by Greig Beck
She let herself be dragged into the darker depths of the alley. Another man appeared in front of her. He had the brutish appearance of a thug—fleshy broken nose, jaundiced eyes, and a stained gap-toothed grin.
The pressure on her throat eased.
“Take it.” She kept her eyes on him as she held out her bag.
Broken Nose snatched it from her. “Let’s see if today is a good day,” he said in ruined English. He looked up at her. “But I think, not good for you.”
The bigger man holding her guffawed into her ear.
“Take the money and let me go. I won’t report you,” she said evenly.
“Oh, I know this,” Broken Nose said, turning one squinted eye on her again. “But I think we not finish with such a pretty lady yet.” He went to empty her bag. “Americano?”
She ignored him, knowing how this was going to go, and the theft was the last of her worries. They’d rob her, beat and rape her, and if they wanted to cover their tracks, they’d cut her throat. Every city in the world had scum just like them.
Her anger welled up. The big guy holding her shifted his grip so he could see over her shoulder as Broken Nose emptied her bag.
“Last chance,” she said.
He began to shake her bag onto the ground and frowned. “Shut her up.”
The gun shifted from her cheek, and the beefy arm around her throat moved even more as the big guy went to either clamp a hand over her mouth, or something worse.
For a split second, he wasn’t fully in control of her; it was the opportunity she was waiting for. She let herself drop, sliding down in Beefy’s arms, and he bent forward to grab at her. But when her knees were bent, she jammed her heels into the ground, launching herself back up at him like a spear, the top of her head aimed directly at his chin.
It was a direct hit—his head snapped up and she grabbed his gun hand, her finger going over his on the trigger. She jerked his hand around, the muzzle now pointed at the surprised face of Broken Nose. She didn’t hesitate for a blink and fired.
The man’s ear disappeared in a spray of blood and cartilage, and he howled as his eyes went wide with shock and pain. He dropped her bag and she wrenched the gun free from the still-groggy Beefy’s paw, and then used it to club his temple. He fell like an oak tree.
That was enough for Broken Nose, and he turned and ran. Behind her, Beefy groaned with a purple welt on his chin and matching lump growing on the side of his head.
Emma expertly ejected the magazine, and the round in the chamber, and tossed the pieces into an open trashcan. She gathered her things, straightened her clothes and hair, and headed out of the alley.
She’d been busy since she clawed her way out of the Amazon jungle. She’d trained hard, toughened herself. She might be nearly ten years older, but now she was made of iron.
When Primordia returned, she’d be ready.
*****
Emma Wilson walked calmly from the alleyway and waved down a taxicab. Across the road, another car sat pulled in by the sidewalk, windows down. Inside, a long camera lens pointed at the woman, and the whir of an auto-drive captured her every movement.
When Emma’s taxi pulled away, the camera was lowered, the car started, and it followed.
CHAPTER 03
Ohio, Greenberry – 3 Months until Comet Apparition
Emma knelt beside the bed of Cynthia Cartwright after bringing her a cup of luke-warm tea. She couldn’t help notice that the older woman looked frailer than usual. The toll of losing her son, Ben, to a damn mystery in the Amazon had aged her considerably.
Cynthia had listened to Emma’s story and had believed every word. After all, in 1908, the Amazon in similar circumstances had consumed one of Ben’s ancestors, and it was his notes that had led Ben to that god-forsaken place.
Cynthia had begged, and then demanded, Emma find her son and bring him home no matter what the timeframe, cost, or the dangers. She had made her wealth available to Emma to bring it about, and Emma had pledged to do so.
Bottom line was, Emma would have done it anyway, but having the Cartwright money at her disposal meant she could do the job right. She loved Ben, and he had been trapped only because he sacrificed his freedom so she could escape—if he was alive, she’d find him and bring him home, even if she died trying.
Emma stood and tiptoed from the room, and then headed up to her office. Cynthia had invited Emma to move in and she accepted, quickly becoming an unofficial daughter to the old woman.
