Primordia 3: The Lost World—Re-Evolution

by Greig Beck

  In a few more seconds, he was at 1,500 feet, and then strangely he felt the first strike. He bounced, struck something else, and then felt the tin skin of the capsule being thrashed and pummeled as there came the sounds of branches snapping and leaves slapping at him.

  In another few seconds, he landed softly and bounced—like in a hammock. He waited for a few seconds and then began to grin.

  “Ho-le-y crap.” He started to chuckle. “Thank you, mother nature.”

  He looked up at the instrument panels that were all still as dead as dodos. “You’re no help.”

  He immediately began to unbuckle, unstrap, unhook, and unwind from the multitude of safety harnesses, monitors, and communication’s equipment, and then he shifted forward to grab handholds so he could lever himself up to the door.

  Gordon had to use the spanner to literally unscrew the metal door, and after 20 minutes was able to shoulder the lid off where it fell to the ground. He looked out.

  Green.

  Everything was green.

  He flipped his faceplate up and was hit by a wave of cloyingly sweet scents, wet heat, and a cacophony of jungle sounds.

  He leaned out further and looked around—he saw he was hanging about six feet up from the ground in some sort of massive banyan tree that must have been 300 feet tall if it was an inch.

  The foliage above was too thick for him to get his bearings, and he even had no idea which country he was in. He didn’t think he’d made it as far as the Florida Everglades, but who knew.

  Gordon ducked back inside and pulled out the emergency bag tucked under the cockpit seat. It contained rations, water, and a couple of flares. He then twisted his helmet a half turn to remove it and let it drop down to the ground.

  It bounced on a solid but plant-littered base, so he threw a leg over and jumped down.

  Red Gordon stood with his hands on his hips for a moment, trying to decide if he should wait by the capsule or try and set off. Even if he was in the U.S., he could wander into a swamp and end up gator food. And if he were in the Amazon, well, then getting lost would mean he’d really be screwed.

  He looked up again. The tree he had landed in was probably one of the tallest around…maybe he could climb up and see if he could get his bearings further up.

  He tried to map a path to the upper branches. The limbs were huge lower down, and there were plenty of handholds—yeah, it was doable. He took a quick sip of water, left his bag with his helmet behind, and started up.

  It was easy at first; the branches were broad, and now and then Gordon came across weird lizards that got up on their back legs and hissed at him.

  He’d never been to the Amazon before and guessed he was just seeing their typical lifeforms. He’d make a mental note to ask the science geeks when he got back.

  At about 120 feet up, he paused to listen as something large moved below him. He heard the sounds of trees being pushed aside and the snuffled grunts from a large throat and mouth. Suddenly, he caught a glimpse of an enormous grey-banded back as it broke for a few seconds before it re-entered the dense growth again.

  Did they have elephants here? he wondered. While he continued to stare down, there was a thump of something landing behind him, and turning, he saw another goddamn reptile standing upright, this one about three feet tall. It was a mottled green and had a long, pointed face, like a beak.

  “Shoo,” he said as it fixed him with one ruby-red eye. Gordon had the weird feeling it was looking him up and down as though sizing him up…for dinner.

  “Go on, get lost.” He waved a hand at it, and the thing screeched and unfolded bat-like wings…goddamn wings!

  “Piss off!” he yelled and it flapped away like a wet sheet. Gordon shook his head. “Goddamn weird place.”

  He started up again, now getting to about 200 feet up. He didn’t suffer from vertigo and he was extremely fit, so even though the going was tough, he was managing just fine.

  He was still within the canopy so as yet he couldn’t see out, but he could just make out that where he was now put him at the forest ceiling, so when he got a little higher, he’d be above it.

  In another 10 minutes, Gordon edged out on the thinnest branch he could, holding the one above it for balance. He got as far to its edge as he could manage before it started to bend precariously under his weight.

  The test pilot then leaned forward to bend the branch down, opening a hole in the banyan’s foliage.

  Red Gordon looked out, and his mouth fell open.

  Miles and miles of green.

