again, but this time continuously altered direction, springing side to side and feinting repeatedly as he sought an opening. Frustration followed. Over and over he found himself in the same position: at bay, with thirty inches of cold-rolled iron thrusting at his nose.
Jake continued to backpedal, skillfully working the harpoon like a boxer’s jab to keep the killer at a safe distance. It was dangerous work; Markov was surprisingly quick and completely unrelenting. Moreover, the 19th century harpoon Jake carried was designed for pinioning whales, not gladiatorial combat. It was weighty and its thick wood handle was slick – permanently infused with an oily patina of whales’ blood, blubber, and the greasy hands of the men who killed them.
The minutes began to tick by, and the sheriff started to feel the effects of the room’s sweltering heat. Sweat ran down his forearms and the back of his neck. His mind raced, searching for a shortcut to what was setting up to be a prolonged battle. He decided to go on the offensive. He made a series of thrusts at Markov’s heavily muscled thighs, hoping to incapacitate him. It was a wasted effort that left Jake’s hands aching from the shock of the harpoon being repeatedly swatted aside.
Markov sneered and came at him again. As he gave ground, Jake gritted his teeth. The reality of this battle was beginning to sink in. The man he faced was no Karl Von Freiling; he was a true psychopath. There would be no quarter asked or given. It was to the death. Jake realized if he and Amara were to live out the day, he would be forced to kill someone.
With a snarl, Markov dropped unexpectedly low. He extended his stubby arms and made a sudden thrust forward, worming his way past Jake’s guard. Using his machete like a Hoplite’s short sword, he sought to stab the big lawman through the groin.
Jake spotted the machete’s point at the last moment and made a desperate hop backwards. There was a loud clacking noise as he blocked Markov’s thrust with the center of the harpoon. The room shifted, and his back foot slid across a discarded toolbox. He stumbled, his ankle twisting out from under him. He came down hard and felt an agonizing pain shoot up from the floor, all the way to his hip. His eyes and nostrils flared wide and he gasped. For a split-second everything turned black and he tottered like an axed tree, trying and failing to put weight on his injured leg.
Markov spotted the sudden mishap and attacked. A gleeful grin spread across his hateful features as one of his strokes made it past Jake’s compromised guard, opening up a nasty gash across the sheriff’s left bicep.
“Gotcha!” Markov jeered. He sprang back, tap-dancing left and right before he resumed stalking his hobbled opponent. “What’s the matter, big man, outta practice? Man, I’m gonna enjoy cutting you down to size!”
Fighting for his life now, and unable to stop everything coming his way with the harpoon’s flanged tip, Jake hopped backward again. It was a desperation tactic. The landing was astonishingly painful. Barely blocking Markov’s heavy blows, he gamely held his position and, through sheer arm strength, somehow managed to force his adversary back with a quick fusillade.
The bizarre duel continued, with the sound of crashing wood and steel echoing throughout the room. Perspiration streamed down Jake’s chest and back and stung his eyes. He blinked repeatedly to clear his vision and glanced at his injured arm. He could feel blood trickling down his forearm and fingertips. His grip became even more slippery and his breath came in short gasps. He lurched frantically sideways to counter Markov’s next move, trying to keep as much weight as possible on his lead leg. A growing sense of panic enveloped him, and he began doubting the outcome of the life or death struggle.
Things weren’t going the way Jake expected as he’d fought to free himself. With the sound of gunshots resonating through his brain, he’d resorted to chewing through his bonds. It was an ordeal that left his teeth chipped and gums raw and bleeding; he could still taste the dirty nylon rope as he staggered to his feet and went charging to the rescue. He knew engaging Markov hand to hand was a dicey proposition. It was three years since he practiced with any weapon other than his sidearm. Only his overpowering instinct to protect Amara forced him to reach for the whale lance.
The moment the battle started, Jake sensed his debilitating rustiness. When he counter-parried, his reflexes were mired in quicksand, and when he shifted to compensate for his adversary’s unorthodox fighting style, his sense of balance evaporated. The weapon he wielded was also a problem. The old harpoon was frightfully heavy, its prolonged usage tiring even his powerful wrists and forearms. Worst of all, he only had one leg to maneuver with.
