Behemoth (Apex Predator Book 1)

by David Meyer

  Caplan’s eyes bulged. “You’ve actually seen one of these hunts?”

  She didn’t respond. She didn’t have to. The haunted look in her eyes said everything.

  “I don’t get it,” Caplan said after a moment. “Why would James want to kill anyone?”

  “I don’t know,” Morgan said, finding her tongue. “But I always see him in the feeds, sitting quietly in the helicopter. He and the pilot never get their hands dirty. Instead, two goons handle the actual drop-off. I can’t be certain, but I suspect James watches the feeds later, from a remote location. Somewhere close enough to access Hatcher’s network.”

  “How do you know all this?” Caplan asked. “And how’d you know to look for feeds in the first place?”

  “The same way you know about 48A … Tony told me, at least in a manner of speaking.”

  Caplan’s chest tightened. He ached to tell her the truth. To tell her that her brother had died while investigating 48A. To tell her how he’d failed to help the man in his time of need. And to tell her how he’d panicked and covered up the truth, partly out of self-preservation but mostly because of her. Because he feared the people behind 48A might see her as a potential liability. “We should talk about him.”

  She wiped her eyes with the palms of her hands. “Not now.”

  “But—”

  “Not now,” she repeated. “After he died, I found Tony’s notes, his journals. He wrote about a place he called Sector 48A. It was a good distance from Hatcher’s primary cameras and sealed off by an electric fence. He never saw anything, but he was absolutely certain something lived there. Right away, I thought of 1-Gen animals.”

  “Didn’t you say James agreed to destroy the 1-Gens?”

  “Yes. And the unopened incubators, too. But a small part of me had always doubted he’d do it.” She exhaled. “After Tony’s death, the Foundation clamped down on Roadster trips. Since I couldn’t see 48A for myself, I did the next best thing. I brought Bonnie and Zlata into the fold and convinced them to reprogram Hatcher’s primary cameras. While they were trying to get a better look at the area, they accidentally stumbled on the secret feeds.”

  Caplan beckoned at her to continue.

  “I still remember watching one of those feeds. The helicopter hovering above the clearing, swinging in a slow circle. Those two goons rolling people out the cabin door. The helicopter taking off. And then stillness.” She shuddered. “At first, I thought James was disposing of corpses. And that was horrible enough. But when those people started to move, my jaw hit the floor. And when the saber-toothed cats—the same ones I’d help create—closed in for the kill, I lost it.” Her eyes glittered with anger. “My work, Zach. He used my work to kill people. I couldn’t let that stand.”

  “But why this?” Caplan waved his hand in an effort to encompass the rebellion. “Why not just go public?”

  “What do you think we’re trying to do? You know as well as anyone how tight security is around here. Nothing—and I mean nothing—is allowed to leave the premises. So, I had no way of sneaking those feeds out of Hatcher. And without evidence, it would just be my word against the entire Corbotch Empire.”

  “I see,” he said slowly. “So, the only way to reach the public was through the Lab’s communications equipment.”

  She nodded. “Bonnie, Zlata, and I brought others into the fold, one at a time. We decided to make our move on June 18 and began prepping for it.”

  “Why June 18? Because of the dignitaries?”

  “You know about them?” Morgan frowned, then nodded. “Of course. James told you. Yes, they had something to do with it. We knew he’d do just about anything to end our little revolt. But we figured a few high-value hostages might give us a little bargaining power.”

  “Who are the dignitaries anyway? Why are they here?”

  “Honestly, I don’t know.” She shrugged. “Nor do I care.”

  Caplan considered everything she’d told him for a moment. “Aren’t you afraid of what might happen to this place once you go public? Aren’t you worried the authorities will shut you down, confiscate your research?”

  “Yes,” she admitted. “Especially with mass extinction so close at hand. That’s why my colleagues and I have decided to take our knowledge elsewhere, to anyone who will listen. We’ll even pool our resources and go it alone if necessary.”

  “There’s one thing I don’t understand.” Caplan’s brain worked in overdrive as he tried to connect Morgan’s version of Corbotch with the man he knew. “Why bother with a killing field? If he’s got enemies, why not just hire assassins? Or better yet, why not just bury them under mountains of lawsuits and bad publicity? Isn’t that how the super-wealthy usually settle their grudges?”

