For all these reasons, he’d wanted his first dig to be something special.
Fortunately for him, he did not have long to wait.
Millionaire George Vermis, a genius who owned the southern stretch of England and Wales through the numerous businesses he had in his pocket, was considered by many to be an eccentric. He was also considered a benevolent presence, submitting much money for charities, and supporting the development of people’s history. When an attempt was made to remove the great Red Dragon from the Welsh flag and replace it with the golden cross of St. David, Vermis had been the one to put a stop to the act. Though Italian by birth, it was said he felt a strong kinship with the infamous Ddraig Coch, as the dragon was known, which was why he had set up his mansion in the blistering wilds of the Welsh countryside.
Two years ago, there’d been news of a new dinosaur find in Central Italy, in an old dried up lake called Lacfossile – literally, and ironically, translated as Fossil Lake. Vermis, whose family came from and still owned land in the region, managed to gain control over the area. He’d then needed an expert he could trust.
Sensing his opportunity, Francis Drake approached the millionaire, dressed in a crisp, smart suit and bearing a list of his credentials.
Impressed, even seduced by the young man’s innocence, enthusiasm and theories, Vermis put him in charge of the dig, and paid for everything: the handpicked team, the hardware, passports and transport.
Fully funded, Francis headed off for Southern Italy, not sure what he was going to come across. What he did uncover, after two months of digging and sifting through endless earth samples, he knew would change everything. His own hypothesis, those belonging to endless experts around the world, and even the ideas of the general public.
What he found would change the world.
That was why he was risking life and soul to get to him, his benefactor, on this rainy night.
Dragon’s Keep, the home of Vermis, was a large stately mansion on top of a tall hill, looking at stretches of fields and wooded areas. High walls of white stone surrounded the estate, which in turn were topped with hedges cut and trimmed to look like waves, or monstrous wings. Dramatic lighting intensified the effect in the darkness outside.
Francis had called ahead, and was expected. The grand gates stood open and ready for him. As he drove through, he noticed another car leaving, an expensive red sports car full of beautiful women. They were dressed up as if for a party. Francis was briefly hypnotised by them, unable to look away. However, as he looked, he noticed how all five of the women glared at him with deadly venom.
No matter, they drove off.
The grounds of Dragon’s Keep were breathtaking. Large, lustrous gardens filled with oceans of flowers, winding rivers of gravelled paths and towering sculptures forged and carved from bushes and hedges. The curving sweep of driveway led up to the house, in front of which was a fountain with a statue of a rearing dragon. Probably to show Vermis’ love of living in Wales.
Coming to a quick stop, Francis sprang out, making sure he had his bag, and rushed up the stone steps. Before he had a chance to knock, the mahogany doors opened, revealing a tall, elderly gentleman, with thinning white hair.
“Good evening sir.” The man spoke in a calm, collected English accent. “Mr. Vermis is waiting for you in the office. I will take you to him.”
“Thank you,” Francis said. His own voice was strained with the weariness of tension and pent-up adrenaline.
He followed the butler into the foyer, with high ceilings, tiled floor and arching staircase. There were doors all around, leading off to several different areas of the house. The butler led Francis through one such door, into the private office of George Vermis.
Like all other rooms in the house, it was elegant and spacious, with large windows. This room had a rich green carpet and dark bookcases filled to the rim with old, worn volumes of books in several languages. A big fire blazed. A large projector screen on one wall faced a mammoth desk of intricately carved mahogany, topped and studded with green leather. The carvings consisted of loops and twists. Books, inkwells, old fashioned quills and a large metal dome covered the surface. Worked into the desktop itself was a computer keyboard, sockets for USB connections and CDs, and a touchpad mouse.
The man sitting at the desk was tall and handsome, dressed in black trousers and a burgundy shirt, under which a strong, chiselled body could clearly be seen. His hair was finely cut, with a modern styling to show he was with the times. His face looked youthful and sincere.
