Author: Michael Cole
Date: 2025-10-22 07:00:00+00:00
Description: After a successful rescue mission, Raptor Pack discovers clues to another illicit scientific operation by the mysterious corporation Brom-Caylen. Following the horrific events inside the Half-Moon Trench, Thomas Rodney vows to get proof of the company’s experimentation with the Ecclesiastes particles. The investigation takes them to a remote island in the West Pacific Ocean. There, they find two high-tech facilities in a state of ruin. Not a single human being is in sight. All that remain are secrets—secrets that the company will kill to keep. The worst of those secrets arrives in the form of
Publisher: SEVERED Press

G.O.R.E. SECTOR

BOOK 5

REPTILES

A CREATURE FEATURE BY MICHAEL COLE

www.severedpress.com

Copyright 2025 by Michael Cole

CHAPTER 1

It was one hundred and ninety years old, already four years beyond the average closing of its natural lifespan. The tree had grown to sixty meters in height during those near-two centuries. It had endured nearly two thousand storms, including six super cyclonic events. But, like all lifeforms, flora and fauna alike, the Pacific teak had succumbed to age.

The storm that was currently tearing it apart was no super cyclonic, but it was mighty enough to get the job done. One month had passed since the last storm, during which the tree lost three of its top branches. Four had been lost in the storm prior to that, and three before that one. The few branches that remained lost most of their crumbling leaves. The roots below were equally dry, despite the abundance of moisture in the soil. Like an old, rusty car engine, all of the components which made up the tree were worn out past the point of repair.

No matter how mighty the titan, no matter how vast its experience and skillset, no matter how brave or cowardly, time was undisputed. Though often, time and age would not have to win the fight against the driving force of life. Often, as with all things in the universe, life would get cut short. Destructive forces were as inevitable as the passage of time. Whether it was a bloodthirsty predator chasing down prey, or a raging cyclone wreaking havoc on an Indo-Pacific island, not all lifeforms completed their natural lifecycle.

Though minutes away from its end, the Pacific teak still outlived its much younger neighbor. The smaller tree had been struck by lightning during the previous storm, resulting in a scorching laceration down its lower trunk. Over the next month, the tree began to die. Tonight, the merciless winds were sealing its fate.

With a mighty crack, the trunk broke at the base. The wood peeled with a deathly strain, as though the tree was protesting its demise. Weight and gravity did the rest of the work, and the tree struck down with a crash as mighty as the thunder above.

***

“You hear that?”

Olsen looked over his left shoulder. His two companions, Declan and Thewlis, had stopped in their tracks, their rifles pointed to the northwest. The constant pelting of rain and the flurry of wind-blown leaves were pricking what remained of their good judgement.

“That wasn’t thunder,” Thewlis said.

“No, it wasn’t,” Declan said. “That was something heavy.”

Thewlis looked over his shoulder and scanned the section of jungle behind them. “I thought it was back there somewhere.”

“I can’t see a damn thing,” Declan said. “It could be anywhere.”

Olsen had enough. He could only take so much cowardice from these two. Should this hysteria continue, these men—if he could call them men—would likely attract the creature’s attention.

He watched the jungle. Somewhere beyond those writhing trees and thick night air, that thing lurked.

“Maybe we should turn south,” Declan suggested.

That was the last straw for Olsen. These idiots were near the point of pissing themselves, assuming they hadn’t done it already.

He turned to face them. “Enough! Another word, and the next crack of thunder will come from my rifle. Think I won’t do it? I’ve told you a hundred times, as did Dr. Domergue, that it can hear and smell you from a mile away. This rain might work a tad in our favor, but don’t think for a second it can’t hear your stupid muttering. I’m not interested in being chow. So, stop talking, or I’ll shoot you and leave you for bait.”

He yanked back on the cocking of his rifle lever to demonstrate his resolve.

The two men stared dumbfounded at their shift sergeant. Their days as disciplined soldiers were long gone. Declan and Thewlis were both twenty-nine years of age. Neither had seen much combat in their days in the Royal Air Force, nor did they care to. Both men were mediocre airmen back in their day, their time mainly spent in security roles, never in a hostile area. They made it known they were happy with non-combat positions.

That mindset was carried over to this contracting position. Olsen was not too pleased with having them on his team, but recruiting people for this post proved difficult to say the least. From the outside looking in, they appeared to be simple security guards, just better equipped. The problem was they could not provide any info on what it was they were guarding. Most people qualified for the job were smart enough not to sign on without knowing more details. Their employer, however, wanted to keep a tight lid on the operation.

Declan and Thewlis didn’t seem to care. They were happy to have the paycheck. As far as they were concerned, their job would consist of little more than mindless patrols through the island interior and shorelines. Easy money, right? What could go wrong in a place like this?

The philosophy of always being prepared for anything apparently was not drilled into their brains. And of all the people on this island, Olsen was stuck with them.

As he predicted, the men did not move. Olsen kept quiet, letting the still-bleeding cuts on his cheek and forehead do the talking. He was at the containment facility when the specimen broke loose. He emptied two full magazines into it, but still the reptilian had slaughtered all of the security personnel—save for Declan, Thewlis, and himself—and proceeded to ravage the staff. As far as he was aware, everyone at Outpost Bravo was dead. To make matters worse, the radio equipment was destroyed in the attack. Getting a signal to Outpost Alpha was impossible. The two-way radio on his belt would not get a signal through the island’s topography.

Olsen hated the sting of defeat, but he wasn’t stupid either. Sometimes to win the war, one had to take a loss. And the beast was unlike any enemy he had ever faced. Thus, the only option was to retreat.

It was during that retreat he ran into Thewlis and Declan. They had been hiding during the attack, and eventually made a run for it while the reptilian was feasting on the science staff.

After a minute of staring at the muzzle of his gun, both men nodded.

“We’re with you, sir,” Declan said.

Olsen lowered his rifle. “Good. Now quit your yapping and follow my lead.” “Yes sir,” both men replied.

Olsen turned to the north and led them through the chaotic darkness and rain. Normally, he would not turn his back on somebody he had just threatened. Sure, it would be an easy and simple matter for one of them to plant a few rounds in his back. But doing so would only ensure their own demise. Those morons, with their wavering rifle barrels, would likely miss if they shot for his head. And if they shot him in the back, Olsen would see to it he had enough life left in him to even the score.

Getting shot was nothing new to him. In Bosnia, he took a .9-millimeter to the left lung. In Iraq, a Hussein loyalist tore up one of his kidneys with a round from an AK-47. Shrapnel from a grenade wound cost him part of his liver two years later. That was the one that ended his service. What stung more was the doctor’s orders to avoid alcohol. For that reason, he was especially glad to live on with the knowledge he popped a cap in the bastard who threw that grenade.

Fortunately, the guys behind him knew this as well. Not to mention they would attract the creature with unnecessary gunfire.

As he moved against the wind, Olsen cracked a small grin at the thought of those blokes behind him being the ones to punch his ticket. That would be his luck, after all the wars he fought, the injuries he sustained, and certain death he overcame, that he would go out as stupidly as being taken out by a pair of incompetent bozos like Declan and Thewlis.

That thought led to the awareness of a small car key rattling around in his pocket. It did not belong to any of the company vehicles on the island, but to a 1986 Buick Grand National GNX. The vehicle was long gone, having been crushed into a metal cube in some junkyard in the States. The vehicle, when it was brought to the junkyard, was hardly recognizable to begin with. Neither was its owner when he was peeled from the inside.

Olsen did not know the guy, but he did know another victim who died in the same crash.

Bill Hitchum was a United States Marine whom Olsen met in Iraq. The two had struck up a friendship in the sandbox, something Olsen was grateful for. Every time Olsen thought he had it rough over there, he thought of Bill. The guy practically avoided the Grim Reaper on a daily basis. He had been through two dozen, survived three IED explosions, and taken three bullets and four pieces of grenade shrapnel during his time.

After all that, it was a damn Buick speeding over the side of the road which killed him. That same week, Olsen had come to the States to visit Bill, only to learn that his Yankee war buddy was flattened on the sidewalk.

Olsen expected to learn that the driver was drunk, texting, or stupidly doing something else while he was behind the wheel. No, as it turned out, the guy simply sneezed. When doing so, he ended up swerving a few degrees to the right briefly. Not enough to put him on the sidewalk, but enough for his front tire to hit the pothole on the road’s edge. That ended up putting his Buick on the sidewalk, and over Bill.

All of those years of combat, all the near-death experiences and the injuries sustained, it was a sneeze that led to Bill’s death. A millisecond of difference would have changed the outcome for everybody. Olsen often wondered how he would meet his own fate. Would he die naturally of old age or would his time be cut short by an enemy—human or otherwise?

Or, was he doomed to suffer as pathetic of a demise as Bill Hitchum?

Just the thought was enough to drive Olsen crazy. At least in combat, he would go out doing what he was made to do. With his luck, he would return to his old country town and get kicked in the skull by a pissed-off horse. Maybe he would trip and fall in the shower. Hell, the power company was staffed by incompetent idiots. With Olsen’s luck, he’d probably have a power line fall on him and fry his ass.

The time to worry about all that nonsense was later. For now, he needed to focus on not getting eaten.

Through thunder and rain, the three men proceeded north. The wind and jungle did their best to delay the group, but after twenty minutes of travel, they saw the radio outpost dead ahead.

It was difficult to see in this stormy darkness, but it was there. What Olsen couldn’t help but find odd was the fact that the lights were off. There was always someone staffed there.

Perhaps they evacuated?

He had attempted to make a radio call during the attack, but did not get a response, leading to the assumption the signal did not reach the destination. With all the advanced equipment supplied to them on this rock, the company could not bother providing better walkie talkies.

Olsen crouched near a tree and studied the clearing. Flashes of lightning showed nothing moving within the yard. He listened as best he could, failing to detect the sounds of footsteps or roaring. The thunder, rain, and debris falling from the trees didn’t help matters. But one thing was for sure: if the creature was near the clearing, he’d know.

“Let’s move,” he said.

“We should probably announce ourselves,” Declan suggested.

“Why?” Olsen shot him a glare. “You afraid they might mistake us for a ten-ton lizard?”

Declan remained silent. Olsen approved of that.

“We can use the tower to get a warning out to Alpha Station,” Thewlis said. “Plus there’s extra ammo in there.”

“And it’ll give us a place to wait out the storm,” Olsen said. “These guys have the right idea of keeping the lights off.” He took a breath. “Alright. Enough talk. Form up on the door… and keep your eyes peeled.”

They crossed the thirty feet of distance and assembled at the front entrance. Olsen knocked twice.

“Olsen, ID-Four-One-Zero-Echo-Niner. Let us in.”

There was no answer.

He tried the handle. The door was not locked. He took a step inside and paused. The darkness did not startle him, for he thought maybe the guard had switched the lights off on purpose. It was the vast tapping sounds on the floor that made him extra nervous. It was a pelting sound—like rain hitting the tile floor.

Next came a breeze that came from within the building.

A flash of lightning illuminated the interior of the shack, the jungle directly ahead of him, and the wreckage that was the roof and back wall.

Olsen resisted the urge to curse. Losing his cool would not do anyone any good.

Declan did not share the same mindset.

“Shit! It was here!” he exclaimed. He ignited his flashlight and panned it around the room.

The building had essentially been reduced to a front wall with no roof or back. Had Olsen not been here to see it for himself, he would think somebody was describing something out of a cartoon. The wreckage had been spread for dozens of yards. Cratered between them were the four-toed footprints of the horned beast.

Olsen envisioned the huge mouth tearing through the shack, and tossing a mouthful of metal, wood, and insulation to the side. Then repeat and repeat until there was nowhere else for the people inside to hide.

And they definitely tried to hide, as evidenced by the diluted blood and mashed body parts on the left corner. The guards had tried to cover themselves under a foosball table. Bronze casings scattered around their remains illustrated their attempts to repel the monster intruder, to no avail.

Declan and Thewlis looked to Olsen. The fear in their eyes had intensified.

“We can’t stay here,” Thewlis said.

“Shut up,” Olsen hissed.

“Sir, don’t you see what’s in front of us?” Declan said. He burped twice, barely suppressing a dry heave. “It’s been here. And it’ll come back.”

“You dumb bastard,” Olsen said with a sneer. “You wanna keep wandering around out there? You’ll just go around in circles until you come across that thing.”

“Says you,” Declan said in a surprise show of resilience. “You said this would be a good place to hide. ‘Just make to the outpost, alert Alpha Station, and wait out the storm. By morning, we’ll have reinforcements.’ That’s what you said.” He pointed at the wreckage and body parts. “Look at this!”

Before Olsen could respond, Thewlis moved farther out. He examined the enormous footprints in the grass. Each one was large enough for him to lay across. That didn’t alarm him as much as the claw marks at the tip of each toe which sank eighteen inches into the earth.

Thewlis shook his head. “The hell with this. I’m not staying here.”

“Stand fast,” Olsen said. His words had no meaning, for Thewlis’ psyche was gone, as was Declan’s.

With no more regard for the sergeant’s authority, they darted off to the east. As though to further torment them, the wind intensified. Thunder boomed overhead. Branches snapped and crashed in the distance. Another burst of thunder boomed from the same direction, followed by another.

Like a steady drumbeat, the thundering repeated, growing harder and nearer.

Declan and Thewlis stopped at the tree line. They gave a look to each other, then up at a set of branches bending outward. It was not the wind pushing through them, but a towering body.

“Dear God!” Declan exclaimed.

He and his patrol partner aimed their rifles high and squeezed off several rounds. The thing fell and smashed against the mud, breaking into several pieces on impact. The men continued firing until their magazines ran dry.

With the adrenaline pumping through their veins, it took another minute before they realized they had just shot a falling tree.

“Son of a bitch,” Thewlis muttered. Had it been any other scenario, he probably would have laughed at this revelation. But he and Declan were already focused on the next set of thundering booms coming from the jungle. These ones came faster, quickly intensifying.

When they felt the tremors under their feet, they knew it was not a trick of the senses this time.

When the leviathan burst through the trees, attracted by the sound of their previous gunfire, he simply froze. The only parts of him that continued to function were his vocals and his bladder.

Olsen hid behind the corner of the radio shack’s remaining wall. He peeked long enough to witness Thewlis’ fate. A flash of lightning brought into view a huge head with two curved horns and a set of jaws lined with razor-sharp teeth. It stood on its hind legs, its front arms tucked under its chest, obscuring their three sickle-shaped claws.

Its mouth parted like a set of pliers and slammed shut over Thewlis, ending his scream abruptly. It lifted him off the ground and shook him left and right, adding a slew of red droplets to the torrential downpour.

Even through the rain, wind, and thunder, Olsen could register the sound of cracking bones. The beast chomped three times, effortlessly mashing its prey. As it did, it set its sights on the next victim.

Declan was backing away. After managing to quell the shakes in his hand enough to reload his rifle, he fired in short, controlled bursts. The reptilian twitched, annoyed by the tiny projectiles stinging its grey, scaly skin. To it, they were nothing more than mosquito bites. Mostly painless, but very annoying.

The next flash of lightning served to let Declan witness those massive feet moving his way, and those terrifying jaws yawning wide. After that, everything was a brief haze of pain, terror, and fading senses.

Olsen heard blood splattering on the ground. Somehow, it was distinct from the sound of splashing rain. He waited long enough to watch the creature shred its prey. After a final, sickening crunch, he heard it swallow.

Kneeling behind the structure, Olsen waited in silence. Running would do no good, nor would fighting. His best bet would be to remain perfectly still and hope the creature would not search the area anymore. The smell of spilled blood from Thewlis and Declan would somewhat mask his scent.

He held his rifle closely, planning his last stand, should the beast discover him. After some consideration, he decided he would go out blasting at the soft flesh in its mouth should it try and eat him.

Footsteps vibrated under his knees. He heard it sniffing. It was on the other side of the guard shack. It stopped, sniffed, then raked its horns across the wreckage.

More footsteps shook the ground. Next thing Olsen heard was the rustling of branches. As the moments passed, the booming sounds grew shallower and more distant. Before long, they were nothing more than a mild echo, barely discernable from the storm.

Olsen stood up and cracked a grin. He could not believe it. Even now, he managed to keep an inch from the ol’ Grim Reaper’s grasp. To rub it in, he held a middle finger to the jungle where the beast had departed. On top of everything else, he survived two encounters with a giant flesh-eating lizard.

Still, he did not want to chance a third encounter. The thing had gone east, making it common sense for Olsen to turn west. After making some distance, he would go north for the shoreline and set up camp.

He moved in a steady jog, not wanting to make too much noise and potentially make his position known to the reptilian. Surrounded by jungle again, he instinctively kept his rifle pointed. Even though he knew the thing was behind him, he still felt better being ready to shoot at any given moment.

After a quarter-mile, he turned north. Occasionally, the sounds of the jungle caught his attention, but as long as they were not the footsteps of a monster, he would continue moving.

A huge flash, followed by an explosion of sparks was the exception. A streak of lightning had sliced through the jungle and struck a tree. Nature’s very own artillery strike.

Olsen backpedaled, then caught his breath.

Damn! I had more peace and quiet in Iraq!

He went to move forward, only to stop at the sight of a fallen tree in his path. It wasn’t all that large, meaning it had fallen at a relatively young age. Plants, like all of God’s creation, had unlucky members in their population.

Olsen moved around it, only to stop again. There was movement directly in front of him. It was not the creature. It couldn’t have been. No way could it approach without him hearing it.

He did hear something, however. Not footsteps, but wooden cracks!

No longer worried about drawing the creature to his location, Olsen ignited his flashlight. The glow revealed the trunk of a very old Pacific teak. It was leaning heavily in his direction, and by the time he realized the trunk was cracking at the base, it was too late.

Fifty-thousand pounds of flora came down on him.

Olsen was now on his back, with everything below his stomach now flat as paper. Spitting blood from his mouth, he attempted to gasp for breath. His chest failed to rise.

Slowly, the realization of what had just happened sank in. He could not feel anything below the waist, aside from the prodding of a car key inside of his pocket against his crushed thigh.

Olsen died with a half-grin on his face and one final thought going through his mind.

A damn tree.

CHAPTER 2

“I say again, Mayday! Mayday! This is the freight ship Higuchi calling for immediate assistance. Our hull is breached, we are taking on water, and we have already suffered numerous casualties.”

As the first mate, Eduardo Ami, gave the coordinates, he watched outside his wheelhouse portside window as the deckhand, Francis Gregis, was hoisted off the ship. The thirty-five-year-old seaman was covered from his knees to his chest in the ammonia-dripping, leathery limb. Eduardo closed his eyes to spare himself the horrible visual of Francis getting crushed like a grape before being pulled into the water.

The boat shifted forward, the bow dipping into the Indian Ocean, the stern lifting thirty degrees. The cargo shifted, battering the main structure.

Another tentacle rose near the bridge. Suction cups lined its underside, each one pulsing and lined with a circular row of teeth. It, and the seven others like it, had tripled in length in the duration of the trip—leading to Eduardo, and his captain’s, regret for not listening to their gut feeling when taking on the assignment. Money had a way of speaking loudly and overshadowing one’s intuition. He was told it would be safe, that the specimen was sedated, and that its rate of growth was steady. All they needed to do was ship it from point A to point B. It wasn’t the first odd delivery they had made for the company, though it certainly took the cake, even before things went haywire. But the paycheck always made the sailors go along with it.

Now, the last thing on Eduardo’s mind was money. All he wanted was to live to see another day.

The tentacle lashed like a scorpion’s tail, plunging into the hull of the ship. The Higuchi rocked to starboard, then violently back to port as the limb ripped out a section of the ship’s innards.

He heard the door to the bridge open and the footsteps of a frantic captain.

“Is anyone coming?”

“Nobody has responded yet,” Eduardo replied.

The captain put his fist on the console. “Well, try again, damn it!”