She eased the door of her office shut and turned. Inside, there were several large computer screens, charts, and newspaper clippings dating back over a hundred years. Each told of weird phenomena, unexplained events, and sightings of strange creatures down in the Amazonian jungle. She’d been busy.
She sat down and pulled her chair closer to one of her screens and opened the astral chart on comet mapping.
There was just one she was interested in: Comet P/2018-YG874, designate name, Primordia. It had finished its elliptical curve around the sun and was well on its way back toward Earth. In a few months, it would be at its apparition point—the closest point to Earth where it becomes visible to the naked eye. At that time, its astral effects would be felt, but only in one place on the globe—a tabletop mountain, or tepui, in the Venezuelan jungles of the Amazon.
It was a place she knew that was near inaccessible. And even more so during the height of the comet’s effect, as everything electronic was knocked out—nothing worked—and if you could find it, you couldn’t fly over it; even a compass went haywire.
Emma sat back, staring at the screen for a few more moments. She knew what would happen then—on that mountaintop, the world was turned on its head, as perhaps a snapshot of the first time the comet ever passed close to Earth was replayed over and over again, every 10 years. But it wasn’t just a vision of a long-dead history, but the worlds’ actual primordial past became a reality—then became now; there became here.
That window remained open for just over 24 hours, and when it closed, everything on that plateau vanished back to where it came from, and any visitors still inside that portal went with it. The way she understood it, the primordial jungle was still there, but only there in prehistory, 100 million years ago.
And that’s where Ben Cartwright was now. There was only one way to find out if he was safe, or even still alive, and that was to be there when the window opened again.
She sucked in a deep breath, filling her lungs as she reviewed her list. Last time, they had been dumb kids on an adventure, high on excitement and self-confidence. That had proved fatal.
This time, she’d be ready. This time, she’d have her eyes wide open, and she’d make damn sure that with the firepower and people she took with her, she’d give herself a fighting chance. She looked down at her list again—first things first: firepower.
CHAPTER 04
Lincoln’s Roadhouse, Denver, Colorado
Emma pushed in through the door and stood just inside for a few moments, allowing her eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness. It was two in the afternoon and the bar was near empty—except for one table near the rear wall.
Four hulking men sat there, shots and chasers in front of them—boilermakers. Little early for the hard stuff, she thought, but maybe not if your goal is chasing away demons.
They were dressed in denim and leather, and some might have mistaken them for bikers, except there was stubble but no beard, and their hair was crew-cut short.
The door opened and closed behind her and she ignored it, continuing to focus on the men. To her, they looked exactly how she expected them to look—ex-military on leave, temporarily or for good. She saw that one had a sleeve half-rolled up, and on the brawny forearm, there was a tattoo of a skull wearing a beret with a sword through it—Special Forces.
This is them, she thought, and walked straight up to the table. Four sets of eyes turned to her, appraising, enquiring, amused, but not defensive or alarmed.
“My name is Emma Wilson
. I’m a friend of Ben Cartwright.”
The men’s eyes narrowed. “He sent you, did he?” The one with the tattoo carefully put his beer down.
“In a way, yes, he did,” she replied.
“You mean you used to be a friend.” His eyes slid back to her, and this time, his jaw was set.
Emma stood her ground. “No, I mean, I am. I think he’s still alive, and I also think, no, I know, he needs your help.”
One of the other men with a ginger crew-cut tilted his head to her. “Yeah, yeah, I know who you are now. You’re the chick that went down to the Amazon with Big Ben…and was the only survivor of the expedition.” His eyes drilled into her. “Eight walk in, and only one walks out—you. That’s some luck.”
Tattoo guy lifted his chin. “And how is it that a Special Forces guy of the caliber of Captain Cartwright doesn’t make it out, but a little girl like you does?”