The moment Francis stepped in, the man stood up to greet him, clasping his hand in a strong handshake. Although he felt warm, there was an instant’s dry chill of his skin the moment their hands made contact. No sweaty palms here.
“Francis, how good to see you,” he said in a deep, booming voice. “God, man, you look terrible. Have a seat.”
Francis took the offer without question. The stress and exhaustion had begun to catch up with him, and he knew his appearance showed it. When he’d last been here, he’d been young and fresh, with smart clipped hair and a smooth, unblemished, clean shaven face. Now, he was worn and haggard, his hair overgrown and dishevelled, weeks of stubble marking his rough, sun baked face.
Examining Francis’ new look, Vermis reached for the small knob on the dome and pulled up, revealing a porcupine of cigarettes. Taking one, placing it casually between his lips, he gestured towards the others. However, Francis declined the offer. It was straight to business.
“Well,” said Vermis, closing the lid, “what brings you back so quickly?”
“The find of the century, Mr. Vermis. I have all the photos here.”
From his bag, Francis pulled out a black iPad. Opening it up, he selected the picture menu. Vermis indicated he should send it wirelessly to the projector, which he switched on. Looking at the screen, Francis synced his iPad and turned back round to face Vermis, who looked on, smoking and full of interest.
“This is what we found.” Francis selected an image of a dinosaur skeleton in dusty earth.
It showed a winged beast, unlike any that had been found to date, with a crown of horns upon the pointed skull.
“A new species?” asked Vermis.
“A dragon, Mr. Vermis. Evidence that dragons existed in prehistoric times.”
“Dragons,” Vermis echoed.
“We unearthed a total of six skeletons. One was that of a tyrannosaurus. The others were decidedly not.”
As Francis spoke, he shifted through the photos, showing what he was saying.
“This one, the larger specimen, with the horns pointing up, I am assuming is a male. Four others, smaller, have curling ones, which I propose are females of the species. Their bones appear to be of a honeycombed structure, making them both strong and light. We also discovered the fossilized remains of a nest filled with eggs.”
Vermis said nothing, staring intently at the screen.
Francis continued. “One of the females appears to have been injured … you can see the broken limbs and crushed ribs. From what I can determine, the tyrannosaurus must have killed it while attempting to raid the nest. The females fought back, judging by how they were positioned around the dinosaur. Note the breakages in the tyrannosaur’s teeth … the dragons seem to have had scales thick enough to be like armour.”
He glanced to Vermis, who nodded for him to go on.
“These female dragons are about the size of elephants, but the male is almost twice that. It was this one that killed the dinosaur. See the scratch marks on the dinosaur skull? They match the male’s talons. But look at the charring on the bones. It looks like they were blasted by some intense heat. We took samples, which proved to be primarily methane, oxygen and hydrogen. In addition, there were traces of platinum. We did some experiments, and this mixture creates an intense fire.”
“Volcanic? Something in the environment?”
Francis shook his head. “There was organic matter in it as well. DNA. These gases and metals we
re biologically formed.”
“So you are telling me that dragons used to exist?” There was a curious note of apprehension to Vermis’ question, which was not the reaction Francis might have expected.
“Oh, no,” Francis replied with a grin, preparing to deliver the rest of the news. “We found more eggs. Many more. In a cave just south of this site, a cave recently revealed during an earth tremor, we came across a series of eggs that show the dragons in progressive stages of change.”
“Change?”
He didn’t understand why Vermis failed to share his own thrill, and moved rapidly through the images, talking faster, sweating as much from excitement as from the overpowering heat of the fireplace.
“As you can see,” he said, “with each stage, the dragons changed. Over several successive generations, they lost their wings, going from six limbs to four. Then, becoming bipedal. The tails disappearing. Opposable thumbs and toes developing. The face flattening.”
“How do you know this isn’t some sort of a hoax?” Vermis challenged.
