by Matt James
Even being built as she was, Mack perspired like a pig. Same as her dad. They used to laugh about it in the past. Now, it brought up a sadness that she hoped would one day subside. She wanted to relive those memories in a good way. Right now, they only brought up a feeling of regret—like she could’ve done something more for him.
Needing to get her mind off the subject of her father, Mack looked to the horizon and was lost in the beautiful expanse of nothingness that so many African countries offered. To someone that grew up around Washington D.C., Mack loved simpler, open environments like this even more. It felt like freedom to her.
After another fifteen minutes of waiting, her transport finally showed. For a moment, she feared it wouldn’t come at all. If something like that happened back home, Mack knew that the bus company would merely send another to take its place. But in Madagascar… She had no idea if they even had another bus!
She offered the vehicle a smile of relief, seeing it was fully enclosed, albeit, really, really worn. Grabbing her things, she rushed to the front, moaning in delight when the door opened, hitting her with a burst of cold air. The driver exited, offered her a smile, took her duffel bag, and stowed it below.
Mack kept her backpack.
She climbed aboard and found the front seat on the passenger side, just inside the door. No one would be sitting in front of her. She would be able to see the sites as they drove, which pleased her. Mack knew she was fortunate to be able to travel the world as often as she did and never wanted to miss a thing.
With just her backpack and coffee, Mack exhaled and got to work. As an added perk, she was excited to see that her seat had a cup holder attached to the armrest. Welcome home, she thought, sliding her cup into its place.
Pulling out her iPad, she opened every file she had on the topic surrounding her mission. They ranged from local folklore, paleontological and ornithological finds from within the park, and a list of contacts and potential interviews, including one Ian Robert Hunt, originally from Lavonia, Michigan.
The former SEAL retired after a highly publicized friendly fire attack. Mack didn’t need to go over what happened, she remembered hearing about it when she was younger. Ian was a bit of a celebrity afterward. The media followed his miraculous recovery until, whoosh, vanished. After that, there was nothing on him. Technically, he was unemployed after he left the service. But what he really did was travel the world with his wife. Ian had been photographed several times standing in the background.
Pulling up a headshot of Mrs. Hunt, even Mack couldn’t stop staring. Ian was a lucky guy for sure.
Ian…
Mack had traversed the planet countless times and had met all kinds of “Soldier of Fortune” types. Ian Hunt fit the description to a T. She had no proof of it, but she had learned to trust her instincts. Right now, they were telling her that there was more to him than meets the eye. He was a very dangerous person.
Especially since “her” death…
If Ian wasn’t in the business of danger before Abigail died, then he most definitely was now.
Bringing up another file, Mack reread the local police report dated seven years ago this fall. It described the scene in grisly detail.
Ian had come tumbling down the mountain covered in blood. Some of it was his. Some of it wasn’t. He’d screamed for help while describing a “devil” atop the massif. He said the rock had swallowed up him and his wife. Then, something had killed her.
Mack was surprised that anyone survived the record-setting quake at all. It was international news, killing hundreds of people. That fact that Ian and his wife were at its epicenter when it happened, and one of them lasted the night, was stunning in itself.
The incoherent, rambling man was arrested for disturbing the peace and held until the facts could be gathered and properly checked out. The Madagascar National Parks Association, in conjunction with local police, investigated Ian’s claim. The evidence came back that a murder had, in fact, occurred. And with the discovery of his shotgun, also slathered in blood, Ian, not some supernatural enemy, was convicted of her death.
This guy had a rough go of it, for sure, Mack thought, frowning.
Ian had spent eighteen months in prison before being released. His false accusation was realized when another death occurred in the same area where Abigail had perished. This time, though, pieces of human remains were found.
Through a contact in the South African government, Mack learned that Ian had stayed in Madagascar instead of returning to his home in Johannesburg. She guessed that he wanted to continue his investigation on his own. The police had reopened Mrs. Hunt’s case but had yet to solve anything.
