Praise for KRONOS RISING: KRAKEN (vol. 1)
"It's Jurassic World on steroids . . . a fun, fast read even if you have to take the kids to the ball game and mow the lawn.”
– Kevin J. Coolidge, From My Shelf Books
“Hawthorne's writing evokes a sense of awe and terror, tapping into a deeply-rooted and primal fear of the unknown. The Kraken possesses an otherworldly aura which is hard to describe, but it really makes your skin crawl.”
– Sean Markey, Geek Ireland
“KRAKEN jumps ahead 30 years into the future, depicting a worldwide ecological shift in earth's oceans as a consequence of the events in the first novel. Using new technological tools and weapons developed in the ensuing years, the governments of the world have banded together to fight the all-too-real menace posed by the rise of giant pliosaurs as the world's deadliest ocean predators. Fleets of anti-biologic submarines actively hunt the monsters, trying to destroy them, and not always successfully. Max Hawthorne certainly knows how to tell and pace a fine adventure tale, in the tradition of Robert E. Howard.”
– Richard Reagan, Cryptomundo
Praise for KRONOS RISING
“A word to the wise: if you bite your nails, you'd better wear oven mitts when reading Kronos Rising. It will drag you down to the depths of fear and take you back for a breath of air as fast as you can turn the pages. Readers beware: a new master of marine terror is in your bookstore, and his name is Max Hawthorne!”
–Stan Pottinger, NY Times Bestselling author of THE BOSS
“Max Hawthorne explores the sinister side of the dark abyssal world with a new kind of beast, one that makes white sharks and giant squid as threatening as guppies and tadpoles.”
–Doug Olander, Editor-in-Chief, Sport Fishing Magazine
“Until today, the deepest, darkest depths of the ocean remained an impossible mystery. But no more – a violent earthquake has finally unleashed a wonderfully horrific secret waiting to eat you alive. From the opening scene of black market shark hunters invading forbidden waters, Kronos Rising sweeps you onto a surprising, wildly inventive, thrill ride. A fabulous debut by Max Hawthorne. Simply put, it's got teeth. Big ones!”
–Christ Parker, screenwriter (Vampire in Brooklyn, Mulan II, Heaven is for Real)
“What a ride! An adrenaline pumping, non-stop descent into terror, Kronos Rising will do for this generation what “JAWS” did for the last one. Forget going into the water; I’m not going near it!”
–Mara Corday, sci-fi classic star of Tarantula, The Black Scorpion, and The Giant Claw
Praise for MEMOIRS OF A GYM RAT
“Max Hawthorne’s raunchy, revealing memoir is certain to induce bouts of calorie-burning laughter, embarrassed grins, and reconsiderations of one’s gym membership. A smutty and enjoyable exposé of life behind health club doors, Memoirs of a Gym Rat is both a scandalizing and edifying read.”
–Foreword Clarion Reviews
Also by Max Hawthorne
KRONOS RISING
KRONOS RISING: KRAKEN (VOL. 1)
MEMOIRS OF A GYM RAT
KRONOS RISING
DIABLO
A Novelette
Max Hawthorne
Kronos Rising: Diablo is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events or locales, is entirely coincidental.
Copyright © 2005 by Max Hawthorne, Registration Number: TXu001299236
Updated Version: Copyright © 2016 by Max Hawthorne
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles or reviews. For information contact: Far From the Tree Press LLC.
Published in the United States by: Far From the Tree Press, LLC.
Visit Far From the Tree Press, LLC online at: www.farfromthetreepress.com
Manufactured in the United States of America
First Edition
Sale of this book without a front cover may be unauthorized. If this book is coverless, it may have been reported to the publisher as “lost and destroyed” and neither the author nor the publisher may have received payment for it.
For my brother Stephen, who shared in my own, personal hell as I struggled to write the very first draft of KRONOS RISING, all those many years ago.
This one’s for you, big guy.
ACKNOWLEDGMENTS
Although, size-wise, this novella is not my usual fare, there were still quite a few people who contributed to its completion. Therefore, it is with great humbleness and pride that I acknowledge the following individuals for their help and/or contributions.
As always, I wish to express my undying gratitude to my oft-harried publishers at Far From the Tree Press. Thank you for believing that an all-but-forgotten 14,000 word prologue could contain a story worth telling.
I’d also like to say thanks to my ever-growing list of publicity and marketing contacts. Without your creativity and tireless toiling, many would never know the Kronos Rising series exists.
A special “Rock on!” to my friend and mentor, screenwriter par excellence Chris Parker. You were right when you said the whole caldera scene would have detracted from the first book. No spoilers! But who would have thought that, over a decade later, it would end up as its own stand-alone adventure?
I’d also like to mention the individual who was kind enough to read and review Kronos Rising; Diablo, prior to it getting the green light. That would be my Grammar Nazi-slaying friend, Willis Beyer. Willis, thank you for contributing some much-needed feedback and for giving my novella that last round of tweaks and polishing it most definitely needed.
A heartfelt fist bump to my many devoted fans and followers, including the indomitable “LEGIONS OF KRONOS”. Thank you for your readership and your ongoing support. I’m honored that you allow my monsters to have a home on your bookshelves. As always, you have my solemn promise to do my best to keep you entertained.
