by Hugo Navikov
“Yeah, but you know where they are now,” I said, giving her a little kiss. “You can come back and do a real documentary, not this Cryptids Alive! malarkey.”
“Malarkey?” she repeated with a smirk. “What are you, Sam Spade?”
“Hogwash? Foofaraw? Mishegoss?”
“You can stick to ‘bullshit,’ you bad man.” Her smile was real and beautiful. It fell, though, as she saw me look over at the satellite phone through the flap to the bedroom I had used it in when I talked to … whoever I talked to. “Are you going to call them?”
“I’m gonna give it a shot,” I said weakly. “The Vermeulen building is rubble—if my new identity paperwork was in there, it’s gone now. I have no idea what will happen when I dial that number, which way it will go. I’ll know within five seconds whether my life is over.”
“Then the call can wait. Come here,” Ellie said, and pulled me to her. We shuffled to the sleeping bag inside her room in the tent. “If your life might be over, then why not spend the rest of it with me?”
Read on for a free sample of Written In Stone: A Dinosaur Thriller
Chapter 1
The End
He stopped. To move another inch, to even blink an eye, could mean a sudden, horrible death. He breathed slowly, in and out through his open mouth. The nasal passages were small and the air would make noise if he breathed through the nose. He controlled the exhale so he did not breathe out all the air and then have to gasp. But this air was different; it was hard to breathe, seemed heavier. Though it was humid, it made his throat feel dry and his breathing raspy. Still, he had to be quiet.
He listened carefully, straining for even the smallest noise, but all he could hear above the constant noise of the insects was his own heart beating, pounding loud enough he thought that they might hear. He could feel the needles of fear starting to rise up his spine and he fought to keep it down, down where it would not affect his reasoning. Emotions got in the way of logic and right now he had to stay focused. He forced himself to stay in control so he would not betray himself with a sudden, panicked movement. Panic meant death. He took another slow breath. He had to remain in control.
As he slowly pushed the fear out of his mind, he could again hear the swiftly running stream flowing over rocks and fallen trees just a few short yards away. The noise of the stream helped to cover any noise he made, but it masked their movements too. It was shallow and fast, no more than twenty or twenty-five feet across. He had found it right where they said it would be on his first fearful day out of the cave. That was less than two weeks ago, but it seemed much longer. It was six lives ago anyway. Six short lives. He knew the stream would not grow to be much larger and that the swampy, vegetation-choked ground where he was standing would be of great interest to others, including himself. That was why he kept coming back, because he already knew.
He was hidden under a small fern tree, no more than four feet tall with thick, droopy, wide leaves that hung all the way to the ground. These trees were good for concealment, though every once in a while as he parted the leafy curtain to hide, he startled another animal that was already there. So far they had always run away but he hated being that close to them even for a second. These thick leaves would hide him from view for a while, but the hunters were thorough, always moving, always watching. Even if you didn’t move, sooner or later they would find you. He had watched them hunt; he had even been their prey. He had heard the screams of their victims and knew he was the lucky one, the only one who got away. He also knew it was only a matter of time before he was taken. He only hoped that when he felt the terrible clutch of their powerful claws, and the rending of their teeth, it would be quick.
Waiting only increased the chance that he would be discovered but he knew he could not move, not yet. He knelt down slowly, his knees sinking noiselessly into the wet, muddy ground and continued to wait. Though over six feet tall, he could get very small when he had too, even with the backpack on. His once new khaki clothing was now dirty and torn and actually appeared to be disintegrating right off his body. It had been their “safari” uniform. They had complemented each other on how they looked but hadn’t really thought about if it was practical or not. He wished now for a long sleeve shirt and long pants. Then maybe he wouldn’t have the rash on the back of his left leg and on both arms. It was getting worse and he knew it would probably slowly kill him. But slow or fast, he was dead anyway.
All exposed metal on the backpack was covered with tape. They no longer made any noise as loose strap ends bounced into each other. It was simple, if you made noise, something would hear you or you would miss an important sound. A reflection of light from a metal clasp would show your location as surely as if you just stood up and shouted, “Here I am.”
You also had to stop, look, and listen every few moments or you would miss something. And you did not want to miss anything. It reminded him of the prairie dogs from his grandfather’s farm when he was a kid. They constantly checked for predators, hunters, and now he understood why. You had to be able to sort out the noises and movements, some made by insects and smaller animals moving furtively through the thick vegetation. Their quick movements would startle him and he was always afraid the noise would bring something bigger to investigate the movement. Other noises were made by the hunted, some small, about waist high, but others were large, huge in fact. Like watching a building walk through a forest. All were wary though, constantly watching for the hunters. When the jungle grew still, when it seemed the world was holding its breath, you knew they were stalking and you prayed it was not you they were after.
The hunters were always there, always watching, always listening, always hungry. Fortunately, most of them were small, afraid of him because of his size. But the bigger ones, they feared nothing, they owned this swampy morass, it was their world after all, not his. If only it was raining like it had been for the last three days and nights, then he could move about more easily. Not that they minded the rain and the deep mud it produced, but a hard, driving rain and the crash of thunder covered the sounds of movement. You needed every edge. Of course, it masked their sounds too.