Moving off the subject of Ian, she pulled up the file on what might have killed his wife.
First, was the more common of local cryptids, the Kalanaro. It was said to resemble a small human and was covered in short, coarse hair. It also sported a wicked set of claws. It kind of reminded her of a creature from the movie, Gremlins, only with fur and no terrifying reaction to water or sunlight.
These Gremlin-type creatures liked to live in caves and other dark places, preferring the cover of night over the intense African sun. It fit the timing and location of the attack: At night and near a series of cave mouths.
She swiped the page and saw a picture of Ian after the incident. He was a disaster. Within the smear of blood, there were three long gashes. They started from just behind his ear and ended only inches from his eye. The Kalanaro, if real, would’ve been able to do the job.
Mack chuckled to herself. If only they weren’t two-feet-tall… She doubted a two-foot monkey man could do a number on this guy. Shaking her head at the ridiculous notion, she continued her search.
Next, was the not-so-mythical fossa. The size of a small cougar, around twenty pounds at maturity, the elusive fossa had killer claws and was indeed a predator. It kind of resembled a large mongoose in a way and was endemic to the country, as was 90-percent of the plant and animal species found here. The flora and fauna of Madagascar developed undisturbed for generations, making it truly a unique ecosystem.
But could it shred a SEAL’s face?
Mack doubted as much. Plus, its paws were much too small to inflict the kind of damage he had suffered with seemingly one swipe. The evidence said as much. He was hit once, along the same plane, not multiple times from different angles. She imagined the fossa acting like an oversized, overzealous house cat, going at a scratching post, shredding it with a bevy of short, quick strikes.
What else then?
She decided to go for gold and opened a folder containing the most outlandish explanation of them all. It was a creature known throughout the world’s mythologies—especially the cultures surrounding the Indian Ocean. Yes, from India, all the way around to Madagascar, and every nation in between, the Roc was indeed the mother of all legends.
Famous for its appearance in the Fifth Voyage of Sinbad, the king-sized bird of prey was said to be so big that it could drop boulders large enough to sink ships. Cited throughout Middle Eastern mythology, the bird was even mentioned in one of Marco Polo’s illustrious adventures.
Reaching into her backpack, she procured the printout of the skeleton found beside the cliff face eight years ago. Could this thing be the inspiration behind the Roc legends? It was bigger than any other species of Rahonavis ever found in Madagascar, that much she knew.
Mack shook her head, understanding a few things about dino-birds like this. Mostly, they couldn’t really fly—glide maybe—but not actually fly. Secondly, the Roc was said to be enormous. A bird would need to have been of substantial size for it to be a real threat to an armed combat veteran.
Plus, a creature the size of a Pterodactyl would’ve been seen long ago and reported. Whatever attacked Ian was new, or at the very least, old, buried, and forgotten.
“Still…”
The woman seated across the aisle looked at her, hearing Mack talking to herself. Mack just smiled and tipped the photo away from
the lady’s prying eyes.
Someone would’ve found its remains too.
Squinting, Mack yawned and decided to take a breather. She slipped the photo and her iPad back into her backpack. Next, she covered her eyes with a pair of aviator sunglasses and slouched down as far as her tall frame would let her. Unfortunately, her seat wasn’t able to recline. So, she lifted her pack onto her shoulder and wedged it between her head and the window, using it as a makeshift pillow. It was something she’d often done when out in the field.
Eyes closed, she went over everything she knew or believed she knew, so far.
Her father hypothesized that there was some kind of ancient “beast” living within the heart of Madagascar. She refused to call it what it was, a dinosaur. But his assumptions rarely didn’t work out. Like her own instincts, she had learned to trust him on things like this.
That Ian Hunt was arrested and then later exonerated because of a similar killing eighteen months later lent credence to the fact that “something” was out there for sure. The massif didn’t house very many man-killing predators. The fossa was probably the most dangerous, but she seriously doubted it could hurt a man of Ian’s background, let alone drag his wife away and kill her. A twenty-pound cat couldn’t pull a full-grown human being.
