K-Rex: A Prehistoric Thriller

by L. Z. Hunter

  Becky Robinson sat by Shelton’s boots. She stared at them performing CPR. She looked ready to jump in.

  Powell was frozen by the counter where he’d grabbed the spoon for Shelton to bite down on. Everything since last night had become surreal. How could all of this be happening? “The phone? Someone needs to call for help. We need to be lifted out of here!”

  Claire stood up. She kept the young girls close and led them out of the cabin. The young men followed behind them.

  Powell still couldn’t move. He had never seen CPR performed. He had never seen a man lose an arm.

  He had never seen a man die.

  Ian breathed heavily.

  Robinson moved around Shelton’s legs. When Ian stopped, and Marksman blew two more breaths into Shelton’s lungs, Robinson took over with compressions. Jennings handed Ian a bottle of water.

  “Should we get a phone?”

  “They’re broken, Louis. Everything was ruined in the rain,” Ian said. “They were in the generator hut. They don’t work.”

  Powell almost laughed. It sounded like a joke. It was rain. Sure it had stormed, but weren’t satellite phones durable? Hell, his cell phone could take a pretty good licking and still worked. How was it possible that everything was falling apart so completely, so fast?

  “He’s gone,” Marksman said.

  “We’re not giving up,” Robinson said. She gave hard, quick thrusts.

  How many ribs were broken?

  Marksman sat back. “He’s gone. He’s dead.”

  “He’s not dead, John! I’m not stopping. Get ready to blow into his mouth,” she said. She wasn’t counting out loud. Maybe she was keeping track inside her head. “Ready, and now.”

  She stopped the compressions. Marksman didn’t move. His hands were on Shelton’s temples.

  “Blow into his mouth!” Robinson shot her boss a look of insane anger. Her eyes were narrowed and brow furrowed. She looked like she was ready to fight. “Fine. Fuck you!”

  Becky Robinson leaned forward and shoved Marksman backward. Powell didn’t expect him to fall away. He did, though. Robinson tilted Shelton’s head, pinched closed his nose and then blew two deep breaths into Shelton’s mouth.

  “Becky,” Jennings said.

  Robinson ignored Stacy Jennings. She positioned herself over Shelton’s chest and resumed compressions.

  Marksman stood up, slowly. He looked at Jennings, his lips pursed, and frowning.

  Powell didn’t think he could watch much more. The man was dead. They all knew it. He had lost too much blood, and cauterizing the wound was more than the man could take. Clearly in shock, Shelton’s body gave up.

  Marksman walked behind Robinson.

  CPR had been in progress for nearly half an hour at this point. There was no bringing the man back.

  # # #

  Louis Powell walked outside with his head hung low, all of his senses on overload. The ground was saturated. His boots made a sucking sound in the mud with every step he took. He could still smell Shelton’s cooked flesh. He wasn’t sure he’d ever not be able to smell it. The animals in the jungle whooped and cawed, chirped and howled around him, but it came across muffled as if he cupped his hands over his ears, distorting all sound. His vision was blurred. Sweat mixed with tears and seemed to sit stagnate around his eyeballs.

  “Louis?” Claire said.

  Powell looked up. The sky was grey. It didn’t look like rain, though. It just looked like completely grey skies. The jungle was green. Full of thriving life. The storm strengthened its plushness. He couldn’t fathom the creatures and insects that thrived in this place. He knew there were undiscovered species everywhere, if only he knew what to look for. Maybe anthropology, or anything other than geology, would have been a better course of study.

  “Louis,” she said again, stepping toward him.

  He couldn’t talk. He knew if he tried speaking, he’d break down. He didn’t want to lose it. Keeping it together was going to be essential. Like it or not, they had some decisions to make. Or he did, anyway. If, that is, he truly was in charge of the operation.

  Powell shook his head.

  He saw the small glimmer of hope like a sparkle go flat in Claire’s eyes.

  She wrapped arms around him and lowered her head onto his chest. Her cold tears soaked through his thin shirt. He felt them wet his skin.