“Because the cave was sealed, all eggs were the same size, about twice the size of a rugby ball. All preliminary tests show they are of the same structure, the skeletons retaining the honeycomb structure.” He zoomed in on an image of several skulls arranged in a row. “Observe these bizarre markings. They follow sequential patterns. Almost like numbers. As if in a series of successive experiments. They were breeding, changing –”
“Evolving,” Vermis said.
“At an impossibly accelerated rate.” With that, Francis showed a photo of a final egg, but the fine-boned skeletal remains inside barely resembled a dragon at all.
“It looks almost human,” said Vermis.
“Yes! But look at the skull … the backswept forehead, the elongated conical shape … just like the classic depictions of gods and aliens as seen in the art of Central American civilizations, and Egypt during the reign of Akhenaten.”
“Are you suggesting dragons lived alongside mankind?”
“More than that … they evolved to look like us!”
Vermis fell silent and snubbed out his cigarette. He moved closer to Francis, deeply focused on the images.
As he did so, Francis noticed that his host had no eyelashes, and wondered why he’d never been aware of that peculiar characteristic before. He then noticed that, despite the roaring fire, Vermis wasn’t dripping in sweat as Francis himself was. There was a sheen to his skin, but Vermis wasn’t sweating.
He remembered, for no reason at all, that although Vermis had smoked that cigarette down to the butt, there’d been no flick of a lighter or flare of a match that he could recall.
Vermis reached over without asking and took the iPad from Francis’ hands. As he moved, Francis thought he smelt something … a hint of methane?
“Who else knows about this?” George Vermis asked. “Have you shown anyone?”
“Only the team you gave me.” Still perplexed by his benefactor’s reaction, Francis tried again to drum up some enthusiasm. “What do you think, isn’t this the find of a lifetime?”
“It is.”
Then Vermis threw the iPad into the fire.
‘NO!!!’ shouted Francis.
In disbelief, without thinking, he rushed to the fire to save the evidence. But Vermis grabbed his shoulder in a grip that almost shattered the bone, and threw Francis across the room. He roared like an animal as he did so.
Stunned, Francis stared up at the man walking closer to him. He saw Vermis’ eyes alter, the whites and the blue of the irises splitting vertically, parting, opening as if they were eyelids themselves. Revealed beneath them were reptilian eyes.
He touched a remote, which switched off the lights so that only the crackling flames lit the room.
“You’re right, we have evolved,” he said. His words seemed to hiss. “We needed to, in order to survive what was coming to destroy the dinosaurs. It took us centuries to alter our DNA to become what we are. But I cannot let you reveal our existence.”
Francis knew he was going to die. He tried getting up, throwing his fist into the thing that was Vermis, aiming for the face. It felt like he hit solid metal, his fingers cracking and locking.
Smiling, Vermis sent an iron fist into Francis’ stomach with the same force as a hammer. Then, without giving him a chance, Vermis picked him up and threw him at the door. Through the door. It shattered and he skidded across the foyer floor.
Survival instincts kicking in, Francis scrambled up the main stairs, ignoring the pain raging through him. Upon reaching the landing, he was forced to stop, not knowing where to go.
He heard another roar, even more monstrous. Turning around, he saw a laughing Vermis stride into the foyer. Vermis held out his arms and blew out a deep breath. Strangely, as he did this, his body seemed to inflate and expand … then the scientist in Francis understood. The expelling of heavier oxygen and carbon dioxide allowed the natural internal methane and hydrogen to …
A push of his feet sent Vermis shooting straight up the stairs as if flying. He landed in front of Francis, still laughing, only to seize him and throw him into the wall.
Francis hit with so much force that his entire spine shattered. He barely felt it when Vermis picked him up again.
“What are you?” he wanted to ask, even if it had been in only a whimper, even if he didn’t already know.
His benefactor answered him anyway. “We are the past, and we are the future.”