“Maybe they don’t believe us,” Eduardo said. “We’re being attacked by a giant octopus, for heaven’s sake.”

The captain pointed to the hundred-plus-foot limbs rising in front of the sunken bow. Their dark-red color clashed with the crystal blue ocean, like giant blood veins that had come alive and were rising directly from hell.

“We have minutes left. If we’re lucky! Try again.”

Eduardo squeezed the radio’s transmitter. “Mayday, Mayday, Mayday! This is the freight ship Higuchi calling for immediate assistance. We are sinking. I repeat, we are sinking. Is anyone out there?”

“This is Firebird-One responding to the Mayday call. Hang in there, Higuchi. We’re on our way.”

Eduardo raised a fist. “Yes! Thank you! Please hurry. We’re under attack by a gigantic octopus. This is not a crank call. There’s a real monster down here, and it’s tearing us apart.”

“Fortunately for you, monsters are our specialty. Stay alive. We’ll be there in sixty seconds.”

That instruction proved more complicated than it sounded. Eduardo’s eyes looked to the windshield right as a wave of water crested over the bridge. When the mist cleared, the tentacle that breached the ocean swung horizontally at frightening speed, straight for the bridge.

“Holy—”

Eduardo and his captain turned on their feet and attempted a Hail Mary sprint aft. The impact sent a shockwave through the structure that lifted both men off their feet. Glass and metal shot horizontally in their direction. Like razor-sharp raindrops, they pelted the rear wall of the bridge.

The first few yards of the tentacle whipped over the two fallen men in search of mortal land-dwelling organisms to kill. It arched upward, ripping a hole in the overhead. It continued pushing until its tip emerged through the top of the bridge. It looped around in a perfect coil, then pulled. The top of the structure peeled off like the aluminum seal of a yogurt bottle, exposing the two bipedal treats inside.

“Oh, God!” the captain cried. He went for the hatch and dove headfirst into the lower deck.

Eduardo was right behind him, nearly landing on top of the ship’s commanding officer as he slid down the ladder. In the following moment, the hatch was ripped away, and the tentacle began tearing at the small opening through which its targets disappeared.

They were now in the galley. The refrigerator door had opened due to the slope the vessel was in, its contents spilling across the deck. A freshly brewed coffee pot fell off the countertop and smashed down near the captain’s face, singeing him with hot fluid.

Eduardo pulled him to his feet.

A moment later, both men plummeted face-first as the overhead came down on top of them. The tentacle that had ripped through the bridge had successfully widened the hatch at the expense of the rest of the ceiling.

Eduardo lifted his head. The captain was unconscious and bleeding from his scalp, having taken a hit from a large piece of wreckage. It was miniscule compared to the agony awaiting the first mate.

He felt wetness seeping through his shirt followed by crushing pressure around his stomach and back. In the blink of an eye, he was hoisted through what was once the bridge and held high in the air.

The deck was now thirty feet below him. In the water on the portside, he saw the red umbrella shape submerged, its many arms dancing around the ravaged ship.

Another crewman was writhing in the grasp of one of the other arms, his mouth spitting blood while he was lowered into the frothing water.

Eduardo felt his stomach threaten to unload its contents. He had seen the thing’s beak and tongue, and the way it eviscerated the tuna that was fed to it prior to departure. The meat was minced and the bones were easily splintered. While it was a relatively quick death—if ten seconds could be considered quick—it was the epitome of suffering.

Unless it crushed him the same way it crushed Francis, Eduardo was looking at the same fate.

Two yellow eyes beamed up at him. The mantle inflated above that umbrella shape, the jaws gorging on the unlucky crewman. A cloud of blood spurted from under the thing, its color a tad brighter than the natural pigment of its flesh.

He felt the arm contract, not to crush him, but to change position to lower him to the beak.

Eduardo wanted to scream, but couldn’t. He could barely even catch a breath. His ribs felt as though they were hugging his lungs. The nerves in his spine were shooting all sorts of warning signs, alerting his brain of structural damage in the body.

Slowly, he began to descend.

BANG!

SPLAT!

The two sounds were practically simultaneous to each other, as well as the sensation of wet fluid splattering onto Eduardo’s arms and face. He looked down and saw the huge bloody gap in the tentacle. The edges of the wound were frizzy and loose, having carved a clean path through the limb.

His eyes turned to the sound of engines whining above the water several yards to the southwest.

Rescue had come in the form of an aircraft design he had never seen in his life. It was almost otherworldly in the way it was shaped. Almost insect-like, utilizing thrusters with a bright blue glow.

A boarding ramp was open on its aft side, where a man in black tactical gear appeared to be prepping a fast-rope descent.

A fuselage door on its portside was open. Kneeling at the opening was a man with a large sniper rifle. How the guy was able to hit the wriggling arm was beyond Eduardo, but he certainly wasn’t complaining. All he could do was hope he fired again.

Granted, there was still a thirty-foot drop, but he would rather suffer that than becoming chowder.

BANG!

SPLAT!

He got his wish. That wasn’t to say the landing was pleasant. Eduardo fell past the structure onto the main deck, feeling his legs snap on impact and his mind go to black.

“Ooo!” Thomas recoiled at the sight of the poor crewman plummeting to the shipping vessel. The battered structure obscured the landing, but it was safe to assume the guy ended up with a little more than some bumps and bruises.

Archer fired off a few more shots, striking two more of the writhing arms. The beast lurched in the water, moving its bulk behind the Higuchi’s rudder.

Renee growled, her hand on the weapons control. “Oh, you’ve got to be kidding me! Missiles are armed, but I can’t get a shot at the son of a gun without finishing off the ship. I swear this is a common issue we’re faced with.”

Howard was in the cockpit with her, monitoring the creature through a feed sent by an underwater drone he deployed upon arrival.

“It’s definitely an octopus. Unlike the last cephalopod we had to deal with, it does not have a shell.”

“At least there’s some good news,” Thomas said. “Once we clear the ship, we can blow the thing to kingdom come.”

“You make that sound like it’s a piece of cake,” Charity said. She was watching the tentacles moving around the transom while she spoke. A true kraken, the beast had limbs nearly matching the length of the ship.

“I guess there’s only one way to find out,” Thomas said. “Lieutenant, bring us over the boat. The rest of you, be ready with the winch.”

He double-checked his harness to make sure it was attached to the cable. The MEAV banked hard to port and came to a sudden stop directly over the vessel.

Archer popped off another magazine’s worth of rounds, forcing a few of those tentacles to retract into the water.

Renee seized the opportunity and lowered the aircraft until it was twenty feet above the ship.

Charity stood by the winch and handed Thomas a spare harness. “You know, it’s crazy stuff like this that causes G.O.R.E. Sector to constantly have job openings.”

“Hungry sea monsters?” Thomas asked.

Charity rolled her eyes. “Hotshot stunts like the one you’re about to pull.”

He leaned over the ramp, hands on the rope. “Gotta earn that paycheck.”

He hopped backwards and let the winch rapidly lower him down to the Higuchi. Through the crashing of waves beneath him and the whining of the gears above him, he heard Charity’s voice.

“You make it sound like it’s as big as the things we hunt!”

Thomas allowed himself one brief chuckle, then devoted his full attention to the task. He could see the fallen crewman lying near a cargo container. The three-hundred-foot ship was beginning to slip bow-first into the Indian Ocean. Even without the colossal beast underneath it, the Higuchi had only a couple of minutes of existence above water.

His eyes went to the main body of the deck. One of the cargo holds was open. Not just open, but its hatch was torn away entirely. The top edges were bent outward, turning its original square shape into something more spherical. The metal deck was rumpled in a way that was clearly not by design.

Even more interesting was the water splashing onto the deck from within the hold. The stern was elevated, meaning it was highly unlikely to be seawater seeping through a breach.

No, that water was already in there… it was part of the cargo.

His boots touched down. Thomas unclipped himself from the rope and hurried over to the injured crewman. The guy’s mouth was moving. He was alive, teetering on the brink of consciousness. There was no shortage of injuries, the most severe being both legs which were clearly bent out of shape. A wheelchair would be in this guy’s future for the next several months, if not permanently.

Thomas knelt by him and tapped his face. “Hello, skipper. Wake up. We’re in a bit of a hurry.”

A heavy hit from underneath the vessel supported his point.

The man’s eyes opened. He grunted, his lungs possibly damaged by a broken rib.

“I’m gonna get you out of here,” Thomas continued. “Can you tell me your name?”
The man grunted, the very process of speaking proving painful.

“Eeh… Ed… Eduardo.”

“Nice to meet you, Eduardo.” Thomas slipped the harness over his shoulders. “Sorry, friend. This is probably going to be painful, but again, we’re in a bit of a time crunch.”

The crewman bared his teeth and sat up to make the process easier for him. Clearly, he had no objections. It was a good sign, as it indicated he did not suffer any significant head injuries from the fall.

He took in a breath. “There’s…” Getting the words out proved difficult. The very fact he was trying to speak proved significant.

Thomas took notice of the way Eduardo was tilting his head at the battered structure.

“There’s someone else in there?” he asked. Eduardo nodded. “How many?”

“One. Captain,” Eduardo gasped. “M-mess hall.”

“I’ll get him.” Thomas clipped the rope to the man’s harness and looked up at Firebird-One. “All set. Take him up. I’m gonna need another minute. We’ve got one more survivor.”

“Copy,” Charity responded through his receiver.

The winch went to work, lifting Eduardo off the deck.

Rising at equal speed were the kraken’s tentacles. They reached past the ship’s gunnel towards the MEAV.

Renee banked to starboard and climbed, the passenger still dangling by the line.

Thomas unslung his REX-2025 assault rifle and delivered a series of three-round bursts at the thick, rubbery arms. Little blobs of flesh popped open, ejecting pink mist.

The tentacles arched over the side of the vessel, no longer in pursuit of Firebird-One in favor of crushing the man who dared sting them.

“Oh, hell.”

He turned on his heel and raced into the structure. Inside, he found himself climbing over wreckage just to get through the passageway. It was a large structure, containing several rooms for crew quarters, a conference area, a workout station, and many other functions.

The recent quip from Charity regarding their payrate reverberated in his mind.

I might just have to advocate for a raise. Or, at least a bonus, considering the extra work we’ve been putting in.

Then again, it was uncertain whether those holding G.O.R.E. Sector’s purse strings would entertain such a notion in this regard. The only reason they were even in range was because Thomas had Raptor Pack investigating an area where a meteorite had confirmed touching down in the ocean during the 2019 Ecclesiastes Meteor Storm. It was not just the rock he was interested in, but signs that somebody else had been searching for it; that ‘somebody’ being the Brom-Caylen Corporation.

So far, they found neither a meteorite nor signs of a dig.

Ultimately, it could be argued that the expedition paid off, as it put Raptor Pack in proximity of a mutant encounter and enabled them to save a couple of crew members. The original task was not something that was considered a high priority.

Ever since the discovery of a large Ecclesiastes meteorite fragment in the Half Moon Trench, excavated by the now mega-corporation Brom-Caylen, Thomas could not find peace of mind. Even with the mine sealed, just having the knowledge that large chunks of rock existed, all full of the extraterrestrial particle, proved more nerve-wracking than the mutations they created. Especially since it was clear there were powerful people who sought to use it for their own gain. The official story put out by the company was they were hoping to research the particle and develop a way to make lifeforms immune to it. A vaccine, so to speak.

Thomas wasn’t buying into it. While a cure would prove profitable for whoever developed it, there was always more money to be made in weaponizing the particle. Governments all over the world had ambitions of developing the perfect soldier. It stood to reason some of them may see the Ecclesiastes particles as the secret to such ambition. No matter how advanced technology got, there always would be boots on the ground and triggers being pulled.

The passageway led to a juncture. Thomas checked each direction in search of the mess hall. He was practically running downhill, the tilt of the Higuchi getting steeper.

A pitch to starboard threw the captain off balance.

“You’re running out of time, Tom!” Charity said. “It’s rocking the ship like a toy boat.”

Thomas rested against the wall. “Oh, really? What gave it away?”

He checked the labels on the bulkheads and determined the route to the mess hall.

There, he found the ship’s captain face-down on the floor, unconscious.

He checked for a pulse. The man was still alive, but had suffered a laceration to the head and had a severe bleed.

“Captain?” Charity called.

“Yeah, yeah, I know.”

Thomas looked up at the open ceiling where the bridge had once been. The ladder was still intact, and he could see the MEAV hovering in the air like a giant dragonfly.

A red tentacle passed over the gap and came down somewhere on the ship’s port side.

“On my way out,” he said into his mic. “Come over the superstructure. I’ve got the last survivor.”

He put the ship’s captain over his shoulder and began the climb. In a few short moments, he emerged in the golden sunlight, the smell of salt and ammonia drifting around him.

Firebird-One positioned twenty feet overhead. The rope came down his way, its clip striking a chunk of collapsed overhead at his feet. A harness was already attached to it, waiting to be strapped onto a body.

He clipped it over the survivor’s torso, then reattached it, and his own harness, to the clip.

Sniper rounds rang overhead. Despite the damage they took from Archer’s Pterosaur rifle, the limbs kept coming. The beast was adamant. It would not be deterred by flesh wounds. Its aggression matched its deformity and increased size. Even the Nautilus had some sense of self preservation. But this clearly intelligent creature was truly determined to kill, even in the face of severe bodily injury.

“Take us up,” he said.

In that same moment, the two captains were yanked into the sky. The tentacles came after them, shuddering as they absorbed hits from Archer’s Pterosaur.

The next series of shots were concurrent with loud explosions. The ammonia odor, in addition to that of burnt gunpowder and charred flesh, immediately intensified.

Explosive rounds. Archer’s favorite.

Thomas emerged on the corner of the ramp. Charity reached over and pulled them into the interior of the aircraft.

He detached himself from the cable and lifted the ramp. “He needs medical attention.”

Charity lowered the ship captain to the deck. A medical kit was already opened, its gauze and painkillers already being put to use on Eduardo.

“The Crixus has an infirmary. We’ll take them there,” she said.

“Sounds good.” Thomas moved to the cockpit. “After we turn the kraken into cat food.”

Renee Larson had the same mindset. By the time Thomas reached the cockpit, she had turned Firebird-One around.

It tilted down fifteen degrees.

The beast was in an angry rage, its huge yellow eyes and round mantle fully emerged. Several of its limbs were tattered due to Archer’s punishment, some of them reduced in size by a third.

The remaining tentacles slashed the air, as though daring Raptor Pack to move in for another bout.

“Look at that,” Renee said with a chuckle. “This guy’s really pissed. Probably the angriest mutation I’ve seen so far.”

“Suits me,” Thomas replied. “Why don’t we give it an attitude adjustment?”

Renee armed her missiles. “Lights out.”

Six hellfire missiles flew at the cephalopod and brought its existence to an explosive conclusion. Six giant fireballs erupted, reducing the creature’s spherical body shape into a bloody collection of tattered flesh chunks, black ink, and pink blood.

The tentacles ceased their movement, aside from a few automatic death twitches. The smoke thinned, revealing the floating field of body parts orbiting the sinking Higuchi. Its stern lifted to sixty degrees, the water in that cargo hold spilling over the main deck and into the ocean.

Thomas’ sense of victory was short-lived.

“Well done, Lieutenant. Take us to the Crixus. Alert the medical team that we have two patients in critical condition.”

“Aye-aye.”

As the MEAV turned southeast, Thomas returned to the rear of the fuselage where Charity and Howard were working on the sailors. Eduardo was leaning against the bulkhead, his eyes shut.

Thomas took a knee beside him.

Charity, taking notice of this, perked up. “He might have a concussion.”

Thomas put a hand on Eduardo’s shoulder and gently shifted him. “What were you transporting on that ship?”

Charity stood up. “Thomas, he’s not in the condition to answer questions.”

Thomas shook the man again. “I think there’s another reason besides mutation to explain why that thing was so aggressive. Eduardo, were you holding that thing in your cargo hold?”

Charity was torn between interfering with the interrogation and focusing on her work on the other patient.

“Wait, you think they had the octopus on the ship?” Howard asked. “I know you’ve got a bone to pick with Brom-Caylen—and I don’t blame you—but don’t you think that sounds a little paranoid?”

Eduardo wheezed, his face tensing. “They paid us…”

The two scientists went silent, the engineer’s eyebrows raising to his hairline.

“In fairness, ‘paranoid’ might be a little harsh…”

CHAPTER 3

It was late into the evening when the medical doctor aboard the G.O.R.E. Sector research vessel Crixus met with Raptor Pack in the laboratory.

The five team members bided their time in their own way. Howard worked on his machines while simultaneously remote-operating his underwater drone that had been deployed during the attack. Charity had her eyes to a microscope, studying tissue samples taken from various mutations. Renee gorged on coffee and had her nose in a World War Two history book. Archer, true to his usual self, had one hand on his rifle like a wizard with a staff, while his other hand propped up an encyclopedia of military weapons.

Captain Thomas Rodney had been busy studying maps of the Indian Ocean in search of locations that preceded the Higuchi’s trajectory. He had wondered if there was a research facility on the African East Coast where Brom-Caylen had been experimenting with the particle. He also tried to examine areas in the ship’s path. Unfortunately, given the state of the vessel at the time of their arrival, it was impossible to know the precise direction the Higuchi was traveling in. In the attack, the ship had likely fishtailed a bit as it was ravaged by the beast.

The company had to have been involved. Even if it wasn’t Brom-Caylen, the situation needed to be investigated quickly, as somebody was clearly having a mutation shipped somewhere.

Thomas stood up to greet the medical doctor.

“How are they?”

Dr. Samuel Karmac removed his glasses and began rubbing his white coat over the large lenses. “They’re stable. Both of them show brain swelling. We’re gonna need to get them to the mainland as soon as possible. I already spoke to the ship’s captain and he is already diverting course to Hawaii. The Coast Guard has been alerted. They’re sending a medical helicopter to meet us halfway. Unless you guys want to fly him with the MEAV.”

“Negative,” Thomas said. “It’s a combat vessel. There’s medical supplies on board, but it’s not meant to handle patients in that kind of condition. Yeah, it’s fast, but if anything goes wrong during the trip… I’d rather they stay in our med bay.”

“Since we’ve been doing more long-range recon, I might have to make some adjustments to the design,” Howard chimed in.

Thomas acknowledged the statement with a nod. As of now, all he cared about was getting to the bottom of his investigation.

“I don’t suppose we’ll be able to speak with either of them?”

“Best not,” Dr. Karmac said. “I’m sorry we’re interrupting your sweep of these waters. But…”

“No, no,” Thomas said, waving his hand. “Human life is the priority. No apology necessary. I’m glad they’re stable. Hopefully, we can get them fixed up and back to their normal lives. Thank you for your help, Doctor.”

Dr. Karmac gave a slight bow, then exited the lab.

Thomas returned to his desk and leaned against it, lips tight in frustration. While he meant every word of what he had just said to the doc, it was still a punch to the gut knowing he would not get any more information from the two crewmen.

“Hey, Cap,” Renee said. “Don’t feel too down on yourself. We killed another mutation today. Had we not been ‘Easter egg’ hunting, we would not have been close enough to intercept. And that big ol’ octopus would be out there, wrecking other ships.”

“Was there anything on that ship to link it with anybody?” Charity asked. “No company logo? Staff uniforms? Anything?”

Thomas shook his head. “It appears they were acting as a private contractor. The background I ran on the vessel and its skipper was clean. Just shipping freight for various clients. They could’ve been coming from anywhere, going anywhere. Until those guys are in condition to say something, we’ll have no idea where.”

Howard cleared his throat in a deliberate attempt to get the attention of everyone in the room. He sat up straight in his chair and nodded at his computer screen.

“Wow, Dr. Tate. Do we win a prize if we correctly guess what…” Renee mimicked his head nod with exaggerated motion, “…means?”

The engineer’s expression soured. “It means ‘my machines have come to the rescue’.”

Renee smirked. “You and your robots. Get a room already.”

