by Paul Bishop
“Fast?”
“So fast you could not track him. Den—”
“Yes? Then?”
“He made some kind of noise, a whistling noise, and waved his arms.”
There was silence for several seconds.
“Go on,” the interviewer said. “Tell us more.”
“It was like he signaled de jungle to attack us.” He brought his mutilated right hand upward in a huge mushrooming gesture. “Everting came alive, attacking us from every front. It was like a dark cloud had dropped upon us. Plants, animals, everything. Attacking.” He stopped and hugged himself. “It would not end.”
“And you managed to evacuate?”
“We had no choice. It was every man for himself. We left all de petals we had gadered. Ran as best we could. De underbrush was fighting us all de way. It was a struggle to get back to base camp, but it did not end dere.” His arms drew tighter around his now shivering body. “I do not remember what happened next. I was fighting, and den I got hit by someting fast and powerful. De wind, it got knocked out of me. My back was on fire. I blacked out.”
The interviewer’s arms appeared on the screen, clad in a white lab coat.
“I’m going to ask you to show us your back now,” the interviewer said. “Is that all right?”
The other man nodded and turned slightly. The rear portion of the chair lowered to expose the man’s back.
Lassiter stared as the interviewer’s fingers grasped the subject’s hospital gown and untied the string gently. The other man grunted in pain as huge swaths of bandages became visible.
“I’ll undo these bandages,” the attendant said.
Another grunt was audible and the subject recoiled slightly.
As the tape and gauze were removed, the camera zeroed in on four deep, jagged lacerations along the subject’s back, starting at the right scapula and tracing diagonally downward to the left external oblique. It looked like a scratch from a huge feral cat.
After several seconds, the interviewer asked, “Do you know what did this to you?”
“It was him. Da dschungelgott.”
Silence descended while the camera angled in for a close-up of the wound sites. The flesh had been ripped to the bone and muscle and tendons sliced apart, the edges ripe with scarlet rows of teeming infection.
Milton froze the image, looked at Lassiter, and raised an eyebrow. “Well?”
He blew out a slow breath. “What the hell’s a dschungelgott?”
“It’s German for jungle god,” the big Aussie said. “What do you think?”
“I think the Biodome is a very dangerous place.”
“Come on, mate. You’ve been inside there. Several times. Does it sound like anything you’ve ever seen?”
“Tarzan of the Biodome?” He smiled. “I can’t say I’ve run into him, but the guy is right on about the whole place going into attack mode if the equilibrium is upset. Usually, it comes when someone disturbs or kills something—a Pita plant or the wrong animal sometimes. The bugs are usually fair game, and even kind of tasty once you get past the smell. But, no, I haven’t seen any Lord of the Jungle.”
Milton pressed the remote again and the frozen image on the screen faded to black. He pressed another button and a new face appeared. This one was an older white guy wearing an expensive-looking polo shirt. From what Lassiter could see of the room behind the man, he was in a plush office of some kind. It was either well-lighted or daytime. The face looked strangely familiar, but he couldn’t immediately place it—like it had been on the news or the cover of a magazine.
“Mr. Lassiter,” the old man said. “I want to thank you for coming.”
The conciliatory words sounded somewhat affected. The man’s voice had the authority of the very rich and the very powerful. Finally, it came to him. This guy was Thomas C. Stratton, one of the wealthiest men in the world. He was rumored to be rich enough to buy whole countries and he never tired of making money.
Lassiter decided to play it close and be polite, courteous, and non-committal.
“You’re welcome, sir.”
The image on the screen stayed frozen for several seconds and he assumed the monitor on the other end was receiving a broadcast image of him an ocean away. Finally, the old man spoke again.
“You know who I am?”
“Yes, sir.”
“You’ve had an opportunity to listen to Schmidt’s account,” Stratton said. “What’s your impression?”
He wasn’t sure where this was going but for the moment, he was along for the ride. But he also wanted to let this rich son of a bitch know he knew all his movements since he’d entered the room had been recorded.
“As I told Milton, and probably you”—he gestured toward the camera—“parts of it sound authentic. Others, not so much.”
Stratton pursed his lips. The flat monitor screen displayed every expression, no matter how minute. The equipment was obviously top-of-the-line.
“To what parts are you referring?”
“I’ve been in there five times, sir, and I’ve never seen any Lord of the Jungle figure like he described.”
“Meaning?”
Lassiter waited a few beats before he responded. “Meaning I think Tarzan might have been a figment of his imagination.”
The image of the old man showed a visible tightening of the cords along the side of his pencil-thin neck.
“The account was partially verified by one of our surveillance drones,” Stratton said. “At the time, Schmidt and those men were working for me.”
It made sense. Part of the man’s global empire was rooted in using the magic elixir from the Pita plants to promise anti-aging and even reversal of aging. His biggest competitors were the Chinese, who’d tried to dominate the market for several years.
“What part was verified?” he asked.
“We reviewed copious amounts of footage,” the business mogul said. “The attack occurred at night and our drone had an infrared camera system. It picked up the movements of the form of a man with glowing spots on his back.”
