Primeval Waters

by William Burke

  PRIMEVAL WATERS

  William Burke

  www.severedpress.com

  Copyright 2021 by William Burke

  CRITICAL PRAISE FOR WILLIAM BURKE’S

  SCORPIUS REX

  “If you want an exciting adventure, giant monsters, lots of shooting, and non-stop action, this is the book for you! Highly recommended!” — THE COLUMBIA REVIEW OF BOOKS AND FILM

  “A non-stop roller coaster ride… As over the top and satisfying as a widescreen Hollywood blockbuster. A thoroughly terrifying, creepy, and spellbinding techno-thriller.” — THE PRAIRIES BOOK REVIEW

  “Great character development with a fast and heart pounding plot. This is a wonderful horror, action/adventure military-esque novel.” — THE INDIE EXPRESS

  “Lots of blood, guts and close saves. Reads like a Syfy action movie put to page, and that’s a very good thing.”— SCI-FI & SCARY. COM

  “Burke writes economically, compellingly and well. More than enough thrills, chills and snickers for readers to enjoy. Recommended.” – THE US REVIEW OF BOOKS

  “This was an amazing read from the start! Dark and creepy in the best way. Military, horror, scorpions… what more do you need?” — TEXAS BOOK NOOK

  “This book was an exciting, thrilling and captivating fast read… I loved every minute of it.”

  — ON A READING BENDER.COM

  AVALIABLE FROM

  Dedicated to Giorgio A. Tsoukalos, who’s ideas helped inspire this novel.

  Merriam-Webster’s Dictionary offers two definitions of panache.

  #1—Dash or flamboyance in style and action.

  #2—An ornamental tuft, especially on a helmet.

  Mr. Tsoukalos is blessed with both.

  Chapter One

  Mouth of the Amazon Tributary, Rio Pandora— Brazil

  Dr. Ian Stewart trudged up a steep bank running alongside the newly completed earthen dam. The pain in his arthritic knees was a constant reminder that his days in Her Majesty’s Royal Engineers were long behind him. Back then, he’d been a young officer, building pontoon bridges and disarming mines in the Falklands; now he was a fifty-eight-year-old academic, better suited to lecture halls than mosquito-infested jungles. But he’d retained much of his youthful knowledge, if not its vigor. Under his supervision, a crew of barely literate laborers had erected a thirty-five-yard dam from nothing but downed trees and mud. Even more impressively, he’d done it all in an unmapped rainforest, hundreds of miles from civilization.

  Ian stopped to catch his breath, thinking, Not bad work, for a prisoner, before continuing the long climb. Passing groups of laborers offered their boss a respectful nod, while AK-47-toting sentries just eyed him suspiciously.

  Ian thought, The workers think I’m the boss, but the guards all know I’m just a prisoner.

  He reached the dam’s crest and turned away from the workers, pretending to polish his glasses. In truth, he just didn’t want to be seen struggling to catch his breath. The expedition’s thirty-eight laborers were all river trash, who spent their off hours engaging in drunken knife fights; not the sort you wanted to show frailty around. After a few seconds, Ian felt his wind and dignity returning enough to supervise the next, critical phase.

  The dam’s crest offered him a panoramic view of the site. On its upstream side, the now dammed Rio Pandora tributary had swollen into a vast floodplain. The two-hundred-foot cargo barge Opala was moored there, its generators powering the work site.

  On the dam’s downstream side lay a circular lake, roughly two miles in diameter, surrounded by a thirty-foot earthen rim—a textbook example of a meteorite impact crater. The dam had reduced the lake’s depth to barely seven feet, exposing the most important scientific discovery since Copernicus. A brilliant full moon shone on the partially submerged object resting in the lake’s center—a sixty foot in diameter sphere Ian had christened “The Anomaly.”

  The Anomaly was, by definition, a meteorite. But in his decades of experience as a planetary geologist, Ian had never seen anything like it—nobody had. It had been buried beneath the lakebed for thousands, perhaps millions of years, until a recent earthquake forced it to the surface. The Anomaly’s ancient descent through the earth’s atmosphere had left large sections scorched black, but other areas gleamed in the moonlight like a gigantic jewel. That resemblance wasn’t merely cosmetic; the Anomaly was, for lack of a better term, a gigantic diamond. Ian had analyzed shards of ejecta discovered around the lake and concluded that they all possessed the brilliance and clarity of the finest gemstones. Meteorites often contained flecks of diamond, created by heat and intense pressure, but this defied all logic.

