Behemoth (Apex Predator Book 1)

by David Meyer

  Caplan grabbed a tree trunk with both hands, arresting his movement. Inhaled a stiff breath. Spun around and saw another fist heading in his direction. Straightening and stiffening his fingers, he swung his left arm upward and outward. The blocking maneuver stopped Pearson’s attack. But just barely and the impact sent a furious jolt through Caplan’s body.

  Perkins ran across the clearing and jumped between the two men. “Calm down, Julius. You know we have to—”

  With a bear-like roar, Pearson swung a right cross, striking Perkins in the right shoulder. Perkins spun in a half-circle and collapsed face first into the mud. Feebly, he tried to get up without success.

  Caplan’s senses rose to new heights. He saw Pearson, saw the man’s height and strength. Saw his fighting stance and how he bounced on the soles of his feet.

  Stepping forward, Caplan swung a right cross in a blinding horizontal sweep. Pearson hardened his jaw. Flesh and bone smashed against each other with a sickening crunch.

  Explosions went off in Caplan’s hand. Stumbling away, he shook his fingers, trying to rid them of the stinging soreness. Then he glanced at Pearson. To Caplan’s shock, the man hadn’t moved an inch. In fact, only one thing had changed about him.

  He was now smiling.

  Caplan charged forward. He maneuvered his torso, his arms a whirlwind of activity. But his every cross, every uppercut, every chop was easily dodged or parried.

  Caplan stepped back for a breather. With a sudden burst of speed, Pearson dashed ahead. His fists slashed at the air.

  Too late, Caplan went into blocking mode. A fist slammed into his right shoulder with inhuman force, nearly knocking it right out of its socket. A piercing blow struck his left side and he gasped. A third fist struck his jaw and sent him hurtling to the earth.

  His right side struck the ground, knocking the wind out of him. Mud splashed over his clothes, his face. He tried to wipe it away, to stand up. But his body felt drained of energy.

  He stared upward. Through hazy vision, he saw Pearson towering above him. “How about we call this a draw?” he muttered, spitting mud and blood out onto the soil.

  Pearson didn’t smile. Instead, he knelt down. Grabbed Caplan’s shirt and formed his fingers into a massive fist. Rearing back, he prepared to strike the knockout blow.

  “That’s enough,” Corbotch said quietly.

  Pearson’s fist froze in mid-swing. His face twisted with anger. Then he released Caplan and stood up.

  Caplan struggled to his feet. His face felt like hot hamburger meat. His brain ached inside his skull. His ultra-keen senses were dull, diminished. “What the hell was that?” he asked as he massaged his jaw.

  “Payback,” Pearson replied without emotion. “For sucker-punching me back in New York.”

  “I thought you were a mugger.”

  “Don’t care. You hit me, you get destroyed.”

  Perkins rose to all fours. “What the hell is wrong with you?”

  Pearson shot him a blazing look.

  Perkins held the gaze for less than a second before shifting his face to the ground.

  Caplan rubbed his eyes with both hands until his vision cleared. He was halfway tempted to continue the fight, to get a little payback of his own. But time was short, so he glanced at the forest instead.

  “No more fighting,” Corbotch said. “Both of you need to focus on why we’re here.”

  Putting his anger aside, Caplan gave Pearson a glance. The man was a mountain of flesh and muscle. But that wasn’t everything. Stamina, in particular, would be key for trekking across the Vallerio’s uneven, hilly terrain. “I’ll take him to Hatcher with me. But I’m not holding his hand.”

  Pearson’s eyes narrowed to slits. “You little—”

  “That’ll do,” Corbotch said, cutting him off. “Remember, we’re on the same team.”

  Caplan turned back to the forest. He wasn’t thrilled about traveling with Pearson. But he didn’t have time to argue.

  “Zach.” Perkins hiked to Caplan’s side. “You look dizzy.”

  “I’m fine,” Caplan replied.

  “Sure you are.” He lowered his voice, extended a palm. “But if you start, I don’t know, foaming at the mouth later, take one of these.”

  Caplan eyed the amber-colored pill container, complete with child resistant cap. It was unmarked and filled with small white tablets. “You trying to drug me, Derek?”