  He hugged her back, looking past her at the young girls. What was he going to do with them?

  Chapter 11

  There was a slight breeze. Nothing moved in it. The trees stood tall, and green, and still. It did nothing to chase away the thick humidity, either. Louis Powell looked around at the pit, and the cabin, and at everyone gathered outside. He knew they expected leadership. Marksman was more than capable and definitely more experienced. Leaving decisions up to the mercenary might prove easiest, Powell just wasn’t sure he’d agree with those decisions. The only way to ensure things went according to plan—his plan—was if he was the one calling the shots.

  “We’re going to do two things.” Powell closed his mouth and made eye contact with Claire. He wasn’t sure if he’d actually spoken out loud. She stared at him, as if waiting for him to continue, verifying he had indeed said what he’d been thinking. “We need to get these kids home, and then we’re going to get a ride back into town.”

  “Town?” Claire said.

  “We’re leaving. Headed back to the states. This stint of the company dig is over.” He was about to become unemployed. It didn’t matter. When he started job hunting, and was asked why he was no longer employed with Circuitz, he was confident his explanation for termination would be one hundred percent absolved. “Once they have things…under control inside, I want you to pack up our bags, Claire. I’ll talk with Marksman. We’re leaving as soon as possible, while it’s early enough in the morning and we can get the most of traveling by foot.”

  He didn’t want to go back into the cabin. The mercenaries were gathered and mourning the loss of their friend. They deserved time alone. Thing was, he cared, but not enough to risk losing anymore daylight. Knocking lightly, he entered.

  “Marksman,” Powell said. “We need to talk.”

  They had covered Jack Shelton’s body with a blanket. The floor was still covered in blood. The defibrillator case was open, the adhesive pads and wires strewn about. Stacy Jennings was seated on a cot in a corner, knees drawn up, arms wrapped around them; Becky Robinson stood by the window, back to the wall, staring vacantly at the covered corpse. The most disturbing was Charlie Erb, who knelt at Shelton’s feet, his hands on Shelton’s covered legs, as if praying. Nothing wrong with praying. Powell just didn’t think that was what the man was doing.

  “Outside,” Marksman said.

  They walked out and around to the back of the cabin.

  “We need to get the workers back home to their families,” Powell said.

  “Not our job,” Marksman said. “What else?”

  Powell cocked his head to the side. “Not our job?”

  “Getting them home is not our job. Do you have something else you want to discuss, because right now my friends and I are trying to figure out arrangements for Jack.”

  Arrangements? Powell thought. “We’re leaving. We need you to get Claire and I back to an airport.”

  Marksman laughed.

  “Is something funny?” Powell said.

  “Yes. You. You want to go home, is that it? Feeling a little homesick?”

  Powell didn’t like Marksman’s tone of voice. “This has been a disaster since we arrived. We’re not going to be able to dig. We’ve got a machine sinking in the mud. The coltan is going to have to wait.”

  “Brunson is not going to be happy about that,” Marksman said. “But I don’t give a fuck about him right now. Or the company. Shelton is dead. He’s dead. We’re going to have to carry him to town. You and Ms. Askew are more than welcome to tag along, and if you want to get to an airport after that, fine. But I am not worrying myself, or my men
, with the task of getting those people back home.”

  “Kids. They’re just children, Marksman. They have families who are probably worried sick about them. We’re going to get them back home,” Powell said.

  Marksman stepped in close. “Are you telling me what I’m going to do?”

  He wasn’t sure where the courage came from. The blood inside his body was pumping hard and fast, surging through his body. “That’s exactly what I’m doing. I’m the project manager—”

  “What the fuck is that supposed to mean?”

  Powell didn’t want to completely alienate Marksman. Their training and knowledge of the jungle was the only guarantee he had they would escape unharmed. They had the weapons, and the skills to protect them. The last thing he wanted to risk was thrusting a barrier between them. If his life hung in the balance, he needed reassurance Marksman and the other mercs would help.

  “We just want to get out of here. We’ll come with you into town. Maybe that will be enough. I’m just concerned about the kids,” Powell said.

