by Rick Jones
Albright had nothing to worry about, not really. But he was not without suspicion, either.
Peyton needled him as someone to look out for because the man was not afraid to rise up to the challenge. Peyton knew that he was a threat to the community, a danger, and probably one who needed to be eliminated because of what he was, a killer who bore no conscience or moved by any direction of a moral compass, but by the direction of an inborn lust to kill.
He smiled inwardly. The producers had chosen well. He was the true dark stain within this little group of humanity. He was the inhumanity.
Albright sat there unmoving throughout the evening. If he was cold he didn’t show it. The man was a shell with no feelings at all, inside or out.
And this didn’t go without notice, either.
#
“Look at him,” said Sommers, “sitting there like he’s covered with a quilt.”
But it was Yakamoto who broached the subject of noticing that Albright only had one gun, not two. “I think he lost the weapon when the raft was lifted from underneath by that thing, whatever it was.”
Ben agreed. “Unless it’s in his backpack. By why keep it there? He’d been keeping them together for quick access.”
“So half the advantage has been taken away from him,” Yakamoto said.
“But he still has the advantage,” Ben countered. “One I’m not comfortable with.”
Everyone looked beyond the recess’s opening, at the downpour of rain. It would turn out to be the promise of a miserable day, cold and raw.
And spirits remained dim.
Moral was impossible to lift and nobody dared try. Not even Cheryl, who had been the spark of light in such darkness, that light having dimmed to a mote with little hope to rekindle the flame.
When the gray sky of morning finally came, they grouped together for the trek across the valley floor, knowing that they would do so blindly. They would have no sun as an indicator to guide them.
Rain was coming down in sheets as Ben took point and Albright the rear. Heads were cast downward, their strides short, and they appeared to wander with no true sense of direction.
Herbivores, such as triceratops and stegosaurus, grazed on the wet grasslands as the cast members passed them from a safe distance, the creatures either unaware of their presence or not caring.
Then everything changed.
All the herbivores raised their heads in unison and stopped chewing their cuds, all staring in the same direction, to the east where thick copses of trees stood. The creatures standing as still as sculptures as their internal radars were tuning in on a potential threat.
In the east, tree tops started to wave to and fro as something colossal was forcing its way through the overgrowth, with trees falling and trunks snapping like cannon fire.
A lead cow of the triceratops’ clan raised its head skyward and trumpeted a cry, causing the herd to turn west and take flight. The stegosauruses quickly corralled their young until they were positioned in the center of the herd, and like the triceratops, headed west at a rapid pace.
Trees and boughs bent beyond restraint and snapped.
And then two creatures entered the clearing. The Spinosauruses took immediate inventory of their surroundings. When they saw the herds in flight, the larger of the two raised its head and bellowed a roar that carried across the air as vibrations.
Then it took off after the trailing stegosauruses while eyeing the small cubs in the herd and looking for the easiest takedown.
The other drew a bead on the cast members, an easier target.
It stood there analyzing them from a distance of a half mile. Its stomach rising and falling in even rhythms as it breathed. And then it took a tentative step forward. And then another. And yet another until the steps finally picked up into a jog, and the jog into a full-out sprint.
The beast roared, and the earth trembled beneath its footfalls as it quickly closed the gap between them.
Ben led the team toward the tree line running as fast as he could with his arms pumping and his legs striving, and with every yard gained there would be a chance at salvation by reaching the cover of the jungle.
The Spinosaurus was fast, the creature moving close to fifty-miles-per hour with its long strides.
The jungle line.
It was getting close.
Two hundred yards away. And closing.
The Spinosaurus redirected its route to cut them off by changing its directional path as quickly as a bird in flight, moving toward the jungle.
One hundred yards away.
Sommers was beginning to lose ground to the others. Darius Albright passed him easily, thinking that he only needed to outrun his companion, not the bear.
Fifty yards.
The Spinosaurus lowered its head and bellowed, the vibrations of its cry rippling across the space between it and its prey carried with such speed, Sommers could feel them against his skin in a series of pulsations. It was that close.
Twenty-five yards.
The jungle was so close, Ben could see the veins along the leaves.
Sommers cried out with his arms reaching forward, the jungle so close, so near. Then he could feel the hot breath of the creature behind him, could smell its fetid breath, could see in his mind’s eye the creature’s jaws widening, its teeth glistening, the strands of saliva connecting its upper jawline with its lower, and the maw that led to its gullet.
Bryon Sommers knew that he was not going to make it. His legs were giving, his strides going choppy. And his spirit all but completely dissolved.
Ten yards away.
He saw that Ben made it to the foliage with Cheryl and Yakamoto right behind him, and then Albright right behind him. And Sommers smiled: Good for you, he thought. Good for all of you.
Then he was lifted in the air as white-hot pain embraced his mid-section as teeth stabbed deep. Sommers vision had gone gray, and then black, with a sense of indescribable calm quickly sweeping through him as merciful shock took over.
