This was more like a grow-operation of flesh-eating monsters.
Out of the hundred-plus survivors of the wreck, only Mark and Sally had made their way out of the jungle a few bare miles north to a bustling tropic port.
That's how close it was, all along.
They had been taken into custody shortly upon arriving back to the States.
Sally had been raised in what Mark generously called 'polite' society, and was totally unprepared for survivalist rigors. The time in the jungle had taken its toll. Mark watched her wither over the following months, with a recurring, strength-sapping illness, that seemed to take a little more of her each time it came back.
After a recent bout of nausea, she had finally been taken to the infirmary – the first time they'd been apart in over a year.
That night, the beasts had come.
He remembered hearing that steady approach, hours away, like the rumble of encroaching thunder. Except this rumble was in the ground, like an earthquake. And then, somewhere in the darkest hours of the night, the storm landed on top of them.
He never saw any of it clearly.
There were explosions and burning light. Beyond that, there were… sounds – like giant footsteps, accompanied by reverberating bellows that might have echoed up from the depths of a volcano – and then the buildings had tumbled down on top of him.
For a long time, he was trapped in darkness. But eventually, the sounds of the giants faded, followed by a deadened stony silence.
Sometime after that, he began to pick his way through the rubble.
After he'd dug himself free, Mark had made his way across the demolished base. He had gone far enough to see what was left of the hospital.
He stood there long enough to absorb it – to accept it – to make it real.
Then he had turned and been gone, even as more choppers circled above, arriving on the scene – rescue troops that were hours too late and would have been laughably ineffective if they'd been right on time.
With Sally gone, Mark had no more need of what was left of the old world. He'd never done that well within it anyway.
He had fled into the forest – into a new world – a lost world.
The grow-operation had spread – and the monsters had followed.
Or had it just been like that everywhere? Drug-cartels operated grow-operations in the States too. Just out of sight, on protected lands. Natural preserves. Entire stretches of open wilderness, off-limits to the public, but walking distance to every major city in the world.
It wasn't like people disappearing in the woods was something new.
Mark imagined a hiker that stumbled into a T. rex on an off-limits nature-trail would have left little evidence of the encounter behind.
In fact, Mark was willing to bet in the days before KT-day, the odd T. rex might even have cleared out a cartel pot-field or two. Sickle-claws would have been a handful too – true, those operations tended to be guarded with automatic weapons, but Mark could bear direct witness that a sickle-claw running at you in the dark was damn hard to hit.
Of course, bullets would just piss-off a T. rex.
And you really didn't want to piss-off a T. rex. For whatever reason, they held grudges.
Having once crossed a mamma rex, Mark sure wouldn't do it again.
Although, it wasn't like he meant to, the first time. He had literally just escaped the wrecked base, and after hiding the night in the bushes, less than a mile from where choppers still circled above, he had taken off on foot.
And as if he just couldn't screw himself fast enough, he had run right into the middle of a rex-nest.
For those who had never seen one up close, a T. rex yearling was about the size of a golden retriever, with a mouth like a similarly-sized crocodile.
There were half-a-dozen of them, and they came at him like a pack of piranha.
Mark shot them all, reflexively, in quick succession – he had never grouped shots like that together, before or after, in his life, and if he hadn't, at least one would have gotten him, with the last of them dropping literally at his feet, the little beast's jaws snapping shut like a guillotine, bare inches from his shoe.
Then he had looked up to see the mama.
The chase was on from there on out.
Rexy, as he came to call her, ran him a merry chase that day, but it was only the beginning. That damned dragon-beast had followed him halfway across the country. Led by that bloody damned nose, she could ferret you right out. She didn't even have to hurry – just kept walking.
She had tailed him up into the Rockies, where T. rex were few and far between, except for the ones obsessively following him, and she would have caught him too, but for an unfortunate tumble over a cliff.
Mark had actually ended up shooting the poor stubborn beast as it lay in a broken heap on the rocks below, just to put it out of its misery.
Naturally, that was what Junior had seen – lone survivor of Rexy's most recent nesting, hatched right there in the mountains.
Mark didn't know what passed for a mind in T. rex, but they clearly followed their noses, and he knew the little beast had imprinted his scent early on.
Out of misplaced sympathy, he hadn't shot the thing at the time, and he'd already lived to regret it.
The little sonofabitch had latched onto him like Hook and the crocodile – except that was just a crocodile. A big rex might grow up to nine tons or better.
It had been Mark's intention to find a working vehicle, a stretch of open road, and put some distance behind him – hopefully out of range of that friggin' T. rex nose.
Until then, he'd keep his pistol ready.
He felt bad for the little critter, but he'd still shoot the little sonofabitch if he had to.
Of course, that just left his own species to worry about.
Even in a world of monsters, Mark might still lay odds that if he died prematurely, it would be at human hands.
In his time on the road, he had been shot at – he never saw by who – there had been attempted robberies on two occasions, and that was not to mention the scattered encampments of survivalist cult-types.
That had happened fast, and they didn't always look it.
It turned out people got nutty in an apocalypse.