“First up, I’m no little girl.” She glared at them. “And second, I’m alive because he saved my ass. I wouldn’t be alive today if it wasn’t for him. Bottom line, he got trapped there because he allowed me to escape.” Emma leaned her knuckles on their table. “I swore I’d rescue him, and I damn well will.” She straightened. “But I need some help.”
The men grinned and tattoo man chortled, lifting his beer to sip again. He drained a good third before lowering it. “We all need help with something, darling.”
Emma had been in Ben’s condo over the years and looked through his correspondence, his records, and old photos. And she knew the guys from his old mission team were the closest thing he had to friends.
She folded her arms. “If it was one of you in a jam, he’d be there like a shot to help. He was like that; always had his buddies’ backs.”
Tattoo snorted, but he looked less comfortable now. “Look, Ben was my brother in the field. Woulda died for the guy. But he’s been gone over nine years. I don’t know what happened in there to him, to you, and to all your friends. But you don’t go missing in the Amazon for nearly a decade and then come walking out. Know what I’m saying?”
Emma folded her arms and smirked. “What if I told you that in a few months, there’d be an opportunity to rescue him? That he’ll be there, waiting for us. I know it.”
The men sat and stared for a moment. Tattoo’s face dropped a little. “Give it up, miss, he’s gone.” He sighed. “If there was a chance he was alive…” He shrugged. “We ain’t got the time for wild goose chases into the heart of darkness.” He looked up. “The Amazon eats people. But you already know that now, don’t you?”
“Yeah, I know it. And that’s why I need you. I expect it’ll be a few weeks’ work, plus some prep time.” She began to grin. “And I know that a thousand bucks a day expenses, for each of you, isn’t bad pocket money for just chasing geese.”
The men looked at each other for a moment, but then she added the knockout blow, “Plus a $100,000 bonus, for every one of you…when we return.”
The redheaded man spluttered and sat forward. Tattoo lifted his beer and drained it, and then slid it back on the tabletop. “Okay, you’ve got our attention.” He stuck a large hand out. “Drake Masterson.” He pointed to the redhead on his left, Fergus O’Reilly, and then to the next man, who was the color of dark coffee and had a lobe missing from one ear, Brocke Anderson, and then to the last, the youngest, but possibly the biggest. The man looked sullen and his eyes burned into Emma with something she thought might have been distrust or maybe animosity.
Drake thumbed toward him. “And last but not least, Ajax Benson.”
The big man smiled, but it was without a shred of humor of friendship, and all he did was momentarily display a silver tooth at the front of his mouth.
She nodded to each man. “Emma, Emma Wilson.”
Fergus reached behind himself and grabbed a chair from the next table. He skidded it up to their table. “We’re not saying yes. But like Drake said, you’ve got our attention. So sit down and tell us more.”
“Of course.” Got ‘em, she thought. She turned to the bar. “Another round here, and I’ll have the same as they’re having.”
*****
Camilla Ortega slid into the bar behind Emma Wilson. She ordered a single scotch and then sidled into a booth at the other end of the bar from the table of men that Wilson was talking to.
She’d been an investigative journalist for over 20 years with Nacional De Venezuela, one of the most prestigious newspapers in all of South America. Nearly half of those two decades had been dedicated to finding out what happened to the Cartwright expedition of 2018.
She sipped her drink as she watched from the shadows. Her personal theory was that the American woman had killed them all and had then wormed her way into the aging Cartwright widow’s affection with the intention to inherit the now-childless estate fortune.
The story had been going nowhere, but then one of her friends in immigration told her that Ms. Wilson was suddenly making trips down to South America again, and Camilla’s journalistic antenna had quivered. Wilson was up to something, she just knew it, and she also knew this might be her last chance to find out what happened.
She sipped and watched. Camilla had no proof of anything, but the one thing she did know was that sooner or later, killers always returned to the scene of their crime—just like Emma Wilson had started doing.
Camilla carefully withdrew a notebook and pen from her bag, placing them out of sight on the seat beside her. She pretended to be staring off into space as she faced the group. But her hand moved rapidly as she took notes. There was something else she’d picked up along the way in her journalistic travels—lip reading—and as Emma and the men discussed their plans, she took it all down.
