by David Meyer
His brain waged a silent, internal war. Then he gave Mills a look. She met his gaze and he willed an unspoken message to her. I’ll play punching bag, he thought. You figure out those microchips. She offered a slight nod in response.
Brandishing his axes, he stepped toward Corbotch. The man unleashed a quick jab at his chest. Caplan put up his defenses and the fist slammed into his arm with the force of a sledgehammer. His body erupted in horrible pain, then quickly numbed over.
Mills raced toward the monitor bank. Corbotch grabbed Caplan by the arms. With a mighty heave, he hurled the man across the room. Caplan slammed into Mills and they both fell to the ground.
“Don’t waste your time,” Corbotch said. “My system is completely proprietary. You’ll never figure it out.”
Mills retrieved her bow and fitted an arrow into the bowstring. She let it rip. Corbotch dropped to the floor, but the arrow still managed to nick his shoulder blade.
She readied another arrow. But he was already on top of her. His fist smacked her jaw. Her eyes flew to the back of her head and she sagged to the ground.
Caplan’s body felt rubbery and tired. With great effort, he swung an axe at Corbotch. But the man parried the blow, then punched Caplan in the forehead. It was like being hit by a block of cement and Caplan flopped onto the ground.
A foot slammed into his stomach. His stomach muscles seized up and he gasped for air. But before he could breathe, Corbotch grabbed his throat. Dropping his axes, Caplan tried to pry the hand away. But it was far too powerful.
Corbotch pulled him off the ground and into the air. Struggling and choking, Caplan stretched his toes, trying to gain his footing. It didn’t work so he started chopping at Corbotch’s hand. But the man didn’t even flinch.
“It’s over, Zach,” Corbotch said.
His cheeks started to burn. His eyesight dimmed and he felt himself drifting away to oblivion.
A loud crack, wood on flesh, rang out. Corbotch grunted. Releasing his grip on Caplan, he whirled around.
Caplan fell to the floor. Clawing at his throat, he struggled to breathe. Precious oxygen slipped into his lungs and his vision returned. Looking up, he saw Corbotch standing still, poised over a broken chair. Mills, her jaw bruised and bleeding, stood a few feet away.
Looking past them, Caplan saw the monitor bank. He saw Toland lying on top of a helicopter, an archaic’s teeth chomping at his neck. He saw Teo, now weaponless and surrounded. And he saw Ross slumped on the ground, archaics piling on top of him. Everywhere he looked, he saw his friends on the verge of death.
Despair filled his chest. Even if he and Mills stopped Corbotch, they’d never figure out the system in time. The bloodthirst would continue to slip through the microchips.
A hard ridge crossed his brow. Unless …
Grabbing up an axe, he rose to his feet. His arm hurled back and he threw the bladed weapon with all of his might. It soared end over end, straight and true.
Corbotch sidestepped the weapon. The axe hurtled past him. Metal slammed into glass and metal.
“You missed,” Corbotch said.
Caplan grinned. “That’s what Chenoa thought, too.”
Twisting around, he stared at the monitor bank. At the axe blade, embedded deep into the console. At the sparks, at the blinking images. “Oh, my God,” he cried out. “Do you know what you’ve done?”
Caplan knew exactly what he’d done. Unable to seize control of the microchips, he’d severed the connection instead. Bloodlust and hunger would no longer flow through the archaics, the reborn megafauna, or the behemoths. For the first time in their miserable lives, they were free. Free from Corbotch, free from all forms of control.
The longer-term ramifications, of course, remained troubling. Would the archaics survive without bloodlust? How about the reborn megafauna or the behemoths? And if not, what would he do? How would he combat the Holocene extinction?
He knew those questions would need to be answered someday. But at least he wouldn’t have to answer them alone.
Keeping his gaze locked on the blinking monitors, he watched confused expressions come over the archaics’ faces. Their fists slowed, then stopped. Their bloodied teeth pulled away from flesh. They looked around, as if seeing the world for the first time.
Archaics climbed down from the helicopter. Toland twitched a few times, then rose to a sitting position. Other archaics backed away from Teo. Breathing heavily, she grabbed up her broken propeller.