  Ian stared down at it, muttering the same question he’d pondered for weeks. “What the hell are you?”

  A team of laborers had just finished constructing a sixty-foot-long log causeway connecting the shore and the Anomaly. Its completion marked the beginning of the next phase—drilling into the Anomaly and, hopefully, discovering its secrets.

  Ian’s thoughts were interrupted by a barrage of Portuguese profanities coming from the other side of the dam. He turned around to investigate, thinking, Christ, not another knife fight.

  He traced the shouting to the dam’s base, where eight bickering laborers were unloading the geotechnical drill rig from a motorboat. One of the men lost his grip on the rig, almost dropping it into the water.

  Ian shouted, “Be careful,” but couldn’t be heard over the Opala’s generator. He fumbled for the bullhorn slung over his shoulder, his panic rising. The drill’s tip was forged graphene, the hardest substance on Earth. It was the only tool, short of a laser, that could cut through diamond. Losing it would bring the entire operation to a screeching halt.

  Ian was about to shout into the bullhorn when his foreman, Ursa, slapped him on the back.

  Ursa said, “Relax, chefe. You got to know how to talk to these idiotas.” He bellowed a torrent of physical threats at the men below then turned back to Ian. “Don’t worry; we’ll have that drill up and running quick as hell, chefe.” With a yellow-toothed grin he added, “Then maybe Mr. Batista will let you and your wife go home, safe and sound,” while stretching his arms to ensure Ian saw the .357 strapped to his hip. He ambled down to the drill rig.

  Watching him walk away, Ian muttered, “Bastard.” Ursa’s last comment had been a cutting reminder that Ian was indeed a prisoner, and Ursa was his jailer.

  A month earlier, Ian had been invited to speak at a planetary geology symposium in Rio de Janeiro. But the invitation had been a ruse, engineered by a sociopathic mineral dealer named Hector Batista. He’d abducted Ian and his wife. Now Margaret was a hostage on his yacht, hundreds of miles away. Earning her freedom meant ensuring that Batista’s expedition was a success. Thankfully, Ian was on the verge of achieving just that.

  Under Ursa’s abusive supervision the drill rig was mounted onto its tracked platform. It began rumbling up the incline on its six wheels. With its hydraulic drilling arm folded down the rig resembled a miniature Mars Rover. Its geotechnical drill would reveal just how thick the Anomaly’s diamond layer was. If it was merely a shell, surrounding a ball of iron ore, it would still yield more quality diamonds than De Beers could mine in a year. Gem quality diamonds, cut from a one-of-a-kind meteorite, would become the ultimate status symbol, earning Batista billions.

  Enough to buy Margaret’s freedom, Ian hoped. The irony of the situation wasn’t lost on him. The greatest scientific discovery in history and Batista is forcing me to chip it into bits to sell off for jewelry. That’s why he’d resorted to kidnapping—no legitimate scientist would willingly participate in this atrocity.

  Ursa’s voice boomed through a bullhorn. “We’re ready down here!”

  Ian raised his binocul
ars, surprised to discover that the drilling crew was already in position, waiting for permission to begin.

  Christ, how long have I been standing here brooding?

  He switched on his bullhorn, and, after a second of feedback, shouted, “Commence drilling!”

  The operator raised the hydraulic arm, pressing its drill tip against the Anomaly’s diamond surface. The drill roared to life, clanging like a giant bell. Ian watched anxiously, reminding himself that the operator had been recruited from one of Batista’s emerald mines. The man handled a drill like a surgeon wielded a scalpel.

  Taking a few calming breaths, Ian gazed up at the stars, contemplating the Anomaly’s mysterious origins and its myriad of contradictions. How could a solid meteorite this size be pushed to the surface? And why is the crater lake so small? The impact of a solid object this size should have created a crater three times larger. But if the Anomaly is hollow that would indicate some intelligent—

  His concentration was shattered by a brilliant flash of lightning shooting across the starry sky. A second, equally intense bolt followed. Black clouds rolled across the night sky, blocking out the full moon.