  “It’s aspirin,” Perkins said, exacerbated. “Just the thing for headaches, muscle aches, ocular problems, breathing issues, and God knows what else. Now, do you want it or not?”

  Caplan exhaled. Then he grabbed the container and surreptitiously stuffed it into his pocket.

  Turning slightly, he studied the dark forest of Sector 48A. He thought about what had happened in the area five months earlier. And he thought about how it wouldn’t happen to him.

  Then he shifted his backpack on his shoulders. Checked his bearings.

  And strode into the darkness.

  Chapter 21

  Date: June 19, 2016, 2:04 p.m.; Location: Sector 48A, Vallerio Forest, NH

  Caplan twisted his head to the left. Then to the right. He possessed an excellent internal compass. But the Vallerio was no ordinary forest. It played endless tricks on one’s sense of direction. Almost as if it was deliberately trying to lead people astray.

  Very faint crackling noises, just a few degrees to his right, caught his ear. A shiver shot down his spine. Shifting his gait, he hiked quickly toward the sounds.

  Pearson hurried to keep up. His boots, as well as the rest of his outfit, was soaked with pungent mud. His jaw was a little red from Caplan’s punch. But he breathed easily with no signs of injury.

  Doing his best to hide his own aches and pains, Caplan swept his beam through the dark woods. He thought back to his childhood, back to his obsession with monsters, myths, and legends. He could still remember walking into the local library. The rich smell of old books. The hushed whispers of elderly patrons. The disapproving looks from bespectacled, stern-faced librarians.

  He recalled walking down narrow aisles, sandwiched by massive bookshelves. And he recalled his favorite section, two little shelves of books devoted to the Kraken, Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, and all sorts of other interesting things. It was on those shelves that he’d first learned of the Vallerio Forest, of the myths, truths, and uncertainty that surrounded it.

  Located in northern New Hampshire, the Vallerio covered millions of acres of undeveloped land. Only three scientific studies had been conducted within its limits since it fell into private hands—apparently, those of Corbotch’s ancestors—centuries earlier. According to those studies, the Vallerio featured endless trees, grasslands, rock formations, cliffs, lakes, a deep box canyon, streams, floodplains, waterfalls, and a whole host of other natural wonders.

  He shifted his beam. His eyes traced a tall pine tree, dripping wet, as it rose into the stormy sky. Pine trees were common inside the forest. A group of scientists and engineers had planted a whole mess of them in 1885, as part of a plan to rebuild the soil. Caplan wondered how that fit into Corbotch’s rewilding scheme. Was the point of rewilding to find the right megafauna for the current state of vegetation? Or did Corbotch plan to eventually return the Vallerio to its original, pre-human vegetation?

  Pearson grunted. “Why do you keep doing that?”

  “Doing what?”

  “Turning in circles.”

  “I’m watching our flanks.”

  “For what?”

  Caplan wasn’t sure how to answer the question. Something vicious lived inside 48A. But what? “Lions,” Caplan lied. “They roam through this part of the Vallerio from time to time.”

  Pearson’s face tightened. Reaching to his waist, he grabbed hold of a large pistol. Twisting his neck in either direction, he studied the forest. “Animal attacks are rare here, right?”

  Tony Morgan’s face flashed before Caplan’s eyes. “There was one five months ago.”

&
nbsp; “You’re talking about that Morgan guy? I heard he disappeared.”

  “He did,” Caplan lied again. “But we found bloody clothes near his abandoned vehicle. An animal attack is the most likely explanation. You have to remember the creatures that live here have zero human interaction. So, they have no reason to fear people.”

  “Zero interaction? That’s strange. Don’t they ever cross paths with Hatcher’s scientists?”

  Briefly, Caplan wondered about Hatcher Station, about its current status. Was it still operational? Or had the Blare somehow damaged it? If so, how were the terrorists reacting to the sudden change? “Have you ever visited Hatcher?”

  Pearson shook his head.

  “It might be in the Vallerio, but it’s not a part of it. It’s surrounded by electric fences. And the employees hardly ever venture outside the concrete walls. They eat there, sleep there. Very few people receive permission to go outside. And when they do, all precautions are taken to avoid wildlife. And with good reason.”