“Better company than what’s in this room, that’s for sure,” he retorted. “Anyway, that drone we monitored the octopus with, I was able to access its controls from here. During our wait, I used it to locate and infiltrate the wreckage.”

“How deep is it?” Charity asked.

“A little less than a mile,” Howard said. “Just barely within the drone’s limits. Anyway, I was doing some searching through what was left of the bridge. After sorting through some debris, I found something that might be of interest.”

“A manifest?” Thomas asked.

“No. A chart,” Howard replied.

Thomas, Charity, and Renee gathered by his desk and looked at the image on screen. A small red circle had been drawn inside a patch of islands three hundred miles southwest of where they discovered the Higuchi.

“The skipper was old fashioned,” Howard continued. “He liked to use maps in addition to tech. Also, it was probably necessary, since some of these islands don’t show up on any databases.”

“How big are they?” Thomas asked.

“Some are nothing more than atolls,” Howard answered. “A couple of them are relatively large, two-quarters of a mile in diameter. The biggest one is about three miles from north to south.” He zoomed in on the image. “And it just happens to be right where they marked the chart.”

“That’s where they were coming from,” Thomas surmised.

“What do we know about this place?” Renee asked.

“From what I’ve been able to research, it’s a small archipelago called Lasenn Baryer. They’re uninhabited as far as I know. There have been some excavation projects on the main island, Zil Nesans. Deforestation, stuff like that. Environmental groups protested and stopped the company’s project over there, and it’s my understanding the equipment and facilities were sold off.”

Thomas’ eyebrows raised with that tidbit of information. “There’s already a foundation for a facility there?” Howard nodded. “How interesting. With the groundwork laid out, someone could easily set up a research station there. Especially if that ‘someone’ wanted something off the grid, where they would be far less likely to be noticed.”

Howard nodded in agreement to his captain’s assessment. “It was purchased in late 2019. Very low profile. It doesn’t say who bought the place. But it does make for a neat little coincidence, doesn’t it?”

“We’re still making a lot of assumptions,” Charity said. “We can’t send an entire strike team based on a hunch. That’s why they have reconnaissance teams.” She smiled. “Like us.”

Thomas appreciated the little gesture. The team was on board with what he wanted to do.

“Prep the MEAV and have it ready to go,” he said to Renee. “We’re looking at a thirty-minute flight time. As much as I’d like to go now, I’m not very fond of making this trip in the dark.”

“Dawn it is, then,” Charity said.

“We depart at oh-six-hundred. Get some shut-eye.” Thomas looked at the coffee cup in Renee’s hand. “Something tells me that’ll be easier for some of us than others.”

“Ah.” She brushed off the statement. “I’m one of those freaks who only needs four or five good hours of sleep. And a full pot of this when I wake up.” She lifted the cup.

“Hence I installed a coffee maker with all her favorite flavors into Firebird-One,” Howard added.

Thomas smiled. “We’ll have it brewed and ready to go by the time we take off.”

***

“You lied!”

Thomas hung his head low and sighed. His enjoyment of the early morning sunrise was short-lived. In the madness of getting geared up and ready for lift-off, of course he would forget to get the coffee pot going.

“Great way to start the day,” Charity said, tapping Thomas on the back as she boarded the MEAV. Without a doubt, she was highly amused at the deathly stare her captain was getting from the lieutenant.

Renee stood in the fuselage next to the empty pot atop the refreshments countertop, arms crossed.

“Yeah, yeah, I know. I’m a lousy boss,” Thomas admitted.

“I would’ve remembered,” Howard quipped as he stepped aboard, also taking the time to give Thomas a comical pat on the back.

“I believe you,” Renee said. “Our good ol’ captain was all gung-ho about getting up at the crack of dawn to do some exciting detective work. And look at him now, dropping the ball.”

Thomas took in the punishment. He deserved it. There were two things you absolutely did not do in G.O.R.E. Sector. One: let monsters live to see another day. Two: deprive Renee Larson of coffee. It has been said that both lead to disastrous consequences.

The pilot tilted her head up and sniffed. “Hold on a second… there’s an aroma in the air… French Roast… and pumpkin spice!”

All eyes turned to the fifth member of the team. Ray Archer had a bag of weapons slung over his shoulder and two pots of freshly brewed coffee in his hands.

“Hey!” Charity exclaimed with joy. “Looks like our pilot will function at full strength after all.”

“Let’s get General Kilmore on the horn,” Renee quipped. “I hereby declare we demote Thomas and promote Archer to captain.” She quickly made room for the two pots as the sniper stepped inside. “Nice work, Sergeant. How’d you know to come loaded?”

Archer secured the pots in their holding units on the countertop, which kept them in place while the aircraft was in motion.

“Watching the captain’s six is part of the job.”

“In other words, you knew he’d forget,” Charity said with a laugh.

“You’re all funny,” Thomas said. He stepped inside Firebird-One and closed the ramp. “Once you’re satisfied, Lieutenant, would you be so kind as to take us up?”

Renee put a lid on her full coffee cup and looked at Archer. “I must make sure the new captain concurs.” Archer gave a thumbs up while draining his own cup of Joe. “He concurs.” She moved to the cockpit and started the engines.

“Oh lordy.” Thomas took his seat. “The mutations are less vicious.”

Firebird-One lifted off the flight deck and sped southwest.

CHAPTER 4

By the time Firebird-One reached its destination, the sun had fully risen over the horizon and cast a golden embrace over the Indian Ocean and the specks of land that garnished its surface.

Most of the island chain of Lasenn Baryer was comprised of small atolls, many of which were nothing but rock and void of any life, flora or fauna. Like the flagship of a large fleet, the largest of the islands, Zil Nesans, rested square in the center of the twenty-mile-wide spread.

Its shape was the most unique among the landmasses. While most of the islands and atolls had typical round or semi-round shapes, Zil Nesans resembled the squiggly shape of a fat snake in motion. The land had four bends, two on the west and two on the east, with the narrow ‘tail’ pointing south, and the slightly wider ‘head’ end facing north.

It was set apart from the others, not only in its size and shape, but in its flora. Much of the island was covered in lush green trees. It was a feature that was nearly erased, as evidenced by the several barren areas on its southwest bend and its northern tip. It was the areas where the previous occupier had pillaged the island for its resources before succumbing to public pressure.

There were no visually gratifying beaches here. In most locations, the jungle extended directly to the shoreline. Other sections included rock structures, all of which were the kind you wanted to keep a boat clear of.

Inland, the island was not exactly ideal for housing. A huge rock structure towered near the northeast bend, with caves having formed at the base. A large ridge lined the island’s northwestern shore, hooking right a few hundred yards from the northern tip. There, it connected with a steep cliff that overlooked a section of land that had been cleared of flora. The cliff extended outward like a lowercase letter ‘r’, its tip reaching several yards outward, and comprised of heavy granite.

Just looking at the not-so-natural formation, Thomas knew it would not be long before that part of the landscape would succumb to a combination of gravity and wear and tear.

Renee Larson conducted a complete low-altitude sweep of the island. In doing so, they identified two main compounds, one near the north end of the island, the other on the southeast bend.

None of the structures resembled that of a lumbering company. They were high tech, with several security measures such as watch towers and perimeter fencing. Both had a few small buildings resembling manufactured homes lining the south side of a large, steel dome. Jeep trails were paved using the purchased construction equipment, allowing for the passage of small vehicles to move to and from the docks.

That was the first sign that something was amiss on this island. There were no boats, and all land vehicles were gathered at the docks.

The second sign of trouble were the signs of devastation that lay about in the middle of a small clearing. A small building, probably a guard shack serving as a checkpoint between the two facilities, lay in ruins. The ground around the fragments had been trampled by some colossal force, as though a giant rubber mallet had been used on the area.

Renee steered the MEAV over the northern facility. The dome was over two stories high and lacking any windows other than a small skylight. It was adjacent to a second, smaller dome of similar design. For that one, the skylight was completely torn away.

The trailers were lined in two rows of threes, the easternmost ones set up behind a cube-shaped, two-story structure. It was comprised of some sort of galvanized steel and was fitted with air conditioning and everything else the staff needed to stay comfortable during their stay on the island. It was all one single unit—a module.

Directly to the north of the steel module was a different structure. Its design was simultaneously highly advanced, yet reminiscent of ancient architecture.

Pyramid-shaped, it stood at a single story. The four sides of its roof had thin seams at the corners and hinges where they connected with the walls.

Whatever the building was, it was designed to open up like a flower.

“The hell is that?” Charity said.

Everyone looked to Howard for his technical knowledge.

“I’d say it’s a holding facility,” he replied. “Whatever’s in it, they felt compelled to lower it in from the top. Also, that looks like 304L austenitic stainless steel.”

Everyone stared at him in silence. Obviously, there was significance to that description, but none of them knew what it was supposed to be.

Howard groaned. “It’s nuclear-grade.”

“Nuclear?” Renee said. “They building reactors here?”

Thomas shook his head. “Somehow I doubt that.”

Already, his faith in his instinct was growing. His gut feeling was on point: somebody was conducting experiments on this island. What he needed to do now was find some evidence connecting this place with Brom-Caylen, and to prove some sort of illegal research was being done with the meteorite particle and animal mutations.

From what he could see, there were no company logos or anything explicitly representing that corporation. He would need to find any surviving staff or have Howard hack into one of the computers.

That would come soon enough. First, he wanted to maintain the high ground until he had a better understanding of what they were dealing with.

After an aerial survey of the north compound, they completed their sweep and settled over the southeast facility.

Hovering fifty feet above the structure, they viewed a dome that was roughly three stories high. It was adjacent to a wide, rectangular complex with pipes running to and from the ocean. No doubt, it was where a certain cephalopod was housed.

The damage here was far more significant. Firstly, the dome was completely torn open on the northern side, the walls pushed outward by some powerful force from within. It proved only to be the beginning of that devastation, as the trailers and cube-shaped lab module had been smashed to bits, littering the ground with steel, wood, plastic, and wiring. The perimeter did not fare much better, with two watchtowers having been completely toppled.

A large generator was hooked up to the dome and the compound. It, too, was ripped to shreds.

Like the north compound, there were several trails paved between the perimeter and the docks. Unlike the north, many of the vehicles were wrecked at the main gate. Furthermore, there were remains of structures Thomas believed to be security checkpoint stations positioned near the trails. There was a large security presence on this island, and it proved insufficient in containing the subjects in those domes.

At the bend were a few docks. Again, no boats were present. Only a small group of vehicles remained at the shoreline.

One of those vehicles was a large flatbed. On its trailer was a large container with an open door facing the water.

“This is where that ship picked up the octopus,” Thomas said. He pointed at some pumps set up near the dock. “See those? They modified the cargo hold to serve as a pool, then used the pumps to fill it with seawater.”

“Almost makes sense,” Howard said. “Except, that container looks a little small to house the octopus we saw.”

“That’s the thing,” Charity said. “I think it underwent a dramatic growth spurt at the time it broke loose. When it was loaded onto the ship, it probably had not undergone the full extent of its mutation.”

“Also explains why it was even more determined to kill than anything we’ve encountered so far,” Thomas said. “Its aggression was not just a side effect of the particle; it was pissed. It was probably captured and experimented on. As Charity said, it wasn’t done growing until they were out at sea. Once it freed itself, it viewed all humans as responsible for its torture. Figured it wanted to get even.” He looked to the cockpit. “Lieutenant, let’s get a closer look at the facility. I’d like to see what else they were experimenting on.”

“Want me to touch down?”

“Yeah, go ahead,” Thomas said. “Be on your guard, everyone. Renee, stay in the cockpit. I’d like to be able to lift off in a hurry if necessary.”

“You got it, Cap,” the lieutenant replied.

She set Firebird-One down on the clearing west of the compound. The ramp came down and the team moved to the fencing, weapons shouldered. Thomas, Charity, and Howard carried the standard G.O.R.E. Sector weapon: Mastodon M3 Assault Rifles. Archer, with his sniper rifle slung over his back and a grenade launcher under his left shoulder, held a Rex-T1 chain gun. It was similar to a minigun in its basic shape, though the rate of fire was slower, and the weapon a bit lighter, making it a little more ideal to be used by hand instead of on the side of a helicopter.

He provided cover, keeping the five rotating barrels facing the jungle while the other three closed in on a toppled section of fencing. It was here where one of the towers had come down.

The fencing was rippled, having been crushed in a couple of specific sections. They were malformations that came from heavy impacts, almost like a giant sledgehammer coming down. Or a huge foot from a colossal beast.

Thomas knew which it was. The prints leading away from the fence line confirmed it.

Charity took a knee to inspect one of the prints. It sank three inches into the dirt, had a rounded heel, and three pointed toes that were clearly tipped with narrow talons. From the tip of the middle toe to the heel, it measured approximately eight feet.

Thomas studied the pattern of the large prints. The creature had stepped outward before circling back and resuming its attack on the facility. He had tracked units of men in his time in the Middle East. He knew the difference between the foot patterns of humans versus quadrupedal organisms.

This beast, whatever it was, walked on its hind legs. That fact combined with the basic shape of its feet caused his mind to paint a very specific image in his head.

“Oh, great. Don’t tell me these guys have managed to resurrect dinosaurs using the particles.”

Charity replied with a chuckle. “The stuff isn’t that powerful.” She stood up and followed the tracks with her eyes, ultimately settling on the dome-shaped prison where it had broken free from. “That said, we may as well be dealing with a theropod of some sort, because that’s what this thing mutated into. Whatever it is. Was.”

They stepped over the fencing and made their way into the compound.

There was hardly anything in the structure that remained in its original shape. The lab module had been caved in before having its walls ripped out. Its insides were trashed, with a chemical smell permeating the air.

Thomas checked the personnel trailers. One had been flipped over and had its underside caved in until it was touching the ceiling. The next one over had its entire end ripped out.

Lying on the ground between the two structures were the scattered remains of a human being. Who it was, or what their role had been, was impossible to know based on what he was looking at. Basically, the escaped prisoner, like the giant octopus, was not just acting out of hunger or instinctual aggression; it had a vendetta. It did not just want to kill the humans who had captured and abused it. It wanted to pulverize them.

“Damn it.” Howard stepped out of the breach in the science module. “The computers are smashed. I can’t access any of the data.”

“Did you at least find anything of interest?” Thomas asked him. Howard nodded with an ‘oh yeah’ look. Thomas jogged over to meet with him, and allowed the engineer to take him into the large structure.

Charity was inside, wearing a mask while sorting through some of the equipment and refrigerated samples. Granted, they were not refrigerated any more. She turned to face the captain and held up a syringe large enough to puncture an elephant.

Thomas stopped in his tracks at the sight of the unnerving medical instrument, then slowly turned his eyes left to right as he took in the sight of the wreckage. At one point, this place was a beacon of advanced technology, where chemistry and engineering was intricately used to break down the particles and convert them into an injectable state.

Moreover, he searched for anything that explicitly connected the place with Brom-Caylen.

“Look what we’ve got here,” Howard said. He picked up a glass cube off one of the lab tables and held it towards Thomas. Behind the tightly-sealed see-through barrier was an inch of violet rock. It resembled a crystal in its basic shape, with a few specks of dust tinting the base where it was secured. Its sides were chipped in a way consistent with a tiny etching tool.

He knew what he was looking at.

“We’ve got ourselves a meteorite sample,” he said. “Something tells me General Kilmore will be very interested in this.”

“Stands to reason,” Howard said. He pointed at the ceiling, then at the dome outside. “I know I’m stating the obvious, but the people running this show have deep pockets. This module had to be flown in by helicopters. Plural. Same with the dome. Some assembly had to take place on site, of course, but my point is that you can’t just find this stuff at your local Home Depot. This is a specialized facility with specialized equipment.” He moved to the chemistry part of the lab. “I’d have to look through any notes, but I think it’s safe to assume they liquified the particle and injected it directly into a test subject.”

“Mutation straight from the bloodstream,” Thomas said.

He thought of the video Charity found on one of the lab computers in the deep-sea facility Scarlett Caldera, in which similar experiments were being carried out.

“If that’s the case, its level of mutation might be radically different from anything we’ve seen so far,” Charity said.

Thomas walked along the west wall and found a set of stairs which led to the second floor.

He made the ascent and immediately found a hallway with many doors leading into what appeared to be offices or small lab rooms. In some, he found X-ray machines and other types of lab equipment he could not identify. Farther into the floor, he located some private offices and a conference room with a large flat-screen monitor.

Gotta have those weekly meetings with the top brass.

The next room past the conference area was an office. It was fairly intact, with only a few items scattered during the chaos that had taken place.

He opened the door. A few folders had toppled off the wire rack. Thomas picked them up and flipped through them, finding nothing significant, save for one common detail on the pages. It was a name: Dr. Gretta Domergue.

It was the same name that was listed on the diploma on the wall. Thomas took a peek at the name on the office door. Sure enough, it was that same person.

He got on the radio. “Renee?”

“I’m here.”

“While you’re waiting, can you look up a name for me on the ship’s computer? Dr. Gretta Domergue.”

“Will do.”

“Appreciated.” Thomas looked at the most interesting find, which lay in the middle of the desk. A laptop had been left behind. It was undamaged and shut off, probably having run out of battery. “Howard? You might wanna come upstairs.”

“On my way.”

While he waited, Thomas sorted through some of the loose papers in hopes of finding any useful information that could be used to identify the ones in charge of this operation. The fact there were no property signs near the docks or on the perimeter suggested those in charge knew they were doing something shady. Even the printed files and letters did not have an identifying logo that many businesses used. Everything was fairly plain, almost amateurish in its formatting. There were hardly any names that were used.

The only one Thomas was able to find was from a crumpled letter that appeared to have been stepped on during the evacuation. Thomas picked it up and read the text.

Hello Dr. Domergue. I have received your email regarding the specimen and have taken your concerns into account. The co-sponsors do not agree with your assessment, frankly, and they threaten to withdraw funding unless you go through with the project as planned.

If things get out of hand, have the security forces put the subject down. At least that way we can say we tried, and it won’t look as if we’re stalling. Our partners want to be assured that the stuff can at least yield results of some kind. They’ll be able to tolerate if more tinkering needs to be done with the formula, but the endless postponement is giving the impression you are not confident in your theory.

Please run the trial by the 21st.

-                         Harvey Q.

Thomas wasn’t sure if he was frustrated or intrigued. Even in communications, these people were careful. It fed into his belief that Brom-Caylen was behind all of this. They were on edge following the events in the trench and did not want to leave a trail of any kind, not even on an island in the middle of nowhere that was rarely visited by anybody. They were not dumb; they knew G.O.R.E. Sector would dig, or at least Thomas Rodney would.

“Hey!” Howard called out.

Thomas greeted him at the door. “I don’t suppose you’d be able to hack into this computer?”

Howard tapped a few keys. The thing failed to turn on.

“I can, but I’m gonna have to plug it in,” he replied. “Fortunately, we can do that in the MEAV.”

“Excellent.” Thomas closed the laptop and handed it to Howard, then dug around in search of its charger, eventually finding it in one of the drawers. “What about the device in the conference room? There’s a desktop computer in there that appears to be connected to the large wall monitor. I think they were having conferences with somebody through that thing. You think we might find a history through that computer? Maybe a recording of any meetings?”

Howard stepped into the hall and peeked into the conference room. “It’s hard to say. It’s possible. But, without the generator running, it won’t work.” He perked up and pointed his thumb in the direction Firebird-One was parked. “We do have portable chargers in the storage bay. Basically, big batteries you can plug a phone or computer into. I almost forgot, since we hardly ever use them. Anyway, those should work in getting the desktop set up.”

“Alright, let’s do it,” Thomas said.

Right then, Renee’s voice came through the radio.

“Hey, Cap. I found a little bit of stuff on that doctor.”

“I’m listening,” Thomas said.