  “Because he’s a sick bastard?” She shrugged. “I really don’t know.”

  Caplan wondered about it for a moment. But ultimately, he decided he didn’t need an answer. He could see the truth now. He could see how Corbotch had hoodwinked him into coming to Hatcher on false pretenses. “There’s something you need to know,” he said. “I lied before.”

  She frowned. “About what?”

  “We didn’t come in one helicopter. We came in two. The Blaze crashed in 48A. Everyone died, either from the impact or from animal attacks. Probably 1-Gens, now that I think about it. But the second chopper—the one I flew in—landed safely.” He thought about Corbotch and Perkins, about how they were probably surrounded by ferocious 1-Gen animals at that very moment. Unless, that is, they were already dead. “Three people landed with me. I lost track of Julius Pearson outside Hatcher. The other two—Derek Perkins and James Corbotch—stayed with the chopper.”

  “James is here?” Her eyes cinched to slits. “Why didn’t you tell me before?”

  “You mean while you were pistol-whipping me?”

  Her gaze softened and she took a deep breath. Then she clutched her waist and rose slowly, painfully to her feet.

  Caplan stood up, ignoring his burning joints and bones. Walking around the table, he helped steady her. “You need more rest.”

  “What I need is to tell the others about James. If we catch him, maybe we can end this.” Turning around, she limped toward the door.

  Caplan slipped his right shoulder under her left one. His right hand snaked around her waist, taking care not to touch her wound. “Those incubators in the Lab—I saw a whole bunch just like them on my way here.”

  “I’m not surprised. For reasons I still don’t understand, James took the unopened 1-Gens to 48A.”

  “How many did you originally make?”

  “Dozens. We only initiated expulsion sequences on fourteen of them, mostly saber-toothed cats and woolly mammoths. After seeing how violent they were, we wrote off the rest of 1-Gen.”

  “Did you make something called Canis dirus?”

  She nodded. “Why?”

  “I, uh, sort of cut one free.”

  “And you survived?”

  “Not without help.” He wondered about that, wondered why Pearson had saved him from the creature.

  “Canis dirus is the scientific name for dire wolf. It was one of the fiercest predators in history until it died out some ten to 11,000 years ago.” Morgan’s eyes turned hazy and unclear. “What was the incubator like when you found it?”

  “I already told you. It looked like the ones in the Lab.”

  “I mean what was it doing? Was it still? Quiet?”

  He shook his head. “It was quaking and throbbing like a virgin on prom night. And the little black box beneath it was making noise too. This weird thumming sound.”

  “The other incubators … were they acting the same way?”

  He nodded.

  Her eyes closed, then reopened. “One of the guards initiated a full expulsion sequence. I wasn’t sure if it reached the unopened 1-Gens. But I guess it did.” She paused. “The amount of energy must’ve been tremendous. Did you notice any weird phenomena?”

  Caplan recalled the Blare. “You could say
that.”

  “That’s … ooohhh …” Morgan’s legs crumpled under her. Only Caplan’s support kept her from collapsing to the floor. “I don’t feel so hot.”

  “What’s the matter?”

  “My head … it’s like mush. My skin is burning up.” She broke out into shivers. “Can’t see real well either.”

  “It must be that wound.” Still propping her up, he hurried to the door. “Help,” he shouted. “Get Dr. Adnan.”

  No one answered his shout and Caplan cursed under his breath. Of course. The stupid walls had blocked his shout. He’d nearly forgotten about Hatcher’s extra-thick walls. He’d appreciated them during his tenure. But now, they infuriated him.

  With his free hand, he grabbed the knob and twisted it. A hard push sent the door flying on its hinges.

  “Dr. Adnan,” he yelled. “Where …?” His voice trailed off. A dumbfounded expression crossed his visage, followed by one of sheer horror.

  Two-dozen people lay in the Heptagon, their limbs askew. Flashlights were scattered about the floor, casting light upon the corpses. So, he could see their eyes were moist and glassy. Foam dripped from their purple lips. A few of them clutched their throats with fingers that had grown stiff from rigor mortis.