After 10 years, it looked like a criminal mystery was about to be solved. And this time though, Camilla would be right there to scoop it.
CHAPTER 05
1948, over the deep Amazon, Venezuela – Time of Comet Apparition
Airman John Carter grinned as he sped over the treetops in his Corsair Fighter. The USS Bennington, the huge Essex-class aircraft carrier, was heading back to Bermuda, and he and a few other pilots had been ordered to patrol the eastern seaboard of the South American continent.
Basically, it was a belt-and-braces job. The war had been over for three years, and no more resistant stragglers had even been encountered. After the conflict ended, most of the serving men and women went back to their lives. But not Carter; he loved the Navy, loved flying, and had decided that this was going to be his life. So he stayed.
And this was why—he banked, looping even lower over the dense green jungle below him. He pushed the stick forward, feeling the huge Pratt & Whitney engine call on its 2000 horsepower, and accelerated with ease. Up here, he was free as a bird, and with the world war over, he could enjoy his flying time free of the fear and fury of war.
Carter was a couple of hundred miles in from the east coast of Venezuela, over what was uncharted jungle. He snorted—like just about all of it down here, he thought. But he wasn’t worried, as his Corsair had a range of over 1,000 miles and was as reliable and tough as John Wayne with a six-shooter. Sure, the birds were a bit tricky to land on a carrier’s deck, hence why they were called bent wing widowmakers, but he and his airplane knew each other like an old married couple.
Carter’s Corsair and five others were spread in a line over 250 miles and would continue to zigzag on for another 200 before heading back to the Bennington. So far, the sky had been a clear blue, except for a growing smudge on his horizon.
He squinted; it was strange, and even though it looked a little like a storm, it was only over a small part of the jungle. He’d never seen a weather pattern like that before. He radioed it in and got the okay to give it a little look-see.
Carter rose to 2,000 feet and saw the thick, purple clouds slowly hanging over just one area of the jungle, and as he got closer, he saw that the effect had a type of ceiling, and even more oddly, it rotated, getting thicker and dark
er at the middle. He closed in on it and decided to rise above it to look down into its eye.
That’s when the shit hit the you-know-what. As soon as he was over the top of the boiling clouds, warning lights flashed and then to his horror, the Corsair’s powerful engine sputtered.
“Don’t you do it to me, baby.”
But she did—the massive Pratt & Whitney engine shut down.
“Mayday, mayday, going down…” He quickly glanced at his instruments panel to give his bearings, but the dials were frozen, all of them.
Jesus Christ, he whispered. He knew that the radio was also probably dead, but his training took over; it was all he had left.
“This is Lieutenant John Carter, last known position 5.9701° North, 62.5362° West, approximately 240 miles in from the Venezuelan coast. Engine has failed, I am going down, I repeat, I am going down…”
Carter looked out of the cockpit window as his plane dropped into the boiling cloud. His visibility vanished.
The Corsair was a magnificent and efficient fighter plane, but she was no glider, and very quickly, she started to turn nose down and gather speed.
“What the…?” Outside his cockpit window, he thought he could make out, in amongst the fog-like cloud, other airplanes glide past, but bigger than his Corsair.
Still well over a thousand feet above ground, Carter had no option but to bail out, and just as he reached up to slide his canopy back, he broke through the cloud and saw the jungle below him.
But it wasn’t like the jungle he had just been flying over. In fact, it was a jungle like he had never seen before in his life—strange towering trunks with grass-like fronds instead of leaves, pulpy ferns, spiny-looking cycads dozens of feet around, and in the distance, a glittering lake that caught rays of light from a growing hole in the cloud ceiling above him.
Carter was relieved to see those other airplanes he spotted still soaring over the treetops. But wait, no, they weren’t aircraft at all, but freaking birds, giant freaking bat-like birds with claws on their wings.