  “Because that’s how James likes it?”

  “In part. But also because Tony Morgan wasn’t the first person to die here. Three research expeditions have visited the Vallerio over the years and all of them reported incidents involving aggressive animals. The last expedition to come here—the Dasnoe Expedition of 1904—lost six members to a pack of wolves.”

  The color drained out of Pearson’s dark cheeks.

  Caplan lifted his nose skyward. Took a quick sniff of the still air. It was a bit warmer than he remembered. But it smelled of fresh rain and was free of cinders. The crackling flames remained at a low volume, giving him some much-needed hope that the fire was contained.

  They crossed a small stream, overflowing with water. Climbed over a fallen tree trunk. Weaved in and out of bush-heavy areas. And all the while, Caplan thought about the conversation with Pearson, about what he’d told the man regarding Tony Morgan and the ill-fated Dasnoe Expedition of 1904.

  He didn’t feel guilty about what he’d said. How could he? Pearson had no business knowing the truth about Tony. Not where he’d died or how it had happened.

  And it was better if Pearson didn’t know the truth about how the Dasnoe Expedition had really ended. It would just unnerve him. And that was the last thing Caplan needed.

  Six people had indeed lost their lives in 1904, but not as he’d described it. After escaping the forest, Joseph Dasnoe spent the rest of his short life begging the U.S. government to send troops into the Vallerio. To seize it. To destroy the creatures that had killed his men. For the creatures weren’t mere wolves. They were, he’d claimed, the stuff of myth.

  Monsters.

  Chapter 22

  Date: June 19, 2016, 2:16 p.m.; Location: Sector 48A, Vallerio Forest, NH

  “What do you think caused that thing?” Pearson inhaled a short breath. Despite the difficult terrain, he held his own with ease. “The Blare, I mean.”

  Caplan picked his way through some dense thicket. The air wasn’t as thick or as hot as he expected, which he took to be a good sign. Maybe the fire had stalled. “Hell if I know,” he grunted.

  “Do you think—?”

  “Less talking, more walking.”

  Pearson replied with a terse nod.

  More minutes passed as they hiked toward the dull sound of crackling flames. The soggy ground made it difficult to walk. Dripping water struck the top of Caplan’s head over and over again, as nature subjected him to its own version of Chinese water torture.

  As he walked, Caplan sensed something in the air. It was in the giant tree trunks, the ancient mud, and the shifting shadows. It was everywhere.

  Dread pitted in his stomach. He’d felt a similar sensation five months earlier, just prior to Tony’s death. And it had happened in the same sector as well. Was this some kind of long-dormant sixth sense, reawakened to warn him of impending doom?

  Like most casual observers, he’d always treated the Dasnoe Expedition stories with a large grain of salt. They were definitely interesting. And he felt certain something had wrecked havoc on Professor Joseph Dasnoe’s party. But a monster out of myth? That had been too hard to believe, especially in the absence of physical proof. Even Bigfoot, bolstered by decades of alleged photographs and plaster castings, outranked it on the credibility scale.

  But all that had changed on January 6. He’d seen the strange shadows flitting about the Vallerio’s ancient corridors. He’d seen them attack Tony, seen them tear the man to shreds. Were these the same creatures Dasnoe had seen way back in 1904? Or something else, something new?

  Caplan’s dread quickly faded away and he found himself feeling bolder, brasher than ever. He could still hear the faint sound of crackling flames. But he also detected a new sound. An intermittent thumming, thrubbing noise. It came from close by, just ten to twenty yards away.

  With speed and silence, Caplan circled a tree trunk. Just ahead, he saw the source of the strange noise. Surprise and confusion charged through him like twin freight trains. He tried to speak, but his jaw refused to operate. All he could do was look. Look at one of the strangest things he’d ever witnessed in a forest. Hell, one of the strangest things he’d ever seen, period.

  “What is that thing?” Pearson asked in a hushed tone.

  “Spider webbing.” Caplan’s fingers curled around the flashlight. “I think.”

  “A spider did that?”