“Do you have the video footage?” Lassiter asked.
“We do. But it’s not very detailed. As the drone went in closer, it was attacked and destroyed by a group of flying locusts.”
“Unusual,” he commented.
“So I’ve been told.” The old man paused and took a deep breath. “Which leads us to the conclusion that something was controlling them.”
“Controlling the locusts?” He made no attempt to mask the skepticism in his voice.
“Exactly.” Stratton looked as if he’d scored a telling point.
He hesitated. While he wasn’t sure exactly where this was going, the direction spelled danger. There was no way he wanted to lead a team into the Biodome looking for some crazy new version of Tarzan—or a dschungelgott.
The silence paid off as the old man spoke first.
“Mr. Lassiter, I want you to take a special team into the Biodome. To the area where Schmidt was attacked.”
Lassiter was slow to reply. There was too much that didn’t add up. “Why do you need me?”
“Isn’t it obvious?” Stratton countered.
Milton spoke up from across the table. “Five trips inside, mate. You’re the closest thing to an expert guide we could find who’s reliable.”
“And discreet,” the other man added.
That didn’t make him like it any better. He shook his head slightly. “I still have trouble getting around the reason you asked me here.”
The Aussie grunted in frustration. “You have experience inside. None of us has any.”
“Believe me, you don’t want any.”
The creases in Milton’s weather-worn face deepened. “How bad can it be, mate? Armand, Pierre, and me have been in any number of hot spots all over the globe.”
“Not like the Biodome, you haven’t.”
“Which is why we need you,” Stratton said. “Five successful trips, the last one where half your team was
killed.”
The faces of the dead flashed in his mind’s eye. Their figures stood there one moment and were gone the next—one captured by the sucking vortex of a snake-like tendril, the other plucked by the jaws of a massive four-eyed monster, bigger than an elephant and as savage as a feral tiger.
“I wouldn’t exactly call it a success,” he said.
“I would,” the old man insisted. “Your team leader was killed but you had the perspicacity to step up and lead the rest of them to safety.”
“We were lucky.”
“Don’t denigrate yourself. What you did shows character. Leadership ability.”
“I’m no leader,” Lassiter said.
“No need to worry, mate,” Milton chimed in. “I’ll be there, and I have all the leadership ability we’ll need.”
“Your leadership is beside the point,” the old man said. “What we need is your experience. It’s of the utmost importance that we act quickly. Time is of the essence.”
This was turning into some kind of bizarre game show. “What the hell do you guys want?”
“We want you to go back inside,” Stratton said. “With Milton and his new team.”
“To do what?” he said. “Kill Tarzan?”
He waited for the old man to speak or perhaps for the big Aussie to smile and crack one of his jokes. But Stratton’s face remained implacable and Milton’s expression totally serious.
“We prefer to call him the Hybrid,” Stratton said after a moment.
“The Hybrid?” This became stranger all the time.
“We don’t want to kill him,” Milton said. “We want to capture him.”
“He must absolutely not be harmed,” the other man added, his voice gravely with intent.
Lassiter decided he wanted nothing to do with it. It would be bad enough to go into the zone again to face the latest in a lineup of mutated super-monsters, man-eating plants, and dog-sized insects. The idea that he’d have to add some kind of new hybrid who walked like a man and moved like a wraith to an already deadly enemy list wasn’t his idea of a good way to spend a weekend—especially with the intention to not hurt him and bring him out alive. It was much like entering a boxing ring with both hands amputated.
“You plan to bring him out to cut him apart in a lab and put what’s left in a cage? No thanks.”
Stratton’s face looked grave. Milton said nothing.
After several more seconds of silence, the older man sighed and supplied the answer. “No, Mr. Lassiter. Not to dissect him. To rescue him.”
“Rescue?”
The lined face looked like it was being drawn into the earth. “Yes. Rescue.” He took a laborious breath and exhaled. “I’m terminally ill and don’t have much time left.”
“I’m sorry,” Lassiter said. “But I hardly—”
“The Hybrid is my son.” The old man’s voice boomed through the television speaker with a heavy emphasis on each word.
Now, it was Lassiter’s turn to remain silent while he let this news sink in.
In the back of his mind, he recalled hearing something about a very rich man’s son—a highly regarded anthropologist or botanist or something—going into the Biodome on a scientific mission with a small army of mercenaries as backup. The whole team had apparently stepped in the wrong shit pile and were never heard from again. At the time, he had given it little thought.
Until now.
“Your son?”
The old man’s eyes closed, and he bought a hand up to shield his eyes. Tears? Even the rich and powerful were slaves to emotion.
Lassiter waited and gave him a chance to compose himself.
Finally, Stratton lowered his hand and spoke and his voice sounded strained and reedy. “My son, Paul. The description fits him. He had brown hair and liked to wear it long and in a ponytail sometimes. I should have never allowed him to go in there. But like most young people, he was headstrong. He gets that from me—headstrong, idealistic, and altruistic. And he loved to whistle. He made bird calls so authentic the things would land on his outstretched hand when he was a boy. If there’s a chance he’s still alive, I have to find him and bring him home.”