As Vermis inhaled again, the sides of his throat swelled. His mouth opened wide. In his dripping saliva, Francis thought he glimpsed the faint sheen of metal. Fumes of hydrogen, oxygen, methane and platinum washed over him.
In his last second of life, Francis found it ironic that his death would come in the same way as his greatest find.
Then the raging fire rushed out, engulfing him.
* * *
George Vermis returned to his office, licking his lips and fingers, leaving only bones and scorched bloodstains upstairs. As he went, he reached up to his face and peeled off the faux eyebrows held on by a sticky side. Next he tugged off the wig, revealing a flawless head of smooth, hairless skin, and the very apparent conelike shape of his skull.
Throwing away the props, he went to his phone and dialled a number. It only took a moment for the call to be picked up, but it was Vermis who started speaking.
“Master, it was as you feared,” he said. “The site in Italy was one of our ancestors’ lairs, where they worked in creating the new generations ... Yes, Master, I have dealt with him and destroyed his evidence. Just before he arrived, I informed my hunters and sent them to keep an eye on the rest of the team. I shall now contact them with the order to kill ... Yes, Master, thank you … No sir, they didn’t find the second cave and the evidence that we evolved first.”
He hung up the phone, then grasped his lips and pulled. His skin wrenched from him, pulling and stretching. Not one rip appeared; the skin was unbreakable after years of improvement. However, they still were not able to have a kill and feast without needing to shed it afterwards. Although strong, it started to sag and detach.
Widening the gap that had once been his mouth, he worked his face and head through. The new skin beneath was covered in a slick, viscous, almost amniotic, fluid. Next came his shoulders, then his arms, one at a time. His torso and hips followed, then his legs. Finally, he was able to step outside his old skin.
It was already drying out and turning to ash. Vermis kicked it away and went to his desk. He was wiping away his wet birthing fluid with tissues when he became aware of the butler standing in the shattered doorway.
“I shall inform the builders and cleaners tomorrow morning, sir,” said the butler, in a droll voice. “I assume you will not be needing supper tonight, after all?”
“No, thank you, Manfred.”
“Shall I return it to the pantry?”
“Take her to the guest bedroom,” Vermis said. “Let her be treated like a princess for the night.
Then, when I wake up in the morning, I will have a nice dose of breakfast in bed.”
“Very good, sir.”
As the butler departed, Vermis began readying himself to play the part of the prince … before ending the fairy tale, and dealing with the princess, as he saw fit.
NAT POOPCONE VS. THE BEAST OF FOSSIL LAKE
Jerrod Balzer
It was another busy Friday night at the Romeo Diner. Carry was finishing her fried mushrooms and diet soda at the counter when a short, greasy man with long hair and a goatee approached her.
“Hi, I’m Nat Poopcone,” he said. “Can we date?”
She stifled a laugh, then nearly vomited when his stench reached her nose. What is that? Broccoli?
“I’m serious!” His spittle struck the exposed skin around her skimpy, black outfit, which caused her to flinch and inch her food farther away from him, but he continued to talk. “I’m a publisher looking for models. You might be perfect for my next issue of Ethel’s Real Gazette.”
This caught her interest. That explains it, she thought. He’s the eccentric, creative type!
“Well, you know,” she said, and offered her usual lie: “I happen to be a very popular model, but I do have some free time coming up. What qualifications do you require?”
The little man looked up at her with bright eyes as a grin crept across his face. “Only two things. First, I need enough money to buy a beer.”
She nodded. “Okay.”
“Now!”
“Oh!” Carry fished in her purse and handed him a five dollar bill.
He accepted it, ordered his beverage, and then took a few swigs before continuing. “Okay, next I only need to know your age.”
“That’s easy! I’m eighteen.”
Nat spit a cloud of beer at her. “Fuck off, then, cunt! You’re too old.”
Astounded, she reacted with what would have normally been a kick to the groin, but it struck his chest thanks to his abnormal height. There was no problem punching him in the nose, however, and he was quite the bleeder.
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