by David Meyer
Some of his strength returned. He shifted his body, moving it away from the cloaked corpse. In the process, he bumped up against something extra hard, something that wasn’t flesh.
Shelving his disgust, he twisted around. Gingerly, he touched the new object, tracing it with his finger.
It’s a canteen.
The thought sent an odd bit of giddiness, coupled with complete disgust, scurrying through him. The expedition had traveled with plenty of supplies. So, it made sense that some of the corpses would’ve died with intact food and water. But did he really want to steal from the dead? Was it even safe to eat their rascos or drink their water?
We brought more than just canteens.
This new thought sent a spark of hope shooting through him. Setting aside his queasiness, he began rooting amongst the corpses, searching their cloaks as well as the floor on which they’d fallen. Swiftly, he found swords and daggers, tools and torches.
He kept searching. Checking a few more cloaks, he discovered a couple of small rocks. Nervously, he extracted them, felt them with his fingers.
He sat on the floor. Taking out his torch, he balanced it between his legs. He held the two rocks above it and struck them together. A tiny spark appeared. It was the first light he’d seen in quite a while and his grateful eyes instantly focused on it.
The spark vanished. And so, he banged the rocks together a few more times. As sparks materialized, he maneuvered the torch beneath them. They ignited the material and a flame began to flicker. He brought it close to his lips, breathed softly on it, coaxing it to life.
But the flame was slow to expand and he soon saw the problem. Unfortunately, a large portion of the material had burnt out, likely while he’d been unconscious. On the bright side, if one could call it that, there was plenty of the stuff to harvest.
He looked around. With the help of the flame, he saw another torch close by, clutched in the fingers of a rotting man. Holding his breath, he grabbed at it. It didn’t come easily however, so he gave it a good yank.
A soft sucking sound filled his ears. The torch slipped out of the corpse’s deathly grip. Grimacing, he swiftly wiped its handle on the man’s cloak. But that didn’t make it any less gruesome.
He brought it to his face. A bit of dust came with it and he coughed. Clamping his mouth shut, he studied the torch. Unfortunately, its flammable material was entirely gone.
He tossed it aside. Crawling among the many corpses, he kept a lookout for other torches. He found a bunch, but they were all burnt out.
He kept looking. Before long, he came across a couple of blackened, charred bodies. A nearby torch, fully burnt out, completed the nasty picture.
Awful, he thought. Just terrible.
When the Banished had launched their attack, the carrier must’ve been knocked askew. He or she had swung a torch around, accidentally igniting nearby cloaks. Those unfortunate souls had then succumbed to the flames.
Chest heavy, he moved on. The taste of death saturated his mouth. Every now and then, he was forced to shut it. And then, his nostrils would open wide and he’d inhale the nasty odors of rotting flesh, blood, and staleness.
He crisscrossed a small area, considering and discarding torches. Finally, he came across one that looked like new. It was lightly compacted on one side and he guessed that someone had accidentally stepped on it, extinguishing the flame before it could burn itself out.
He pressed his dying flame against this new torch. Its flammable material burst to life, emitting so much light he was forced to shield his eyes.
He waited a few seconds. Then he cracked his eyes open. What he saw took his breath away.
This particular space, he recalled, was floor B-13. It was enormous and featured a gigantic metal structure with lattice framework. Previously, the structure had held a long, thin pipe, which shot through a large gap in the floor.
Now, the structure was in ruins. Scorched from fire, it lay in a mangled heap. The pipe, which had also passed through the ceiling, was broken and leaning up against a wall.
Spinning in a circle, he took in other parts of the room. The ceiling sagged in multiple places. Massive chunks of broken concrete were scattered about the piping that covered some of the floor. Meanwhile, large cracks ran through the walls. Some of the material had crumbled into dust.
Four long hallways, lined with doors, had once extended out from the room. But they’d collapsed. Now, they were buried under tons of rock, soil, and sand.
He turned toward a metal staircase. Brutally mangled, it led to an upper walkway. The walkway, twisting in grotesque fashion, ringed the entire room. Doorways, some of which had been reduced to rubble, lined the walkway.