Markov glanced in Jake’s direction using his peripherals and smiled. The rabid psycho had detected the severity of the lawman’s injury, as well as his rapidly burgeoning doubts. He was becoming increasingly bolder, and his deranged and highly vocalized attacks more and more protracted; his notched blade drew closer to Jake’s sweat-soaked skin with each and every stroke.
Jake stumbled back, barely deflecting a savage downward blow meant to split his skull. There was a loud thump as the back of his cranium slammed against a low-hanging beam, and his head felt like it exploded. A wave of dizziness washed over him and he became incredibly tired. The harpoon was a ship’s anchor in his arms, and he felt lightheaded and nauseous.
Markov snickered and attacked in a gleeful frenzy, relentlessly chopping and hacking. Fighting for air, Jake retreated a few steps under the assault, using the shaft of his weapon like a Bo staff to absorb the hammering blows. His sweat-soaked back struck the wall and he slid to one side. He heard Amara’s cry as splinters of hardwood flew from the harpoon’s hacked-up handle, ricocheting off his cheeks and hazarding his eyes like wood shrapnel.
Then, with a sound like the cracking of a whip, the harpoon came apart.
The blow was a double-handed horizontal slice that severed the weighty wooden shaft and continued across the front of Jake’s shirt, incising a four-inch groove in the pectoral muscle underneath. The impact ripped Jake’s already weakened guard apart, driving him to his knees. An agonizing spasm from his ankle added to his misery, and everything turned gray. Markov loomed over him, his victory smile more frightening than even the pliosaur’s toothsome grimace.
It was over.
Barely conscious, Jake waited for the inevitable. It was Amara’s high-pitched scream that yanked him back from the precipice. He opened his eyes and reflexively raised the two pieces of his harpoon in an X-style block, absorbing a downward chop that would have hacked through collarbone and chest. His bone-weary arms shook from the force of the parry, and he gaped at the realization he’d allowed himself to come within inches of being slaughtered. Followed by . . .
Amara. The thought of losing the fiery cetaceanist welled up within Jake, and a parade of images did cross-dissolves through his mind. He saw himself from first grade – when he clumsily picked up a foil for the first time and ma
rveled at its weight – all the way through college, where he ended up atop a gilded podium, with the President of the United States awarding him a medal for wiping the floor with the best and brightest sabermen the country had to offer – men far more talented than the ravening butcher standing over him.
Jake felt a white-hot fury flood his veins like a thousand volts of electricity. His mind cleared and he locked onto the sensation, shaping it, molding it, making it his own. His pulse and breathing slowed until, with surprising ease, he disassociated himself from his injured ankle. He climbed to his feet, methodically blocking Markov’s next blow with the bottom half of his harpoon. He took a mechanical step forward and then went on the offensive, using the two pieces of his weapon like oversized Kali sticks, clubbing and stabbing, forcing his panting opponent backwards. The sounds of wood and steel on steel rang on until Markov was nearly forced from the room.
Moving back a few paces, Jake glanced contemplatively down at the pieces of harpoon he held. His expression grew chilled and he flung away half his weapon. The ragged piece of wood clattered to the ship’s floor and rolled away. He assumed a traditional En Garde position, saluting his opponent with the remaining piece of lance, then lowered it until its iron point nearly touched the floor. He stood stock still, taking in slow, steady breaths and reining in his adrenaline.
Confused by the unexpected turn of events, Markov struggled to catch his breath, his hairy chest heaving as he fought to channel the murderous lust within him. A wild look came into his eye, and he grabbed for the pistol at his belt. His black eyes met the sheriff’s and he hesitated.
Jake wore a look Vlad Markov knew well. It was one he’d given many of his victims over the years, once he had them helpless and about to die at his hands.
Disdain.
KRONOS RISING: After 65 million years, the world's greatest predator is back. Page 52