by David Meyer
The phone vibrated in his right hand. Glancing down, he saw the words, Unknown Caller, blinking on the screen. His left forefinger itched to accept the call. But he hesitated. This ain’t rocket science, Zach, he scolded himself. The phone rings, you pick it up.
But he didn’t pick it up. And eventually, the call went to voicemail.
Slowly, he sank into his lumpy sofa. Folded his tough, weathered hands in his lap and stared at them so hard his eyes started to hurt. He hated this place¸ hated this city. So, why was he suddenly reluctant to leave it behind?
Steeling his brain, he put all thoughts of Tony Morgan out of his head and focused on just one thing.
Hatcher Station.
He knew Hatcher like the tiny bumps, folds, and veins in his hands. He recalled the electric fences, the makeshift garage, and the building’s massive sprawl. The Heptagon-shaped interior along with its seven wings—the Galley, the Barracks, Operations, Research, the Warehouse, the Eye, and the entranceway—also came to mind.
But what didn’t come to mind were weaknesses. Besides a couple of rooftop vents, Hatcher contained no hidden entrances or secret doorways. And the building was rock solid, having been built to withstand earthquakes, blizzards, forest fires, and cyclonic nor’easters. Just how much help could he realistically offer to the situation?
Sighing, Caplan leaned against the cushions. They weren’t exactly comfortable, but they still felt nice against his tired body.
On the opposite end of the couch, he saw his laptop. Low on processing power and over a decade old, it was a far cry from the expensive gadgets he saw everyday on the city streets. But it was more than enough to maintain his simplistic Zach Caplan Survival School website.
He thought about the morning’s session and how he’d cancelled it. How he’d left all those potential students in the lurch. He needed to send them an apology as well as a veiled plea to give him another chance. Half-heartedly, he reached for the device.
Brrrinnnng!
Caplan’s hand froze a few inches from the laptop. His eyes flitted to his phone. But it didn’t tremble, didn’t light up.
Brrrinnnng!
It wasn’t a phone call, so what was …?
Brrrinnnng!
Ahh, it was the buzzer. Which meant someone was at his door. Caplan couldn’t remember the last time he had a visitor at this time of day. It had to be Corbotch.
He started to stand up, but the laptop caught his gaze. For a moment, his eyes flicked back and forth between the device and the front door. A series of stark choices, all intertwined, bombarded his brain. Teach survival skills or use them? This apartment or Hatcher Station? Manhattan or the Vallerio? Civilization or nature?
Brrrinnnng!
Caplan pushed himself off the lumpy cushions. He rose to his feet and with one last fleeting look at his laptop, strode across the room. He checked the peephole, unlocked the bolt, and opened the door.
James Corbotch—looking cross and tired—stood alone in the shabby hallway, surrounded by peeling paint and moldy picture frames. “Well?” he said. “Are you going to invite me in?”
Caplan stepped out of the way and Corbotch strode into the apartment. His gray sport coat shimmered gently under the harsh halogen lights. Sweat stains covered the front of his tailored white shirt. “I got your call.”
Caplan frowned. “How’d you get here so fast?”
“I was in the neighborhood.”
“Well, uh, … look, I’m still trying to—”
“The situation has changed.”
Caplan recognized an edge to the man’s voice. His fingertips began to tremble from nervous energy. He drummed them against his sides, but the energy refused to dissipate. “Yeah?”
“My people just received another garbled transmission from Hatcher Station. Most of it is gibberish, but we were able to decipher enough of it to determine that the terrorists breached the Lab.”
“So, that’s it.” Caplan felt strangely numb. “They’ve got control over the entire building.”
“Not necessarily. The Lab’s guards are well trained and have plenty of provisions. At the very least, they should be able to put up a spirited defense. But that won’t matter if we don’t get to Hatcher in time.”
“In time for what?”
“How much do you know about the Lab?”
“Almost nothing,” Caplan admitted. “Research was strictly off-limits during my tenure.”