Last, but certainly not least, to my darling daughter Ava, AKA my raison d’être, Daddy loves you very much. I can say with full confidence that, if I didn’t have you, I would not be the man I am today.
-Max Hawthorne
Chapter 1
Reminiscent of a Rodin sculpture come to life, Artek sat motionless on the hot sand, his back pressed against the rough-but-reassuring bark of a tall palm tree. High overhead, the sun shone down with unusual fierceness, and he was grateful for the limited shade. Stretching out his rawboned frame, the young shaman shielded his eyes in an effort to gain a better perspective on the life-or-death drama unfolding before him.
In appearance, Artek was striking. Tall and broad-shouldered, with an athletic build, his blondish hair and blue-gray eyes contrasted sharply with his mahogany-colored skin. His angular features were decidedly Caucasian, yet seemed somehow out of place. Had an ambitious geneticist been given the opportunity, he or she could have achieved overnight fame by “discovering” him. Him and the rest of his kind, that is.
The tribal priest and his people were unique in that they were a relict population of mankind, undiscovered by modern explorers or anthropologists. Isolated on the dormant volcanic island they called home, and shielded from a series of Ice Ages and glacial periods that had come and gone, they were true, unadulterated examples of the original Cro-Magnon race. Sheltered from the outside world by the caldera’s treacherous reef system and concealed by its shrouding mists, their primitive society had lived on, unchanging and uninterrupted, for the past 20,000 years.
Theirs was a harsh and often savage existence, something the young shaman understood al
l too well of late. However, as his late predecessor had taught him – oftentimes at the tail end of a brutal lashing – although life’s lessons were frequently hard, they were designed to ensure the survival of those best suited. Or, in some cases, the survival of those the gods favored. Those who were not well suited or had fallen out of favor with the divine ones usually paid the price.
As the land crabs were doing now.
Artek had been watching the grisly spectacle for almost an hour. It was a welcome distraction from the more morose ponderings of his pending duties. Looking about, he scanned the beach and surrounding cliffs. Many of the wave-spattered reef formations were covered with hordes of supposedly-extinct Caribbean monk seals. The six-hundred-pound bulls, with their distinctive eyes and broad muzzles, were in mid-rut, and bellowed constantly at one another as they bluffed and brawled for the most cows and the best possible nesting spots.
Due to the steep, volcanic slopes that formed the exterior of the island, there were almost no beaches to be found along its forty-mile perimeter. In fact, the paltry two-hundred-yard stretch of sand and trees where Artek reposed was practically the only level portion of the entire place. It was also the only spot that provided unimpeded access to the sea and, as a result, the orange-colored land crabs had no choice but to utilize it.
With a leg span of twelve inches or more, the thick-shelled crustaceans were well-adapted to terrestrial life. Omnivorous by nature, they kept to the shelter of the island’s crescent-shaped rainforest region by day, emerging from their protective burrows at night to scavenge for food. Their reclusiveness, combined with powerful pincers and an aggressive nature when cornered, kept the crabs’ list of natural predators low. But like others of their ilk, when mating season was upon them, the big arthropods had no choice but to migrate en masse down to the pounding surf and immerse their roe and sperm-laden bodies in the churning water.
Caught out in the open, and this time in broad daylight, they ran a deadly gauntlet of adversaries which took full advantage of the crabs’ procreative urges. Seals, seabirds, and the caldera’s resident population of large monitor lizards wasted no time in seizing upon the opportunity to pounce upon exposed and otherwise-occupied land crabs. As the ravenous Frigate birds were now doing.
Circling like a malevolent cloud overhead, the gorging black petrels’ high-pitched screeching could be heard for a quarter-mile or more. Swooping down, they made strafing runs on the hapless crustaceans, scooping them up with their long, curved beaks and then smashing them against the nearby reefs, so hard their protective shells were reduced to near-powder. The crabs were being slaughtered by the thousands. Out of the legions that emerged in orderly columns from the nearby crevice, less than one in three would be fortunate enough to make it to the shelter of the sea.
Not that the surrounding waters were any safer, Artek thought grimly.
Besides the region’s treacherous currents and strong undertows, the waters surrounding Diablo Caldera were patrolled by ravenous bull, mako, and tiger sharks, as well as an extremely large and aggressive strain of barracuda. Swimming around the outskirts of the island was strictly forbidden and attempted only by the bravest or most foolhardy, or by those with a bona fide death wish.
Not that it mattered to Artek or his tribe. Sharks or no, they would never consider leaving the island. Besides the fact that the gods expressly forbade it, it was simply too dangerous, even in one of their dugout canoes. The tempest-tossed seas surrounding the caldera were a veritable maze of jagged reef formations. Some were visible, most were not. No ship or boat could come within two miles of their shores without having its hull gutted. The seafloor surrounding their seeming paradise was littered with the remains of hundreds of vessels, many of which the shaman and his people had watched sink.