Seeing that walkway caused a surge of memories to shoot through his brain. That was where he’d first seen the Banished, where he’d first laid eyes upon his brother.
He hiked to the stairwell he’d once used to reach this very floor. He gripped the knob, but the door was stuck. Putting his foot against the frame, he pulled with all of his might.
The door burst open. Maneuvering his torch, he saw the stairwell had completely collapsed.
Not getting out that way, he thought.
He turned around, glanced at the upper walkway. One of the rooms, he recalled, held a hidden staircase. Six months ago, he’d used it to escape the building. But was it still accessible?
His gaze went to the appropriate room. Its doorway was partially crumbled and its interior appeared to be in shambles. Making matters worse, the upper walkway was in extremely poor shape.
I’ve got to get up there, he thought. But how?
*****
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Behemoth Excerpt
Chapter 1
Date: Unknown; Location: Unknown
This can’t be heaven, Bailey Mills thought as bright rays of waning moonlight filtered through her half-opened eyelids, so it must be hell.
For a moment, she lay still in the swamp, inhaling the odors of clay, rotten oranges, and bird droppings. Tall blades of green grass, partially trampled, surrounded her. Farther back, she saw a layer of orange-barked trees, forty to sixty feet high and dripping with yellow-green fruit. More trees, towering and ancient, lay beyond the fruit trees. The view reminded her a little of that Thomas Cole landscape adorning the bedroom wall of her ex-boyfriend’s Hamptons getaway.
And she hated that painting.
With a soft groan, she lifted her face off of the soggy soil. Clenched her teeth as a searing ache struck the back of her skull. Closing her eyes, she took a few deep breaths and tried to think. Where was she? How had she gotten there?
Gradually, the pain dulled. With some effort, she pried her eyes back open and stared out at the small marshy clearing, the four-foot tall reeds, and the multi-layered forest. Twisting her neck, she looked for a sign, any sign, of civilization. But all she saw was more foliage, more nature.
Her brain clicked into high gear as she tried to remember the sequence of events that had led her to this place. She recalled waking up late on the morning of June 18, 2016. Then a late lunch and three or four cocktails with her besties at Bullish Bistro, Manhattan’s newest hotspot. Afterward, her driver, Gregory What’s-His-Name, had driven her back to her five-story brownstone. She would’ve preferred a night on the town, drinking and dancing herself into oblivion at the invitation-only Carlyle Lounge. But instead, she’d sacrificed her evening to attend the Galeton Charity Ball, a boring annual extravaganza to raise money for conservation projects throughout Africa.
She glanced down at her clothes, confirming they were the same ones she’d worn to the ball. A slinky black dress, stained with grime, covered her carefully sculpted body. Matching high heels, a stylish silver necklace, and a couple of chunky bracelets on her right wrist completed the look. It was an eye-popping outfit, well suited for a charity affair.
But completely useless in her present situation.
Her brain
continued to churn, searching for additional memories. But it came up blank. She didn’t remember the party or if she’d even gone to it.
A wave of dizziness swept over her. Queasiness erupted in her stomach, the sort of queasiness one feels after imbibing way too many mojitos and mai tais. The first few pangs of regret rocked her grumbling belly. She must’ve done it again. That was the only explanation. She could already imagine the headlines crisscrossing the New Yorker Chronicles as well as the countless other celebrity sites that loved to hate her. Stuff like Billionaire Bailey Humiliates Herself at Charity Ball! and The Boozing Bad Girl Strikes Again!
She understood the public’s fascination with her. At least to an extent. She possessed fabulous wealth despite never working a day in her life. Plus, she was blessed with supermodel looks. Her eyes were blue like the ocean. Her tanned skin was flawless. Her long blonde hair, perfectly styled at all times, lacked split ends or frizz. And of course, her rail-thin body, ample chest, and long legs were the stuff of fantasies.
Indeed, she was America’s favorite—and sometimes its least-favorite—spoiled little princess. The gorgeous party girl with oodles of inherited money. Desired by men. Despised by their girlfriends.