“There’s a computer-controlled hatch at the far end of Research. It opens to a vertical shaft. Gas valves line all sides of the shaft. They’re designed to blow air upward. It’s one of several mechanisms used to keep airborne particles out of the Lab.” Corbotch’s mouth crinkled at the edges. “The communications aren’t working right, but my people are still able to remotely monitor the Lab and its systems. So, we know that when the terrorists hacked into the security program, they accidentally triggered a switch in gases. Instead of oxygen, a particularly nasty biological agent known as HA-78 filtered out into the shaft.”
Caplan’s eyes narrowed to slits. “How nasty are we talking about?”
“Anyone exposed to it will die within eight hours of contact. Since dispersal happened mere minutes ago, that works out to roughly five o’clock.”
Caplan gawked at him. “Why would you allow something that dangerous at Hatcher?”
“The details aren’t important. Suffice it to say, HA-78 plays an important role in Research’s work.”
“Can your people shut down the gas?”
“They already did, but it’s too late. The valves released enough HA-78 to cover every inch of Hatcher Station and then some. Without the proper treatment, every person within that building will die in eight hours.”
Caplan closed his eyes. Took a deep breath.
“I didn’t mean for this to happen,” Corbotch said. “But now that it has, I’m going to do everything in my power to save Amanda and every other person at Hatcher. Will you help me?”
Caplan thought about Tony’s death. He thought about his guilt and his self-imposed banishment to Manhattan. But most of all, he thought about Amanda Morgan. He thought about how he’d felt about her and how he owed her for what had happened to Tony.
“Okay.” He opened his eyes. “I’m in.”
Chapter 14
Date: June 19, 2016, 1:14 p.m.; Location: Prohibited Airspace, Vallerio Forest, NH
“Hold still.” The voice overflowed with disdain. “This won’t hurt a bit.”
A thick hypodermic needle slid into Caplan’s arm. It pierced his skin with excruciating slowness. Liquid eased out of the needle and trickled into his bloodstream.
Seconds later, the predator from the alley—real name, Julius Pearson—yanked the needle out of Caplan’s arm. He tossed some cotton balls, a bottle of rubbing alcohol, and a box of bandages onto Caplan’s lap before returning to his seat.
Caplan wet one of the cotton balls and swiped his arm. Then he used a bandage to plaster it to the pinprick. “Took you long enough.” Caplan ignored the urge to rub his aching arm. “What’s the matter? My skin too tough for you?”
“Possibly,” Pearson replied. “Let’s try one of your eyeballs next.”
Corbotch frowned. “Can the two of you please try to get along?”
Pearson hesitated before offering a hand across the aisle. Caplan took it and immediately found his fingers crushed by the man’s meaty grip.
“That’s better,” Corbotch said. “You know, I really think you’ll be friends before this is over.”
Caplan hid his pain behind a deadpan expression. “I can’t wait.”
“Yes, well …” Corbotch shot Pearson a cooperate-or-die look before glancing in Caplan’s direction. “That shot is fast acting. By the time we land, you’ll be fully immunized against HA-78.”
Pearson released the grip and Caplan retracted the wounded appendage to his body. At that exact moment, his seat jolted. Hard. A throbbing ache rippled through his forehead. He clenched his teeth
, fighting it with all his strength. The pain subsided, only to be replaced by whirling dizziness.
God, he hated this. People didn’t belong in the sky. It was unnatural, an affront to evolution’s whims.
“I’ve got a question,” Caplan said. “Why didn’t you immunize Hatcher personnel before now?”
Corbotch sighed. “The HA-78 vaccine, along with the antibiotic treatment you’ll be carrying, just completed its last round of testing. We were scheduled to roll it out next week.”
“And the CDC was okay with that?”
Corbotch merely smiled.
Before Caplan could continue that line of questioning, his vision turned blurry. Concentrating hard, he twisted his head, studying the interior of the corporate helicopter. A Rexto 419R3, according to Corbotch. And from the looks of it, designed exclusively for the ultra-wealthy.
The cabin featured four extra-wide seats, two to a row. The rows faced each other, allowing for easy conversation. Corbotch, shrouded in shadows, sat across from him and with his back to the cockpit. Pearson sat to Corbotch’s right.