And like so many others in the group, the valley had claimed another.
They were now down to four.
#
They kept running through the brush driven by adrenaline and with no concept of where they were going.
More than a half mile in Ben held up, the man bent over with his mouth drawing hard for oxygen. The others did the same, each leaning forward with their hands on their knees sucking desperately for wind.
Ben reached up and grabbed the stalk of a palm, and used it as a crutch. “Sommers?”
Everyone turned to the brush behind them, saw the small swath they cut in their path. But Sommers was nowhere to seen.
Yakamoto turned to him, shrugged, the man still drawing air deeply into his lungs.
When Ben started down the path, Yakamoto reached out and grabbed his arm. “Where’re you going?”
“To find Sommers.”
Yakamoto understood and released him, allowing Ben passage.
When Ben reached the fringe of the jungle line, he noted that the Spinosaurus was gone. Worse, the only sign of Sommers was the machete he left behind, a weapon now without its owner lying on the ground.
He picked it up, hefted it, and looked over the valley. In the distance, he saw the dinosaurs bending over and gorging over another successful kill, a young stegosaurus calf.
Slipping the machete into the strap of his backpack, he headed back toward the group to tell them that Sommers was gone. But when he saw their faces he knew there was no need to tell them anything. They already knew. Their team was one person less. Which was confirmed when they saw the second machete sticking out of Ben’s backpack.
Without saying a word, Ben took point with Albright taking rear. And the team moved on with Ben cutting a path through the thicket, even though no one had a clue as to where they were going.
They just needed to get away.
#
“That! Was! Spectacular!” shouted Haynes, clapping as he walked through the produc
tion room.
The action was tense, the drama of the chase stupendously exciting as the salvation of the jungle was just a hairsbreadth away, only for that deliverance of safety snatched away at the last moment by the closing jaws of a Spinosaurus. The scene couldn’t have played out any better if it had been scripted, thought Haynes.
Now they were down to four and moving in seemingly random patterns, the group lost, ensuring eventual death.
So far Day Three was looking as a great success.
And ratings were growing.
Information coming in from live polls suggested that the audience commiserated with cast members. Ben Peyton brought leadership, Cheryl Dalton undying hope, Suki Yakamoto conformity, and Darrius Albright a bad-boy roguishness.
Their past crimes mattered little. It was all about survival in impossible conditions. It was now becoming a Cinderella story, about the underdogs lifting themselves to incredible heights to overcome unbelievable odds.
People no longer despised them, but loved them, cheering them on from living rooms and dens all over the globe.
And in season seven, The Valley was delivering.
Peter Haynes couldn’t have been more pleased. With every death, with every climatic scene ending with a finish-line sequence, he was that much closer to being a studio head.
“Do we have a location on our players?” he asked to anyone who could answer.
“They’re inside the thicket, moving east to the central grid,” said a co-producer.
“Do we know exactly where?”
The co-producer nodded. “The brush is too thick,” he answered. “Cameras aren’t picking them up. And because of the heavy rain and thick cover, we’re unable to pick up heat signatures as well.”
“But they were moving east toward the central grid?”
“Yes, sir. And unless they veer north to the Gates of Freedom, if they stay on course, then they’ll end up here at the compound . . . They’re walking right into our den.”
Like anyone else in Haynes’ position, he saw opportunity in this. “Get me Stan on the line,” he said. “Pronto.”
After the co-producer made the direct-line call, he handed the headset to Haynes. Then into the lip mic, Haynes said, “Stan.”
“Yeah, Pete.”
“Our little friends may be coming our way. If they do, I was thinking that it might be time to introduce our new additions to the show.”
“Pete, this isn’t a good time with the virus. Exposing them could be detrimental, if not fatal if we’re not careful. We’ve worked so hard to get them to this level.”
“I’m not saying that we should release the pair, just one.”
“They’re a breeding pair.”
“One day. That’s all I’m asking. One and done. One will ensure a quick kill to the entire team, which would end the season in short order. Then we’ll sequester everything in the valley and get a handle on this virus with minimal shut-down time. We can get by with The Wheel of Torture until the strain is identified and eradicated. It’s a win-win situation.”
Stan Tremblay seemed to be mulling this over on the other end. “It’s still a gamble,” he finally said. “It takes years for one to mature.”
“We’ve gotten by on the Spinos and Rexes. If we lose one of the new assets, then we’ll start over with a new pair for future viewings. At least we can give the fan base a taste of what’s to come. A teaser.”
Stan sighed. “I’ll release the male.”
“Very good. I assume he’s the larger of the two?”
“And very aggressive.”
“Even better. I’ll let you know when.” Then he removed the headgear and handed it back to the co-producer.
Returning to the bank of monitors on the wall, Haynes stood there wondering where and when the survivors would eventually exit from the jungle foliage. “As soon as anyone spots our team,” he said to everyone in general, “I’m to be alerted immediately.”
Because I want this ending, he thought, to be like no other ending ever.