  Marksman’s look softened. His eyes weren’t as narrowed. His shoulders loosened up some and relaxed. “We’ll get you to town,” Marksman said. He looked up at the sky, around at the trees. “I’ve about had it with this place, with this assignment. I think we’re ready for a new employer. I don’t have an issue with the Congo. I am just tired of babysitting whiny little shits who took off their dress shirt and tie and think they can come into my land and tell me what to do.”

  The shot was direct, Powell thought, but irrelevant. All that mattered was the mercenaries were bringing Jack Shelton’s body back to town, and that he and the others could follow along. He didn’t want Marksman as an enemy, but at this point, he didn’t really care. “Great. We’ll get our stuff together,” Powell said, and walked away.

  # # #

  Charlie and Becky secured Jack Shelton’s body onto the gurney with hooked bungee rope. The mercs wore backpacks filled with weapons. Powell watched them stuff grenades, handguns, boxes of ammo, and knives into the pouches. They kept assault rifles over their shoulders, handguns in holsters, and hunting knives strapped to their side, and thighs. Marksman, Stacy and Ian also had machetes.

  Powell felt extremely inadequate. He had a knife, gloves, his boots, and a backpack of clothing and medicine, but little else. “Can you translate to the employees for me, John? I would appreciate it. Tell them we are headed to town, and they can follow us, and they can take off as we come close to their homes or villages.”

  Marksman said a few words, and started walking.

  “Hey,” Powell said. “Did you tell them what I said?”

  “Did you just watch me do it?” Marksman said.

  “It just seemed a little…short.”

  “You speak French?” Marksman said.

  “No.”

  “Then shut the fuck up and let’s go. We have a day and a half of walking ahead of us. That’s when we’re all walking on our own. Carrying Jack is going to slow us down. We’re going to be lucky if we only have to spend two nights in the jungle before we make it back to the Jeeps.”

  Powell did not want to spend one night in the jungle. He hadn’t felt safe inside the rickety cabin. Something bit off Jack Shelton’s arm. The hairs on the back of his neck and along his arm stood on end. He couldn’t shake the feeling they were being watched. He held his machete in his right hand. It was a long, eighteen-inch blade, a rubber handle. For what it was worth, he considered it a sword. He’d swing it at anything that came at him as if his life depended on it.

  Seeing Charlie and Becky walk by with Jack Shelton on the gurney, he knew his life just might depend on it.

  Chapter 12

  Powell and Claire tried keeping the young workers close as they made their way along the worn path through the jungle. Powell knew the natives were accustomed to walking through the trees. This was home to them. And while they might be unnerved by Shelton’s death, they probably didn’t fear the…environment. At least not in the same way Powell did. His muscles twitched anxiously, as if ready for anything. That couldn’t be further from the truth. He wasn’t prepared for a single thing. Panicking, that was about all. He knew his breathing was quick and shallow. The animals whooped and hollered around them. He felt like they might all be talking, planning an attack.

  All Powell could think about was Akia freaking out over having seen something in the trees.

  Akia and Ruh walked side by side, they mumbled back and forth. Clearly, they were spooked, their environment or not. The third man walked just behind the two young girls. The three of them were silent, watching their feet, stepping carefully over congested brush. Powell, Claire, and the mercs not carrying Shelton on a gurney, worked their machetes hacking at low-hanging branches and swinging at large leaves in the way.

  Powell hated how much he was sweating. The salty drops rolled down his forehead and into his eyes. He ignored the irritating sting it caused.

  Marksman had point. He led the group from the Circuitz camp through the woods. When he stopped walking, he did not make a sound, but gestured for Charlie and Becky to set Shelton’s body down. He made some hand signals. Fists and pointing.

  Powell was lost. The other mercs knew his form of sign language. While he wanted to ask what was going on, he knew if Marksman was keeping silent, then he shouldn’t speak. Obviously, Marksman sensed trouble. That was the bottom line. Protectively, he stepped closer to Claire. He scanned the tree lines around them. It was so dense. For the most part, he couldn’t see past the first cluster of leaves. Fat mosquitoes buzzed around his head, attracted to his sweat-slicked skin.