Looking down, Caplan saw an exquisite sand-colored leather seat beneath his jeans. The carpet was plush wool and carefully coordinated to match the seats. A minibar, stocked with top-shelf liquor, had been custom-made for the rotorcraft and built into one side of the cabin.
Caplan’s throat ran dry. Working his tongue, he tried like hell to get some moisture into his cottonmouth. “Where are we landing?” he asked.
“A small clearing, roughly half a mile from the station,” Corbotch replied.
“Which sector?”
“Sector 23. Not many animals live there and the clearing is free of cameras. As you can see, we’ve thought this through from every angle.”
“Good.” Although unbuttoned, the collar of Caplan’s black Henley shirt started to tighten around his neck. His jeans felt stiff and inflexible. His feet sweated buckets, soaking his long wool socks and sturdy trail-runners. “Very good.”
Reaching to the bar, Corbotch picked up a bottle of Hamron’s Horror. He dropped some ice cubes into a clean tumbler. Tipped the bottle toward the glass, filling it with copper-colored scotch. “Would you like some?” he asked.
Why the hell not? Caplan thought. “Sure.”
The helicopter vibrated again. Caplan clutched his plush armrests. He waited for the vibrations to settle down, but instead they increased in intensity.
“Hey Derek,” Corbotch shouted. “What’s the deal?”
“We’ve got high winds and a little turbulence, sir.” Derek Perkins—the curly-haired man from the alley—kept his gaze fixed on the front window and his hands on the controls. “A storm is on the horizon. Unfortunately, I don’t think it’s going to pass anytime soon.”
Corbotch exhaled an annoyed sigh. Then he picked up an empty tumbler. Filled it with ice cubes and scotch. Silently, he passed it across the aisle.
Caplan took the tumbler. Tipped it to his mouth. A swig of Hamron’s Horror swept over his tongue. It tasted smoky and burnt his throat as he swallowed it down.
“So, how do you like my little slice of nature?” Corbotch asked.
Caplan glanced out the side window. His eyes widened. How could they not? The Vallerio Forest, far beneath him, was widely regarded as one of the world’s most mysterious places. As a boy, he’d gobbled up numerous books about it, about the strange myths and legends surrounding it.
He gazed intensely upon the trees, the leaves. But his keen eyes failed to breach the outer foliage. Even after three years of living in its midst, he was still amazed by the forest’s darkness, its impenetrability. It seemed almost impervious to all forms of light.
“It’s just as I remembered it,” Caplan replied.
“And I assume you recall what we’re doing down there, right?”
Abruptly, a glint of brightness knifed its way through the foliage. Caplan did a double take as he traced the light to its origin. Oh, my God, he thought. The fence.
The glinting light vanished and Caplan’s brow furrowed into hard ridges. A giant electric fence famously cut off the Vallerio from the outside world. Similar fences, much smaller ones, surrounded Hatcher Station. But the fence below him, which marked the southern edge of Sector 48A, was another entity altogether. For Sector 48A—Tony’s name for it—didn’t exist, at least not on paper.
Caplan inhaled slow, sharp breaths. Images of that cold January day flitted quietly through his mind like an old black and white movie. “Sure,” he replied after a moment. “You’re running a private—and secretive—animal sanctuary. Lions, tigers, bears, and God knows what else.”
“That’s not a terrible description. But to be more precise, it’s a massive Pleistocene rewilding project.”
Caplan shrugged. He’d heard those words before, but had never paid them much attention. Unlike the eggheads who populated Hatcher, he hadn’t asked a lot of questions. He’d just focused on his responsibilities as Chief Ranger, namely managing the Eye, watching over the forest, and overseeing the occasional field expedition.
Corbotch frowned. “Didn’t you go through orientation?”
“Yeah, ranger orientation. For the most part, we talked about day-to-day operations. As for the Vallerio, we were just told to consider it an open zoo.”
“I see. Well, think of rewilding as the opposite of civilizing. The idea is to return large-scale areas to natural states.”
Caplan nodded. “Like a nature preserve.”