The photo of the dino-bird was taken less than a year before Mrs. Hunt died. Was there a connection to its sudden appearance and their visit to the massif?
Then, there was the increased seismic activity in the area, specifically the night Ian and Abigail were there.
Mack sighed in disapproval when her hand brushed up against the lid of her coffee. Groaning, she realized she still had half a cup left. If there was one thing in the world Mack hated to waste, it was coffee and—
She was asleep before she could chastise herself any further.
3
Fossa’s Fangs
Ambalavao, Madagascar
He sat in his favorite spot in the entire town, the corner booth of Fossa’s Fangs. It was his preferred watering hole, a place he frequented often. Countless deals had been made and broken within the walls of the local bar. Ian Hunt was the reason for many of them over the last few years.
Well, not “deals” really.
The agreements came out to be more like contracts than anything. You took a job and got paid half up front. The other half of your wage was paid upon the work’s completion, whatever the job ended up being. It was the fairest way for people like Ian to do business, someone who couldn’t get a real job.
The bartender and owner of the place, a man who was called “Fossa,” was in on most of the contracts. Not all their undertakings were dangerous, they mostly dealt with illegal importing and exporting of overtaxed goods. Sometimes weapons and ammo were involved, though. But those jobs were rare. When they did come around, Ian charged double his going rate to be a part of them.
He also made sure that he got a taste of the incoming merchandise.
Ian was Fossa’s primary source of security on many of the operations, doing the work of three men all by himself. Plus, he only charged the price of two… Fossa wanted things to get done right and trusted the American to do them. He also liked the fact the Ian was an outsider.
Having too many locals on staff was bad for business. Locals talked too much, and they always tried to get their friends and family involved in the lucrative arrangements. Things inevitably got messy. Ian would routinely have to step in and cleanse the situation. Mostly, he’d just scare someone into cooperating. But every so often, he’d have to get physical.
Unlike the locals, Ian didn’t talk to anyone. Ever.
He believed in silence. Silence was the best way to intimidate a foe. So was the way you looked and acted, for that matter. Perception was as crucial as your abilities. He was a living shadow living shadow of it when he was in the navy, and he conducted himself the same way now.
Shadows don’t speak.
After the wounds on his head had healed, Ian attempted to grow out his hair. Unfortunately, he quickly realized it was a losing endeavor. So, instead, he cut it all off. His shaved head accentuated his “tough guy” demeanor, even more, calling attention to the wicked scarring left by his “demonic” assailant. He even added a long, greying, rust-colored beard to the mix.
The blemishing across the left side of his skull made Ian look like he’d gotten into a bar fight with a grizzly and won. The three, long, jagged wounds never healed properly, how could they? The lower groove clipped his ear as the claw had gone by, nearly taking a piece of it. The central scar was the deepest, having dug down to the bone. The top slash mark curved a little with the shape of his head and ended only inches from the outside of his eye.
Ian Hunt looked the part.
He also backed it up with his actions. He was cold and calculating. His exterior was hard and uninviting. He was seen as trouble to most within the “city” he now called home.
Situated twenty-nine miles to the north of Andringitra National Park, the small town of Ambalavao was quiet and calm. The people living there, some 30,000 of them, mostly kept to themselves. For the most part, everyone knew everyone, especially towards the center of town where the population grew denser. Most of the businesses were located there, while the majority of homes in Ambalavao were sprinkled around its outer rim.
The fact that most of the townsfolk knew each other was both a blessing and a curse for Ian. It helped him build trust within the community, typically the underground portion. The reason it was a curse, however, was that the less desirable of the populace also knew who he was and could find him with ease.
The price of doing business in a Podunk place like this.
“Masina.”