  Caplan studied the mess of silk-material. It was attached to one side of a large black box and covered a wide area. It didn’t look anything like a typical spider web. Instead, it looked like a spider had spun a large net and proceeded to wrap it around its prey, forming a pod in the process.

  Its size was daunting. He estimated its width, which bulged out from either side of the box, at roughly six feet. Its height was just shy of three feet. “You’ve got another theory?”

  “No.” Pearson knelt in the soft soil. Aimed a beam at the pod. “Why’s it moving around like that?”

  “I think there’s an animal trapped under the webbing.”

  “But the whole thing is moving.”

  “That’s because it’s a large animal.” Caplan inhaled sharply. “A very large animal.”

  Chapter 23

  Date: June 19, 2016, 2:23 p.m.; Location: Sector 48A, Vallerio Forest, NH

  “What do you think you’re doing?” Pearson grabbed Caplan’s shoulder, but Caplan shook him off.

  Without hesitation, Caplan marched to the pod. Drawing near, he felt its heat, its energy. He could see it vibrate, perfectly in time with a soft, constant noise.

  Thrub. Thrub. Thrub.

  He aimed his beam at the pod and then shifted it around, trying to find an angle that would allow him to see the shadowy form of whatever poor creature had been trapped inside the silken web. But the threads were too thick, too well woven. Kneeling down, he studied the strange black box. It sparked with electricity and emitted a soft sound of its own.

  Thum. Thum. Thum.

  Spiders were capable of taking down larger animals. Rodents, frogs, snakes, even birds. But no spider on Earth could capture an animal like the one before him. Even a giant gang of spiders, working in perfect harmony, couldn’t do it. No, the webbing hadn’t come from spiders. So, maybe it had come from the box. Maybe it was some sort of trap, designed to stun an animal and then shoot webbing all over it. But why would anyone want to do that?

  Caplan eased the backpack off his shoulders. Removed a small object—an axe—from the interior and slid off its head cover.

  Rising to his feet, he donned the backpack. Gripping the axe tightly in his left palm, he approached the pod. The axe, one of two he carried at all times, weighed in at less than two pounds. But it was sharp as hell.

  Pearson shook his head. “Are you out of your mind?”

  Caplan had seen—or rather, sensed—the vicious creatures that inhabited 48A. So, he knew the risk of trying to free this particular animal. But he felt no fear, no need to back down. All he felt was a brash c
ertainty that everything would be fine. If the creature turned on him, he’d kill it. If not, he’d be saving its life.

  “It needs our help,” Caplan said.

  “Why? Isn’t that the whole point of this place? To be free of people, no matter what the consequences?”

  “You think this is nature’s work?” He nodded with disgust at the black box. “Guess again.”

  Pearson studied the box. “What is this thing?”

  “I don’t know. But it’s old and rusted. I’d say it’s been here for a long time.”

  “How’d it get here?”

  Caplan spat at the ground. He didn’t care about the how or the why. Someone had trapped the animal. And he was going to free it.

  Pearson saw the look in Caplan’s eye. “Don’t do it,” he warned. “We’ve got to—”

  Caplan swung the axe. It hurtled downward, just as it had thousands of times before. Its sharp blade crashed against the silk and bounced off it.

  Pearson grunted under his breath. Looked away.

  Caplan’s right hand, still holding the flashlight, shifted to the pod. He saw a shallow cut in the silk-like material. A closer look revealed more layers of intricate, tight webbing. The pod vibrated as if it had a life of its own.

  Thrub. Thrub. Thrub.

  Aiming for the cut, he swung the axe again and again. Slowly, his blade began to carve through the thick silk-like material, like a much larger axe chopping through a tree trunk.

  Thum. Thum. Thum.

  He kept up the pressure, timing his cuts with the pod’s soft vibrations. His movements, the product of experience, were exacting, precise. But inside, he felt quiet desperation. Desperation to save lives. Desperation to make up for the one he’d lost.

  The pod’s vibrations sped up. Scraping noises rang out. The silk-like material began to stretch, to pulse with increasing speed.

  “Get back,” Pearson shouted.

  But Caplan didn’t hear him. All he heard was the thumming, the thrubbing. He continued to swing his axe, cutting deeper and deeper into the large pod.