Fog was a friend also. But he was even more afraid when it was foggy and he couldn’t see two feet in front of himself. It was because you could still hear the sounds but weren’t sure where they were coming from. Leaves rustling, twigs snapping, or sudden running footsteps would send waves of fear through him. Once, as he froze in his tracks because of a sound, a shape had rushed past him, missing him by only a few feet. Fog was a friend, but he hated it also.
From under the darkness of the fern leaves, he became aware that it was a bright, moonlit night. Too bright he realized suddenly. It had been raining when he set out but it had stopped about an hour ago. He should have gone back and waited for the rain to start again but he couldn’t make himself do it. He had to stay, had to continue.
He slowly took off the night vision goggles and looked up between the fern leaves at the night sky. He remembered the first time he had looked up at that sky, it was just after they arrived, how bright the moon had been then too, closer than he could have imagined. So huge, he felt he could have reached up and touched it. So many stars filled the night sky with no bright city lights to hide them. The moon and the stars were still there, but now instead of beauty all he saw was that there were no clouds in the sky, no hope for a hiding storm. Now the moonlit night was threatening to expose him. He wished he had never seen this sky.
He should have stayed in the cave he thought, and waited for the rain to come again. It always rained, why had he taken the chance? The days after their arrival and the sudden terrible deaths were a waking nightmare, leaving no hope of any kind. For three days, he laid in the cave, venturing out only as far as the site and then running back to the cave. He was doomed to die alone. His ammunition was down to just a handful of shells, the wait for death bitter, leaving him depressed and angry.
Then, in the depth of his deepest despair, when he had al
l but given up, he had suddenly realized he might be able to change things, to stop the horror before it began. Quickly, he had developed a plan and after he had decided what to do, it had brought back his drive and determination. Every day, no, every minute since death could come all too suddenly, he was driven to carry out his plan as quickly as possible. His future, no - all of their futures, depended on it. Everything depended on his being able to make it to this stream as often as possible. He came every night, terrified of what might happen. Risking his life with every minute he was away from the cave. But then he would remember he was dead anyway. It was just a matter of time. So every night he returned to this small, seemingly inconsequential stream. Maybe it would change what happened. Maybe it would stop the screaming in his nightmares. It had to.
A drop of sweat formed on his forehead and slowly trickled into his left eye. Was it from his fear or the constant heat and oppressive humidity? There were times when he felt as if he were under water as he breathed in the damp, heavy air with its lower oxygen content than he was used to. He had been in jungles and swamps before but none were like this. What a world he had come to die in.
The sweat burned his eye but still he made no move, still he did not blink. His concern now was that they would smell the sweat, his fear, find him, kill him, and eat him. Though he realized that was going to happen anyway, if not now then later, he wanted it to be later. Slowly, silently, he dipped his fingers into the dung pouch around his neck and dabbed the sticky material to his forehead. Smell was important here; best to smell like something that had already been eaten than something that was ready to be eaten.
His mind wandered again, what a fool he had been when he decided to come here. All the other trips had been so successful and rewarding, but he could see now that they were nothing like this trip. He had been blinded by his success, felt he could do anything he wanted, all he had to do was touch the right key and the world was his. But those other worlds he understood - this one he did not. How could you understand a world where all life seemed so menacing, and death waited in the shadows? The fittest survived, and he was not one of them.
On every other project, he had insisted on in-depth research and he had always led the way. Planning every movement, every detail, so as not to be discovered, to get it right and then get out. This one had been so vast though, so overwhelming that he knew he could not learn all that was needed. He had brought in the experts; he could still see their disbelief turning into wonder and astonishment as he showed them what he had already done. They had joined his team with great enthusiasm. They knew the answers, he was only supposed to take them there and bring them back. It would be easy he had told them and their fears faded away. Soon they would know the answers, there would be no more guessing. It would be their secret. Now they were dead.
He could save them though, if he kept going to the stream. He thought of John, the first person he had ever told. He had brought in Rachel and Ken, the experts. How they loved the project and could not wait for the big day to arrive. They helped pick the times and site, did all of the research. They knew who else to bring in and everything that was needed. He had simply listened to them and allowed them complete control. He had never failed, he could do anything and nothing could stop him. They wanted the same thing he did, just a chance to visit. They would never tell anyone else because they knew the danger. They had become his friends. Now they were gone, and soon he would join them and no one would ever know what happened.
That thought brought him quickly out of his brooding and back to his senses. No, he would not, could not, give up. It would work; he just had to keep at the plan. The more he did the better the chances, he had to give himself every opportunity. He brought up more dung on his fingers and wiped it on his face. It also kept the insects away. They had acquired a taste for his blood and some of them were huge but all were tenacious.