It sounded ludicrous. One of the richest men in the world hung all his hopes on purported long brown tresses and a whistle. It was also true no human bodies had ever been recovered from the Biodome. A few had been brought out and were commemorated at METRO, but those had been carried out by fellow team members. Once someone disappeared in that place, it was for the duration.
Or was it?
“Mr. Stratton.” He spoke slowly and chose his words carefully. “With all due respect, sir, you’re speculating heavily on this hope. Perhaps—”
“I have more than speculation.” Stratton’s voice, even through the electronic connection, was sharp and defensive. “This was intercepted from a Chinese drone transmission from the Biodome.” He displayed an eight-by-ten color photo of the dark figure they’d described—a human form with an array of glowing bluish-green speckles down his back. The head, framed by long, brown tresses, was canted slightly to reveal the profile of a face with features resembling a human.
“It’s Paul, I tell you,” the old man said. The cords in his thin neck stood out in bas-relief again. “I’d know his face anywhere.”
Lassiter didn’t say what else he was thinking. Even if the old man’s theory was true and even if they could capture this Biodome creature, what they brought back would most likely be a far cry from the son this old man remembered.
Be careful what you wish for.
He also considered something else. This wasn’t the type of guy you pissed off.
“I’m not so sure this sounds like a good idea, sir,” he said. “Plus, I have no equipment. I sold all my armor and—”
“We’ll outfit you with all new equipment,” Stratton said. “Top-of-the-line stuff.”
Slowly, he shook his head. “I’m not sure I have what it takes to go back inside.”
The old man’s image on the video screen took on a grave but stern look.
“I’ve pulled considerable strings in the past few weeks to oversupply the market with Pita plants and make it unprofitable for the Chinese to continue their marketing endeavors,” he said. “It’s caused a temporary cessation of demand and a void in incursions into the Biodome, but it will not last forever. Sooner or later, the market will resume and the mercenary teams will go back inside.”
The law of supply and demand, I guess. “And with the teams going back in, especially the Chinese, the chances of them eventually confronting this hybrid threat will increase.”
“Exponentially,” Stratton agreed. “So you see, time is of the essence.”
“What about it, mate?” Milton asked.
The last thing he wanted to do was sign up for this suicide mission, especially with an overconfident blowhard and a handful of his buddies who had no experience inside the Biodome. Plus, something else bothered him, but he wasn’t sure what.
Lassiter looked at his hands. The temptation was great, but so was the risk. The challenge versus the prospect of almost certain death. With the money Milton had given him already, he could most likely subsist for several more weeks—long enough to wait out the temporary lag in job opportunities. Maybe, if he had luck at the gambling tables, he could obtain enough to buy a plane ticket out of there. He shook his head again. “I’m sorry, but I don’t think so.”
Milton’s big form jerked with the words as if he’d been slapped unexpectedly. He started to say something when Stratton’s voice from the monitor cut him short.
“Mr. Lassiter, I’ve done my research on you. I know you have a son in the States you haven’t seen in over six years.”
His head snapped up and he stared at the monitor without speaking.
This old bastard had checked him out carefully.
“As one father to another,” he continued. “I’m asking for your help.”
Lassiter remained silent. The anger at the invasion of h
is personal life struck him like a body blow.
Stratton’s image stared back at him, then said, “I’ll give you three million dollars and a plane ticket to anywhere you want to go. Please, bring my son back to me.”
He compressed his lips and held them between his teeth.
One father to another and an offer he couldn’t refuse. What choice did he have?
“All right,” he said.
The old man’s face showed a slight trace of emotion. Milton, on the other hand, looked particularly joyous. He wondered how much the big Aussie would get.
“Outstanding,” his companion said and extended his open hand. “I’ll take you to get outfitted and meet the boss and the rest of the team.”
Lassiter didn’t shake it. Instead, he held his left hand up and said, “One more thing, Mr. Stratton.”
The lined and weary face twitched slightly.
“Even if we’re successful,” he said. “What we bring back to you might not be everything you’re hoping for.”
The old man’s mouth drew into a tight line and he gave a curt nod. “I’m willing to take the chance.”
He nodded, too. He wondered if this would end well. The odds were that everyone would die, but he had three million reasons to try.
Lassiter spent the next few hours checking the substantial amount of equipment amassed for the mission, which had been tag-lined Intervention One. In the farthest section of the giant warehouse, a fleet of helicopters rested on skids and carts near some hangers. Rows of boxes were stacked in another corner beside a replica of their contents, a prefab base camp. Not only could the collapsible blocks be expanded into a state-of-the-art portable base camp with the press of a button, but it also came complete with preassembled tents and perimeter fencing all attached to a polyurethane flooring that when flattened and deployed, spanned about six thousand square feet. Motion detectors and laser eyes could be fitted into special slots. Solar-powered battery pack rechargers were standard fixtures in each of the tents.
“I’ve never seen so much equipment,” he said.
Milton looked happy and eager. “When you’re dealing with the richest man in the world, mate, you can expect to go first-class.”