Ian took his eyes off his pint of Fossa’s Home Brew and found his number two, the only local he worked with on a regular basis. Babo’s English was decent, good enough to get by. He knew Ian’s first name but preferred to call him by another.
Masina, Ian thought, shaking his head. Ghost.
It wasn’t an endearing term either. “Ghost” referred to his white skin, not his stealthy capabilities on the battlefield. Very few around town knew of his background in the military, though there was plenty of speculation. The man who had just called him Ghost got away with it because he was Ian’s only, well, friend.
Babotin Ulaadowe was the closest thing to a giant as Ian had ever seen. At six-nine, “Babo” was almost a foot taller than Ian and easily outweighed him by over a hundred pounds. It was embarrassing for Ian sometimes that his subordinate was that much bigger than him. Babo’s thick build made him look more dangerous than he really was. The native generally steered clear of conflict, wanting a peaceful life instead. But money was hard to come by, and he did what Ian did to put food on the table.
Even though Ian didn't really need Babo, he found him invaluable to his and Fossa’s operation because he could speak four different indigenous dialects.
At heart, “Bob” wasn’t a warrior, just someone trying to provide for his family. His farm, like countless others since the “great shake,” wasn’t producing like it used to. Babo, along with those same farmers, blamed it on the evil gods living beneath the ground, the fanahin'ny haizina, or “spirit of darkness.”
It was third-world superstition at its finest.
The predominant language in Madagascar was Malagasy, one Ian had quickly learned. It helped when trying to cut a deal with the other hooligans that called the country home. Even his employer, Fossa, barely spoke a lick of English. He mostly knew curse words and overplayed song lyrics.
“What is it, Bob?” Ian replied in Malagasy.
“There is woman,” Babo said, practicing his English. “Pale ghost, like you. She ask about you.” Ian’s eyes darted to the door and then back to Babo. The large man raised an eyebrow. “I show her in?”
Ian thought for a second. “Is she looking for my help, or is she looking for trouble?” he asked, switching to English.
Babo shrugged. “No sure, but s
he cute,” he smiled, “if you like woman with no meat.” He patted his own hip when saying meat. “I like meat.”
Ian rolled his eyes. “That depends on the woman, Bob.” He grinned. “Show her in, my friend.”
Slipping outside, Babo disappeared for a few minutes. While Babo went on the hunt, Ian returned his attention to his beer. Drinking was his therapy. It was the only thing that kept the debilitating nightmares away. If he didn’t have a couple of them in him before laying down for the night, he would literally panic at the thought of having to relive Abigail’s death again.
The event was as fresh as the day it happened. It was something his brain was never able to let go. He told himself it would go away when he solved her murder, and unfortunately for his psyche, he’d yet to do so. The worst had been when he was in prison, where he had no “therapy” at all. He spent over five-hundred days in jail. Each night he would just sit in the corner and shake, eventually crying himself to sleep. Even now, his breathing sped up while thinking about it.
After he was released, Ian couldn’t work up the courage to return to the newly formed tunnel. He searched every square inch of the grounds surrounding the great massif, but he froze whenever he began his ascent to the top—into the mouth of Satan. Plus, others have reported that several of the newer entrances have already collapsed due to sporadic tremors.
Once, he even took Babo with him.
Still, nothing. He couldn’t break through the mental wall.
So, instead of facing his demons, he hid from them in booze and random trafficking operations. The money gained went to research and equipment for his eventual hunt, however. His quaint apartment was stocked to outfit an expedition.
It was also stocked with a bevy of weapons.
“Let go of me, you bastard!”
I guess Babo got a little too excited.
A heartbeat later, a woman was shoved through the doors of Fossa’s Fangs. Babo didn’t follow her in, though. Ian knew that he’d stay outside and keep watch for anyone interested in what just transpired. The newcomer looked alarmed, but not terrified. He was rather impressed considering she’d just technically been abducted off the streets in a foreign country. Her determined face said she’d seen a thing or two.