She enjoyed the attention. But it embarrassed her a bit. It wasn’t like she was curing old age, inventing the next great gadget, or creating art that touched the soul. She was, if all the layers were stripped away, little more than a professional partier.
Gingerly, she touched the top of her head. A slow grimace crossed her face as she felt the grime packed into the layers of carefully pinned locks of hair. It would take her personal hairstylist hours to clean it. Hours!
Her feet screamed in protest. Reaching down, she slipped the heels off her manicured peds. Slowly, she massaged the soles of her feet. Then she rose to a standing position.
Her stomach grumbled, but the only thing resembling food—the yellow-green fruit, much of which lay rotting in the marsh—creeped her out. They might’ve smelled like oranges, but they looked like bumpy tennis balls. Plus, they appeared to emit some kind of milky white sap.
Gross. Just … gross.
A cool breeze chilled her mud-drenched torso. Tiny flies buzzed around her, nipping at her perfect skin, ignoring her repeated attempts to drive them away.
The more she thought about her situation, the more confused and frightened she felt. The Galeton Charity Ball was always held at the historic Quimros Hotel on the Upper West Side, not far from Central Park. But this wasn’t Central Park. Not even close. It was an honest-to-goodness forest with nary a skyscraper to be seen.
Panic engulfed her, stretching through her veins and streaking deep into her heart. Clutching her shivering shoulders, she turned in a circle. There was no way she’d wandered into a forest by herself. Someone had taken her here. But who? And why?
“Ohhhh, my head … hot damn …”
Heart pounding, Mills whirled toward the unfamiliar voice. A grizzled older man stood about ten feet away, wobbling on unsteady legs. He sported thick glasses, a fat face, and a gray beard.
He wasn’t cute or stylish and he didn’t project much in the way of wealth or power. No, he was the sort of hapless loser Mills would’ve ignored as she and her besties swished their way down Madison Avenue. But here, in this strange, ancient forest, she was grateful for his company. “Hey,” she called out. “Over here.”
The man gave her a suspicious glance. “Who the hell are you?”
She blinked. “You don’t recognize me?”
“Should I?”
“I’m Bailey Mills.”
He stared at her.
“You know, the Bailey Mills.”
“Well, I’m the Brian Toland.” He cleaned his glasses on his shirt. Looked around. “Where the hell are we?”
“I was hoping you could tell me.”
“Last I recall I was in my office. Hunched over my keyboard, pecking away in the dark.”
Mills frowned, trying to make sense of it all. “You’re a writer?”
“Damn straight.”
“I hate writers.”
A smirk crossed his wrinkled face. “A hatred for the humble scribe, my dear, is clear evidence of a pathetically primitive mind.”
“I … what?”
“Uhhh …” A new voice, feminine and hard-edged, drifted out of the clearing.
Toland’s head swiveled to his right. “Who’s there?”
After several seconds with no response, he trekked toward the voice, his shoes squelching repeatedly in the marshy soil.
A bit of reflected light caught Mills’ eye. Casting a glance at the ground, she saw her purse, a one-of-a-kind black clutch. Falling to her knees, she popped it open. Her pulse slowed a bit as she caught sight of her satphone.
She pressed a button and the screen came to life. The battery was low, less than ten percent of full power. Wasting no time, she initiated a call to her bestest bestie, Rachel Crossing, and lifted the device to her ear. A slow frown creased her face. She tried another bestie. And then another one.
“Where’d you go?” Toland called out.
Ignoring him, Mills tried to make another call. But the battery died and the screen faded to black. Frustrated, she threw the satphone into the muck and climbed to her feet.
Right away, she spied two women standing with Toland in the deep grass. The first woman, at least from the chest-up, was a hot mess. She wore a baggy green sweatshirt, no accessories, and not even a touch of lipstick. Her hair, clipped close to her scalp, was dyed canary yellow.
The second woman was older, in her mid-forties, and gave off the vibe of an overworked businesswoman. She wore a cheap blue jacket, likely part of a pantsuit, and a bobbed hair cut. Her makeup—pale red lipstick and severe eyeliner—was boresville.