“Born 1978 in Trier, Germany. Graduated Ludwig Maxmilian University of Munich in 2002. Moved to Austria and got accepted into ISTA, where she specialized in biology, and had published a paper regarding bio-engineering. Graduated with PhD in 2007, did some postdoctoral work… blah, blah, blah… moved to Poland and worked for an international corporation called Iris.”

Thomas looked to Howard to see if he knew anything about that organization.

“They work in animal testing,” the engineer said. “Testing all kinds of products. Medicine, poisons, vaccines.”

“Her employment there lasted until 2017,” Renee continued. “After that, she got a green card for the United States. Annnnd… her file stops there.”

“Thanks, Renee,” Thomas said.

“What? She just vanished after 2017?” Howard said.

“Apparently,” Thomas replied. “If she has no public records for the last eight years, either she forgot to file taxes, or her record was deleted.”

“That would insinuate someone in the government has access to her data,” Howard said.

“If that’s the case, Brom-Caylen’s got friends in high places and is putting them to work.” Thomas sighed, then started walking for the stairs. “I think it’s time to get Kilmore on the horn.”

CHAPTER 5

Charity Black stepped out of the wreckage that was once a lab. By now, it had become clear she would need a transport wagon in order to move her many samples from the facility to Firebird-One.

She stepped outside just in time to catch the much-needed breeze. Even with the side of the building torn out, it was toasty inside that lab. The clouds were sparse today, letting the sun warm the island without interference. Had it not been for the wreckage and aura of death around her, Charity would have considered this place beautiful.

The sight of Archer standing guard was at once comforting and unnerving. On the one hand, she felt grateful and lucky to have a fighting machine like him on her team. On the other hand, just by looking at him, she could tell he sensed danger in the air.

Archer was like a security camera, the ‘lens’ being the six barrels of that chain gun he was holding, slowly swinging left and right in search of anything unfriendly that may emerge from that lush, green jungle.

Charity passed by him, offering a friendly glance. “Almost makes you want to sit back and drink a Mai Tai, doesn’t it?” She gestured at one of the tropical trees and gave a moment for a response.

Archer shook his head. “Whiskey’s just fine.”

She snorted. Of course the guy would go with the manly option.

Jogging the rest of the distance, Charity arrived at Firebird-One’s ramp and entered its fuselage. Inside, she checked the storage compartments for her gear. The setup reminded her of the way carry-on luggage was stored on a commercial plane.

She was still getting used to it. The first few compartments stored weapons; some being standard infantry weapons, others being designed specifically for G.O.R.E. Sector.

There were a couple of empty storage compartments on the port side. Charity opened the top one in search of a cold-storage container. After pulling it down, she took a look at the now-empty compartment. It was large enough for someone to curl up inside and fall asleep.

For as advanced as Firebird-One was, it left a little to be desired. Howard had designed the MEAV primarily for combat situations. Its impressive speed, maneuverability, and engine strength made it ideal for their job, no doubt about it. She remembered the situation off the coast of Nauto, in which Renee was able to singlehandedly prevent the damaged oil rig from collapsing while the rest of Raptor Pack repaired the legs.

Still, she wished there could be advancements made to the machine, particularly in terms of research. There was going to be a stronger focus on long-range reconnaissance, especially with the knowledge of Brom-Caylen’s alleged experiments with the particle.

Sleep quarters would be nice as well. Hmm, I wonder if I can get Howard to design us a super yacht. The thought brought a smile to her face, as did the next one. Complete with a bar and spa. More of a fantasy than a thought, but one could argue somebody working such a dangerous job deserved such perks.

She peeked over at the cockpit, expecting to get some sort of lighthearted chitchat from Renee. She was uncharacteristically silent. It was even more strange after remembering Thomas had asked her to get in contact with General Kilmore a minute ago.

“What’s going on up there, Lieutenant?” she asked in a cheerful tone. “Better not be playing solitaire.”

Her smile faded from the lack of a response. The only time Renee was so unresponsive was when something else had her attention; generally that ‘something’ was not good.

“Renee? You alright?”

Renee glanced back at her with a bewildered look on her face. “We might have to get out of here.” The elaboration would have to wait a few more seconds, for she was reaching for the radio mic to inform the entire team at once. “Captain?”

“We’re coming out, Lieutenant. You got the general on the channel?”

“Not yet, Captain. We might need to vacate right away, though. I’m picking up readings. Proximity alerts. Multiple bogeys coming in from the—”

BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM-BOOM!!!

Streaks of seven-point-six-two-millimeter bullets from Archer’s Rex-T1 chain gun glinted on the other side of the windscreen. Renee leapt to her feet, hand on her sidearm, alarmed by the sudden gunfire.

“Whoa!”

Charity ran to the cockpit. Standing beside the pilot, she shared her bewildered look after seeing the quadrupedal creature bursting into globs of purple blood.

There were three more creatures in the trees. Their skin almost matched the leaves in the canopy, obscuring their ten-foot body lengths, spiny backs, white claws, and iguana-shaped heads. Unlike the docile house lizard, these things had mouths lined with teeth reminiscent of velociraptors—and eyes of the devil.

More of them appeared on the ground, stopping momentarily to inspect the body of their fallen member. Their aggressive instincts overpowered the need to feed on the easy meal.

All at once, they advanced on the MEAV.

Renee gulped. “Oh, hell!”

More shots streamed from Archer’s chain gun, coming within a few feet of Firebird-One’s bow before ravaging two of the lizards on the ground.

“Archer! Got some on your nine!” Thomas said. He and Howard were racing through the gap in the fence, having discarded their findings from the second floor of the building to prioritize the use of their Mastodon M3 assault rifles.

More creatures were approaching from the southwest, heading straight for Archer. Tails slashed behind their bodies, their claws digging into the soil with each step, their lips peeling back like angry rottweilers, exposing razor-sharp, crooked teeth in uneven rows.

Archer swung the chain gun to his left, meeting the threat directly. The stream of lead cut through the lizards with ease, reducing them to splatters of purple blood and body parts.

The diversion proved enough for the ones coming from the northwest to close in on Firebird-One.

“Whoa!” Renee exclaimed as one of the reptiles threw itself against the windscreen. It pressed its face to the glass, its tongue crooked and zig-zagged in its shape.

Another one joined it. At once, the two lizards bashed their heads against the glass while raking it with their claws.

They moved in a non-stop frenzy, as though their genetic code only allowed them to move with haste and without rest.

A crack formed in the glass. Then another.

In two short seconds, little lines began to stretch across the windscreen.

“Time to go!” Charity said.

She and Renee returned to the fuselage. Arming themselves with Mastodon M3 rifles, they stormed out the back and joined the fight.

“Most of them are still coming out that way,” Thomas called to them, pointing northwest.

As he spoke, Archer was cutting down the last of the few which came from the southwest.

The rattling of metal made the captain and engineer turn around.

“Look out, boss!” Renee called out.

Thomas looked at the southern end of the outpost’s fence line. At least three lizards were scurrying over its side like squirrels crossing a power line, their ugly eyes fixed on him.

The captain let loose his own stream of bullets. One of the creatures gave off an ear-piercing shriek, its tongue flapping in the air as it lost its grip on the fence. Jetting blood from the bullet holes in its neck, the creature hit the ground.

Howard hit the next one, landing a devastating shot to its left shoulder. The creature hissed and fell to the ground, where it rolled twice before righting itself.

Standing up on its three remaining limbs, the creature made eye contact with the two humans it sought to kill. The fact its left arm was literally hanging off of its body and that pints of blood were pumping out every few seconds meant nothing to the creature. It leaned on its instinct; its purpose—to kill.

Howard put a few rounds against its forehead. The lizard fell on its belly, purple streams spilling down its snout. Flicking its tongue, it pulled itself up, its skull intact, as was its hostility.

The creature’s lower jaw yawned open, ready to sink those teeth through soft, warm flesh.

Howard fired another shot. His round went into the lizard’s open mouth and out the back, rupturing the brainstem in the process. The creature hit the ground again, only this time it would not stand back up.

Thomas let loose two bursts, moving his gun muzzle left as he did so. The third lizard on the fence spasmed, six holes popping across its back.

Twitching, it came off the fence.

“Thomas! We’ve got issues over here!” Charity called out.

Thomas turned his eyes to the MEAV. The doctor and pilot were planting bullets into several of the oncoming lizards. One of the creatures on the nose of the aircraft headbutted the glass, successfully breaching it, probably thinking the two humans were still inside. It forced itself through the small breach, its lower body thrashing left and right, its rear legs pedaling.

Around the MEAV’s bow, several other creatures assembled.

Thomas tapped Archer on the shoulder and pointed at the small group of bloodthirsty reptiles.

“Do what you do best, Sergeant.”

Archer did exactly that.

He pivoted to his right, pointed the minigun at the small crowd, and let the lead fly. Right away, two of the lizards were struck below the neck, the powerful current of spiraling lead tearing through their bodies. The result was two bright purple splatters.

Archer adjusted his aim slightly to take down the next one.

The barrels rotated, yet all that could be heard was the whirring of gears. The rapid pounding of discharging rounds had abruptly ceased, leaving the sergeant, and the two men standing nearby, perplexed.

Archer looked at the ammo feeder connecting his pack to the weapon. There was a faint clicking sound, not from an empty ammo pack, but from a jam.

A jam in a two-million-dollar weapon.

He gave a burning glance at Howard.

The engineer shrugged, unused to seeing the sergeant’s killing gaze directed at him.

“What? I was asked for increased rate of fire!”

Archer held up the now-useless weapon. “This sound ‘increased’ to you?”

The lizards came at them.

Thomas took down the first with a three-round burst to the throat. The creature face-planted and rolled over its shoulder, its brethren grazing past its body in pursuit of the humans.

The three men backpedaled through the fence, with Archer resorting to his .500 Magnum. Every gunshot pounded the air with a deafening crack, the projectile, true to its user, on point each time. His first round punched through the eye socket of his target, dropping the lizard. The second drove through the corner of another’s mouth, literally detaching the right side of its lower jaw before impacting its spinal column.

He aimed his revolver at the breach, where four other lizards gathered.

Automatic gunfire from Renee and Charity hit the lizards in the back, catching them off guard and shredding their insides.

In the blink of an eye, the chaos came to a stop. Silence filled the air, the five members of Raptor Pack catching their breath.

Charity and Renee approached the fence, the latter reloading her rifle and steadily getting her breathing under control.

“Well, that works better than a cup of coffee in waking you up.”

“I prefer the coffee,” Charity said.

“Same,” Thomas replied. He looked at the herd of ten-foot reptiles. In a sense, he felt stupid for being surprised to see them. On the other hand, he was expecting something much bigger. “I take it these are the test subjects the island’s research group were experimenting on?”

“Stands to reason,” Charity said. She nudged one of the bodies with her foot. “These were probably a local species of lizard; probably something no larger than my hand.” She knelt by one of them and pulled a folding knife from her belt. She extended the blade and poked at the creature’s open jaw.

“Taking a tooth as a souvenir?” Howard joked.

She shook her head, not amused at all. Her trouble did not stem from the attempt at humor, but what she was observing.

“What’s the matter?” Thomas asked.

“See this?” she said, bringing their attention to the misshapen teeth and the uneven positions. “When we see mutations, we obviously find a change in the creature’s physical structure, including new abilities that they did not have the genetic coding for; like those wasps shooting acid back in Oregon. But funny enough, the transformations were… ‘complete’, for lack of a better word. What I mean is, the result was a fully functional animal with little to no deformities. If you didn’t know they were mutated, you’d think they were perfectly normal animals.”

“You know—if it weren’t for some of them being a hundred feet long, yadda-yadda,” Renee quipped.

Charity snorted. “You know what I mean.”

“I get it,” Thomas said. “You mean to say these lizards are actually malformed.”

“Right.”

“Maybe it’s the amount of exposure?” Howard suggested.

Thomas took a look at one of the bodies. Charity was right; the more he looked at the creatures up close, the more oddities he saw. For one of the creatures, the rear legs had grown to disproportionate sizes.

Another one had what appeared to be nails growing from its abdomen and knees, plus its lower jaw was shorter than the others.

The freakiest was one that had a large horn protruding from the side of its head. It was inconsistent with the design of the spikes. If anything, it more closely resembled a partially formed deer antler than anything else.

“Tell you what; we’ve got plenty of evidence for Kilmore to send over a larger force. Load up everything we found in the lab, bag up a couple of these lizards, and bug out before any new surprises show up. Needless to say, these things move fast. Hell, they were almost all over us by the time Renee detected them.”

The pilot stiffened, her face shriveling with tension. “Oh, crap.”

Thomas, taking notice of this, asked, “What’s the matter?”

“It wasn’t these things I was trying to warn you about,” she said. Her eyes went to the southwest. “No, my radar was picking up multiple bogeys approaching from that way. Aircraft, moving in our direction. Fast. I was in the middle of saying something when…” she bumped one of the dead lizards, “…these guys showed up.”

All eyes turned to the captain. Each and every one of them were thinking the very same thing. Given the obscurity of this island, common sense provided the answer: only those with a significant interest would have come here, not somebody on vacation. If G.O.R.E. Sector or any allied military force was coming this way, they would have been informed long ago.

“A clean-up crew,” he muttered. “Let’s move.”

Everyone grabbed up as many samples and evidence as they could carry, and made a run for the MEAV.

Thomas was at the front of the group, moving alongside Renee. They reached the ramp and ascended.

They stopped, taking notice of the glass scattered across the floor. At once, they remembered the lizard that had pushed its way through the windscreen.

Thomas watched the fuselage, making sure no surprises were in store for them.

“Oh, that one,” Renee said, realizing what was on the captain’s mind. “Don’t worry, that sucker came through the ship to get at Charity and I. He’s over there.” She tilted her head at a dead lizard lying a couple of yards from the ramp.

Crash!

Her aura of confidence vanished as she saw the glass vials fall from the open cold-storage compartment onto the floor.

She and Thomas turned their eyes to the compartment, catching a glimpse of two red eyes with dark slits running down their middle. Below them were a set of jaws, chewing on a bio sample obtained by Charity.

Sighting fresh, and warmer meat, the creature sprang from its hiding place.

“Whoa!” Thomas dropped the company computer and went for his gun. A claw struck his chest, knocking him backward.

As he hit the ground, he heard Renee call out. Thomas sat up and cursed, seeing the lizard running east towards the jungle, with Renee Larson in tow. It had a firm hold on her left leg, its teeth digging into her shin and calf.

Rattling from the friction against the ground, the lieutenant’s teeth clattered, her arms unable to get a grip on her weapon.

The rest of Raptor Pack were on its tail. Thomas, back on his feet, attempted to get a shot at the creature. His unsteady hands, plus the speed of the target, as well as a friendly in the line of fire, made getting a clean shot tricky.

For him, at least.

He spun to his left to look at Archer. “Sergeant!” He tossed the weapon.

Archer caught it out of the air, put the stock to his shoulder, and fired a few shots.

The lizard reared its head back in pain, releasing Renee. It rolled to its side, its tail and feet slashing wildly.

Archer fired twice more, striking its chest and rupturing its heart. Those limbs stiffened, then went limp.

Renee sat up, wincing from the pain in her injured leg. “Nice shooting, Archer.”

He waited until she looked in his direction to give a thumbs up.

The team rushed over to her; Thomas and Charity taking a knee by her leg. They ripped her pant leg open to get a better view of the damage.

“You’re bleeding pretty good,” Thomas said. “But I’d say you’ll live. Lucky too; any deeper, it would have severed your posterior tibial artery.”

“I’ll take your word for it,” Renee replied through gritted teeth. “Because it certainly does not feel lucky.”

“I’m more concerned about infection,” Charity said. “We need to get her to the Crixus for me to get a better look at her.”

“Sure you’re good to fly?” Thomas asked the lieutenant.

She chuckled. “I’m certainly not going to risk letting you take the controls.”

“Very funny.” He tied a quick bandage around her leg, then let the other three team members carry her over to the MEAV.

“So sorry, Renee,” Charity said as they went. “I left that compartment open. That thing must’ve climbed inside…”

“Oh, forget it,” Renee replied. “It’s not like you should’ve anticipated big-ass mutated lizards would suddenly show up out of nowhere… then again, with this job, maybe you should have.”

They laughed at that, gradually nearing the ramp.

Thomas remained behind to scoop up a few items left over by Renee. She was carrying two laptops and a small glass container Charity had brought out from the lab. Even while getting dragged by a flesh-eating reptile, she managed to keep a grip on the items until she was nearly forty feet from the ship.

He picked them up, hoping there was something there that would implicate Brom-Caylen with the illegal experiments taking place here.

Thomas turned around and started to sprint after the others. He immediately stopped after the first step, his eyes moving to the distant sky. Several dots took form on the horizon, gradually growing larger as they neared the island.

His throat tightened. The captain knew a helicopter squadron when he saw it… just as well as he knew the smoke trail from a pair of hellfire missiles coming in his direction.

“Incoming!”

His team looked to the distant sound of rotors, then immediately sprinted to the right to distance themselves from the target.

A second later, those missiles closed in on Firebird-One, piercing her starboard side.

BOOM!

The next thing Thomas knew, he was airborne, the materials flying out of his hand. He felt leaves and branches smacking his back as he was hurled into the jungle.

He landed on his back, helpless to do anything but watch the curtains of haziness close in on his vision while he blacked out. All the while, smoke drifted above him, increasing speed as the squadron of helicopters closed in on the smoldering wreckage that was once Firebird-One.

CHAPTER 6

The gusting of wind grew stronger, kicking up dust and loose leaves. Had it not been for the sounds of helicopters touching down, Thomas would not have known how long he was out. As it turned out, it had only been a few seconds; a minute at most.

Groaning, he sat up. The blast had detonated the armaments within Firebird-One, resulting in an explosion strong enough to launch him far into the jungle. He checked himself. By God’s grace, he was intact, only suffering a headache and some bruising. His ears rang too, but he was still able to pick up the sounds of the unknown enemy force setting down near the wreckage.

Right away, his mind blocked out the pain, for there was a greater concern at hand. He righted himself and moved to the tree line, his vision still spinning. As he moved near the clearing, he was able to catch a glimpse of a repurposed Sea Stallion helicopter touching down.

A man, sporting black tactical gear, an M27 Assault Rifle, and a half-smoked cigar was first to step out. He was a surprisingly short individual, maybe five-foot-six, wearing sunglasses and a ballcap with shark jaws embroidered on its front.

Seven other men stepped out, all armed with high-powered rifles. The short guy with the cigar made a hand motion to the south, directing them to the four other members of Raptor Pack.

Thomas turned his eyes to his team. They had all been knocked to the ground by the blast. The fact they survived the explosion gave the captain a moment of relief. It was quickly stripped away as the seven men, led by a man with a handlebar mustache and grey goatee, converged on them.

A standoff ensued, with Archer grabbing ahold of his rifle and pointing it at the enemy force.

The seven men spread out, guns pointed. Meanwhile, a larger helicopter set down nearby, lowering a jeep. Through its windows, Thomas could see the forty-plus troops inside.

Troops, of course, was too generous of a word. It was obvious what these guys were—mercenaries.

“I wouldn’t,” the shorter merc with the cigar said. “You may be good, but we’ve got too many guns on ya. Put that thing down now, or the lady will be first to go.”

Supporting his leader’s statement, the mercenary with the mustache drew a revolver from his hip and pointed it at Renee. It was a Colt single-action revolver, also known as a Peacemaker.

Its hammer cocked back, its handler ready to test the weapon. “I hear you’re fast with a gun, G.O.R.E. Sector guy. But I doubt you’re fast enough to save your friend.”

“Oh great,” Renee groaned. “We’ve got Wyatt Earp here.”

“Wouldn’t ‘Jesse James’ be more of an accurate description?” Charity said.

Thomas cringed. He was armed with nothing more than a sidearm and a couple of knives. Any attempt to rescue his team would only get them, and himself, killed.