  He was higher than the far jungle, much higher, leading him to believe he was on some sort of flat-topped mountain, and that accounted for his crash landing before he actually made true landfall.

  There were no roads, no settlements, and nothing resembling human habitation. In the distance, he saw a line of mountains and before it a lush green valley that was shrouded in mist.

  “Where the hell am I?” he whispered.

  Staring upward, he could see the sky was marred by a long eyebrow-like streak, and soaring above the heads of the distant trees were what looked like small airplanes.

  No, not airplanes, they flapped wings and were some sort of bird—some sort of giant freaking birds.

  His branch quivered, and Gordon held on tight. He sniffed, frowning, as he smelled something like piss or sour vinegar and checked his hands for plant sap.

  “Phew.”

  He tried to change angles to see in another direction, but his branch quivered again, and then to his shock, began to bend, downward…far downward.

  “Hey?”

  He turned, and then froze. At the base of the limb where it met the tree trunk was a monster, a snake, big around as a Longhorn steer. It was so motionless he might have thought it was a statue, except a tongue thicker than his arm flickered out as it tasted the air, tasted him, and then drew back in.

  Its brown, green, and black scales made it almost invisible in among the foliage and dappled light, but its two dead eyes were like giant glass beads, and he had no doubt they were fixed on him.

  Its body curled around the trunk and trailed away beyond his vision, but the head slowly lifted and then began to come forward, its gaze never wavering from him.

  Gordon couldn’t look away. He’d once seen a big anaconda eat a possum and had a pretty good idea what this thing had in mind.

  “Stay back,” he said with a quaver in his voice as he edged another foot away. His branch bent further, and he quickly glanced down, looking for an escape route.

  Could I leap to the next branch down? he wondered. The snake glided ever closer, and with the sound of creaking wood, the branch bent even more.

  Gordon knew he had no choice. He released the branch above him to wobble on his thin perch for a moment as he tried as best he could to judge the easiest hand holds below him. Then he leapt.

  Red Gordon never got five feet. The snake struck out, catching him in mid-air. Its mouth clamped down on his torso, and it rolled him back up in its coils. The snake was so large the light was blotted out around him, and he felt the massive pressure begin.

  The mouth released him and he was thankful for the padding of his suit as he had felt the teeth in his flesh, but they hadn’t penetrated too far into his body.

  “Oh God.” He lost all feeling below the waist. Then the coils tightened again and he both felt and heard his hip and ribs begin to pop and crunch like kindling.

  “No,” he gasped as his head felt like it was going to explode from the pressure on his circulatory system. The last thing test pilot Major Redmond Gordon saw was the coils parting slightly to offer him head first into a toothed maw the size of a doorway.

  This time, he knew he would feel the teeth.

  CHAPTER 19

  Akron Ohio, Warehouse Logistics, Shed-11

  Ben, Drake, and Emma were all lost in their own thoughts as they arrived at the warehouse they’d been using as a staging area for the past few weeks. Every time they felt they were ready
, they found another dozen things that needed to be done. The logistical things could be managed. But it was time that was their enemy, and unfortunately, not their only one.

  The weeks went by and more incremental changes occurred around them. Some things once familiar now vanished, and new things appeared—a large yellow beetle called a ‘cob,’ for obvious reasons, was found to have a taste for rubber. You needed to check your car before driving, as its favorite meal was the wheel tread, and a single beetle could leave a whole tire completely bald. Several of them together, and you were looking at tattered shreds on steel rims.

  There was now a domestic pet called a molecat that was taken into family homes—it was the size and shape of a cat, but was without eyes. It found its way around and also everything it needed by using its hearing and sense of smell.

  There were gross changes as well, such as a species of lamprey, those ancient fish-like creatures with circular mouths filled and rasp-like teeth. When it rained, the new species left their waterways and slithered up onto the land, making a meal of livestock. And if they managed to get into your house and found you sleeping, they’d latch onto a limb or torso and leave a painful, weeping sore when they were done.