Caplan shifted his gaze to another screen. He saw archaics pull themselves off of a thick pile. Ross came into view. His face looked bruised and he bled heavily. But he was moving.
Shifting his gaze to other monitors, Caplan watched as other archaics backed away from the rest of his friends. They headed for the walls and scaled the ladders. And then they were gone.
“You broke the connection.” Corbotch’s voice sounded hollow. “You—”
Caplan plowed a shoulder into the man’s back. Grunting, Corbotch stumbled into the sparking, buzzing console. A sizzling sound rang out and his body stiffened. Then he collapsed in a heap.
Caplan limped across the room. He wrapped his arms around Mills and she embraced him in kind. They held tightly to each other, bound by equal parts love and horror. Love for each other. Horror for all that had happened. For the death of Perkins, Aquila, and all the others. For Morgan’s transformation and imminent death. For everything they’d seen and done over the last week and a half.
“What now?” she whispered.
“This.” He brushed hair away from her eyes. Then he lowered his head. His lips locked onto hers.
And they kissed.
Chapter 72
Date: December 3, 2017, 8:04 p.m.; Location: Savage Station, Vallerio Forest, NH
Ross kicked off his dirty shoes and soiled socks. Carefully, he stepped onto the ornate carpet. A soft sigh of pleasure left his bruised lips. “Wow,” he mumbled. “That feels amazing.”
Caplan retrieved two tumblers from the bar. He dropped a few ice cubes into each one. Then he picked up a bottle of Hamron’s Horror. Carefully, he poured copper-colored scotch into each tumbler.
Ross plopped down on one of the plush stools. He gave the alcohol a good sniff. Nodding in approval, he held the glass out to Caplan. “To the future,” he said.
“To the future.” They clinked tumblers. Then Caplan tipped the glass to his lips and allowed a bit of Hamron’s Horror into his mouth. Like always, it tasted smoky and burnt his tongue.
Ross took a long draught. “I just checked with Sydney. She said the footage from that monitor cut out while the chase was still in progress. So, we still don’t know what happened to Tricia.”
“How’s Sydney handling it?”
“About as well as can be expected.” He sighed. “In other news, we buried the rest of the bodies. I figure we’ll hold services in the morning. Do you want to say something?”
He nodded.
“I figured as such.” Ross downed the rest of his liquor. Placing the tumbler on the bar, he tapped it with his finger. “One more thing. George told me James’ people are starting to emerge from their rooms.”
Caplan filled the man’s glass. Then he downed his own tumbler and refilled it. “How are they taking the recent change in management?”
“Not great. It’s going to take time to win them over.”
“We’ve got plenty of that.”
They drank in silence for several minutes. When Ross was finished, he pushed his tumbler toward Caplan. Caplan refilled it for a second time and Ross lifted the glass back to his lips. “They’re not the only one who are peeved. Dr. Sandy and a few others, well, let’s just say they’re not pleased with your decision to spare James. They want him thrown to the behemoths, so to speak.”
Thanks to his superior genetics, Corbotch had survived the electric shock. Now, he lay asleep in the concrete cell once used to hold Caplan, Mills, and Toland.
“We may need him,” Caplan replied. “He knows
more about the Apex Predator project than the rest of us put together.”
“He’ll never help us.”
“He will if it’ll help stop the extinction.”
“We’ll see.” Ross took another drink, then looked around. “So, this is it, huh? This is where we’re going to spend the rest of our lives?”
“Not necessarily.”
He arched an eyebrow.
Caplan pulled Morgan’s Apex Predator logbook out of a cupboard. He cracked the book open and retrieved a wad of paper from the interior. Unfolding it, he spread out the paper on top of the bar. It was a map of the United States. Little arrows and notes, scribbled in Corbotch’s handwriting, decorated the map.
“What’s this?” Ross asked.
“I found it on the console. It’s James’ record of the survivor settlements.”
“What’s that got to do with us?”
“Perhaps humanity wasn’t meant to rule this planet with an iron fist. But I’m not sure we were intended to live underground like rats either.” He stared at the map. “I’m going to find these survivor communities. I’m going to bring them together. Maybe, just maybe, we can carve out a role for humanity in this new world.”
Ross arched an eyebrow. “It sounds like you’re thinking about staying on as our leader.”