“My phone didn’t work.” Mills felt her jaw begin to quiver. “All I got was static.”
“That’s not surprising.” The businesswoman glanced over both shoulders. “From the looks of it, we’re a long way from the nearest cell tower.”
“This isn’t some cheap smartphone,” Mills retorted. “It’s a satphone. It gets coverage anywhere on Earth.”
The businesswoman arched an eyebrow. “You’ve got a satphone?”
“Of course.”
“That’s interesting.” Toland stroked his jaw. “My phone’s acting funny too.”
Mills cocked her head. “How so?”
“I can’t call anyone. Can’t email or text either. Plus, the date and time are all messed up.” He chuckled half-heartedly. “It thinks we’re in a different century.”
“Which one?”
“One that won’t happen for about 4,000 years.”
Mills didn’t know what to say.
“I know you.” The hot mess’ eyes widened. “You’re Bailey Mills.”
“That’s right.” Mills offered her a sweet smile. “I’m glad at least one of you knows who I am.”
“Yeah, I know you alright. I despise you.”
Mills’ smile faded.
“Enough.” Toland waved at the hot mess and the businesswoman in turn. “This is Tricia Elliott and Randi Skolnick. Ladies, this is Bailey Mills. Apparently, she’s famous if you care about that sort of thing.”
A low growl rang out.
Mills’ spine turned to jelly and she rotated in a quarter-circle. Some dense berry bushes occupied one edge of the clearing. The bushes rustled as if a breeze had caught hold of them.
But there was no breeze.
Another growl filled the still air.
Mills took a step backward.
The bushes rustled again and she saw an animal, shrouded in green leaves, little red berries, and shadows. Its shoulders were roughly four feet off the ground. Its body was five to six feet long. It possessed a stubby tail, high shoulder blades, and short, powerful limbs.
Mills backed up farther, joining the others in a tight group.
“What is that thing?” Elliott whispered.
“I think it
’s a cougar,” Toland replied tightly.
“Are cougars dangerous?” Mills asked.
“Of course, they’re dangerous, you dolt. Cougar is another name for a mountain lion.”
The bushes parted before Mills could reply. The creature emerged. Paws stomped on wet leaves, crushing them underfoot. Its body curled and curved, pulsating with life. Its head turned. Its jaw lifted upward. A roar filled the pale night sky.
Mills wanted to rub her eyes, to erase the terrifying vision before her. But she couldn’t even blink.
“That’s no cougar,” Toland whispered as the group ducked their heads beneath the tall grass. “It’s a … hell, I don’t know what it is.”
“I know what it is.”
Mills’ eyes flitted in the direction of this new voice, a low-pitched smooth sort. She saw a man in his late twenties. He was clean-shaven and wore stylish eyeglasses. His outfit, skinny jeans and a t-shirt featuring a cartoon T-Rex complaining about short arms, screamed hipster.
“Well, what is it?” she mouthed.
“I’ve only seen something like it once before.” The hipster stared at the creature’s long, curving teeth. “But not in the wild.”
“Where then?”
“In a museum. Those teeth are a dead giveaway. They could only belong to a Smilodon fatalis.”
Mills shivered at the name.
“In other words, it’s a saber-toothed tiger.” The hipster’s voice rang cold. “And it’s been extinct for more than 10,000 years.”
Chapter 2
Date: June 19, 2016, 4:06 a.m.; Location: Upper East Side, New York, NY
The sudden cry, brimming with terror and anguish, reverberated through the steel and concrete canyon. It was the cry of the helpless, the cry of the pathetic. The cry of a creature who’d nearly run out of options, nearly run out of time.
It was the cry of fleeing prey.
Zach Caplan halted at the corner of 73rd Street and York Avenue. His eyes closed over. His head tilted skyward and he perked his ears. The cry had rung out from half a block away, filling his brain with its strangely pleasing resonance. There was something horribly wonderful about the cry of prey, about the roar of a pursuing predator. Horrible because of death’s finality. Wonderful because death, in so many ways, fostered new life. For the first time in forever, Caplan felt at home.