  Nearly every day now, the tingling in their gut followed by the blacking out of all light was occurring. They all knew that whatever was happening was accelerating. No one doubted that there were big changes coming. And they just prayed nothing happened before they had a chance to change it all back.

  *****

  Drake and Ben walked along a row of their tactical hardware laid out on the warehouse floor. Emma was at the far end also checking off some of her own new equipment arrivals.

  “Cheer up,” Drake said.

  “I feel like shit,” Ben said.

  “What, about bringing in those merc knuckleheads? Forget about it; they know how to deal with deadly risk. They’re hard-asses, and bastards all of them, but damn good at what they do. Plus, they’ve got jungle experience and are totally fearless. They’ll do their job.”

  “They didn’t believe me,” Ben said. “I’m, we, are walking them into a freaking prehistoric meat grinder.”

  “They’ve risked themselves before, and if they make it, they get a million bucks. Believe me, for that amount of money, they’d go even if I told them they’d have to duke it out with Satan himself.” Drake half smiled.

  “If we didn’t need ‘em, I wouldn’t bring ‘em,” Ben replied.

  Drake cocked his head. “Hey, you ever heard of the old diving axiom about always swimming with a buddy?”

  Ben shook his head and Drake grinned wider. “It’s so it improves your chance of not being the guy who gets eaten by a shark.”

  Ben scoffed. “So I should bring them, just so they might be the ones killed instead of me?”

  “That’s right,” Emma said, wandering over. “That’s damn right.” She lugged a few big boxes with her.

  Drake shrugged. “What can I say? Two against one.”

  “You, Ben Cartwright, are going to save your family, and maybe even the entire human race. Those mercenaries are going to make some fast money.” Emma dropped the boxes she carried with a thump, and then folded her arms. “That’s why they call them mercenaries.”

  “Brutal,” Ben said.

  “But accurate,” Drake added.

  “Damn straight.” Emma squared her shoulders.

  Ben could see she meant every word and was prepared to fight him on it. “Okay.” He knew that either the mercs went with him, or maybe she’d decide to go as well. And that was something he couldn’t bear. He changed the subject. “What have you got there?”

  She crouched by one of the boxes. “We learned a lot last time we went in. Getting there, and I mean up there, proved to be the first and one of the biggest hurdles.”

  “You can say that again.” Ben waited.

  She laid a hand on one of the boxes. “Flying up to the plateau top is out, as the magnetic pulses knock out electronics, and even using gliders would be impossible due to the wind turbulence. And we found out the hard way that ballooning is subject to attack.”

  “And external cliff face climbing is dangerous for non-climbers—sheer walls at over 1,500 feet,” Ben said.

  “Deadly,” Drake added.

  “Yeah, I was there, I remember.” She half smiled up at him. “Climbing is slow, arduous, and like you pointed out, high risk for novice climbers.” She held up a finger. “But what if we could make climbing safer, and faster?” She pried open the lid on one of the crates and lifted out what looked like a black steel box, 6 x 12 inches, that had a round opening at each end.

  She held it up. “Gentlemen, I give you the power winch. The lazy rock climber’s speed lift.” She turned it on its side, holding it flat on her hand. “Can lift 400 pounds of equipment or two people at once. Dual rope feed, and two speeds—3 miles per hour for slow ascent, or rapid lift at 10 miles per hour—you’ll basically fly up.” She pointed. “Rope feeds in one end, and the grip teeth suck it in and spit it out back.” She looked up at the men. “Simple, won’t jam, and so easy, even ex-Special Forces guys can operate it.”

  Drake whistled. “I like it. Especially that bit about it being good for lazy climbers and dumb Spec Forces guys.”

  “That’ll work,” Ben said. “But one question. The cliff faces of the tepui are between 1,500 and 3,000 feet. And the winch works on pulling us up a rope—so how exactly do we get the rope up the wall for it to feed in and out?”