There was one other factor to consider; one that was a tough pill to swallow. Even if he turned himself in, it was unlikely the mercenaries would spare any of the group anyway. This was more than a strike team; it was a cleanup crew, meant to erase any evidence of what was taking place here.

The sight of large crates loaded with high-powered explosives supported this theory.

“Don’t do it,” he whispered, watching Archer.

The soldier maintained his pose, every fiber in his being determined to bring down the many men around him. The Chinook set down and unloaded its crew, as did another of the Sea Stallion helicopters.

“If you’re gonna shoot me, shoot me,” Renee said, tired of the anticipation.

The cowboy merc shrugged. “As you wish.”

Finally, Archer relented. He tossed his rifle to the feet of one of the other mercs, then raised his hands.

The cowboy looked to his boss.

Though Thomas could only see the side of his face, he could read his look as though the man was right in front of him. It was a look which read “Shall I kill ‘em?”

The boss, puffing smoke from his cigar, glanced at the Firebird-One wreckage. His eyes swept over the surrounding area before ultimately going back to the captured team members.

“There should be a fifth guy. The leader of the group.”

Thomas inhaled. These guys knew precisely who Raptor Pack were. Either they remembered from snippets of news coverage, or—most likely—they were given information from the company men aboard the surface station Guardian following the Half-Moon Trench incident.

Charity, Renee, Howard, and Archer were lifted to their feet and placed in restraints. The mercs patted them down, confiscating their weapons and anything else worth taking.

All the while, the cowboy kept his weapon fixed on Renee.

“Where’s your leader?”

“Dead,” Renee said.

“Yep,” Charity added. “He was in the ship when you hit it.”

The leader pulled the cigar from his teeth and watched his four prisoners. He slowly sported a smile, shifting his eyes from them to the wreckage, and back at them.

“He’s toast, huh?”

“That’s right,” Howard said.

The merc held his smoke an inch from his teeth. “You’d think his loyal team members would be a little more upset.”

“Do I look giddy to you?” Charity grumbled.

“Ha.” The merc placed the cigar back in his mouth. “For all I know, that’s your normal state of being.”

Several of his men moved over to him, while several others began infiltrating the facility.

“Sir, it appears they have killed all of the specimens. There were eighteen recorded, and given the number of bodies lying around…”

“They did part of our job for us,” the leader said. He looked at the next merc, who was holding the desktop computer Thomas and Howard had obtained from the second floor. “And it seems they were doing some snooping.” He turned his eyes to the tree line.

With a look of interest, he approached, with four men tagging along with him.

Thomas slowly backed away, his hand on his sidearm, crouching to make sure he remained out of sight.

“Lookie here,” the leader said. “A couple of laptops conveniently dropped near the trees.”

“I dropped them,” Renee said.

“I’m sure you did. Initially, at least,” the leader said. “Except, if nobody else was with you, you’d have no problem with the idea of my men sweeping this jungle. It’s almost as if you were lying about your captain cooking in that wreck, and don’t want us going out after him.”

Thomas held his breath and held his ground, waiting for the enemy to make a move.

The leader, still puffing on that cigar, snapped his fingers. In the blink of an eye, four more troops moved up.

“He’s close,” he said to them. “Y’all ever see the movie Predator?”

Thomas had, and looking at the firing line on the other side of that world of trees and undergrowth, he knew exactly what they had in mind.

Right away, he threw himself behind the trunk of a large tree and lay as flat as he could.

The eight men unloaded their weapons. Like firemen with hoses, they swept their guns back and forth, unloading a tense, wide-spread tsunami of lead into the jungle.

The shooters did not stop with only one magazine each. When their weapons ran dry, they reloaded and resumed the punishment.

Rounds zipped near the captain, some of them skidding against the tree he hid behind. Shredded leaves and bark fragments fell around him, a familiar smell of gunpowder wafting through the terrain.

Before long, some grenades were thrown into the fray, bursting all over the place, tearing their surroundings with their concussive force and shrapnel payload.

Thomas tensed, the ground rippling under his belly.

Another grenade burst nearby, resulting in a branch coming down. He heard the shrapnel scattering about, wounding the vegetation.

Then came another, closer, explosion. A wall of dirt hit the captain.

In that same moment came a literal sharp pain in his side. It was a sensation that he had not felt in a decade, yet it was something he remembered as though it was yesterday. And here it was, repeating itself, ironically in the same spot as the last time he was hit by shrapnel.

The sliver of metal had burrowed into his left calf. Next came the familiar sensation of his own blood flowing into his pants.

With no other choice, he ignored the injury and remained low to the ground. The shooting resumed with seemingly no end in sight, those cutthroats standing at the edge of the clearing making good use of what was obviously a vast supply of ammunition.

“Alright, alright,” the leader called out.

After a few moments, the gunfire ceased. In its place was a chorus of panicking birds retreating into the distance.

Thomas peeked around the tree. He did not have a visual on the shooters, for several branches had fallen between him and them.

One thing was certain: they would be conducting a sweep to find his body. Should they find him alive, they would finish the job right then and there. Alas, Thomas had no choice but to make a move.

Leaving his team behind was not something he took lightly, but he understood the kind of mindset that cigar-smoking mercenary had. As long as Thomas was alive, they would be alive, for no other reason than to be used as insurance to prevent retaliation. That, or to be used as hostages to make the captain give himself up.

Thomas would cross that bridge when he came to it. For now, he needed to evade the incoming fireteams.

He pushed himself to his feet, feeling the pain in his left calf. It wasn’t enough to keep him from running, but damn it did hurt.

For Thomas, it was just additional motivation to get back at these scumbags.

One thing at a time.

He raced into the jungle, well aware of the trail of blood he was leaving behind.

CHAPTER 7

Charity Black had been in more than her fair share of hairy situations. In her very first mission for G.O.R.E. Sector, she was trapped underground for eighteen hours with air rapidly running out, following a strike against a subterranean slug. Three months later, she, Howard, and her late husband were stranded out at sea after an enormous crustacean sank their research vessel. That was the toughest of memories, as twenty-four hours later, her husband’s life was claimed by that unholy beast.

Since those days, there had been no shortage of live-or-death situations in which she was pitted against horrid monstrosities. But all of those enemies were products of an extraterrestrial element, a mutagen, with no intelligent mind.

Today was the first day she found herself at odds with an enemy that was not a result of the meteor storm. This enemy was worse than the mutant reptiles she and her team fought against barely twenty minutes ago.

This enemy was human.

She and her friends stood silent, not daring to utter a word. Three jeeps had been lowered near the fence line, two Sea Stallions and one Chinook resting between them and the smoking MEAV remains. The men had used fire extinguishers on Firebird-One and were sorting through the scraps as if they would find anything useful.

Others were going in and out of the facility like ants delivering goods to their colony.

All the while, the leader of the platoon watched his men going through the trees. His cigar was almost used up, and his hand was resting over another one he had in his vest.

After the shooting, she managed to catch his name: Moran.

Charity felt a temptation to mock the guy’s height. Most guys in this profession had at least three inches on him. The more reasonable part of her brain knew better. She saw how the entire platoon acted around him. When he said ‘jump’ they were quick to ask ‘how high’. Behind that casual demeanor was someone who was capable of killing each and every one of them, and would sleep like a baby afterwards.

Whether or not Moran was his real name was anybody’s guess. However, Charity was certain of one thing: fake or not, if names were being used openly around prisoners, it was highly unlikely they planned to let Raptor Pack out of here alive.

She knew it, and most importantly, Thomas Rodney knew it.

The whole team kept watchful eyes on that jungle to the east. Eight men were actively searching for his body. Charity felt sick, the lack of gunfire indicating he had either been killed during the shooting session, or had gotten away.

Five men waited near the group. Every one of them showed no signs of remorse for what had just occurred. They were men of different ethnicities and nationalities, hired not just for their training, but because of what they were willing to do.

The worst of the bunch was the cowboy. While the other four men guarding Raptor Pack stood still as statues, he paced in a circle, twirling his Colt revolver.

Renee was leaning on Archer, her right foot raised to its toes. That bite injury was causing major discomfort, which in turn wore on her brain-to-mouth filter.

“Hey, Doc Holiday? Spinning it forward is easy. Spinning it back is the real trick.”

The merc stopped, revolver in hand, and rotated in place until its muzzle was pointed at her abdomen.

“How ‘bout I show you another trick? Just beware, it’ll shut you up permanently.”

This time, it was Howard who could not help himself. “No offense, but… actually, who am I kidding? I absolutely mean all the offense in the world—you don’t look the type to actually fan that revolver and actually hit anything. I mean, you look like the kind of guy who dresses like someone who could, but when it comes to actual skill…”

The cowboy cocked the hammer and directed the pistol at him. “Who says I need to fan it, pretty boy? For you, all it needs is a tiny squeeze.”

“Cool it down, Dario,” Moran called over. He walked over with one of the men from the search party.

The cowboy, Dario, gently released the hammer and holstered the weapon. “They find the body?”

“Nope,” Moran said. He bit the end off his second cigar and lit its tip. “They found blood though. The guy must’ve taken some damage. How much? Your guess is as good as mine. But we can track him.”

“You knew we were here,” Charity said.

“We knew there was a possibility you’d pay a visit at some point,” Moran replied. “Admittedly, we didn’t think you’d get here so soon.”

“Doesn’t have anything to do with the disappearance of a cargo ship, does it?” Howard said.

Moran sniggered. It was a sound that basically said, “I’m not gonna confirm or deny it…but you probably know the truth.”

All of the team members knew there was no point in asking about Brom-Caylen. Unlike the security forces sent to the Scarlett Caldera, these guys were not employees of the company. They were contractors, put to the task specifically because they had no direct connection to the company.

But to Raptor Pack, it was clear who was pulling the strings. These guys knew their names, knew how many were in the team, and were responding fast specifically because their client suspected G.O.R.E. Sector was on the hunt after encountering that ship.

The mercenary leader’s face grew hard, like a predator in the wild that had tracked down a rival who had stolen its meal. There was suspicion in his eyes, and it was deliberately intended to make the four teammates extra uncomfortable.

Glancing to the crews going in and out of the station, he spoke into the radio. “Any sign of the staff?”

“Negative. Nobody’s here.”

Moran started circling the four prisoners. “Nobody from the station, at least.” His tone was accusatory. Again, he meant for them to pick up on it. “Comet Squad? You guys on site?”

“Just landed, sir.”

“Any island personnel?”

“Not that we can see, so far. The place is deserted. Looks like we missed some sort of party.”

“Is Carriage Team there yet?”

“Carriage here. We’re just a few minutes out.”

“Good. Keep me informed.” He tucked his radio away and eyeballed each member of Raptor Pack. One by one, he sized them up, looking for any hint of weakness. Naturally, he took notice of Renee’s injury. “Ugly bite, isn’t it?”

Charity took notice of how the lieutenant wavered ever so slightly. She was noticeably uncomfortable in a way she would not typically give attention to, especially in the presence of a hostile force.

“Where’s the island’s personnel?”

Renee coughed, then looked over at him. “How the hell am I supposed to know? Aren’t you the one working for them?”

Charity put two-and-two together.

“Wait, you didn’t come here to intercept us… you were here to conduct an evacuation.”

The seriousness in Moran’s expression was enough to provide an answer in the affirmative.

“I think it’s clear what went on here,” Howard said. He tilted his head to the bodies of dead lizards near the gate. “If you ask me, their little science project got a little out of hand.”

Moran examined the length of one of the reptilian corpses, then turned his eyes to the immense damage of the facility.

“These funny little critters did all this?” His tone grew increasingly accusatory. “There’s plenty of rubble and craters. Not too inconsistent with the use of explosives.”

“Maybe they murdered the crew and buried the bodies somewhere,” Dario said.

“Excuse me?” Charity said. “Did you not see the footprint?”

“What footprint?” Moran said.

The biologist lowered her head and gave a ridiculing laugh. “Right. It was lost, thanks to one of your rockets.”

“Our intel indicates the staff had only these quadrupedal organisms, which you had put down,” Moran said. “But that’s enough for our lovely chitchat. At the moment, I’m gonna focus on finding your captain. Shouldn’t take long.”

Dario pointed a finger at the prisoners. “Why not just use their radio system to contact him? Warn him that if he doesn’t show himself, we execute them one by one?”

Moran shook his head. “Probably would’ve worked if we didn’t try blasting him out of the jungle. He may be loyal to his team, but he’s not dumb. Showing his face will only get his head blown off, and he probably figures we plan on doing that to these guys once we’re done here anyways. So, our best bet is to keep them as insurance in case he gets the idea to try anything stupid, or if anyone else from G.O.R.E. Sector shows up. On that note, have Leso have a few minutes with each of them. If they know the whereabouts of the staff, he’ll get it out of them.”

The mercenary standing next to Moran stepped into his field of vision. “Does that mean you want us to go after him?”

“Damn right I do,” Moran said. “Take all of Team Three and track him down. Make it quick.”

All at once, the members of Raptor Pack exchanged glances. Moran and Dario took notice of this and watched, expecting to see looks of grave concern. What they instead witnessed were four people on the brink of laughter.

In their collective mind, they heard the voice of General Austin Kilmore reading from Thomas’ file on the day of their first meeting.

“Thomas C. Rodney. Joined the United States Army at age eighteen. Recruited into Special Forces three years later. Two Silver Stars, four Purple Hearts, and the Legion of Merit. Served two tours in Afghanistan, two in Iraq, conducted counterterrorism operations in Egypt, Somalia, and in various places in Asia. Expert in explosives, weapons, and tactics. Led training operations in Japan and the Philippines for local military bases. Black belt in both Brazilian Jiu Jitsu and Goju-Ryu Karate. Left the service after fifteen years. Entered the police academy and joined the Ramsey County Sheriff’s Department.”

That last part was just as important as the rest, for Thomas left the military out of commitment for something greater. Just as he was committed to his late wife, he was committed to the team; not just their survival, but their objective.

Moran, sensing their overwhelming confidence in their captain, plucked his cigar from his mouth. “Enjoy the moment, Raptor Pack. Savor it. Embrace the buzz it gives you. Keep in mind; you’re gonna crash hard when we bring you his head.”

Charity looked him in the eye.

“Good luck.”

CHAPTER 8

His name was Kent Grace. Before hiring on as part of Moran’s private army, he had served four years active duty in the United States Marine Corps. His time, spent between July 2007 and August 2011, was mostly devoted to guarding a few bases in Afghanistan and Libya, none of which were hot zones. When not in those countries, he was in Korea and Okinawa.

There were no honorable intentions behind his joining of the military. Kent wanted a good fight and to experience the thrill of killing somebody without worrying about repercussions. What better were enemy insurgents? But as he learned, being trained for war did not always mean one got to experience it. Some of his colleagues brushed it up to a matter of luck. It was not a word Kent would have chosen, unless the word ‘bad’ was placed in front of it.

Near the end, he was presented with the opportunity to sign on for another four years. Deciding not to wait on Uncle Sam, Kent relied on a few connections he made during his time overseas. Through various channels, he was placed in contact with a man whom he now referred to as Moran.

For most, becoming a private contractor was a matter of money. Kent was one who sought the thrill he did not get from active-duty service. His enthusiasm and training got him an audience with Moran, but to join the team, he needed to make a demonstration.

Moran had no shortage of job offers across the globe; some were larger in scale, others were relatively simple. The smaller-scale jobs proved to be good vetting opportunities for potential new recruits. Generally, they were assassinations, mainly of people who were mostly unknown to the public, but a nuisance to the client.

In the case of Kent’s first assignment, it was a journalist who was investigating the alleged dumping of toxic waste by a large corporation. The job itself was easy in terms of the physical work involved. The difficulty lay in the moral grounds, for this was not an enemy combatant, but an unarmed individual who was causing headaches for some powerful executives. Kent may have been eager to kill, but a twenty-six-year-old woman dressed in jeans and a green blouse was not exactly what he envisioned.

It was a crossroads he never knew he would find himself at. But the money was titillating, as was the thrill of adventure.

Thus, the trigger was pulled. In the years that followed, he finally got his wish of real action. Under Moran’s leadership, he got to take part in hush-hush operations all over the globe, working for all sorts of clients, some of whom hated each other’s guts. It was not long before the guilt Kent had from that first execution wafted away like a candle smoke in a heavy wind. After that day, killing was just part of the job, as natural as stepping on an ant.

In his mind, going after this G.O.R.E. Sector guy was no different. Thomas Rodney was the target’s name, according to intel. Kent was almost disappointed; he had hoped for a better challenge when it was confirmed the team was on site. Their aircraft was blown to smithereens, the team apprehended, the captain now on the run with limited resources. Furthermore, he was wounded. The extent of his injuries were unknown, but the guy was not doing a good job of covering his tracks.

Kent had eight other troops working with him; Parler, Greeb, Toshiba, Burrough, Rian, Ayaan, Sulaiman, and Gonzalo. Like him, they had all undergone the trials of Moran. Had they not passed, they would not be here today. It would be the same if they did not enjoy the work.

They were two hundred yards inland from the landing site, completely surrounded by thick green vegetation. North of their position was the trail that had been paved to allow vehicle transport between facilities. Initially, Kent suspected Thomas would have gone for that area after a while, as the uneven terrain was probably wearing him down further. But, from what it appeared, he was heading west.

Gonzalo took a pause to examine some of the tracks.

“He’s slowing down. I think we’re close,” he whispered.

Kent directed his men with hand signals, fanning the group out in order to perform a sweep. Like a human fine-comb brush, they cut through the jungle. Kent made sure to keep Gonzalo close. The guy was able to follow tracks nobody else could see. His eye was razor sharp in identifying every little detail.

The captain’s prints were not well hidden so far. There was still some blood, though less of it than at the start of the trail.

Gonzalo stopped again.

“The captain fixed his bandage here.” He picked a tiny thread from the dirt. “He tied something around his wound. Probably using fabric from his shirt.” Gonzalo ran his finger over the nearby grass, then pointed to his two o’clock. “He went that way.”

Kent eyeballed the direction, noticing the uneven ground and softer soil. “He probably thinks he can lose us.”

“That’d be my assumption,” Gonzalo whispered. “He knows we’d easily catch up to him if he followed the jeep trail. But we need to be careful; there’s plenty of space for him to hide.”

“That’s why we’re gonna press forward,” Kent said. “I have no intention of giving him the opportunity to spring a trap.”

He directed his men to proceed with the sweep.

Into the hilly region they went. Right away, the land dipped. Soft ground squished under their boots. Here, the water pooled during rainstorms, often taking days if not weeks to dry up. By the time the puddles were gone, another rainstorm would pass over and drench the island once more.

There were more bugs over here too. Invertebrates lay in the soil, drawn by the moisture, but forced to keep near the surface to prevent themselves from drowning in it. The light was dimmer, as many trees had grown out at an angle and were crisscrossing with one another, creating thicker canopy in several spots.

The mercenaries checked every bush and tree, their tracker remaining on top of the trail. Thanks to the loose, damp soil, the trail was in plain sight, even for an amateur tracker. It was a factor that amused the heartless mercenary.

The dumb fool. If he was trying to lose us, he picked the worst damn spot.

Gonzalo stopped again.

The wrinkle in his cheek was instantly noticed by his superior while he inspected some imperfections in the ground.

Kent ordered the group to a halt, then leaned close to the tracker to communicate with him. “What’s the matter now?”

“He stopped here,” Gonzalo replied. “He was here for a good minute or two at least. Then he changed course.” He extended his arm left. “He went south from here.”

“And that’s concerning, why?” Kent said.

“If he was trying to lose us, he would’ve had an easier time going straight,” Gonzalo said. “Past the hill in front of us, it gets a little more dry. It’s almost as though he wants to stay in the marsh.” The tracker stood up. “We should head back.”

The men gathered near their squad leader, awaiting further instructions. Kent felt the pressure of leadership weighing down on him. Moran would not take too kindly to him losing any personnel while hunting one man. At the same time, being too cautious equally demonstrated uselessness.