With the patience of a saint, Peter Haynes waited.
Chapter Twenty-Six
Stan Tremblay was absolutely livid as he snatched the headgear off and cast it aside. What the Hell was Haynes thinking, taking such a gamble?
But it was more than that. Stan had nurtured these creatures since they had been single cells joined together to create life. From the moment they nosed their way through the shell of their eggs until they were large enough to be introduced to the wild, he had been their nurturer who attended to their daily needs. So it was hard not to draw emotional attachments.
They were more than just lizards. He saw that they communed with one another, created family circles of their own, reared their young with love and care, and revealed themselves to have something beyond the control of pure and basic instinct. They had souls, as all creatures do.
When he was hands-on, he always grew close to his subjects and watched them change as they grew, the creatures turning aggressive by nature, then stowing them in locked environments until it was time to release them into the wilds of the valley, where nature would eventually take over and the creatures learned to nest on their own.
But the two that Haynes was talking about had no souls, this Tremblay was sure of.
Their eyes were cold and fathomless the day they were produced in test tubes, dark and as black as pitch. They were roguish by nature, hostile. Carelessness would often invite tragedy, as was the case of a co-worker who ended up losing an arm all the way to his shoulder, a clean separation from a single bite when the creature was just a juvenile. That was three years ago.
Now the juvenile had grown into an adult.
Stan exited from the chamber and walked along a concrete hallway that curved beneath the compound. It was lengthy, at least two hundred yards that led to the bio-birthing facility. The room was large with glass wall separations dividing one room from the next, so that it could give an open view of what was going on in the lab. Techs milled about the hatcheries with clipboards logging data, such as the conditions of newly-hatched breeds and their temperaments, as well as feeding habits and how often they needed sustenance to sustain their rapid rate of growth.
In other rooms were juveniles on the brink of being released to the wild to fend for themselves. There was a new breed of Raptor, a conqueror far superior to the ones already in the valley, and more vicious. There were other breeds as well, both herbivores and carnivores. The herbivores would feed off the land, the carnivores would feed off the herbivores, the stools would replenish the land, and the land would in turn feed the herbivores, which in turn would maintain the cycle of the food chain. Maintaining the balance of nature was key to the program’s future survival and longevity.
At the far end of the room was a metal door that led to a more remote chamber, one with high ceilings and thick walls, a fortified stronghold.
Tremblay went through the door using the card keypad, and took the downward ramp. At the end of the walkway, he came into a massively huge chamber specifically built to contain the power of the residents who lived within specially-designed cages. It was Stan’s personal playpen, and no one was allowed inside except him.
He went to a control panel, flipped a few toggles, pressed a few buttons, and two metal panels as large as hanger doors began to part, giving him a view of what lay on the other side of the partition.
The creatures became agitated, as they always did, when the doors parted with a rumble. They moved animatedly in their pens that separated them by a lattice grid of titanium bars, with each bar having a ten-inch diameter.
They were young and of breeding age, and full of territorial rage.
Stan walked slowly to the cages, and with every step he looked as if he was watching the slow trajectory of a rocket as his eyes measured the full height of these creatures. They were tall and massively thick, and the soon-to-be newly crowned kings of the valley, no doubt. They were bigger than the Spinosaurus and much larger than the
Rexes.
They looked at him as something insect-like, puny and insignificant. From the back of the female’s throat something stemmed like a low and deep growl. And when it moved to the bars of the cage for a view of its caretaker, as its nostrils flared and pulled like intake valves to establish a picture within its mind to determine who and what exactly Stan was by drawing in his scent, it then reared its head back and bellowed long and loud and deep, the concussion of its roar causing the heavily-mounted windows to rattle and shake.
Stan was sure they would crack.
When the female determined that he was not a threat, she returned to pacing in her cage, moving back and forth like a nervous feline.
Stan shook his head. Though the creature did exist naturally in its time, it must have been a horrible brute with a lot of land to roam. But would the valley be big enough to share with the Spinos and Rexes, he had to wonder. If not, then the balance of nature could be disrupted, and in the valley the balance of nature was everything, if not sacred.
Some things, he considered, once had its time but no longer had its place. And these two were clearly prime examples of that sentimentality.
But Peter Haynes was clear in his ambitions. He wanted bigger and badder. He wanted stronger and faster. But there was nothing after this. These two were the king of kings.
And they always had been.
Stan had been informed that the group was closing in on their position, which would be a perfect introduction of something new and wonderful. A spectacle that would cause eyes to pop from heads in shock and surprise, something that drove Haynes to surprise his audience time and time again, making him a king who also had his time in the scheme of life, which was to give the masses enough visuals to sustain an insatiable taste for violence.
“The Man Who Would Be King,” Stan murmured.
Within twenty-four hours, he knew the group would be close to the compound, and these creatures would be released. They would pick up their scents quickly, home in, and then conquer their prey as easily as putting mice inside of a closed chamber with a hungry cat.