  “Good question.” She flipped open the second box and pulled out what looked like a cross between a rifle and spear gun. “Cliff dart with titanium tip. Just aim and shoot. It’ll penetrate even granite at 300 feet, and the expansion collar will immediately lock it in place.” She stood, holding the gun. “I’ve used these before; once they penetrate the rock’s surface, that’s where they stay. They’re good tech.”

  Emma held it up with one hand, sighting along the barrel. “You aim it at where you want it to go in, fire, and then it takes the rope up with it. Then all you need to do is feed it into your winch, and up and away you go.”

  She held up a hand when she saw Drake frowning. “Yeah, I know, the cliff face where you’re going to be climbing is around 1,500 feet, so once you’re at the top of your rope, you’ll need to reload and fire again. Then you’ll need to move from rope to rope—I’ve done it before, and you can too.”

  “Show us,” Ben said.

  Emma quickly mimed the aiming, firing, and then showed them the winch pulling in the rope, and when it came to the end, how to change from one rope to the next without any slippage. It looked simple, but Emma was an expert.

  “We’ll need to practice that,” Ben said.

  “We all will,” Drake added.

  “Okay, your turn.” Emma pointed. “What toys did you bring?”

  “Glad you asked.” Drake grinned, and as he walked, he waved a hand over the edge of a sheet where all their weapons were laid out. He stopped. “Okay, for close contact, we got our standard knife kit—hunting and Ka-Bar with Tanto edge. Also, I managed to get a good deal on some new Glocks—short recoil-operated, locked-breech semi-automatics with a box magazine, and all in a non-reflective polymer-frame with a nitride finish.”

  “Light and low-jamming, nice ones,” Ben said, crouching to pick one up and hold it in a two-handed grip as he sighted at the far wall.

  “My thought was to pack a punch, but be mindful of our weight-to-defense ratio. Last time, we found some of our hardware came up a bit short against the bigger plateau residents. So with that in mind, and also not wanting to load us up with hundreds of pounds of steel, I stuck with the Mossberg 12 gauge, but kicked it up to tactical level with the Venom rotary kit for rapid cycle times, greater shell capacity, and lightning fast reloads.”

  Drake picked one up. The shotgun now had a circular magazine on its side. He ran his hand up and along the weapon. “Forend with action bars and grip, 10-round rotary magazine, and barrel clamp.”
He held it out front, aimed it from his waist and then from his shoulder, before lowering it and grunting his satisfaction before laying it back down.

  “Now we move up to the real kick-ass tech.” He picked up a powerful-looking rifle that was matte-black with a skeletal framework. He looked down at it almost lovingly for a moment before holding it out to Ben.

  Ben took it and hefted it. “Barrett M82—the Light Fifty.” He then held it under his arm, testing the balance. “Big punch.”

  “Yep, can’t go past the .50-cal, Barrett M82, recoil-operated, semi-automatic, anti-materiel, anti-personnel rifle. Like you said, a big punch, but with a significantly lighter weight compared to previous models.”

  “You got us the shorter barrel—smart,” Ben said.

  “Sure did; in closed-in spaces, it’s good to have that extra maneuverability. And that’s not all I got.” He ducked down to pick up a magazine box and flipped it open. In it were large shells with a green-on-white tip.

  Ben scoffed. “Holy crap, are they Raufoss?”

  “You bet your ass.” Drake kept grinning.

  “A what?” Emma asked, taking out one of the shells and holding it up.

  Drake took it from her and held it up like he was examining a diamond. “Ladies and gentlemen, I give you the Raufoss Mk 211.” He turned it in his fingers. “It’s a .50-cal, multipurpose, anti-material, high-explosive incendiary plus armor-piercing projectile. The multipurpose bit I mentioned is because these bad boys have a tungsten armor-piercing core, plus an explosive and incendiary component. Comes in handy for penetrating armored targets and causing internal damage after that penetration—basically, it’ll punch its way in through the toughest armored hide, and then explode.”

  He turned. “So, to quantify that, your standard .50-cal will put a hole the size of your fist through steel. But a Raufoss round will penetrate even the toughest of armored bodies, and then blow bucket-sized chunks of flesh all over the field.”