by David Meyer
The dark corridors pulsed and expanded to even larger sizes. The darkness—snarling, frenzied, and very much alive—spread its tentacles across the ground.
Tony’s cheeks bulged as it swept over his body. Ungodly fear and clarity filled his eyes. He screamed again and again. Screams not just of pain but also of immeasurable fright. The sort of nightmarish fright one only faced in the darkest of nightmares.
The screams died away. The pulsing blackness retreated back to the tree line, taking Tony’s body with it and leaving the duffel bag and bloody scraps of clothing behind.
Sobs tickled Caplan’s throat. His body sagged and his eyes closed over. His head lowered to the snow as he relived his moment of hesitation over and over again. Tony was dead.
And it was his fault.
Chapter 26
Date: June 19, 2016, 2:56 p.m.; Location: Sector 48A, Vallerio Forest, NH
“It looks like …” Pearson’s face twisted in disgust. “… like something ate him.”
Caplan took a few deep breaths, evacuating the last bits of smoke from his aching lungs. Then he paced across the partially scorched field. The various fires, ultimately thwarted by the dampness, had begun to die out. They’d left a variety of corpses—some charred, some mildly burnt, and one totally untouched—in their wake.
He cast a wary eye at the surrounding tree line. The black corridors reminded him of that cold January day five months earlier. He recalled stretching a trembling hand under the fence and grasping Tony’s duffel bag. Stretching a little farther, he managed to grasp one of the bloody scraps of clothing. Fortunately, Tony had brought along tools to repair the fence, so fixing the snipped wires only took a few minutes. Then he’d retreated to Roadster. For ten minutes, he’d sat alone inside the vehicle, trembling and fighting back tears.
He knew he needed to tell the truth. To reveal the mysterious fence to all of Hatcher and take whatever punishment the Foundation deemed necessary. But was that really the best move? Clearly, someone was hiding something in 48A. What if that person tried to kill him for what he knew? Or worse, what if that person targeted Amanda, figuring Tony might have shared his discovery with his sibling?
And at that moment, racked with grief and uncertainty, he made the first of many decisions that would eventually consume his life. Quickly, he’d driven the vehicle to Sector 84. After parking it in some brush, he planted the blood-soaked piece of fabric nearby. Then he hiked back to Hatcher, manually deactivated the exterior fences, and slipped into the Eye.
By that time, he’d begun to doubt his strategy. But it was too late to back down. So, he accessed and deleted the applicable video feeds, hiding all evidence of the ill-fated trek to 48A. Then he disabled the feeds to make it look like they’d been turned off since early afternoon. Only then did he report Roadster’s puzzling disappearance.
He’d initiated an investigation and quickly discovered Tony’s absence. The other rangers booted up the feeds and soon found the missing Roadster. A giant manhunt turned up nothing but the bloody cloth, buried under a couple of inches of newly fallen snow. Everything after that—his resignation, the daylong exit interview and signing of documents, and the flight to Manhattan—had been a blur.
Sighing wearily, Caplan aimed his flashlight beam at the body, identifying it as the baller from the alley. What was his name again? Oh yeah, Cam … Cam Moline.
The twenty-something’s mouth was wide open and it looked like he’d died in mid-scream. His eyes, unfocused and bloodshot like a junkie’s, stared lifelessly at the sky. They reminded Caplan of the look he’d seen in Tony’s eyes just prior to the end.
Caplan tried to close the man’s eyelids, but they wouldn’t budge. Giving up, he touched the man’s cheek with the back of his hand. The skin felt cold and rubbery.
“That’s Cam,” Pearson said tightly. “He served in the U.S. Army Rangers.”
Holding his breath, Caplan lifted Moline’s shredded shirt. Something sharp and curved—a claw?—had carved the man’s torso up like a Thanksgiving turkey. His organs, the ones that were left anyway—had been chewed into brownish, blackish pulp.
Bile rose in Caplan’s throat. “Looks like a cat attack,” he said slowly. “Maybe a lion, maybe a tiger.”