“And tell Moran what?” Kent hissed. “You have any idea how he would react if we turned up empty-handed? Especially if he finds out we gave up? No. We’re close. He’s alone, injured, and tired.”

“He has to know his trail is easily followed,” Gonzalo said. “I think he’s leading us somewhere.”

Kent shot him a glare. “And you know this because he squatted here for a few minutes?”

“Yes.”

“For the love of…” Kent shook his head. “He’s desperate. He’s had no time to plan a counterattack. He’s been consistently on the move. Not to mention, he’s unfamiliar with the layout of the island.” He ran his boot over the smears in the mud. “He probably stopped here because he had to change his bandage. See the blood in the grass?”

“You might be on to something, sir,” Parler said. He moved ahead from the group.

At his feet was a piece of cloth with white medical tape, stained with blood. It lay on the ground, where a few ants scurried on top of it.

“He stopped to work on his bandage again,” Parler continued. “If he’s stopping this frequently, he might be hurt worse than we originally thought.”

“Probably tuckered out, hiding near a tree,” Ayaan added. “Is there a lot of blood on the bandage?”

“Seems so…” Parler knelt down to pick it up.

Gonzalo’s entire face shriveled. He stood straight and put his hands out.

“Wait!”

Parler lifted the cloth, pulling the wire that was hooked to its bottom. A pin yanked from a spherical piece of metal on the ground.

Parler looked at his feet, recognizing the object as a grenade.

“Oh, sh—”

BOOM!
A wall of fierce energy coursed through the surrounding area like an invisible rogue wave.

Kent was knocked on his back, the trees and ferns waving to the east. Shouts of confusion, pain, and general fright echoed through the ringing of his ears.

Propping himself up on his elbows, he laid eyes on the aftermath.

Gonzalo was lying three yards away from him, baring teeth in pain, clutching his ribs. A piece of shrapnel protruded from between two fingers. Growling, the tracker lifted the jagged piece of metal out of his body and tossed it away.

The rest of the squad—aside from Parler—was in relatively good health, save for some cuts, bruises, and headaches.

As for Parler; if there was anything positive about his situation, it was that his death was quick.

Suppressing a pained moan, Kent righted himself. Gonzalo hit him with a stone cold glare.

You should’ve listened to me.

Kent scanned their surroundings with his eyes. The man from Raptor Pack was here. Somewhere. Beyond those trees, he was watching.

He could sense it.

“Where are you, you son of a bitch?” he said through his teeth.

His squad gathered, maintaining a space of five feet in-between them.

Gunfire spat from Burrough’s rifle, the bullets zipping like silver streaks into the jungle. Ayaan and Greeb joined in, sending a few shots of their own to the southeast where their teammate was aiming.

“You have a visual?” Kent said.

Burrough lowered his muzzle. “I saw something. Movement of some kind.”

Kent looked to the patch of jungle, seeing fresh bullet holes in the tree trunks and the holes in the thick undergrowth extending from their bases.

“Okay… Burrough, Sulaiman, Greeb; flank left. Gonzalo, you and Toshiba—”

BANG! BANG! BANG!

Kent ducked and turned to aim northwest. From the mess of green in that direction were golden muzzle flashes from a forty-caliber pistol.

“Agh!”

He looked over his right shoulder. Rian hit the ground, his hand grasping his left shoulder.

Another shot rang out from the same direction.

Kent cringed, having heard the bullet whistle by his ear.

Thomas Rodney had not moved from his position. There was no effort to retreat, or even to change firing locations.

He’s making a last stand. Kent felt a ping of excitement. If you ask me, he knows it’s over for him, and he’s trying to take out as many of us as possible.

“How’s the shoulder, Rian?”

The grizzled gun-for-hire got on his feet, favoring his shoulder. “Vest caught it.”

“Still gonna feel it in the morning,” Toshiba quipped.

“Shut up.”

“All of you, shut up,” Kent growled.

Twirling his finger, he provided directions for his men. Toshiba and Gonzalo would draw his fire, Burrough, Grebb, and Sulaiman would take the left flank, and Kent would go on the right with Rian.

After a countdown from three, the men went into action.

A couple more pistol shots rang out from that same spot, going wide of Gonzalo, who popped off a few return shots of his own.

Kent circled to the right, passing beneath low-hanging branches covered in moisture. He and Rian arrived at the bottom of a small hill—essentially a crater where a large tree had once been uprooted, taking a thousand pounds of soil with it.

It was a perfect place to take cover, for it was twenty-five feet from the target’s position.

He looked through the haze of green in front of him. Another pistol shot rang out. In response, Gonzalo and Toshiba returned fire.

Kent waited a few seconds, eventually seeing the muzzle flash from Captain Rodney’s next shot. He saw the gun muzzle protruding from the trunk of a huge, fallen tree, now vertical, for the monstrous plant had recently fallen over.

“Target confirmed. Light him up.”

A crossfire from the two flanking teams tore into the trunk of the tree. Entire magazines were emptied, leaving no room for error while they put the troublesome monster hunter down.

Bits of roots ejected from the trunk, mixing with dust, smoke, and dirt to create a brownish-grey fog.

Kent finished two magazines before ordering the team to cease fire. Several moments passed, during which no return fire came their way.

Cautiously, he and Rian advanced to the target.

Burrough’s team approached from the other side, beating them to the tree. The three-man team was staring dumbfounded by the time Kent arrived, looking at the wall of dirt and roots with utter fascination.

When Kent reached the spot, he understood why.

Wedged into a notch in the tree base was a handgun, propped in a way so it was pointed directly at the spot where the grenade had been planted. Vines had been strung around the weapon, keeping it in place.

Burrough leaned closer to the bizarre sight. “What the hell?”

“Crafty sucker,” Greeb replied. He pointed at the trigger. “Look at that. There’s a vine that was strung through the trigger guard.” He walked around the side of the fallen tree, observing the groove of bushes where the vine had led to.

Minutes ago, Thomas Rodney had been right there, pulling the vine like a fishing line, depressing the trigger.

Kent didn’t like what he was looking at. This elaborate setup could not have been designed to take them out with bullets. Thomas Rodney would have had better luck keeping the gun and trying to pick them off one by one, Rambo style.

It was almost as if he wanted them to group right here. In this spot.

His eyes went up to another vine which was looped around a branch eighteen feet over their heads.

Right as he noticed it, the line went taut, yanking the branch downward several inches.

A honeycomb-shaped object detached from the limb and descended for the earth. Kent’s heart did summersaults in his chest, initially thinking the object to be an explosive.

It came down in the middle of the squad and burst into pieces. What rose from behind that husk almost made Kent and his men wish it was a bomb.

Tiny black specks swarmed the team.

Hornets, pissed off beyond measure, assaulted the eight men. Jaws and stingers went to work, inflicting sharp, burning pain.

In the blink of an eye, the squad of hardened commandoes were squealing like toddlers. They swatted the air wildly, having lost any sense of field tactics, wailing from stings that struck the nerves like lightning bolts.

“Go! Go! Go!” Kent shouted.

They ran north, smacking themselves, their faces and hands swollen. The bugs continued going after them. It was personal now. Their nest had been savagely destroyed, and the mercenaries were unlucky enough to be standing nearby, making them guilty by association.

Kent threw his head back and squealed, still pedaling his feet. One of the suckers had gotten him right behind the ear.

“Motherf—”

Bam!

The world spun. Next thing he knew, he was on his back.

His forehead felt as though it had folded into his brain. Towering above him was the tree he had faceplanted into.

Rian arrived near the squad leader and pulled him up.

“You alright?”

Kent wiped some blood from his forehead. “I don’t know. How do I look?”

“Like shit, but that’s typical.”

Kent was about to retort when they heard Ayaan scream. He was approaching them with both hands on his face. He cursed repeatedly, both in English and his native language.

“You alright, Ayaan?” Kent said.

“It got me in the eye! It got me right in the eye!”

“Like, the eyelid, or…”

“The eye!”

Kent pulled his hand from his face and looked at the swollen eye. “Ew. Yeah, you’re gonna want to get that looked at. But first, we need to find that son of a—”

“AGH!”

This time, it was Greeb who yelled out.

Kent looked west to the sound of his voice. Greeb went abruptly silent, aside from the thump of his body hitting the ground.

He raced over to the mercenary.

Greeb lay motionless on his back, head cocked to the left, eyes blank, his neck swollen.

His rifle and sidearm were nowhere to be seen.

Rian knelt by the fallen merc. “The bastard broke his neck.”

“And he’s armed,” Kent added.

BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG! BANG!

Illustrating that point, a volley of bullets whizzed from the trees.

Toshiba reeled backward, a spurt of blood shooting from an inch below his collarbone.

Kent, Sulaiman, and Rian returned fire in the enemy’s direction. Thomas ceased fire and retreated north, his footsteps plainly heard.

“Get after him!”

The squad spread out and pursued the target.

Thomas moved as fast as his feet could carry him. His guerilla warfare was going better than he feared, but not as good as he hoped. Three enemy combatants were down, but six remained. If he had another good ten or fifteen minutes, he would have been able to set up some more elaborate traps. But resources and time were not on his side.

Now, the best he could hope for was to find a location to pick off another mercenary. They were popping off a few rounds in his direction. They could not see him, but they definitely knew where he was.

He ascended a small hill, taking him out of the wetland part of the island. Here, it was more dry. Suitable for running, though there was one problem: the mud from his boots would leave a clear trail for them to follow.

Crap! Should’ve taken a left farther back.

He arrived at some tall grass behind a grove of trees. Up until now, the jungle was messy and chaotic enough to mask his location. But tall grass was not as useful, especially while he was being chased. Every step he took from here out would leave a precise trail. It did not matter where he went; every move would be clear as day. Hiding would only lead to his demise. At best, he would be able to pick off one or two more mercs before getting his head blown off.

With them closing in from behind, Thomas had no choice but to enter the long grass.

Five seconds later, he heard them exit the tree line.

“He went through there,” the leader said. “Follow his trail.”

Thomas cursed under his breath. He continued north, glancing over his shoulder for any visual of his pursuers.

A blur of black fabric passed behind the veil of green grass blades five yards back.

In a desperate attempt to throw them off, he veered to the right.

After another ten yards, a rotten smell entered his nose. It was a smell of death. Rotten meat.

He passed another ten yards then came to a stop, barely suppressing a yell after seeing the huge open jaws in front of him.

Thomas stood, arms out, throat tight, and eyes wide, staring at the huge reptilian form in front of him. Its head was as large as his entire body. A long, pink tongue lay half-coiled in the dirt, its end forked like that of a snake. It was quadrupedal and had a body shape closely resembling the killer lizards his team fought off at the station. Except, this creature was easily twenty-five feet in body length, double if the tail was taken into consideration. The claws were long and curved, designed for flaying through flesh.

On each side of its grey head was a yellow eye, their color faded, lacking any sign of life.

His gaze shifted to its neck and shoulder, and the giant, red craters existing between ragged layers of flesh and bone.

Bites.

Thomas swallowed. Not only had he discovered a giant version of the reptiles that attacked his team, but also something bigger. Big enough to slay this beast, at the very least.

The giant footprint beside the dead creature provided further evidence to that fact. Its three toes gave it a birdlike appearance. But Thomas did not picture an oversized bird walking around on Zil Nesans. No, the sight of the footprint caused his imagination to conjure up something worse.

Something dinosaurian.

From behind the corpse came a concentrated gust of wind. It was foul and moist. Breath. There was a deep growl and a scraping of something against the ground.

Thomas’ day was getting better. Whatever that other giant lizard was, it was slumbering behind the corpse, and Thomas’ presence was stirring it awake.

“Why did I take this job?”

Footsteps thumped the ground behind him. As though he did not have enough problems, the team of mercenaries arrived from the field of grass.

The intense satisfaction of laying eyes on Thomas Rodney was short-lived. Kent kept his rifle trained on the human target, finger resting tightly against the trigger. His eyes were not on Thomas, but on the freakish dead thing in front of him.

His men gathered around them. Covered in purple welts and swollen skin, they were caught off guard by the sight of the huge mutant.

Burrough broke the silence. “God!”

Kent heard the sound of a heavy mass shifting behind the lizard. A fierce exhale, like a whale spouting from the ocean’s surface, struck a whole new meaning of fear in his heart.

There was a sound of impact from a foot hitting the earth.

Rising from behind the corpse, a new reptilian emerged from its slumber.

Kent’s teeth clattered. He had heard that his client was conducting all sorts of bizarre experiments here. Moran had been given warnings of dangerous fauna that had forced the research staff to evacuate. When he saw the dead lizards at the southeast station, he figured Raptor Pack did most of their work for them.

He certainly did not expect to see something like this. Not something resembling an unholy Tyrannosaurus Rex in its basic shape.

The creature was bipedal and had a body length of over sixty feet, matched by that of its tail. Its head and jaw were almost square in shape, with razor-sharp teeth intertwined. Two forearms bore three curved talons, as did its massive feet. Its most distinct feature, other than its size and ferocity, were the two horns protruding from its head. They were crescent-shaped, curving outward, and razor sharp. Their grey color contrasted with the dark green tint of its thick skin, though not nearly as much as the exposed gums from its jawline.

It stood over its most recent kill and watched the team of commandoes with bright yellow eyes.

Those jaws parted, and from its throat came a booming roar.

Rian, consumed by panic, broke formation. “Good God!”

He pointed his gun to its neck and squeezed the trigger.

The reptile jerked from the stinging impacts. Shaking its head, it stepped over the lizard corpse and charged the team. Its heavy footstep kicked up dirt as it came down where Thomas Rodney had been standing a moment earlier.

By now, the rest of the mercs were discharging their weapons. Bullets stung the reptile’s flesh, rapidly elevating its anger to new heights.

It swept its head low, raking the ground with those deadly horns.

Burrough was caught across the middle, his two halves briefly airborne before crashing down ten feet apart from one another.

The creature pivoted to the right and slashed again.

Ayaan squealed, seeing the tip of one of those weapons swiftly closing in on his face. It proved to be the last thing he ever saw.

Kent Grace hit the creature’s hide with a concentrated spray of bullets. He watched the flesh twitch like a balloon getting poked. His rifle did nothing but agitate the creature.

It looked in his direction and puffed air from its nostrils.

Kent backed away.

“Bad idea.”

It rotated on its feet and swung its huge tail. Kent attempted to flee, but tripped over his own feet, faceplanting against the dirt.

It was an accident that prolonged his life.

The tail whipped over his body, missing him entirely.

Gonzalo, however, was not so lucky. He was struck right across the back and launched for five meters, his body rag dolling across the terrain.

Kent scampered on all fours, slowly gaining distance from the reptile. When he rose to his feet, he got a better look at Gonzalo. The guy was literally folded in half—backwards.

“Yeah, he’s dead.”

“AGH!”

He turned around and watched, slack-jawed, at the freakish sight of Sulaiman’s feet kicking from the reptile’s jaws. Everything above the waist was in its mouth, the screams muffled, but growing more intense until those teeth intertwined and—SPLAT!

His lower half fell free.

Near those twitching legs was an injured Rian. He was crawling with his right elbow, his legs and left arm, and maybe a few ribs, busted from a moment in the assault Kent did not witness.

The creature was busy swallowing Sulaiman’s upper half, taking a few moments to remember there was another pathetic human on the ground.

As for Kent, this was the perfect opportunity for him to avoid the same fate. The creature’s back was to him now, its attention centering on the merc with the busted legs.

“Don’t leave me!” Rian called to him.

Once upon a time, Kent would’ve been haunted to hear a fellow soldier scream such a thing to him. But today? With this thing literally trying to eat them?... He actually laughed.

Yeah, no! You’re on your own!

He turned north and raced into the jungle, glancing over his shoulder long enough to make sure the thing wasn’t following him.

It lifted its foot and stomped it down hard.

Rian rolled to his back and put his arm up.

“AAAAGH—”

CRUNCH!

Kent entered the woods. For once, he was grateful for the rough terrain and low visibility.

There were no footsteps behind him, meaning the beast did not bother pursuing. All the same, he was not going to take any chances. He moved farther, only stopping for a few brief instances to get an idea of where he was going.

It dawned on him that he needed to alert Moran. The boss was under the impression there were only small mutations alive on the island, and they had brought the appropriate firepower to deal with the problem. He was not aware of any dinosaur-sized ones.

Kent found a spot with plenty of space between the trees, granting adequate radio reception.

Catching his breath, he checked the surrounding area to make sure no new surprises awaited him.

As it turned out, there was. And it came in the form of Thomas Rodney’s fist.

CHAPTER 9

“Team Three, come in, damn it. I’m running out of patience over here.”

Charity watched the mercenary leader Moran puffing on his cigar with increased agitation. His men were not the type to blow off radio transmissions, and given he had been trying to reach them for ten minutes straight without a response, it stood to reason something had gone seriously wrong.

It brought a smile to the four captured members of Raptor Pack. Their captain truly lived up to his reputation, and in a nice change of pace, the snarky Moran was looking mildly nervous.

He looked to one of his men, who had set up a small antenna dish near one of the choppers.

“Still no readings?”

The man shook his head. “I’m telling you, boss, we’re the only ones on this island. This puppy can track any seagoing vessel and aircraft for a twenty-mile radius. If G.O.R.E. Sector sent anyone, we’d know. And I’m not picking up any radio airwaves other than our own.”

Moran drew on his smoke and looked to the west where Kent Grace had pursued Captain Rodney.

“I guess the feller was more crafty than I thought. If I didn’t know any better, I’d consider putting him on the payroll.” He turned his eyes to his four prisoners. “Probably beats whatever crummy wage you get now.”

Charity shrugged. “I mean, if you go by the hour, I suppose you could call it crap. I mean, we are always on the go. I can’t remember the last time I had a vacation.”

A skinny man, wearing a white lab coat and a button-down shirt and slacks underneath it stood before her. He had what appeared to be a surgical kit on a foldable tray table.

Charity felt a tad lightheaded upon seeing the sharp instruments inside. The guy was not playing around. If his goal was to scare them, he had succeeded—with the possible exception of Archer, of course.

“This is Laso,” Dario said. He stood with one hand on his Colt revolver, grinning feverishly at the prisoners’ reactions to the bladed instruments. “It might be a good time to confess if you’ve alerted anybody to what you’ve found here on this island.”

“Oh, great,” Howard mumbled. “I’ve survived how many encounters with all sorts of monsters, and it’s gonna be a low-rate henchman who kills me. I need a drink.”

The skinny torturer named Leso bared a strange, crooked grin.

“You can call me low-rate, but believe me, I’d rather be that than in your position.” He spoke with a high-pitched voice that Charity found more unnerving than the deadly instruments in his kit.

Her heart rate skyrocketed after feeling Renee’s head slump over her shoulder. For a second, she thought the pilot was playing some sort of act to delay the crazy interrogator’s session.

When she looked over, she saw the veins in Renee’s forehead turning bright purple. The pilot’s skin turned a shade of white. She was beginning to drool from parted lips and her breathing grew raspy.

“Holy crap. Renee? You alright?”

“What’s wrong with—” Howard looked over and gasped at the pilot’s undead-like appearance. “Whoa! Lieutenant? What’s going on?”

“You’d think I’d say something if I knew?” Renee mumbled.

Charity looked at the blood-stained bandage on her leg. “Oh, God. You’ve got an infection when you got bit. It’s those lizards. Their saliva is probably teeming with all sorts of bacteria.” She shifted to her knees to get a look at Moran. “We need to get my pilot some medical attention.”

The mercenary chomped on his cigar while looking her way. “Good thing I gave you a doctor.”

Leso clicked his tongue in response to his reference.

Charity shuddered. “We did not talk to anybody. Our superiors know we’re here, but they don’t know what we’ve found. Hell, we don’t know what we’ve found.”

“Except for a bunch of big reptiles,” Howard said.

