New Title 1

by Campbell, J R

  A sudden musky scent of old carrion and fresh kill made him heave. He could hear rushing, churning water. In agony, he dragged himself up from the blood soaked ground, and half crawled around the rock he had collided with.

  The river was near. The Sabre-tooth was almost upon him. He forced himself to roll down the steepening slope. He was falling, bouncing down the incline that led to the river raging below; the Sabre-tooth, bounding down in pursuit, almost had him. A swift fall into emptiness, as his tumbling body went over the lip of the gorge, then the rushing frigid waters closed over him forcing the breath from his body; even in his drowning agony he still heard the beast’s frustrated roars…

  Professor Challenger awoke in a private hospital room in the newly opened Manchester Royal Infirmary. Apparently, he had received a considerable jolt of electricity from the sensory-glove that had ostensibly malfunctioned and rendered him senseless for several hours. Professor Martin was personally waiting at his bedside for him to regain consciousness, and apologized profusely for his equipment’s malfunction.

  As he lay there, head aching, Challenger told Professor Martin of the terrifying dream he suffered whilst wearing the glove; visions of being hunted by a terrible beast that had been extinct for twelve thousand years. Martin listened politely, but then had not quite tersely dismissed the incident as a vivid hallucination brought on by the electrical current discharged into his brain. It was a common enough occurrence for people who were electrocuted. No test subject ever experienced anything remotely like what Challenger described in well over four thousand actuations of the equipment.

  With that observation, he left Challenger alone to rest. Or rather, Challenger should have been allowed to do so. He was just settling back on his pillow, a myriad of thoughts besetting him, when a second visitor, completely unannounced and totally unwelcome made his way into the room... Challenger recognized him instantly, and inwardly groaned. It was that damned young journalist from the demonstration that had asked leading questions of Professor Martin. Challenger didn’t like newspaper men at the best of times, which, given his present condition, this certainly wasn’t.

  The young man asked politely, “Sir, am I addressing Professor George Edward Challenger, winner of the Crayston medal for Zoological research, of the universi..?”

  Challenger growled under his breath and cut the hack off with his customary tone of sarcasm and belligerence reserved particularly for addressing members of the fourth estate, idiot students and fellow professors:

  “No sir, do you not see that I am the Empress Dowager Tzuhsi of all the Chinas? Who the devil do you think I am, man?” Mason, to Challenger’s immense satisfaction, was clear ly disconcerted by his curt response; however, it was evident that the journalist was not flustered enough to cease his infernal questioning.

  Mason continued. “Sir, if I may have just a few words for the benefit of our readership? Particularly on the subject of the demonstration by Professor Martin and your unfortunate experience with it?”

  Challenger could feel his anger slowly boiling up inside him which he knew could quickly turn into a white-hot rage when he felt provoked. He grimly recalled that a certain distasteful newspaper hack in London, by the name of McArdle, had recently described him in a less–thanfavourable article as a ‘homicidal megalomaniac with a turn for science’, primarily due to Challenger’s mercurial encounters with certain gentlemen of the press over the years. He would not, on this occasion at least, prove that odious little man to be correct in his observations, however accurate they may have been. He took a breath, then answered Mason in, what was for him, unaccustomedly cool and measured tones.

  “ I have little to say, sir, to either you, in particular, or your indolent, flatulent readership in general, other than to relate that there was an unforeseen circumstance, as can happen in any scientia manifestatio that necessitated myself having to receive some brief medical treatment. I am currently in the best of health and fully expect to be back in London within a day or two, where I shall be furthering my aim to attempt to raise funds for an exploratory expedition to Siberia to gain scientific data on the recent Tunguska meteorite event, and its impact on the flora and fauna of this inhospitable region. That is all I have, or indeed wish to recount on this particular subject. Now good day, Sir. Please close the door on your way out. I wish to be disturbed no further.”

  The young journalist was nothing if not tenacious. He studiously put away his notebook and pencil into an inside jacket pocket and despite another barely audible warning growl from Challenger, moved closer to the bed and the quietly seething patient thereon. He was obviously intent on pursuing the matter, despite Challenger’s understandable reticence. What came next was surprising. In quiet, almost conspiratorial tone Mason said:

  “ Professor Challenger, a moment, please, if you will. That is all I ask. I will make no notes. Our conversation, at this juncture, will not be published or alluded to, you have my word. This matter relates to my own personal curiosity and not in my capacity as a journalist. I have to tell you that something very odd happened to you at that demonstration. Extremely odd indeed. I was observing you at all times, my eyes did not leave you. It was obvious to me that Professor Martin did not expect your reaction to the sample that was placed in your hand. I further noted that none of his colleagues who were on that stage expected it either. This was something, in my opinion, that went far and beyond any mundane explanation given by them of some small technical failure of their equipment. What happened to you, sir? I mean to say, what really happened when you grasped that fossilized remain?”