For a solitary moment, Caplan knelt in the clearing, listening to the dying flames, the buzzing flies, and the drip-drip-drip of water. Then he saw a glint of metal just past Moline’s body. Standing up, he retrieved a standard-issue U.S. Army 9mm pistol from the mud. Lifting the silenced barrel to his nose, he took a whiff. Then he checked the box magazine. “I can’t tell if it’s been fired recently,” he said. “But it’s missing a few rounds.”
“Moline was a tough sonofabitch. He must’ve seen the cat coming and gotten a few shots off.” Pearson nodded at the flashlight. “Are you sure we should have that on?”
Caplan gave him a questioning look.
“What if that cat is still hanging around? It might see the light.”
“I hope it does,” Caplan replied. “You know how it feels to get walloped with a blinding light, right? Well, animals don’t like it anymore than we do.”
Exhaustion crisscrossed Caplan’s brain and body as he walked to the smoldering wreckage. He felt slow, sluggish. God, he wished he could sleep. Sleep until the sun rose, fell, and then rose again.
He aimed his beam into the cabin, sweeping it across the long metal benches, the burnt bags of equipment. He saw plenty of blood, much of it blackened by the fire, but no bodies. Most likely, a few people were injured or died in the crash. The healthy ones evacuated them and started to make their way across the clearing. But a large cat—or maybe several of them—had other ideas.
“I count thirteen corpses.” Pearson shook his head. “You know what that means, don’t you? They’re dead. They’re all dead.”
Caplan swept his beam in a circle, passing over the gruesome baker’s dozen. When it reached a western heading, another glint caught his eye. What was that? Another gun? A piece of the helicopter? Something else?
Caplan hiked to the edge of the clearing, slipped under the overhanging canopy, and entered one of the Vallerio’s dark corridors. The ancient city of nature, constructed long ago by sheer chance and evolution, stretched before him. But although he could run its streets and scale its pillars, he knew he’d never truly be one with it. For this, he felt eternally thankful.
Stepping carefully, he entered another dark corridor and hiked past several sky-high pillars of gnarled, damp wood. Before long, he caught sight of what had caused the glinting. He wrenched to a halt. His eyeballs trembled in his head and jolts of electricity shot through his veins.
A large amount of webbing-like material, ten feet end to end, eight feet top to bottom, sat on a small pile of rocks. A pulsing black box, exactly the same as the other one, rested beneath it. Like before, it looked like the box had somehow captured a large animal and encased it in silk strands.
Thrub. Thrub. Thrub.
Thum. Thum. Thum.
Sweat beaded up on his palms. The previous box and pod, isolated and alone, meant one thing. This second set meant something else.
Once is a mere occurrence, he thought. But twice is a disturbance.
He hiked to the pod. Shifting the beam, he aimed it at the box’s label. Castoroides ohioensis, he read quietly.
Canis dirus? Castoroides ohioensis? What were these strange creatures? Caplan was a wilderness survival expert, not a zoologist. But he’d worked in the Vallerio long enough to memorize the scientific names of many animals. So, the fact that he didn’t recognize either was cause for concern.
Light breaths and faint footfalls sounded out. Moments later, Pearson appeared. He scanned the pod with furrowed brow before lifting his gaze. “Zach.” He nodded farther to the west. “Over there.”
Caplan followed the man’s gaze with his beam. A soft gasp escaped his lips.
Once is an occurrence and twice is a disturbance, he thought. But this … this is an abhorrence.
A puttering noise, barely audible, arose abruptly from the north. Caplan’s neck prickled. Dousing the flashlight, he turned toward the clearing. Light flames continued to tickle the edges of the wreckage, adding a faint glow to the burnt grass.
Pearson frowned, glanced at Caplan. “What is it?”
Caplan closed his eyes. Lifted his chin and let his senses run free.
“Did you hear me? I said what—?”
Caplan opened his eyes. “It’s Roadster.”
“Roadster?”
“Hatcher’s ground transport vehicle. The terrorists must’ve sent it to investigate the crash.” His lips moved silently. “In other words, they know we’re here.”