  A bolt of lightning shot down, striking the water near the Opala. Ian spun around, his hair tingling from the static electricity. Men scrambled across the Opala’s deck, checking the electrical connections.

  Ian felt the dam rumbling beneath him and muttered, “Another aftershock?” But that made no sense. The earthquake had occurred weeks earlier, meaning any aftershocks should have long subsided. Yet the ground trembled again.

  Turning back to the lake he watched the drill operator boring into the Anomaly, blue sparks of static electricity dancing around the drill tip. A blinding flash of light erupted from the Anomaly’s surface. The drill and operator were momentarily engulfed in what appeared to be ball lightning. A second later, the electrical discharge vanished, and all that remained of the drill and its operator was a heap of smoldering ashes. The surviving drilling crew scrambled along the causeway toward shore.

  Ian stared in amazement, asking himself, “Did the Anomaly just generate power?”

  The earth rocked again, throwing Ian to the ground. He heard screams echoing from the floodplain side and turned around.

  The Opala was rocking violently as if in a storm, yet the water around it was dead calm.

  The work lights on the lakeside flickered then died, plunging the area into darkness.

  Ian muttered, “Bloody hell,” certain the power lines from the generator had been jarred loose.

  He knelt atop the dam, trying to see in the darkness. Another bolt of lightning shot down, striking the water twenty yards from the boat. Then, in one horrifying moment, the two-hundred-foot Opala listed sharply to port. Screaming men spilled off the deck. A moment later, the boat capsized, crushing the men in the water.

  Ian gaped in disbelief. Nothing had struck the boat, and the water had been perfectly calm. It was as if some giant hand had risen from beneath, tipping it over.

  Lightning crackled across the sky, offering fleeting moments of illumination. Ian glimpsed a dark, serpentine shape rippling across the water. Then all went dark, until a series of lightning bolts flashed across the sky in succession, like a giant strobe light.

  The shape raised its head from the water, a screaming man dangling from its mouth. The glistening nightmare was at least seventy feet long and thick as a redwood tree, its gray body dotted with brown saddle-shaped markings.

  It was an impossibly huge snake.

  The serpent spat out the man then slithered across the overturned boat’s keel. Its flat, arrow-shaped head rose up, reflective green eyes fixing on new prey. The head snapped down like a piston, plucking another man from the water. Despite its enormous size the snake moved like greased lightning. Screaming men tried to swim away, only to be crushed beneath its weight or snapped up in its jaws.

  Then there was darkness.

  Ian crouched down, heart pounding, awaiting the next flash of lightning. It came.

  Now the snake was slithering across the floodplain water, heading straight for the dam.

  Then darkness again.

  Ian realized the men on the lakeside had no idea what was coming. He fumbled with the bullhorn, desperate to warn them.

  The next flash of lightning revealed something huge hurtling through the air, coming straight for Ian. Without thinking, he dove off the dam’s edge, bouncing down the steep slope. He felt his shoulder crack and heard himself scream before splashing down into the lake. A twenty-foot motor boat crashed down into the water mere yards away.

  The snake crested the dam, slithering down to the lakeside. Lightning reflected off its green eyes—they were locked on Ian.

  Pockets of light suddenly appeared along the dark lakeshore. The laborers had lit up emergency flares and were holding them aloft.

  The snake veered away from Ian, making a beeline for the flares. Despite its size, it shot through the water like a torpedo, covering the three hundred yards in the blink of an eye.

  Ian heard the crack of Ursa’s pistol, followed by volleys of rifle fire. The snake launched up from the water, its jaws latching on to a man clutching a flare. With a snap of its head, it tossed the man straight up. His burning flare spiraled across the horizon like a skyrocket. Terrified men tried to scramble up the crater lake’s rim. The snake continued its onslaught, plucking five men off the incline. Others waded into the lake, only to be crushed by the snake’s whipping tail.