Caplan nodded. “If you’ll have me.”
“You’ve got my vote.” He glanced at the map. “So, do you need help with that?”
Caplan grinned. A song, familiar but different, came to mind. Forget just surviving, he sang in his head. It’s time to start thriving. “Definitely.”
Apex Predator Logbook
Apex Predator Memorandum
Date: July 14, 2013, 1:43 a.m.
To: Vallerio Foundation, Stage I Team
From: James Corbotch
RE: risk profile of a super-colossus
This email string has gotten quite heated over the last week and so I decided to step in and give my two cents on the matter. First and foremost, the work done by Dr. Grant is irrefutable. The risk of a “super-colossus,” while slim, is undeniably real. And if a super-colossus does emerge, it will undoubtedly upset the very delicate changes we hope to make to the global food chain.
We must accept this and move on as best as possible. The truth is we need the colossi. Without them, Apex Predator will most assuredly fail.
With that said, I propose the following protocol to deal with the possibility of a super-colossus emergence:
1) Unmanned aerial vehicles will be used to track colossi at all times. Spot checks, conducted by approved and trained personnel, will be performed on a regular basis.
2) Monthly measurements will be taken for all colossi. These measurements will be compared to historical data in order to ascertain any irregular growth patterns.
3) If a super-colossus does emerge, Protocol Sixty-Four will be put into play. No effort will be spared to ensure the immediate destruction of this creature.
In closing, please remember that the risk of a super-colossus remains miniscule. However, the threat of such a creature is very real. Please keep your follow-up responses clean and your rhetoric polite. Remember, only the coolest of heads will be able to save this world from all that threatens it.
END OF BOOK TWO
Author’s Note
Some thirteen months ago, I failed. And this wasn’t some minor failure, either. No, I failed big-time.
On February 1, 2016, I published FURY (originally called KNOX), the fifth novel in the Cy Reed Adventures. I wrote FURY without an outline and enjoyed every second of the experience. I felt utterly confident it would be an enormous success. And indeed, it came roaring out of the gate … only to flop right on its face.
FURY was my first real commercial failure as an author. In the aftermath, I began questioning everything I thought I knew about books. I even returned to outlining and rewriting, processes that have proven highly destructive to my creativity.
So, what went wrong? With time, I’ve come to realize that FURY’s failure didn’t result from a bad story but rather, a bad cover. A cover that, incidentally, I created. For years, I designed my own covers with, in retrospect, mixed success. Some covers were pretty good. Others, like the initial FURY cover, were rather poor. And unfortunately, a poor cover is the surest way to kill a good book.
But on a much deeper level, I failed because I insisted on doing everything—writing, cover design, formatting, publicity, and more—by myself. And that brings me to SAVAGE. On its surface, SAVAGE is about behemoths, the Holocene extinction, and desperate survival. But it’s really about learning to accept help. Help from friends, loved ones, and even strangers. Help from people who can shore up our weaknesses. Help from people who bring encouragement and good cheer into our lives.
I recently contracted with a designer to produce new covers for all of my books. The process is ongoing but so far, I’m pleased with the results. And thanks to my wife’s timely advice, I gave up outlining and rewriting all over again. I also asked my father to lend me a hand with marketing and production. His help has been invaluable in getting this book into your hands. Finally, your wonderful letters, emails, and social media comments inspired me to soldier through this period of debilitating self-doubt.
I hope all of you find the strength to accept help into your lives, especially during difficult times. And, of course, to offer that same help to others as well.
Thank you for reading SAVAGE. I hope you enjoyed it. If you want to be the first to know about my upcoming stories, make sure to sign up for my newsletter.
Keep Adventuring!
David Meyer
February 2017
Ready for More?
Then visit my website for a FREE bonus chapter, bridging the gap between BEHEMOTH and SAVAGE. And if you haven’t read BEHEMOTH yet, turn the page for a FREE preview!
Also, make sure to check out the Cy Reed Adventures, too. The Cy Reed Adventures consists of five books, CHAOS, ICE STORM, TORRENT, VAPOR, and FURY. Follow along as treasure hunter / salvage expert Cy Reed crisscrosses the globe, searching for ancient relics, battling mythical monsters, and unraveling mysteries of history!
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.