“And a bunch of bad guys straight out of a Stallone movie,” Renee groaned. She looked up at the crazy doctor. “And the torturer guy from True Lies. The one who gives Arnie the truth serum and gets his neck broken.”

If it wasn’t for the fact they were prisoners, Charity would’ve been greatly amused by Renee’s ability to hold on to her sense of humor even while her insides probably felt like they were rotting.

“Perhaps, we may have a solution,” Leso said. “Mr. Moran, do we have the notes from the client regarding the lizard specimens? I believe we may have the antidote.”

“We don’t have it on hand, but I know where to get it,” Moran said.

“Do we have time to restart the generators and dig up the information?” Leso asked.

“Negative,” Moran answered bluntly. “We’re short on time. On that note…” He spoke into his radio. “Team Four, have you finished wiring the place? I’d like to wrap this up.”

“Just finished.”

“Good. Hurry back to one of the choppers.” Moran looked westward where Team Three had gone. “Grace? Gonzalo? If you guys can hear me, you need to speak up, because we’re not gonna wait for you.” He walked over to the prisoners and gave a look at Renee’s condition. “Ick! I think you’re gonna need more than a rabies shot, Miss. You look like hell.”

“Still leagues better than you, Short Round,” she retorted.

Dario snorted, though quickly shut up when he noticed his leader’s eyes shift in his direction.

“Get them on the chopper,” Moran said.

Leso lifted his chin, his mouth parting with disappointment. “You asked me to interrogate them.”

“I think the client might be intrigued by our findings here,” Moran replied. He pointed his cigar at the sickly Renee. “Particularly this one.”

Leso lifted his equipment. “But I have my kit…”

“Oh, for the love of God,” Moran groaned. “Doc, you’ll have plenty of future victims you’ll get to reenact Hostile with. For now, shut up and pack up. We’re heading to the north facility.”

“But, weren’t we concerned about whether or not they alerted their organization?” Dario asked.

“Doesn’t matter anymore,” Moran said. “At this point, I have to assume their captain has Team Three’s SAT phone. In other words, we’re even more in a rush. We’ll use his friends as insurance. Check them for any devices and make sure they can’t be tracked. On that note…” He lifted his radio to direct his platoon. “All units, switch to the alternate frequency.”

The members of Raptor Pack were lifted to their feet and pushed to one of the choppers.

Charity looked over her left shoulder at Renee. Two men held her by the arms and pulled her to the aircraft, her feet dragging across the dirt.

Archer’s eyes were on her as well. To the dirtbags around them, he was stone-faced, seemingly lacking any concern for himself or his companions. But Charity knew the subtle signs. There was a barely noticeable wrinkle near his hairline, and his hands were clenched behind his back.

They were loaded aboard one of the Sea Stallions and seated next to each other. Charity was placed on the window side, granting her a view of the other gun-for-hires as they darted from the research station to the choppers.

Dario stood across from her, maintaining his aura of overconfidence. He was riding high on his superiority complex, having been part of the group that bested the one and only Raptor Pack.

The biologist could not care less about the juvenile in a thirty-eight-year-old’s body. Like her teammates, her mind was divided between Renee’s condition and the actions of their captors.

Sixty seconds later, the choppers were in the air. One of them, containing the computers and equipment that had been taken from the station, flew out to sea. The rest of them turned north.

“Vulture One, clear.”

“Vulture Two, clear.”

“Mother Bird, clear.”

“Vulture Three, clear.”

“Copy that,” Moran replied from one of the other choppers. “Carriage Team, you guys at Station B?”

“Carriage here. That’s affirmative. We’ve united with Comet Team. Looks like they have an update for you.”

“Comet Team to Prime. We’ve got a survivor; a Dr. Kreig Schoenvorts.”

“Good. I’ll have a word with him as soon as we get there,” Moran said. “Carriage Team, is the cask ready?”

Charity and Howard looked at each other, silently checking to make sure they heard the transmission correctly.

“Correct.”

“Good. Get ready to transfer X41. We’ll be there shortly,” Moran said. “As for Station A—here comes the fireworks.”

A few moments of silence passed before…

BOOM!

Charity jerked in her seat at the drum of a giant explosion which consumed all of the station. Great balls of fire lifted from the ground, pushing apart fragments of highly advanced architecture, equipment, and knowledge.

In the blink of an eye, it was all gone. What remained was useless wreckage drenched in flames, deformed by concussive force, and erased of any usefulness. Neither the structure nor the elements contained within those walls had any future beyond an existence as charred rubble.

The fuel barrels already on site had been put to good use. The blast ignited them all across the main structure and surrounding modules, encasing the entire area in flames.

Moran’s cleanup operation was anything but clean. But it was thorough. Even the world’s greatest forensics experts would struggle to find anything of substance from that wreckage.

Next on their agenda was the north station.

The north station…

Raptor Pack did not have the opportunity to examine that facility. It sparked the question of what was being contained up there. During their initial sweep aboard Firebird-One, she had assumed the place was a separate lab for researching on other animal species.

But the mention of a cask—the term for a nuclear waste shipping container made of steel and concrete—had her second-guessing.

Charity looked to Dario. “What the hell are you people up to? What’s at Station B that would require a cask?”

The gunslinger gave her a dismissive look. “I think you’re worried about the wrong things.”

“I don’t recall seeing any cooling towers or nuclear reactors up there,” Howard said. “The people here were using petroleum for power. That means there’s something else up there that’s considered high-risk. And somehow, I doubt it’s a mutant.”

Dario remained standing, his eyes on the view outside the window. “It’s something that’s gonna make somebody a lot of money. My only concern is making sure a little bit of that trickles my way.”

“Oh, right,” Renee grumbled. “I’ve seen hundreds of losers like you. You’d throw your own grandmother off a roof if someone offered you enough cash. You have no souls.” She coughed, sickened by the disease rampaging through her veins and the presence of Dario and his fellow gunmen.

“Lucky for me, I don’t have to screw over my grandmother,” Dario quipped. “I’ll make more money off you guys. And that’s a surprise bonus.”

“Surprises.” Charity sneered as she spoke the word. “I hope you guys are ready for whatever surprises are waiting for you up at Station B. Had it not been for us, you all would have had a not-so-pleasant dinner date with some angry lizards.”

Dario grinned and shook his head. “There’s nothing on this island we can’t handle.”

Charity looked left at the opposite window. Somewhere to the west, Thomas Rodney was proving him wrong. She could feel it in her bones.

For now, all she could do was pray he was able to come up with a genius plan, and fast.

CHAPTER 10

Thomas knew the sound of demolition when he heard it. It was something that had become as familiar as a thunderstorm. During his career, he had come to learn the subtle but distinct differences between blasts caused by hellfire missiles, C4, dynamite, gas and chemical explosions, and too many others.

This one was C4, and a lot of it.

Its direction and distance indicated it had come from the south station. The source of the blast was obvious: the mercenary team had blown up the entire facility. As for why, Thomas surmised they were burying evidence as to what was going on here.

Naturally, they would be going to the north station next.

He stood at a small ridge overlooking a section of forest. It stretched from the middle part of the island all the way to the north, hooking eastward like a fishhook not too far from the northern shore.

It was a vantage point that allowed him to get a view of the helicopters rising from the southeast corner. As he predicted, they were heading north, intent on doing the same thing to the second facility.

Thomas assumed his teammates were still alive. It was partly affirmation bias on his part; he could not bear to think anything had happened to them. Thomas considered Howard, Charity, Renee, and Archer to be his family.

Anyone who dared hurt his family were doomed to suffer his wrath. Thomas did not care if there were forty of them. There could’ve been a hundred for all he cared.

During his observation from the ridge, he monitored the jungle. Mostly, it was to make sure there were no other surprises moving about. His gut instinct believed he was in the clear. That gargantuan, dinosaurian reptile had the ferocity and attitude of an apex predator. The smaller lizards probably managed to escape its wrath thanks to their ability to hide. But as for anything larger than them, Thomas surmised they had been hunted down and slaughtered, much like the carcass back there.

Holding a pair of binoculars he had taken off the surviving mercenary, he combed the section of forest in front of him. He managed to spot part of the jeep trail farther east. As he examined it, he took notice of a small clearing in the woods just a few hundred feet from his position.

There was a storage facility, heavily damaged, much like the one they had spotted during Raptor Pack’s initial recon of the island. This one appeared somewhat more intact than that one, which had been entirely flattened.

“Might have some supplies I could use,” he thought out loud. He looked over his right shoulder.

Leaning against a tree with his hands tied behind his back was the mercenary. He was still unconscious, courtesy of Thomas’ fist. All of his weapons had been removed and his hands were bound tightly around a thin tree trunk behind him. He would not be going anywhere. If there was any risk, it was that he would be an easy meal for any other mutations lurking nearby.

Frankly, it was a risk Thomas was willing to take.

He moved from his position and found a slab of rock that took him from the ridge to the forest floor. Holding the mercenary’s weapon at eye level, he pierced the jungle, watching for any movement.

Though exercising caution, he moved fast. Time was short, as was the window of opportunity to save his friends.

Luck proved to be on his side for a change. He arrived at the outpost with no trouble at all.

Huge three-toed footprints cratered the ground around the wreckage. Its southwest corner had been torn away entirely, revealing a clear look into its interior. From the opening came a stench of flesh that had been exposed to the tropical elements and insect life.

Thomas saw no bodies—none that were intact, at least.

What he did see was a small storage shed on the east side of the shack. Its doors were open… the grass in front of the doorway covered in dry blood and insects. Somebody had tried to get in there but got snatched up by the reptile.

When Thomas took a peek for himself, he saw what the unlucky person was trying to access.

In front of his eyes was an ATV and a dirt bike. A full can of gasoline rested between the two vehicles.

Thomas inhaled deeply. For once, something was finally going his way.

He explored the shack, finding a few M1 Carbines and full magazines. The organization had duped themselves into believing they were prepared in case their experimentations went sideways. They even packed some grenade launchers for their security teams.

If Thomas had to venture a guess, it was that the personnel here did not anticipate a super predator like the bipedal lizard with the horns. The mutants were probably not intended to be any larger than those he encountered before the missile attack.

If he was right, they found out the hard way that the Ecclesiastes particles could not be controlled.

Their loss was his gain. He armed himself with one of the launchers and some extra grenades, as well as rifle and pistol ammo. Near the window on the intact side of the shack was a metal box housing some keys. There was no ATV key present, indicating it had been swallowed along with the guy who was killed near the shed door.

That left Thomas with the dirt bike.

He returned to the shed and checked its starter system. To his relief, it was not one that required a key, for it utilized a kickstart lever to start up.

Thomas mounted the small vehicle and brought its engine to life.

He had guns, ammo, and a transport. What he lacked was a plan. In order to do that, he needed intel.

That was where his prisoner would come into play.

The trip back to the ridge went way faster. Thomas had to move a little farther north to find a path to bring the bike up the slope.

Back at his resting spot, he opened a bottle of water taken from the outpost and splashed it over the prisoner’s face.

The merc awoke with a shudder. His eyes immediately went skyward in search of the huge reptile.

“It’s not here,” Thomas assured him. “I’d say you’re safe, but then again, you’re with me. Meaning, the only thing safe is your assumption that I don’t like you very much.” He began picking his finger with a knife, watching his prisoner’s eyes on the blade.

Right away, he was able to see behind the veneer of a hardened man. This guy was a killer, but that was where his experience ended. In his time, he rarely had a situation go downhill. He was used to having the high ground, literally and figuratively.

Today was a change of pace, and not one he liked.

“Go spit.”

Thomas cracked a grin at his effort to sound tough and fearless.

He extended the knife to the laces on the merc’s boot. The prisoner tried shifting his leg, but Thomas pinned it down. The knife cut through the laces, allowing for the boot to easily come off.

“The hell are you doing?” the merc asked.

“Mind giving me a name to call you by?” Thomas said. “Might make this conversation seem a little more natural.”

The merc looked away, then relinquished the name Kent. Simple first name; nothing that would expose his full identity. Neither was Thomas looking to do that. This guy was a small fish. The big fish was in one of those choppers heading for the station.

“Listen up, Kent.” He removed the man’s sock and put the blade to his little toe. Kent’s eyebrows lifted high, his face turning a darker shade of red. He shifted against the tree, watching the edge of the knife press against his skin.

“If you’re gonna kill me, just get it over with.”

“As tempting as that sounds, I’d rather get a few answers out of you instead,” Thomas said. “Who is that leader of yours? What are you guys doing here? Who are you working for?”

Kent spat. “I’m not telling you—AGH!”

Thomas dug the blade under his toenail, twisting a millimeter back and forth. It was all he needed to inflict to get the coward talking.

“Moran. The boss’ name is Moran.”

“Moran-who?” an impatient Thomas Rodney said. He kept the knife still, demonstrating a willingness to make Kent’s day even more unpleasant.

“I—I don’t know. I swear. Nobody knows his real name. He keeps a lot of stuff close to the chest. Including the clients’ identities. Sometimes, we get those details, depending on the assignment. All we know is that some big company executives wanted him to come here to pick up the staff.”

“Pick them up?” Thomas perked up. “Why?”

“One of their headquarters picked up a distress signal. It went dead before anyone could figure out what happened here. From my understanding, it only goes off in the event of a major emergency. By major, I mean ‘get us the hell out of here right this instant’.”

“And what were they working on, exactly?” Thomas asked.

“Do I look like I have any clue?”

The captain shifted the knife ever-so-slightly, killing Kent’s aggression. “They wouldn’t send you in here blind. If the company wanted a rescue mission sent, they would want you to know what you were dealing with.” He tilted his head left in the direction they had encountered the reptile. “Maybe I’m mistaken, but you seemed just as surprised as I was to see that thing back there.”

Kent tensed, his elbows rising as he tried pulling his wrists from their restraints.

“They were doing some sort of work on the particles. Moran said the company liaison told him they were testing the effects on animal life, and that a few specimens may have gotten loose, but that they were more concerned about an attack by G.O.R.E. Sector.”

“First of all, we’re not in the business of just bombing people willy-nilly,” Thomas replied. “Second, how did they know we were even looking?”

“Their ship’s radio frequencies were being monitored,” Kent explained. “When you guys arrived, they suspected you’d set out to find the facility. When the company failed to get in contact with the staff, they called us.”

“And they actually thought we were the reason?” Thomas lowered his head and chuckled. “Even after one of their experiments escaped the cargo ship and caused it to sink, they didn’t suspect a similar catastrophe wouldn’t happen here.” He leveled his eyes with Kent’s. “What’s at the north station?”

“I don’t know. Something important—something we are supposed to extract.”

“You sure you don’t know what company is contracting you?” Thomas said. “They obviously had your boss on speed dial. This isn’t your guys’ first time working for them.”

“They want to keep a low profile and they’re paying for that very result,” Kent replied. “As for the special object in north station, they have a special team coming in for that. We’re just supposed to make sure you don’t cause trouble.”

Thomas was delighted to hear that part.

“Hopefully your boss has a good refund policy, because he’s about to fail on that last part.”

Kent tucked his chin down, his nose and forehead wrinkling. “There’s many of us and one of you. You don’t have a chance. You might as well take that knife and—” His head jerked back. The veins in his arms, neck, and forehead bulged through his skin, showing off their bright colors. A dark shade of red appeared in the side of his neck, like a tiny thundercloud taking form. A tiny red river came down from his neck to his shoulder.

A moment later, Kent went limp, his head hanging low.

Thomas lifted his face. There was no life in those pupils. No pulse throbbed in his neck or wrist.

He checked the injury on the neck. The area was highly enflamed as though he had a violent reaction to a bee sting. Initially, he suspected that was literally the case—that is, until he saw the scar on Kent’s neck. There had been a tiny surgical incision there, and Thomas had an inkling that it was not purely medical in nature.

He had heard stories of elite military units implanting miniature explosives in their personnel. From all accounts, they were used to prevent captured operatives from providing any information to the enemy. Essentially, it was the present day equivalent of the cyanide capsule, only this insurance policy was triggered by someone else, probably with a satellite phone. Not all field operatives could be trusted to off themselves should they fall into enemy hands.

Thomas stood up. He’d learned all he needed to know.

It was time to get to work intercepting the mercenaries. The biggest problem was that of numbers. He was one man, and they were at least forty, if not more. Judging by the way Kent spoke, Moran was meeting some other people over there.

He looked at his grenade launcher and rifle.

Gonna need more than this.

The next idea gave him pause.

“Ugh… do I really want to go down this route?”

Thomas looked at his surroundings and reminded himself of his predicament. He had no transport, no SAT phone, and was sharing an island with a dinosaur-lizard. Either he would die in the next few minutes pulling off a crazy tactic, or later waiting for someone from G.O.R.E. Sector to send somebody after Raptor Pack was declared overdue.

“Damn monsters are always causing headaches left and right. I suppose having one work for me would be a decent change of pace.”

With that in mind, he mounted the bike and rode south.

CHAPTER 11

When the squadron of helicopters arrived at the north station, there were already two sea stallions and a Chinook on site. A small crane had been lowered to the ground near the bizarre pyramid structure that Howard had stated was designed of nuclear-grade steel.

There were twelve men on site; a small number considering the use of a Chinook. That gave Charity the suspicion that the aircraft was not being used for personnel transport, but cargo.

Carriage Team. There was meaning to the name. Once they extracted whatever was in that pyramid, it would serve as the freight vehicle.

Two of the mercenaries were standing near a man wearing an untucked white shirt and tattered grey slacks. His glasses were crooked and his hair was a mess. Charity was unsure what he was going on about, but as he spoke to the mercenaries of Comet Team, he was frantically pointing southwest.

She gave another glance at Renee.

“You holding up okay?”

The pilot’s head hung low, her mouth slack.

“I’m good? Why?” she said in a sickly voice.

Charity sniggered. “Because you look like you’ve eaten something cooked by Howard.”

The engineer made a face. “Even now, you had to take a shot.” He looked to his left, having noticed, in the corner of his eye, Archer wincing briefly at the memory. Howard glared at him. “You too? Really?”

Archer looked over at him. The look in his eyes said it all.

It was THAT bad.

Howard gave a dead-eyed stare into the distance. “The people I would die for…” He looked over at Renee, then at Charity. The moment of humor drifted away, leaving behind a deep concern. “She definitely caught an infection from the lizard bite. It’s progressing fast. Have you been able to look at her leg?”

“No.” Charity jerked her elbows. “Not with my hands tied behind my back.”

The zip tie restraints were digging into her wrists, adding to her frustration.

Dario opened the fuselage door and joined the flood of hired guns that approached the station. Many of the men were heading in and out of the main building, rapidly obtaining all hard drives and other important info.

They loaded the supplies into the first Chinook that accompanied the sea stallions from the south station.

“Let’s hurry it up,” Moran shouted. “I wanna get a move on. Pick up the pace, ladies!”

“What about Team Three?” Dario asked. “They haven’t come back yet.”

“I gave Kent plenty of chances,” Moran replied. “He knew the drill.”

The usually charismatic Dario turned his eyes to the southwest, his jaw slowly dropping as a realization sunk in.

“Protocol Red?”

“It’s there for a reason. Now, if you’ll excuse me…” He started walking to the scientist whom Comet Team had identified as Dr. Kreig Schoenvorts.

Charity stood up and moved past the rest of her team members.

One mercenary who remained on guard put a hand on her shoulder to stop her. “Where do you think you’re going?”

She tilted her head back at Renee. “Don’t you see she’s sick? That doctor probably knows what she has. Maybe there’s something in the lab that can help her.”

“No, you’re gonna stay right here,” the guard said.

“Oh, I think I’m gonna hurl,” Renee moaned in a drawn out voice.

She wasn’t faking, but at the same time, used the situation to help get Charity out the door. Rushing out of her seat, she hurried for the open door, making sure the guard saw how green her face was getting.

Not even a hardened killer wanted to be in the path of that. He relented, allowing the pilot and biologist to step outside.

Renee went near the tail rotors and did her business.