  “They’re dead.” Caplan winced. The bodies smelled like spoiled meat, laced with cheap perfume. “But you said HA-78 didn’t exist. So, how …?”

  “I don’t know the how, but I know the who.” Morgan’s fingers curled into fists. “James did this.”

  Chapter 42

  Date: June 19, 2016, 5:09 p.m.; Location: Hatcher Station, Vallerio Forest, NH

  Caplan’s eyes took a trip around the room, making short stops at the shadowy faces. He saw scientists, technicians, trussed-up guards, as well as rangers. He knew some better than others, but he’d spent time with each and every one of them. There was Dr. Joy Hopkins, his long-time chess nemesis. Verna Mullins, the beer-guzzling guard who once stripped naked and ran around the Heptagon on a bet. And of course, Andres Sandoval, the cricket-loving ranger who liked nothing better than to fill Caplan’s ears with endless stats and factoids during late nights in the Eye.

  I failed them, Caplan thought bitterly. Just like I failed Tony.

  Morgan’s legs gave out a second time. Caplan had to act fast to keep her from sagging to the floor. As he propped her back up again, he took a look at her pale face, her bluish lips. Quickly, his eyes shifted between her and the corpses. Damn it, he thought. Same symptoms.

  “Put me down,” Morgan whispered.

  “I’m not leaving you.”

  “You … you need to look for survivors.”

  “But—”

  “Please … but be careful … whoever did this …”

  She trailed off, but Caplan understood what she was trying to say. One of Corbotch’s people—probably Pearson—had somehow poisoned everyone in the Heptagon. That person had most likely moved on to the individual wings in search of others to kill.

  But wait. That didn’t make sense. Caplan had been with Morgan the whole time. How had she gotten sick?

  Gently, he lowered Morgan to the ground, away from the corpses. Then he scanned the floor and caught sight of his backpack. He unzipped it, took his twin axes out.

  He’d failed the others and he had serious doubts about finding any survivors. But he saw a small light in the darkness. He could still save Morgan, could still earn a measure of forgiveness for her brother’s untimely death. To do that, he needed to know what had happened to her.

  He donned the pack and, axes poised for battle, checked the doors. Last he knew, the others were holed up in Research, keeping an eye out for the massive short-faced bear and trying to create enough power to close the hatch. Moving silently, he crossed the Heptagon.

  He thought back to his time in the Galley. At one point, Morgan had opened the door to get a report on the so-called antibiotics. Was that when she was poisoned? If so, why hadn’t he been poisoned at the same time?

  He positioned himself next to Research’s doorframe. Taking a deep breath, he twisted the knob and opened the door. His heart fell as he snuck a quick peek.

  More corpses.

  He slid into Research. Flashlights littered the floor, their beams striking the bodies and casting weird shadows upon the walls. As far as he could tell, the corpses showed the same moist, glassy eyes, the same purplish lips, and the same foam-filled mouths as the bodies in the Heptagon.

  He glanced at the hatch. It was propped all the way open. Axes at the ready, he made his way forward, stopping briefly to examine two more corpses, Dr. Amy Carson and the technician Gino Suarez.

  Just the way I like my holes, Caplan thought as he peered through the open hatch. Scary as hell. Indeed, the bottom of the shaft was blacker than night. He couldn’t hear or see anything and he didn’t dare shine a light down there lest he attract the bear’s attention.

  His fingers curled around the edges of the hatch. With a little bit of pushing, he closed it over until it was almost even with the floor. Unfortunately, it wouldn’t go any farther. And without power, there was no way to lock it. He looked around for a way to remedy the situation, even though he knew it was hopeless. If a brilliant technician like Suarez couldn’t close the hatch, how was Caplan supposed to do it?

  Giving up, he left the room as quietly as he’d entered it. Then he returned to the Heptagon and checked on Morgan. Her breathing was more labored; her eyes were full of tears. She tried to speak, but could only make little noises.

  Moving faster now, he swiftly checked the Barracks, Operations, and the Warehouse. He found nothing helpful, just a few dead bodies along with fallen guns and flashlights.