  Challenger replied in a brusque tone: “Mr. Mason, I have said what I have said. I shall brook no more interrogations from you! Now, goodnight Sir! Or must I make use of more direct persuasion to compel you to leave?” The Professor swung his legs from the bed, standing up – even in a long flannel hospital nightshirt, he was an intimidating, stunted Hercules - hairy goliath hands, like two powerful oversized spiders, beginning to clench and unclench as if in preparation to grasp the younger man and throw him bodily through the door. Mason instantly backed himself up. He knew full well of Challenger’s firebrand reputation with journalists. He had no desire to be on the receiving end of his ire. He rapidly scuttled crab-like to the door before the Professor could reach him, adding these hurried words:

  “ Very well, Sir. I have no wish to add to your obviously distressed condition, and I shall leave as you insist. Perhaps, when you are feeling a little more rested, you will consent to a subseque…”

  “ Never Sir!” Challenger hissed in muted anger.“You shall leave forthwith – or I will certainly force you to! It has been a while since I have assaulted a member of your odious profession. But I can assure you…I have lost none of my exceptional vigour!”

  Challenger advanced but a single menacing step. Mason suddenly left the hospital room in great haste. Once he had assured himself that the young reporter had actually gone, the professor wearily made his way back to his bed. The earlier boast he had made to the young man regarding his stamina was, on this particular occasion, untrue. The professor felt uncustomarily weak and depleted. He sighed, lay down and rolled over, head throbbing, and drifted off to into a fitful sleep. It seemed as though he had only closed his eyes for a moment, but Challenger opened them again and at the same moment sat bolt upright in the hospital bed. He instinctively felt that something was wrong. It was now night outside and the room was dark and hushed. For a moment he had forgotten where he was, and then it came back to him. He settled back down to try to drift off to sleep; at least the headache was almost gone. He turned over.

  To his horror, something moved at the far end of the room; huge and amorphous, a black shadow within the shadows. He immediately became upright in fright. He heard a soft deep growl and one pool of blackness detached itself from the rest and began, with infinite slowness, to drift towards him. He caught a hint of vile odour, the stench from his hallucination - the darkness crept nearer!

&nbs
p; He cried out loudly in anger and panic.

  The door to his room was flung open and a nurse bustled in. As the door swung ajar, the dim light from the outside corridor spilled in, disbursing the shadows.

  The room was empty. The nurse simply assumed that he had a nightmare. Challenger heartily agreed with her, but he still had an uneasy feeling. That night he slept no more.

  Professor Challenger was discharged from the hospital the next day and he felt physically fine. During the following days and weeks that situation changed dramatically.

  It began simply enough, with him having the peculiar feeling of being watched, although he knew that was utterly ridiculous. Challenger dismissed it, but then the irrational fears of the darkness began and a sensation that he was in some kind of terrible danger.

  Just as he thought things couldn’t get worse the nightmares started. They were innocuous at first, dreams that would wake him from a deep sleep covered in sweat, haunting visions that left him breathless and scared. Finally, he was too frightened to fall asleep, terrified of what awaited him behind his closed eyes.

  In the weeks that followed, the nightmares acquired a common theme: Challenger was running from something that was intent on destroying him, but he always awoke, just as he felt its hot, stinking breath on the back of his neck.

  Reluctantly, he consulted a physician. He was prescribed tonics for the day and sleeping drafts for the night. These actually seemed to dull the edge of his night terrors, but the fear never completely faded. The nightmares merely lurked in the background.

  He began to doubt his sanity, and for a man like Professor George Edward Challenger, whose mind was both his rock and delight, it was a terrible thing. When out at night, walking home from the University or his local pub, he began to feel that something was following him in the darkness. He stopped on occasion and quickly turned round to see if he could catch sight of it. Was it concealed behind the trees, manoeuvring with an unseen grace? Was it skulking in darkened alleys just out of sight?

  He felt that something was stalking him. But try as he might, he could never actually see anything. Challenger was glad to lock his front door against the dark. He stopped going out at night. Things got progressively worse. When he did manage to sleep fitfully through sheer exhaustion, he would find himself unaccountably leaping up and running to his bedroom window, compelled to stare out into his darkened Kensington garden below. Sometimes he thought he got a flash of short tail, or glint of eyes, or gleaming fangs for the briefest of seconds. He imagined he had caught a glimpse of something out there in the night, a thing that was huge and hulking, patient and horrible; but then, before it could be quantified, it always vanished.

  In the bright daylight he would venture outside and look for physical signs to validate his irrational fear; some hint of the beast’s existence… but none were ever found.

  The stress began to tell. Challenger began to noticeably deteriorate. He couldn’t eat or sleep properly. His weight plummeted and his clothes began to hang off his normally powerful frame; dark circles appeared under his eyes, his beard looked unkempt and his hair became lank and straggly. His skin took on a sallow unhealthy appearance.

  Gossip regarding Challenger’s poor health abounded; colleagues at the university where Challenger had a leased office space and small laboratory became seriously concerned about him, to the point where Professor Summerlee, his old friend and oft time’s academic rival, sought Challenger out in his cluttered office one rainy afternoon. The unannounced visit wasn’t his idea. It was the result of a certain amount of prompting from members of the lecturing body, and ultimately, a little gentle coercion from the Chancellor himself.