Mark had met a few religious nuts, but they were easy to spot, mostly because it was all they talked about – Judgment and Last Times.
Not that it was a point Mark was particularly inclined to argue.
Of course, some folks started out nuts, and just got nuttier.
Perhaps predictably, Mark had already encountered 'dragon-worship'.
Mark had grown up in Oregon and had known the odd Wiccan – he'd even had nodding acquaintance with more than one self-proclaimed witch. But just during his recent short travels in the mountains, he'd spent the night in a small encampment with a young lady – a sprightly woodland nymph, who called herself Lily – who, along with her troop of 'sisters', had taken the occasion of the apocalypse to not only embrace full on cauldron-bubbling, coven-style black-magic – but to adapt their theology around it.
“Easy enough transition,” Mark had remarked mildly. “Devil worship to dragon.”
“Witches,” Lily cautioned, “are not, by definition, Satanists.”
Mark had been lectured on the difference before, by both Wiccans and witches back home.
“But you are,” he clarified. “Right?”
That relationship had ended after she and her sisters attempted to offer him up as a human-sacrifice to the 'dragon' that had been chasing him.
That was a break-up story he never thought he'd have to tell.
When Mark told Lily and her sisters about Rexy – especially the part about the plundered-nest – they promptly laid him out as bait.
Lily compared it to making friends with a wild dog, by giving it treats.
Unfortunately – or fortunately for Mark – Rexy had also drawn the attention of the military. Several gunships that had been track
ing the big rex ended up crashing the ceremony with machine guns – a situation that escalated upon unexpected return-fire from the outraged Coven.
Ironically, Rexy actually had no interest in the ensuing battle – Mark was her priority, and she had dogged him right to her very last breath – right up to that last tumble down into the ravine.
In the general chaos, Mark himself had managed to slip away.
The last he saw of the Coven, they were surrounded by soldiers, their inexperienced gun-handlers quickly subdued by the trained troops.
On the other hand, Mark had a feeling he wasn't the first fellow that particular cat-crew had fed to a dragon. Lily had made passing reference to their 'men-folk', who were apparently no longer with us.
And now this troop – Coven – was surrounded by the inherent dominance-structure of the military.
Pop. Bubble. Fizz.
As good a reason as any to get the hell out of the territory. Rampaging dinosaurs be damned.
But then that stupid chopper had to crash. Didn't they know pterosaurs went after choppers?
Cursing himself for a fool, Mark worked his way through the forest.
For all the good it might do – a plume of smoke indicated something had burned. He would be rescuing charred dead bodies.
He hadn't gone twenty minutes when he again heard the familiar rush of bushes and the sound of skittering feet.
The little SOB wasn't done for the day. Junior had apparently flanked him. Mark drew his pistol.
But this time he was caught by surprise. The dog-sized head burst from the bushes almost right behind him, with snapping jaws zeroing in on his leg. A bite would be crippling or fatal.
Mark twisted quickly, turning his pistol, getting off a single shot – but then a larger shadow rose up behind him.
Junior skidded to a stop in mid-attack, hissing balefully. In a flash, he turned and disappeared into the brush.
Mark turned as the shadow continued to rise, blocking out the sun.
The creature pushed two massive trees aside – a giant gorilla – over twenty feet tall.
Mark looked at the diminutive nine-millimeter in his hand. Backing up slowly, he pocketed the pistol and pulled the rifle from his shoulder.
The big ape saw the gun and snarled, making motions with its hands.
Mark pulled the trigger. There was an outraged roar as the beast brought up its massive arms, covering its face, taking the shot in the shoulder. Mark fired again, eliciting another outraged howl.
The ape lowered its arms, glowering down purposefully at Mark.
Well, that pissed him off, Mark thought.
There was, however, one little trick that had worked on Rexy.
Pulling a tin canister from his bag, Mark pulled the seal and pitched it into the giant ape's face.
There was the stench of tear-gas, and before the ape's agonized howl even sounded in his ear, Mark turned and ran like hell.
Chapter 8
Tomorrow would be one year since KT-day.
Sally knew General Rhodes wanted to mark the occasion, but was unsure how. Somber, honor the dead? Hope for the future? When Rhodes had called her in, she assumed it was to ask her opinion. He did about most things.
She wasn't sure why – she was non-military, and had only become his personal assistant by virtue of the near-extinction of the species.
Rhodes also seemed to deliberately speak out around Sally, almost as if testing her, perhaps setting leak-traps. It made sense – he needed someone in her position that he could trust. He was the highest remaining representative of her old Uncle Sam, despite rumors that the president was still alive and sequestered somewhere.
But that was different than soliciting her input. And didn't explain why he had chosen her.
Possibly it was because, in the old world, she had been a real person. Maybe that kept him grounded.
He had told her once, in order to do his job, he had to think in terms of numbers, but he never wanted to feel in terms of numbers.
Especially now that Def-con 5-level survival strategies were in place.
They had been at the Mount for over a month now – they called it the 'Arc Project' – ten miles of tunnel deep into the Colorado Rockies, named for obvious reasons, with human-survival as its stated mission, and repopulation a primary agenda item.