  Powell’s heart beat fast. He didn’t sense a single thing out of the ordinary. He couldn’t see a single thing that didn’t belong. He trusted Marksman’s intuition. Standing as still as possible, he wondered what danger lurked off the path.

  And then he heard it. A branch snapped. It came from the right side. Everyone looked in that general direction, guns raised. Powell wasn’t sure what was out there, but it caught Marksman’s attention. For that reason alone, Powell became unnerved.

  No one said a word. The silence lingered. Powell strained to hear anything, everything.

  Marksman gave more hand commands. Fingers up. Down. Closed first. Pointed ahead of them and behind.

  Shelton’s gurney was set down on the ground.

  The mercenaries looked eager, as if they had been deprived of action for too long. There was a hunger in their eyes. Powell couldn’t understand it. He was sure if they looked at him, the only thing they’d see was fear.

  Charlie and Becky walked on ahead. Ian and Stacy went back the way they’d just come. All four were swallowed by branches with bright green leaves.

  Powell couldn’t hear the monkeys. The rain forest animals all fell silent. It couldn’t be a good sign. It was as if the entire jungle and Marksman were in tune with each other, and all of them were aware of an unwanted predator. He took a step closer to Claire and the young girls.

  The man with them patted himself on the chest and whispered, “Kacancu.”

  Powell bit down on his upper lip and nodded. “Shhh.”

  Kacancu nodded and pursed his lips tight.

  Marksman waved them all in close. They gathered in a circle around him. He knelt down.

  “What’s going on?” Powell watched Claire taking care of the girls. She kept an arm around each of them. They clung to her as if she were their mother, at the very least, an aunt.

  “We’re being followed. I noticed it almost from the moment we left the cabin.” Marksman then spoke French. The workers nodded. Akia rolled his fingers into his palms. His eyes were opened wide. He looked over everyone, and into the trees. “The two teams are scoping out the area. Could just be an animal.”

  Powell waited for the French translation before he said, “But that’s not what you think?”

  Marksman shook his head. “We’ve caught some chatter from other dig locations. Security is sending out warning
s. There is a lot of theft going on. The price of raw coltan is through the ceiling. Panning the riverbeds just doesn’t produce enough. The foreign companies leasing chunks of land have the deep pockets for that kind of investment. The raiders let the people excavate the land, do all of the dirty work and heavy lifting, and then they swoop in and steal the coltan. They’re not afraid of confrontation, either. They’ll shoot first and not bother asking questions later.”

  “But we left the dig. We don’t have coltan with us,” Claire said. “Why follow us? What could they hope to get from us?”

  Rustling along the path made them all stop talking, turn and stare.

  Stacy and Ian stepped forward, parting branches with the backs of arms. They fell in on the group, each taking a knee. “No sign of anything back that way,” Ian said.

  “We doubled back, ventured into the thicket for a bit. Nothing,” Stacy said.

  Marksman opened his mouth to say something. Gunfire erupted from ahead of them. He stood up and gripped his assault rifle in both hands.

  Ian and Stacy jumped to their feet. They took up position on the east and west.

  Powell and the others remained huddled together. The girls began crying. He knew that Kacancu introduced himself because doing so had taken his mind off being afraid, if only for the moment. This time Powell touched his chest and said to the young girls, “Louis. Louis.”

  The smallest girl wiped tears from her eyes. She placed her palm on Powell’s chest. “Louis.”

  Powell smiled, and nodded encouragingly. “Yes. That’s right.”

  Gently, Powell removed the girls hand and set it on her own chest.

  The girl said, “Mangeni.”

  Powell’s smile widened. “Mangeni.”

  Mangeni offered up a wide grin. “Louis.”

  Powell repeated his name for the other girl. She understood what they were doing. She first looked around, as if not comfortable talking when only moments ago the silence was shattered by the sound of multiple gunshots. “Nafula.”