  Ian’s first instinct was to dash into the rainforest to escape, but then he realized he couldn’t. If I leave here empty-handed, Margaret will die. In the dim light he could barely make out his lakeside tent some thirty yards away. Inside it were the meteorite shards they’d gathered. They were evidence of what he’d discovered—enough to at least buy his wife a stay of execution.

  Ian waded to shore then crept along the lake’s edge, ignoring the distant screams. He prayed that the snake was too busy gorging itself to care about a lone man. After two minutes of stumbling through the darkness he reached the tent.

  Yanking the flap aside he spotted the satchel of fragments resting on the camp table. With trembling hands, he slung it over his shoulder. One sample fell to the ground, so he scooped it up and stuffed it into his pocket.

  He muttered, “Think, think, you have to survive out there,” then grabbed a flashlight, bottled water, and a pair of emergency flares, stuffing them in the satchel. He turned to leave.

  Something struck the tent like a cannonball, trapping him under a blanket of collapsed nylon. Ian clawed his way out and saw what had crushed the tent. Ursa was sprawled across the fabric. His body was twisted grotesquely, and one leg was severed at the knee, but he was alive. Ursa reached out, grabbing Ian’s ankle, pleading with his eyes.

  Ian pulled away.

  Ursa screamed, “Don’t leave me here, you bastard!”

  Ian saw the snake slithering along the shoreline, heading straight for the tent. There was no way he could outrun it.

  Ursa screamed again.

  Ian whispered, “Quiet, you idiot.”

  Then an idea struck him. He lit one of the flares, tossed it on the ground next to Ursa and ran like hell.

  Enraged, Ursa shouted, “Come back here, you son of a bitch!”

  Drawn to the light and screaming, the giant serpent descended on Ursa.

  Ian made an adrenaline-fueled charge up the earthen dam. In the distance he heard Ursa scream twice before being crushed in the serpent’s jaws.

  Reaching the crest, Ian glanced back at the lake. The snake was still on the rampage, snapping up men trying to hide in the brush. There was no hope for them. Ian slid down the other side, rocks and branches tearing at his legs until he splashed down into the floodplain. He surfaced, spitting out water while taking in the carnage around him. The Opala was on its side, half submerged, mangled bodies drifting around it.

  The shoreline was littered with floating bodies. He spotted one forgotten motor
boat moored to a post. He climbed aboard, reaching for the outboard motor, then stopped.

  Too much noise. Better to gain some distance.

  Using a floating log, he slowly paddled out until he passed the capsized Opala. After two pulls on the cord the outboard roared to life, drowning out the echoing screams behind him.

  Glancing at the motor he saw that the gas gauge read below half. The boat wouldn’t get him far, but that didn’t matter—somehow he’d reach civilization and save his wife, even if he had to crawl.

  Chapter Two

  Bela Adormecida Mountains, Amazonas, Brazil - 15 days later

  Dr. Micah Clark stood at the peak of the Sleeping Beauty Mountains, gazing down at the fog-shrouded rainforest and winding Amazon tributaries stretching farther than the eye could see. It was the kind of photographic backdrop money couldn’t buy, which was good because he didn’t have any.

  His camera person, Catalina Abril, shouted, “Camera’s ready, boss!”

  Micah said, “Okay, give me a minute,” and gave himself a final once over.

  Close-cropped blonde hair mussed to just the right degree—check. Logo on his signature Rolex Explorer watch facing camera—check. He smoothed out his meticulously wrinkled tan linen shirt and made sure his cargo pants were impeccably dirty. Getting it all right was critical because every thread of clothing, from his Ray-Ban sunglasses right down to his perspiration-wicking socks, was some form of product placement. Thanks to a dwindling budget, his complimentary wardrobe wasn’t just a C-list celebrity perk anymore—these days he just needed the free socks.

  For two seasons, his reality adventure series Meteor Micah had been the Outdoor Exploration Network’s top show. Its combination of exotic locales, survival skills, and scientific expertise combined with wild speculation about ancient aliens had made him into a real-life Indiana Jones. Network executives had christened him a modern day “Marlboro Man”—a ruggedly handsome intellectual who appealed to everyday viewers, especially ones who wore tin foil hats.