Currently, the facility housed exactly two-hundred soldiers living onsite. There were also three hundred civilian refugees, although that number was expected to grow – almost all women of breeding age.
Def-con 5, remember.
Sally knew Rhodes had to think that way. But it didn't change the reality of it. And honoring KT-day in any way was going to be a tough sell. There was already a rumble of dissention among the largely feminine civilian ranks. No doubt Rhodes would want her thoughts on that as well.
It seemed, however, that larger problems had come up.
When Sally stepped into his office, Rhodes was on his speakerphone – standing, which meant something requiring action. Sally had seen him like this before, barking orders into his phone, pacing back and forth in his office as if he were right in front of the troops, ready to act on his own orders.
Sally paused at the door.
“I need to know where it went down, Hicks,” Rhodes was saying, and his voice had that calm, almost dangerous tone that it did in battle-conditions.
Hicks' voice buzzed back through static.
“We've got choppers out, sir, but it's a big area.”
“We have an extreme VIP on board that transport, you understand?”
“I understand, sir. We have all available resources on it.”
“Let me know the second you hear anything.”
“Well, sir,” Hicks said unhappily, “I have got word we've got a possible bloom sprouting.”
Rhodes shut his eyes. “Give it to me.”
“So far, it's just a bud, sir,” Hicks said. “Just a single sighting. It can probably still be contained within a burn. But it's within the search range, sir. And it's all a crow's fly of the Mount.”
“You know the drill, son,” Rhodes said. “Nukes on blooms. Napalm on buds. Get confirmation on what we've got first.”
“I've got Johnson in the area, sir,” Hicks said.
Rhodes turned to Sally.
“How many active nukes have we got on hand?”
“Um, fourteen, sir,” Sally said, flipping her clipboard. “Major Travis has two F-16-capable missiles at our West Coast site – two more non-operational. Captain Mason has reported a dozen long-range capable missiles aboard his sub. We have no way to confirm, but he reports them all fully functional.”
“What about Maelstrom?”
“Last communication with the Maelstrom base said they had one silo coming online.”
Rhodes sighed. “Five-hundred missiles on that site, and one of them is almost ready when we need it.” He tapped the speaker. “Lieutenant?”
“Yes, sir,” Hicks responded.
“Keep an eye on the bud, Lieutenant. Scramble the sub and the planes to be ready on a dime. Have a cleaner-crew ready, strength of detergent to be determined once we know what we've got.
“But,” Rhodes emphasized, “priority one is the rescue. Nothing drops until our asset is clear. Is that perfectly understood?”
“Yes, sir,” Hicks replied.
Rhodes turned off the speaker, turning to Sally, grimly.
“That was something we did not need.”
He grabbed up his clipboard, nodding to Sally. “Follow me on my rounds?”
Rhodes was always careful to speak to her as if asking for a personal favor, rather than giving an order, which was how he spoke to pretty much everyone else.
It was clear, however, polite or not, he expected to be obeyed. Sally followed obediently enough.
She sometimes wondered how he really felt about her. He seemed to personally care, yet remained aloof. He also seemed deliberately paternal, perhaps establishing platonic psychological bound
aries. But he had taken her under his wing – necessity of resources, notwithstanding, an administrator still needed an office, and therefore a personal assistant to run it. As it happened, secretarial skills were rare among the Mount's battle-hardened combat troops.
And if you were living on the Mount, and were not one of those soldiers, then you better fill some function – every job needed to be done.
Sally first met Rhodes two years ago, and had the impression at the time the General had taken a liking to her – he had mentioned a resemblance to his daughter, Kate, who he spoke of in the tones of one lost and gone.
For Sally, the idea that she would one day not only be interviewed by a General, but actually consulted for updates on nuclear assets...?
That was the sort of thing she would not have predicted for herself during her sorority days at UCLA, only two birthdays and forever ago.
Her qualifications? She had survived an early skirmish in a war that had yet to be fought – bare months later, she would have been one out of millions.
Before she was a spoiler for the apocalypse, she was a co-ed on a summer cruise – and ironically, if her ship hadn't sunk, stranding its passengers on the edge of a tropical jungle filled with prehistoric dragons, to be eaten alive, then she wouldn't have been in 'protective custody' on KT-day, and likely would have been home in LA when that city was totally and utterly smashed into the ground and then dumped into the ocean.
So, she was lucky that way.
Sally had learned to look for the positive spin where she could find it.
For better or worse, she was now committed to her new station. For more reason than one.
She had already tried to run.
Almost exactly one month ago, when her chopper first touched down on top of the mountain, she had just hopped out and taken off into the woods.
It was the first time in two years she hadn't been surrounded by at least a dozen soldiers – it was a transport craft with one pilot and two snoozing troops – landing on a brand-new base – a staging area for supplies and equipment before transferring down into the caverns under the Mount.
When that chopper hit the tarmac, Sally had simply jumped and run before anyone could move to stop her. She fled into the woods, like a dog escaping its kennel.
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