  Panic gripped his throat as he raced back into the Heptagon. Morgan’s eyes were full-on glassy and she was choking as if she couldn’t breathe. He tried to help her, but she waved him away.

  Feeling helpless, he scanned the remaining doors. One led outside. The other two led to the Galley and the Eye, respectively. He decided not to bother with the Galley. After all, he and Morgan had been the only ones in there. And that isolation, from all appearances, was the only reason they were still alive.

  Then again, isolation couldn’t be the sole reason for her delayed symptoms. Otherwise, he’d be just as sick as her.

  He sprinted to the Eye and cracked the door. His gaze cinched tight. Only two flashlight beams rested on the floor, their beams crisscrossing the wide room. Even so, he could see that the Eye looked more like a fancy ballroom than a wildlife surveillance center. The workstations and desks he remembered so well had been pushed to the walls. In their place, he saw circular tables, covered with white cloth and surrounded by chairs. Gourmet dishes—roast chicken with fennel panzanella, orecchiette bolognese with chestnuts, salt-baked leg of lamb strewn with sea grapes, and others—rested upon the tables, their stunning colors and freshness gone limp with time. Expensive bottles of wine, only partly consumed, were situated between the dishes.

  He opened the door a little farther and stepped into the room. Charlie Lodge, a geneticist and five-year resident at Hatcher, lay against the wall to his left. His eyes looked red, but glassy. Foam bubbled in his still mouth.

  Caplan’s heart grew heavy as he spotted a second body a couple of feet away. It belonged to Fei Nai-Yuan, an expert in Earth’s physical processes and properties and one of Caplan’s closest friends at Hatcher.

  Sighing heavily, he shifted his gaze back to the tables. Clearly, the dignitaries had been having dinner when Morgan staged her rebellion. But where were they now? The only two corpses in the room, as far as he could tell, belonged to Lodge and Nai-Yuan.

  “Hello?” A familiar voice rang out like an off-key instrument. “Is someone there?”

  A survivor! Caplan thought. Heart thumping against his chest, he glanced to his left. To his amazement, he didn’t see just one survivor. Instead, he saw nearly two-dozen people huddled near a bank of dark monitors. He scanned the faces, looking for familiar ones. And oddly
enough, many of the faces were familiar. Not familiar like he’d actually met them. But familiar like he’d seen them before, perhaps on television or in Hatcher’s collection of old newspapers and magazines.

  His gaze settled on a woman and he barely hid a grimace. It was Deborah Keifer, president of the Vallerio Foundation. He’d only spoken to her on a few occasions, including his exit interview. But she gave off nasty vibes, like a raptor toying with its prey.

  For a long moment, he stared at Deborah’s cohorts, pegging them as bankers, politicians, and CEOs. They exuded wealth and power. But they also seemed rough around the edges. Not so much dignitaries as a collection of blue collar big shots.

  “Hey Deborah,” Caplan called out. “It’s me. Zach Caplan. How are your symptoms? Because—”

  “Will someone please take care of him?”

  Keifer’s question, spoken with casual disdain, chilled Caplan to the bone. As he tried to understand what was happening, an older man stepped forward. Lifting a rifle, he took aim at Caplan’s head. His finger squeezed the trigger.

  And the Eye exploded with gunfire.

  Chapter 43

  Date: June 19, 2016, 5:24 p.m.; Location: Hatcher Station, Vallerio Forest, NH

  Money can buy a lot of things, Caplan thought as he threw open the door and raced into the Heptagon. Good thing aim isn’t one of them.

  Dropping his axes, he scooped a rifle off the floor. Twisting around, he saw the shooter’s shadowy figure, doused in flashlight beams, race into view.

  Caplan squeezed the trigger and the gun recoiled in his arms. Wine bottles shattered, sending red and white liquid all over the clean table clothes. A bank of monitors cracked and sizzled.

  Squealing like a pig, the shooter reversed course. A hail of gunfire crashed into his shoulders, propelling him at high speed back into the Eye where he vanished into the shadows. Caplan wasn’t sure whether he’d killed the man or not. But he didn’t have time to worry about it.