Chapter 27
Date: June 19, 2016, 3:04 p.m.; Location: Sector 48A, Vallerio Forest, NH
The overhanging clouds opened up in unison, releasing their liquid cargo in a fierce torrent. The rain, pent up for far too long, fell hard and fast, eager to complete its journey to the earth. Within seconds, the storm had transformed the clearing’s burnt stalks and wet mud into a small swamp.
Bright headlights flashed. But the darkness, thick as sludge, and the never-ending sheets of rain combined to limit their reach.
Caplan cut through the forest like a finely honed machete. Sticking to the shadows, he saw a tall cedar tree. The end of a broken rotor blade stuck out of its trunk, wobbling gently in the breeze. He crept behind the tree and chanced a look to the north.
The fence, he thought. Finally!
The fence, with its forest-like paintjob, was barely visible amidst the downpour. But he would’ve recognized it anywhere.
He tensed up, all-too aware of how Tony had died just inside the fence line. Coupled with the dead bodies outside the Blaze, he knew danger couldn’t be far off.
The engine grew louder and louder. Then a giant shadow slid into view. There it was, his Roadster! The beat-up old SUV came to a stop just outside the fence, up to its rusty axels in swampy soil. His heart thumped as he studied its scrapes, dings, and dents. What a beat-up piece of junk. But damn, how he’d missed it.
The driver cut the engine, but left the beams on at full-blast. Silently, Caplan stowed the flashlight in his pocket. Then he removed the axe and its twin from his backpack and shook off their coverings. The axes had been forged with fine materials and great care. In the right hands, they weren’t just tools. They were fearsome weapons, capable of long-distance attacks as well as close-quarters combat. Each axe possessed a foot-long handle, topped off by a curved metal head. Their blades were sleek with v-shaped notches. At the back of each head, the metal tapered off to form a vicious spike.
Rain struck the axes and rolled down their blades, notches, and handles, cleansing the tools of dirt and blood. Caplan felt no fear, no anxiety as he brandished the axes. He felt nothing but cold, bottled-up rage.
“A fence?” Pearson frowned. “I didn’t realize we were so close to Hatcher.”
“We’re not,” Caplan replied.
Pearson started to respond. But a single look at Caplan’s axes distracted him. “What do you think you’re doing?” he whispered.
What’s it look like I’m doing? Caplan thought. Baking a cake? Hell, he was ecstatic at this turn of events. After defeating the terrorists, Roadster would be his for the taking. He could use it to cut precious minutes off their travel time. Even better, he’d strike a blow against the terrorists and get some revenge on behalf of Morgan.
Finally, he could start to earn her forgiveness.
“Put those away,” Pearson said. “We can’t let them see us.”
“Hide if you want.” Caplan maneuvered the blades in sweeping circles, warming up his tired arms. “But I’m staying.”
“Haven’t you screwed up enough already?”
Pearson’s words sent shockwaves through Caplan’s fragile ego. In an instant, everything he thought he knew about himself, every decision he’d made these last five months, came under question.
“You plunge headfirst into every situation,” Pearson continued. “And you keep getting burned for it. So, use your head for once and come with me.” Hunching down, Pearson retreated back toward the pods.
Caplan watched him go. But the sound of car doors shutting drew his attention back to the clearing.
His doubts washed away along with the furious rain. Sure, he’d had a little bad luck. But this time would be different.
This time, nothing would go wrong.
Chapter 28
Date: June 19, 2016, 3:07 p.m.; Location: Sector 48A, Vallerio Forest, NH
A trio of men, clad in hooded raincoats and carrying rifles, gathered around Roadster. They fumbled with their guns but were unable to activate the mounted LED spotlights. Giving up, they walked to the fence.
Caplan held his breath as one of the men reached for the wires. But the man grabbed it with ease and Caplan realized electricity was no longer flowing through the fence. The Blare must’ve knocked it out, he thought. Maybe it knocked out Hatcher’s fences, too.
Carefully, the men climbed through the horizontal wires. Then they fanned out and strode into the clearing.