He started to part the large leaves and move to the stream when he heard a quiet splash, too much it sounded like a stealthy footstep in the water. He stopped, trembling slightly as he fought the sudden, almost overwhelming primeval urge to run from the cover back to the shelter of the cave. He could make it, he would be safe there. He battled his thoughts and the emotions that were trying to control him. It was impossible to run to the cave before something caught him. He steadied himself, perhaps it was not a hunter, others drank from the stream, but he could feel the hair standing on the back of his neck, and the night was now ominously still. There was no noise, even the insects were silent. He realized his hand was on the semi-automatic pistol.
Suddenly, a loud splash and a low grunt a hundred feet to his right was answered by loud roars followed by terrified squeals of fright and then pain. Something had made a mistake, its last. Loud splashing from where he had thought he heard the step in the water told him he had been right not to move. Now others were rushing quickly towards the noise, rushing to join the kill. A loud struggle was taking place and fortunately it was moving further away instead of closer. There were many involved and they were large. Then all was quiet except for the awful noise of the feeding, a sound he had heard too many times and no longer paid any attention to. But, if they were busy eating they would not pay any attention to him.
Now was the time to move and he slowly pushed the large ferns apart so that he could scan the area. It was still too light to use the night vision so he put it in his pack. Nothing could be seen in the bright moonlight and he knew the sounds of the kill had frightened away anything else that had been around…unless it was bigger and hungrier. He had learned from experience to be careful. There was always something bigger and hungrier it seemed.
Staying low, he darted from the drooping leaves and quickly covered the distance between the ferns and the shallow stream. He stopped along the bank, still muddy from high water of the recent rain and dropped to his hands and knees. He stayed back from the water, sometimes there were hunters in there also, waiting for the careless. The area was covered with footprints of all the animals, big and small, that drank from the stream. Including the hunters, who visited the stream looking for those who did not pay enough attention while they drank.
Looking left and right to make sure nothing was moving towards him, he began writing in the mud over and over again. Sometimes large, sometimes smaller, but always the same thing every time, every night:
STOP ME CHARLES DAWSON STOP ME
When he first started he had also written PROFESSOR CHARLES DAWSON but that took too long. Other times, when the despair was the heaviest, he would also add:
DEAR GOD PLEASE STOP ME
But most of the time he tried to keep it simple, faster. He could get a lot more done which would increase the opportunity that one day it would be found and he would be stopped. It also allowed him to be on constant alert for the hunters. Write then look, write then look. Act like a prairie dog, stay alive.
As Dawson wrote, he constantly moved to his left getting closer to the cave as he went. From time to time as he progressed along the stream, he would stop when he heard a noise, tense with fear and ready to slip back into the ever present ferns. His back would begin to ache and the up and down moving would make his knees feel like they were on fire. As the last few hours of night passed, there were also times when he would suddenly feel as if he had to hide, felt something was near, and he would move back into the heavy cover of the forest until the feeling passed. He trusted his instincts, they had been right before.
As the feeling passed or when the animal proved to be nothing that was interested in him, he would begin writing again. Twice he heard the sounds of something large moving close by. Both times he had quickly moved to the cover of the thick leaves but he had not seen anything and the noise faded away. Even if they had not been hunters, he still could have been stepped on or run over by something coming to the stream for a drink.
Slowly, Dawson moved along the muddy bank as the night passed, stopping only long enough to cautiously approach the stream enough to fill h
is canteen. The heat and humidity made him constantly thirsty and he had to chance meeting something he would rather not to stay hydrated. He ate some type of fruit, round and light green that was almost too sweet. It was one of the few things that did not make him even slightly ill and stayed down after he ate it. But the noise of his chewing made it hard to hear anything else so he stopped. He placed some of the fruit in his back pack; he could eat later in the cave when he did not have to be so careful.
Finding food of course was a major problem. They had not brought food because they were only going to be here a few hours. What he could eat here was unknown and he had found out through trial and error. Fortunately, he had not poisoned himself too bad. Also, he had learned that cooking meat attracted all types of problems he did not need. No sense advertising where you were at. No one was coming to save him, the scent brought the hunters.
He concentrated on writing the words into the dark, slick mud over and over again. The more he wrote, the better his chance to never come to this stream, ever. He looked in the direction of the low cliff where the cave was and was pleased to see how far he had come. Though he had stopped several times to hide, he had probably covered another one hundred and fifty yards with his writing.
As he looked down at the mud, he caught his reflection in a small pool of water near his knee. He had not shaved or even had a chance to clean himself. Sleep was only in short, interrupted intervals. How old he looked, so changed. Then he quickly looked up again in shock and disbelief. It was dawn, it was getting light fast, and he was no longer hidden in the dark. In a land where even the smallest hunter was a mortal danger, to be completely exposed to them was sure death. In the dark, though they could see well, he could hide from them in the forest, trusting in his hearing and watching them through the night vision. In the day he could not hide, all eyes could see in the light. Then the stalking would begin and the victim never knew until it was too late. He had watched it many times from the safety of the cave.