Actually, for some years now, the white craft had stopped appearing. Popular opinion was that it was fear of their gods that caused them to avoid the island. No one knew for sure where the alien vessels came from or what manner of people piloted them. But then, as far as anyone could remember, no human being beside members of the tribe had ever pressed foot into their sacred soil.
That was, except for the two strangers who emerged from the sea a few years back . . .
Suddenly, the baritone bellow of the ceremonial horn echoed off the rocky escarpments, interrupting the young priest’s ponderings and drawing him back to the here and now. Clambering to his feet, Artek brushed away the cream-colored sand that clung to his loincloth and legs and turned back toward the nearby crevice.
Martika was standing there waiting for him.
The young priestess was an imposing sight, statuesque, her feet spread apart and her shimmering mane of platinum hair wafting in the morning breeze. She was his promised mate and had been since they were children. Tall and curvaceous, with nearly perfect features, she was one of the most sought after women in the village. What made Martika far more desirable to Artek, however, was the way she followed him around with those enormous, sapphire-blue eyes of hers – eyes that stared with a combination of devotion, desire, and undisguised awe. Even the blindest of elders could tell right away that the young priestess was hopelessly enamored with the athletic shaman.
The fact of which made it all the more disturbing that, lately, she couldn’t even look him in the eye. With her cerulean orbs fixed on the sand at her feet, Martika wordlessly handed Artek his feathered ceremonial robe. He gazed at her for a moment, waiting for her to look up or at least acknowledge him in some way. Annoyed when she did not, he turned and walked briskly into the crevice, his promised bride following wordlessly behind him.
The crevice was enormous: a four-hundred-foot-deep crack in the exposed wall of the caldera that split its craggy surface from top to bottom like a blow from some titanic axe. It was narrow at the bottom, perhaps only ten feet across, but then quickly opened up as it went, until, at the summit, it formed a crumbling gap over one hundred feet wide.
Had the people of the village known that the massive cleft in Diablo Caldera’s wall was actually the product of an active fault line running beneath their tiny island home, or that the same fault line was also responsible for the violent tremors that shook the place more and more frequently, they might have been alarmed. At least they would have, had they the capacity to understand the implications of such a thing. Blissfully ignorant, however, the islanders simply viewed the jagged opening in their mountain as what it seemed to be: a valued portal that gave them access to the bountiful sea outside.
Artek stepped through this portal, minutes later, emerging from the sheltering shade and coolness of the crevice into the blinding blast furnace that waited on the other side.
Before him lay the village. And the lake.
Artek’s tropical home, normally peaceful and quiet, was a veritable bee hive of activity as every member of the tribe prepared for the upcoming funerary ritual. Situated within the sandy northern portion of the inside of the caldera, and adjacent to its lush rainforest, the village was nestled within a grove of towering palm trees. It consisted of nearly a hundred huts that housed almost as many families. In general, the huts were mainly made of rough-hewn wood and thatching, although several of the larger ones had support beams and frames made from the lashed-together bones of some colossal, long-dead creature.
The villagers, themselves, were all similar in appearance to the young shaman, albeit of assorted ages. Irrespective of gender, they hustled about, performing various tasks and chores. Some gathered food. Others carried large water containers on their backs or across their shoulders, moving to and from the nearby mountain streams. Some chopped wood, while still others made clothes or cared for infants. All appeared eager to perform their appointed tasks with the utmost of efficiency and, despite the oppressive heat, there was an air of unspoken anticipation throughout the place.
As he neared the village, Artek paused to study the lake. At the moment, their god’s home was far from placid, with whitecaps lashing the surface of the eight-mi
le-wide body of landlocked seawater.
The shaman craned his neck as he gazed upward. The jagged, stone walls of the caldera towered high above him, soaring nearly five hundred feet into the air. Eons ago, those same walls had been four times that height. But sixty five million years of erosion had proven to be a powerful force.
Martika still in tow, Artek stopped by the edge of the water. There, on the end of a crudely constructed stone jetty, two teenage boys were fishing. Or rather, they were struggling to haul in their catch. Only a few years younger than him, one of the boys had used a traditional lure made of white fibers and attached to a string to tease a large fish within striking distance of the other’s thrown harpoon. It was a tried and true technique, one the shaman himself had used as an adolescent in years past.
After a minute-long struggle, the outcome of which was constantly in doubt, the excited youngsters pulling on the harpoon’s braided rope finally managed to haul their violently struggling quarry out of the water and onto the pale sand. Flopping about, the six-foot, fanged fish weighed as much as either of the pubescent anglers. The harpooner, seizing onto the exposed portion of his weapon’s long handle for leverage, struggled to keep the fish pinned to the ground while his comrade dispatched it with several sharp blows to the head from a knotted wooden club.
Artek smiled as he watched the scenario unfold. It was a well done feat. He turned to go, but then paused to scan the wind-whipped waters of the lake once more.
The boys had luck on their side. Their fish was a formidable adversary. But considering what else dwelt within the lake’s dark, foreboding depths, such exploits were not without their share of risks. Experience had taught the members of the tribe early on that it was all too easy for an ambitious angler standing too close to the water’s edge to suddenly find himself as bait.
Fortunately for the boys, their god was nowhere in sight.
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