  Summerlee had heard the rumours of Challenger’s state of mind and well-being but was privately convinced that his normally ebullient colleague was simply immersed in some new crack-pot line of research or bizarre experimentation, and resultantly had merely forgotten to eat or sleep. His misconceptions were swept away with a cold wind of shock as he entered Challenger’s office. The man’s appearance was truly concerning. For the first time in their long association Summerlee had an unaccustomed emotion regarding Challenger, other than ones of exasperation or bemusement. He genuinely felt pity for the man. His normal approach to Challenger was one of superior aloof haughtiness, personally persuaded that he himself was the better scientist and academician. Upon seeing Challenger in this state Summerlee’s shielding pretence was instantly dropped. All he could do was stand in the open doorway with his mouth slightly open, uncustomarily lost for words.

  Challenger looked up from his apparent contemplative study of his desktop, finally acknowledging Summerlee’s tall, gaunt presence for the first time. In a pale semblance of his normally bullish tones he said in a subdued voice that had been seemingly robbed of its energy:

  “Well, come in or go out Summerlee. But don’t hover so, like an unwelcome Banquo at the royal feast.” Summerlee came in, closing the door behind him and coming to Challenger’s desk, before saying directly what was foremost in his mind;

  “Good God, man! You look terrible. I’ve never seen you this way. Whatever is wrong, old boy?”

  Challenger gave a wan smile, replying: “ I fear Summerlee that I find myself in a most dire predicament. A situation so grave, that I have begun to have serious doubts of my own sanity.”

  And with that utterance, Challenger slowly lowered his head into his waiting hands; hands that seemed all too eager to cradle him, to offer succour in his hour of most need. Almost inaudibly, Summerlee then heard him utter the disturbing words:

  “I sense the very hand of death reaching out for me.” Apparently this was a day for the unexpected, thought Summerlee. He hadn’t ever expected to find the normally buoyant and belligerent Challenger in such a vulnerable state. Likewise he hadn’t expected his own humanity and compassion to push to the fore and be so blatantly on show. A remarkable day of firsts, indeed. Challenger peered up – Summerlee looked intently at the straggle-bearded, haggard face that was in front of him. A countenance that was pale and lined, eyes that were haunted by some horror, either real or imagined. The words spilled unbidden from Summerlee, spoken from his heart rather than his head.

  “For God’s sake - let me help you, George. If not I, then perhaps some other. If you could tell me what was troubling you, then I could…”

  The seated professor interjected with a raised hand, palm facing Summerlee. Challenger spoke then, and his words were both chilling and direct.

  “ I thank you from my heart, Summerlee. Your offer is both noted and appreciated. But mark me now. You have a wife and children to think on. Go to them. Forget this business and get as far away from it and George Edward Challenger as you can. For be assured, I am utterly convinced that death is coming, Summerlee. Don’t let your good intentions get you cut down by his icy scythe. None, not you, nor any other man can help me, and I would not ask for aid in this matter. This is my dread dilemma to face, and mine alone. Go home to your family, Summerlee. Go home.”

  Challenger lowered his head once more. And with nothing else to be said, Summerlee unwillingly took his leave from Challenger and headed off to relay a very disturbing report of this encounter to all interested parties. In the circumstances, all he could do was pity Challenger. But it was apparent that neither he, nor anyone else, could help the man if he refused to be helped. Challenger was very much on his own.

  *** Naturally, the situation couldn’t continue, a breaking point was drawing near. The final straw came the next day when a student, concerned at noises he had heard when passing Challenger’s office door, found the Professor hiding under his desk, rocking and softly sobbing. Not knowing what else to do, he helped Challenger to his feet… the man looked dreadfully pathetic. Knowing Challenger’s reputation, the young man wisely suggested, in the humblest of tones, that perhaps the professor should go home for the day and possibly consider seeing a doctor? Without so much as a word, not even of thanks, Challenger stumbled out of his office
and walked quickly away, furtively looking over his shoulder as he left the University grounds. Challenger finally got to his house and locked the door.

  In the days that followed Challenger had already guessed at, and had now reasoned out the only possible explanation for what was happening to him; and that explanation in itself was so fantastical and insane that no one would ever believe it. By Occam’s razor, if everything that was extraneous in this bizarre situation was logically eliminated, what was left must be the truth. And that truth came with the certain harsh knowledge that no one could help him, and anyone whom he did involve would, in all eventuality, pay for it with their lives.

  He reasoned thus: when he held that skull fragment, the malfunctioning equipment somehow enabled him to actually live a small slice of the life of an ancient hominid, dead for countless millennia. Challenger vividly experienced the death struggle with the Sabre-tooth. Now, because of it, the long extinct creature was somehow able to hunt him in the present. They were now inescapably linked, him and the nightmarish, long extinct creature. How exactly, he could only hypothesize. But as he, Challenger, got weaker - it, the sabre-tooth, was getting inexorably stronger. The creature was not quite in Challenger’s world yet, but it was determinedly tearing at the barrier of time and space that separated them. It desperately wanted to live again.