Caplan squinted through the slashing rain. The easternmost man walked with a mild limp. The second man, positioned in the middle, was gaunt and continuously flicking his tongue across his lips. The last man, a trembler with a hunched back, occupied the western end of the clearing. He stood closest to Caplan, making him the obvious—but not necessarily the best—target for attack.
The easternmost man, the limper, trudged slowly through the swamp. He made plenty of noise and commotion, causing Caplan to suspect he wasn’t trained in the art of warfare.
Seconds later, the man tripped, proving Caplan right. Arms waving like a windmill, he pitched forward into the swamp. The other two shot him nervous glances.
The man lifted a hand, signaling he was okay. Holding his rifle aloft, he let the rain wash away some sludge. Then he backtracked to where he’d tripped and started to fish through the mud.
What he saw—one of the dead bodies, no doubt—startled him and he reared backward, limping awkwardly along the way. The others raced to his side, catching him before he could fall. Then they gathered together and examined the swamp.
After a minute, the men broke apart and returned to their former positions. Stepping far more carefully now, the limper approached the wreckage and aimed his rifle into the interior. Then he lowered it. Twisted toward the second man—the tongue-flicker—and shrugged.
The tongue-flicker, clearly the leader, snapped his fingers. He pointed at the swamp and the other two men began to hike loudly through the mud, evidently searching for more bodies.
Caplan’s senses surged to full height as he slid into the swamp. He saw the way the trio moved, the way they shifted their bodies in response to noise. He saw their range of movement, their lack of body armor. He smelled burnt wood and grass along with body odor. He heard a resurgence of crackling flames alongside heavy rain, squelching mud, and buzzing flies.
Wading forward, he approached the trio in relative silence. Yes, he was outnumbered. And yes, his two axes, at least on paper, were no match for rifles. But he didn’t doubt his victory, not even for a second.
The key to taking out a small group was to strike fast and hard. First, eliminate the leader. Second, take out the others before they could regroup and find new leadership.
Still crouching, he waded quietly toward tongue-flicker, shifting his legs one at a time. Then he rose upward like an ethereal being, gripped his left axe and swung it like a tennis racket.
Tongue-flicker grunted as the tip of the handle struck the back of his head. He dropped his rifle and only the shoulder strap kept it from hitting the ground. Reaching backward, he felt his skull. Then he wen
t limp and sagged into the muck.
The limper and the trembling man spun toward the noise, guns at the ready. A mixture of fear and confusion crossed their visages as they laid eyes upon tongue-flicker’s still body. Immediately, they shifted their weapons, searching for the mysterious attacker.
But he was nowhere to be seen.
An axe handle slammed into trembler’s skull. He was unconscious before he hit the ground.
Sensing movement, the limper spun westward, his gun moving toward Caplan’s position. Caplan knocked the barrel with his left axe, propelling it away from him.
The air boomed. The rifle recoiled in the limper’s hands. A bullet exited the chamber and soared toward the wreckage. It slammed into the Blaze’s still-intact gas tank. The tank began sputtering fuel, spitting it out like a fountain.
Time slowed down for Caplan. He tasted smoke and cinders. Felt warm heat. Smelled the pungent fuel.
Flames roared with renewed intensity. Glancing over his shoulder, Caplan saw the flames, orange and hot, licking at the gas.
A massive explosion pierced the air and a shock wave stretched outward. Caplan went airborne before crashing back to the swamp, rolling and flopping around until he came to a halt.
A full minute passed. Groggily, he sat up, covered in muck. Miraculously, the axes were still in his grip.
He twisted his neck. Wrenching his eyes open, he tried to focus his blurry vision. A giant fire engulfed the wreckage. Pieces of blackened metal, expelled outward by the explosion, were strewn across the swamp.
Caplan tried to get up, only to collapse back to the earth. He tried again, but couldn’t even reach his knees. Physically, he was spent.
Vaguely, he heard Roadster’s engine ignite. It puttered softly for a minute or so before receding into silence.
Caplan dug deep, found a little energy in his reserves. Slowly, painfully, he stood up.
Pearson snaked out of the forest and waded into the swamp. “What happened?”