“Not exactly. Forest rangers and conservationists manage preserves intensely. They chop down new trees. Encourage overgrazing to control animal populations. And so on.” Corbotch’s eyes shone brightly in the dimly lit cabin. “They do those things because they’re afraid of change, of evolution. You see, nature doesn’t exist in a steady-state equilibrium. It’s always changing, always evolving. Rewilding takes advantage of that fact. In contrast to a preserve, a rewilded area is distinguished by a lack of management. It involves establishing a natural area and then stepping back from it. Letting nature take over, free from human influence.”
“What’s the point? I mean, it sounds great and all. But is there any real benefit to it?”
“Actually, yes.” Corbotch adopted a thoughtful look. “Have you ever heard of the Maclura pomifera, or horse apple tree?”
Caplan shook his head.
“Its most prevalent in Oklahoma, Texas, and Arkansas. Its fruit, the horse apple, is about the size of a softball. It’s filled with a sticky latex substance. Nothing eats it. Which is odd because that’s the whole point of fruit. Trees produce it in order to attract animals. The animals eat it and expel it with their own version of fertilizer, usually at some distance from the tree’s roots and shade. But since nothing eats horse apples, they just fall to the ground and rot away.”
“What’s your point?”
“The horse apple tree is an ecological anachronism. Simply put, it doesn’t belong to this time. It belongs to the past, to the Pleistocene epoch.”
His curiosity piqued, Caplan leaned forward.
“Thousands of years ago, megafauna—giant animals—roamed the world. Mastodons, mammoths, elephants, short-faced bears, bison, and eight-foot long beavers were plentiful in these parts. Some of those animals consumed the horse apples, spreading the seeds far and wide. And then everything changed.” Corbotch paused. “Some ten to 11,000 years ago, megafauna went extinct throughout the world and especially in the Americas. This was part of the Quaternary extinction event. With no one left to eat the horse apples, the tree’s natural range shrunk to the Red River region. The only reason it exists elsewhere today is because of human intervention. But it’s a doomed species. Unless something changes, it will eventually go extinct. And it’s not the only species in danger. The Quaternary extinction event has had a ripple effect, leading to large-scale extinctions of flora and fauna in the modern era. My experts call this the Holocene, or Sixth extinction.”
Caplan arched an eyebrow.
“It mig
ht not look this way, but nature is inching toward oblivion,” Corbotch continued. “Entire ecosystems were built upon the presence and influence of megafauna. Without them, things have run amok. The horse apple tree is just one example. The extinction of predators, for instance, has caused the elk population to explode in certain parts of this country. The elk feed on aspen trees, reducing seed production. Fewer aspen trees hurts other species that depend on them. And so on and so forth down the food chain. Now, the Vallerio—”
“Hang on a second,” Caplan said. “Why’d so many megafauna die in the first place?”
“It’s one of history’s greatest mysteries. Some experts believe in the Overkill Hypothesis. That is, the first people to reach this continent hunted them to extinction. Others blame climate change. And still others blame disease, a comet swarm, any number of things. Regardless of the cause, just one thing can cure it.”
“Rewilding?”
Corbotch nodded. “In most places, rewilding is a three-step process. First, the setting aside of protected wilderness areas, large enough to accommodate foraging and seasonal movements. Second, the linking of those areas together with corridors to allow for a greater range of movement. And finally, the reintroduction of megafauna … keystone species, carnivores, and apex predators.” He shrugged. “Obviously, we have much greater maneuverability, given the Vallerio’s size and wealth of ecosystems.”
Caplan’s brow scrunched up. “So, the creatures you’ve brought to the Vallerio are meant to replace the original megafauna?”
“That’s right. Since North America’s original megafauna is largely extinct, we imported proxies. Sumatran elephants in place of American mastodons. Asiatic cheetahs for American cheetahs. And Asiatic and African lions to fill the gaps left by American lions and saber-toothed tigers.”
Caplan thought for a moment. “You said nature is inching toward oblivion. How close are we to reaching that point?”
“We’ve got another generation or two before things spin out of control. But make no mistake about it. The Holocene extinction will not resolve itself. If rewilding isn’t implemented on a worldwide scale in the near future, entire ecosystems will collapse.”