Charity remained close by for a few moments to make sure she was okay.

“I’ll be fine,” Renee said. “Ugh. Damn lizard.” Groaning, she sat in the dirt, her leg throbbing even more after running on it.

Charity turned around, slightly hunched forward in her posture with her arms restrained behind her back. She felt like an ostrich in the way she moved. Only the pressing concern for Renee’s health shielded her consciously from any humiliation as she approached Moran and Dr. Kreig Schoenvorts.

The doctor was appalled, by the looks of it. His arms were down, his face contorted by an expression of disgust while speaking with the mercenary.

“You don’t understand. It’s out there.”

“And you’ll be off the island, pronto,” Moran replied. “But your boss wants those blood samples.”

“I’ve said it a hundred times: I. Don’t. Have. Them.” Dr. Schoenvorts held his hand at the distant plume of smoke in the south where south station used to be. “The few that we had were being stored there. And we were only able to get the samples because the specimen was only the size of a poodle at the time. Now?”

“You’re telling me there’s a bunch of dinosaurs walking around on this island?” Dario said.

“Might as well be,” the doctor replied. “What do you want from me? We were ordered to experiment with varying levels of particle exposure. Higher amounts can yield more dramatic results.”

Dario looked down and made a derisive laugh. “Lovely. How many are there? And where are they?”

Exhausted and fed up, Schoenvorts put his hands out. “Three big ones. I don’t know where they are, but I know one of them prefers wetter environments, so it’s probably near some marshland on the southwestern part of the island. I’ll tell you this, there’s no way I’m gonna manage to draw blood from any of them.”

“Great.” Moran crossed his arms. “They’re not gonna be pleased to hear that. Maybe they can get something from the bodies of the smaller ones.”

“Unlikely,” the doctor said. “The virus needs a living host. Unless we draw blood within twenty minutes of death, it’s useless.”

Dario chuckled. “Yeah, it’s been longer than that.” He shirted his elbow over at Charity. “You can thank this lady and her monster hunters for that.”

“Could any of the smaller ones still be alive?” Moran asked.

“Not likely. They tended to operate as a tight-knit pack,” Schoenvorts explained. “They only deviated from that behavior if one of them was sick or injured, and no other food was available.”

Charity stepped into the conversation as though she was a member of the group rather than a prisoner, much to Moran’s amusement.

“What in the hell have you been working on up here? And who are you working for? Is it Brom-Caylen?”

Schoenvorts stood awkwardly, oddly intimidated by the G.O.R.E. Sector scientist despite her being in restraints.

The look on Moran’s face shifted dramatically from casually amused to deathly fierce.

“Shouldn’t you be holding your friend’s hair back?” he remarked. “You certainly don’t have any business interjecting yourself in my conversation. Return to the chopper before I second-guess my decision to keep you as a souvenir.”

His words went in one ear and out the other. Charity took another step towards Dr. Schoenvorts.

One of Moran’s subordinates stepped in her way and lifted a hand to stop her. Charity, fed up, raised a knee into his groin. As he doubled over, she shifted her head forward, headbutting him and putting him on the ground.

Her attention swiftly returned to the doctor. “The infection from the lizard’s bite; do you have an antiviral?”

Schoenvorts said nothing; frankly, he was more flabbergasted by her fierce display of aggression than anything else.

“Damn it, Doctor! Quit with the dramatic pauses. Do you have an antiviral or not?”

Schoenvorts looked past her at where Renee was kneeling.

“Oh, God.” He looked to Moran. “You’re not seriously…”

“I sure am,” Moran said.

“But she’ll never make it to…”

Moran grabbed him by the shirt. “Then get some syringes and get some blood samples from her. I’m saving your job. Thank me later.”

Suddenly, it became clear as day what Moran wanted. Renee was more than just a prisoner—she was an asset. Rather, her blood was.

“You…” Charity shook her head, lips quivering, a child-like outburst threatening to pour out. She accumulated it to one word, “…idiots!”

Moran looked to Dario. “Why are you still standing there doing nothing? Get her back to the chopper.”

The cowboy grabbed her by the arm and started pulling her back. “Move it, sunshine.”

Charity dug her heels into the ground.

“You’re deliberately trying to manufacture a virus,” she said to Schoenvorts. Dario continued yanking her back. Resisting his pull, she attempted a desperate attempt to appeal to the scientist. “Fine. Take some blood from her. After you do that, give her the cure! I know you have it. If you didn’t, you would’ve said so.”

Moran’s glare intensified.

Dario received the message. He drew his pistol and whacked it against the back of Charity’s head.

The world spun and went hazy. She dropped to her knees, the fight yanked from her body in the blink of an eye.

Dario dragged her back to the chopper’s fuselage door.

Archer was right there, ready to tear his heart out with his teeth after witnessing the strike.

Dario pointed his revolver. “Try it, Crosshair. Please.”

Archer exhaled slowly, maintaining a good degree of self-control. Getting gunned down would not do anybody any good.

He backed down, but managed to convey a special message to the cowboy through eye contact. Give it time, bozo.

Dario twirled the revolver and holstered it. He let Charity fall to her knees near the helicopter door and stepped away.

Howard and Archer exited the chopper and knelt by the biologist.

“You alright?” the former asked.

Charity moved to an upright seated position, grimacing from the pounding in the back of her head.

“They’re developing a virus,” she said.

“They’re what?” Howard said. “That’s why they were experimenting with the particle?”

Charity shrugged. “I don’t know if that’s what they were setting out to create, but create it they did. And obviously, they see a grand use for it.”

“It makes more sense than using monsters as potential weapons,” Howard said.

Distant shouting of the word “clear!” drew their eyes to the pyramid structure. The crane’s arm was over its tip, ready to haul the strange object. Beside the base of the vehicle was a large, steel crate. It resembled a coffin, though much larger, and made from a similar type of steel as the pyramid.

Like a massive flower, the roof opened up. Four triangular points shifted outward, locking in place after tilting thirty degrees outward, transforming the pyramid resemblance into one of a crown.

The team watched as the crane lowered its cable. Thumping sounds reverberated from within the building as the clamp on the end of the cable connected with the cargo.

Gears reversed, retracting the cable.

Charity stood up at the sight of what appeared to be a large, glass cube. Inside that cube was a potato-shaped object. It was light grey in color, with purple splotches covering parts of its surface like moss on a lakeside rock.

An equally dumbfounded Howard Tate stood beside her, taking in the view of the unique object. It was as terrifying as it was spectacular, not from any visual threat, but solely scientific knowledge and experience.

This was not any ordinary rock.

It was lowered into the coffin. Men in protective suits closed the top and sealed it tight.

A proud Moran listened to a declaration on his radio.

“Sample X41 is secure.”

“Oh, my God,” Howard muttered.

“Those crazy fools,” Charity muttered.

This was the primary objective for Moran’s team. Everything else was secondary to this priority.

Even Archer broke his silence. “They’ve found a meteorite.”

CHAPTER 12

Oh, Lord, what am I doing?

The thought repeated itself over and over as Thomas approached the small plain where he had encountered the horned lizard. He could smell the dead one and felt a few insects pelt against his forehead as he neared it.

Thomas steered the bike into a field of death. Here, the remains of Kent’s teammates fertilized the ground, attracting more insects and birds. There was no sign of life. Literally.

“Oh, hell. Don’t tell me the thing wandered off.”

He looked at the footprints. There were too many of them, none of which were in any distinct pattern due to the chaos of the recent conflict.

Thomas checked his watch. It had been several minutes since Moran’s group arrived at the north station. He was not sure how much longer they would be there. If they acted as quickly as they did at the south station, then it would not be very long.

He revved the engine in an effort to advertise his presence.

“Come out, lizard! I know where you can have an all-you-can-eat buffet!”

Nothing happened. He was alone.

Thomas unholstered the pistol he took from Kent, pointed it skyward, and fired off a shot.

A raspy roar shook the trees.

Thomas looked to the tree line, holstering his pistol in favor of grabbing the handlebars. The moment had come; the beast was on the way.

He felt the tremors from a large mass moving in his direction.

Hold on… that almost sounded as though it was coming from the tall grass.

Another roar pounded his senses.

Thomas looked away from the trees at the huge grass field. In its center was a titanic mass of dark flesh walking on four legs. Like the dead creature lying nearby and the smaller ones near the south station, it resembled a Komodo dragon in its basic body shape. This one was a little more unique, not just in the color of its skin, but the shape of its head and snout, which was more crocodilian than lizard-like.

It stomped its way into the clearing, its feet and elbows caked with wet mud. Matching its deceased counterpart in size, it moved at a leisurely speed.

Thomas leaned back on his bike, arms hanging at his sides, watching the crocodilian, and feeling an intense craving for a very stiff drink.

“Another big reptile. Fabulous. I officially resign from Earth.”

A steady current of air entered its nostrils. Its enormous lower jaw hung open and the beast pushed up on its front legs, granting a higher view. Its head tilted downward in Thomas’ direction.

Sounding off with a booming roar, its slow pace increased tenfold, those large legs moving like bicycle pedals.

THUMP! THUMP! THUMP! THUMP!

Cursing, Thomas accelerated his bike and attempted to make a U-turn. The crocodile quickly narrowed the distance, bringing its jaws within a few feet of his shoulders.

Thomas’ one-eighty-degree turn was cut short at ninety.

He went for the trees, his speed matching his pursuer’s.

Those jaws snapped shut with a dull CLUNK sound. Thomas’ heart bounced in his chest. There was no margin for error. If those things got ahold of him, the result would be instant death.

Thomas evaded another bite, his motorcycle nearly sputtering out of control. He quickly regained his balance and sped forward, not picking up on the second group of footsteps until the source emerged directly in front of him.

Between the massive tree trunks arose a bipedal form. Two horns grazed the canopy, snapping branches as the beast approached the clearing.

Thomas veered right a second time.

The crocodilian lunged, its snout bumping his rear wheel as he made the turn.

His bike went into a rapid tailspin, tossing the captain into the dirt. He settled on his belly, his head facing the huge dark-green beast. It exhaled, a large pink tongue licking the inner side of its teeth as it watched him.

The horned reptile’s roar shifted its attention to the woods. Like a tyrant theropod from the late Cretaceous Period, it stomped its way into the open. Huge black eyes blinked under those devilish horns. A tan-green tail swept behind its hips, breaking bark from the trees.

Red gums appeared as thin lips lifted, exposing curved, yellow teeth designed for holding, tearing, and crunching.

The crocodilian looked up at its taller challenger and bellowed.

A mutant reptile version of trash talk ensued, each monster roaring at the other. Each sound came with greater intensity, the beasts circling one another like boxers in an arena.

Thomas got himself up off the ground. Staying this close was suicide. For once, he was not concerned with being eaten, but rather crushed.

He grabbed his bike and made some distance.

Behind him, the two reptiles rushed each other. The crocodilian, utilizing its shorter height, went for the creature’s right leg. It successfully secured a grasp. Like the modern-day species it resembled, it twisted into a death roll, corkscrewing its opponent’s leg.

Forced to go with the motion or risk losing the limp, the theropod reptile fell to the ground and rolled. Its other leg kicked and its tail thrashed.

The croc ended up on its back, its teeth digging into its enemy’s ankle. One disadvantage of its hefty body weight was it lacked the strength and agility from when it was smaller.

Sensing an opportunity, the horned lizard kicked its other foot. The middle toe lacerated the croc’s snout, inducing pain that forced those jaws to part.

Freed from its grasp, the horned lizard stood up.

The crocodile rolled onto its belly and planted its four feet on the ground. Tilting its head up at the enemy, it shook the air with another roar.

Its challenge was mirrored by the horned lizard. Backing up its roar, it moved in for the attack. Instead of going in a straight line and risk getting its leg bitten again, it sidestepped and circled to the croc’s left.

It lowered its head and rammed those horns into the croc’s shoulder. Those armor plates covering its flesh were no match for the barbs protruding from the tips of those curved weapons.

The quadrupedal mutant scampered to its right, its roar taking a higher pitch as its foe drew blood.

Raking with those horns as though removing unruly weeds from a massive garden, the tall lizard rolled the crocodilian onto its back, exposing the softer tissue on its underside.

It parted its jaws, its overly long tongue hanging through the gap, eagerly anticipating the taste of crocodile flesh.

Sensing its fate, the crocodilian lashed its tail straight upward, smacking the horned lizard’s face. Shrieking in anger, it took a step back.

The croc rolled onto its belly and feet. Putting all of its strength into its limbs, it charged at the horned lizard.

That deadly head came down like an axe in an attempt to impale the croc right between the eyes.

Pushing up on those front legs, the croc clamped its jaws, catching one of those horns by the tip.

The lizard roared in frustration. It was off balance, its head forced low to the ground as it was pulled forward. The croc pedaled its legs backward, utilizing its low height and bite power to keep the taller one off balance.

Three-toed feet dug into the earth in an effort to push against the croc’s efforts. The horned lizard twisted its head, teetering the horn left and right, hoping the pointed barb would cut the soft tissue inside that big mouth.

Impatience and pain accelerated the tactic. Shifting its entire mass, the crocodile swung the horned lizard to the left.

Those two big feet crossed over each other, trying to go with the momentum with sidestepping motions. The effort failed, and the beast went down on its shoulder.

The motion in which it fell caused the horn to rotate in the croc’s mouth. In doing so, the barb finally did cut deep into the soft pink tissue.

Screeching in anger, the croc recoiled, releasing its grip.

Right away, it realized its mistake. The horned lizard was on its belly, propping itself up on its forelegs to balance itself while it tried to plant its feet on the ground.

Tasting its own blood, the crocodile charged. Massive jaws hyperextended, spewing red saliva. They slammed shut on the creature’s left arm, cracking bone and triggering a booming cry that shook their sole observer to his core.

Thomas put his hands to his ears. That roar was something else. It was not just pain—it was anger. If he learned anything in this business, an angry mutant was not a good thing.

Especially if it was as big as the horned lizard.

Those lips lifted like window blinds. Growling, the lizard tilted its head left and drove its horn downward.

Its barb was on point, disappearing inside the croc’s eye socket.

Those jaws parted and the croc scampered backward, bleeding from the hole in its face. Confusion and pain threw its focus off kilter. Its senses went haywire, the beast caught between two instincts: the aggression leading it to kill everything in its path, and the universal need to survive by any means necessary, including fleeing.

The horned lizard raised its right foot and brought it down hard on its enemy’s snout, pinning it to the dirt. Raking back, the claws on its feet sliced the thick flesh wide open.

Aggression overcame fear. In retaliation, the croc went to bite the lizard’s other foot.

Sidestepping, the horned lizard evaded the attack and put itself in position for another attack. It lunged for the croc’s right shoulder, headbutting it like a giant goat. Horns sliced through dark flesh, hitting bone and driving the croc onto its back.

Its attempt to roll out of this bad predicament was foiled by the stomping of a three-toed foot on its throat, pinning it.

The horned lizard stared at its foe, watching those legs pedal clumsily. Blood gushed from its gouged eye and the cuts in the roof of its mouth. Its tail lashed upward at the lizard’s face.

Leaning back, it evaded the defensive tactic. The tail fell back to earth, leaving that soft belly vulnerable.

The lizard wasted no time. It drove its head downward, plunging both horns into the yellow-green meat, turning it bright red with the croc’s blood. It pulled those horns left and right, slicing the belly and the internal organs contained within.

More blood spewed from the croc’s mouth as its insides were released from their natural containment. The legs stiffened, their master spasming from pain and a severe drop in blood pressure.

The horned lizard lifted its head and watched the blood trickle from its horns. It was time for the conclusion of this battle—the most satisfying part.

Those jaws opened and came down on the already ravaged tissue. The croc groaned, feeling its stomach and lungs get munched. Even now, with its belly open from pelvis to neck, it tried to free itself.

The horned lizard rose triumphant, a thick blob of meat dangling from its mouth.

It was the last thing the croc would see and smell before its remaining eye went pale.

Grasping the handlebars of his dirt bike, Thomas watched the aftermath of the fight. The horned lizard had forgotten his existence entirely, content with having two giant reptiles to gorge on.

On the one hand, there was satisfaction to witnessing its victory. Killing that croc would have been a real pain, so it was nice to have the horned lizard essentially do G.O.R.E. Sector’s job for them.

Now came the task of getting its attention on him.

He waved his hands. “Hey! Don’t forget about me!”

Either the beast did not hear him or was outright ignoring him. It took another mouthful of the dead croc and began to munch.

Thomas dropped his arms. “Are you serious?”

Next, he pulled his pistol and fired a few shots.

The reptile tilted its head up, alarmed, only to resume its duties. Thomas even fired a few shots directly at it. To that thick hide, those nine-millimeter rounds were hardly noticeable.

“Ugh.”

Thomas holstered the pistol. It was time to go extreme.

He unslung the grenade launcher, raised it to eye level, pumped it, and let one fly.

BOOM!

The reptile stumbled backward from the burst of smoke and shrapnel on its shoulder.

As Thomas suspected, there was little more than minor lacerations and scarring on its hide. The grenade launcher packed a punch, but it would take significantly more to put the lizard down.

For the first time in his monster hunting career, Thomas was actually counting on this fact.

The beast made eye contact with him, the anger it displayed to the croc now aimed at him. A sharp exhale pushed some of the smoke away from its face, and an angry roar made the puny human question his foolish attack.

Thomas’ decision to be mounted on his bike proved to be a good one. He turned north and sped away. Behind him, the horned lizard sprinted. Unlike the crocodile, it proved to have greater speed and stamina.

That, too, was something Thomas was counting on… as long as he could keep ahead of it.

“Keep coming, bud. Whatever you do, don’t quit on me.”

CHAPTER 13

Charity could feel herself losing control of her temper. She so badly wanted to free her hands both so she could comfort Renee and fight her way into that lab.

Dario and five other guards stood near Raptor Pack, each of them taking joy in the misery their prisoners were experiencing. Their presence was also to ensure they did nothing while Dr. Schoenvorts took blood samples from the ailing Renee.

She had found a rock to lean on. Her face had lightened a couple shades and her breathing grew raspy.

Dr. Schoenvorts retracted the syringe, filling his third vial of her blood. “I appreciate your cooperation.”

Charity’s jaw tightened. “Okay, you got what you needed. Now, give her the antiviral.”

The doctor stood up with his three vials, shaking his head in the negative without an ounce of empathy.

“I’m afraid I cannot do that.”

“What’s the point of letting her die?” Howard said.

“Ah…” The doctor went silent, unsure of how to answer that. “That’s all up to the security supervisor.” Everyone standing around him, both Raptor Pack and mercenaries, made puzzled faces at the reference to Moran’s job title. Schoenvorts lowered his arms. “Really, guys? I’ve been locked in a cellar for two days with almost no sleep. Fine—how does ‘master soldier’ sound?”

“Doctor, please,” Charity said. “You can see she’s sick. Give her the medicine. Wouldn’t you want to test it, anyway?”

Schoenvorts started collecting his medical kit, full of syringes, glass vials, and basic bandaging. “It’s not up to me.”

“Who cares? Just do it,” Charity said.

“Sorry—not sorry.”

The smug look on his face, plus the spoken words, put Charity over the edge. Even Dario was caught off guard by her reaction, in spite of what she demonstrated during Moran’s initial meeting with the doctor.

She threw a kick into Schoenvort’s middle. He reeled backward, his arms out, cracking against the rock Renee was resting on. The pilot shifted away from the resulting mess, seeing her own blood splattered on her granite pillow.

One of the guards moved in to strike Charity with the butt of his rifle. She scooted backward, evading the strike. A second kick caught the merc in the ribs, putting him on the ground.

For the second time, it was Dario who managed to strike her. His revolver’s frame connected with her temple, putting Charity on her back.

He twirled the weapon with glee and aimed its muzzle at a very pissed-off Ray Archer.

“One more step,” he taunted with a snarky grin. “Haha, not so tough without your fancy sniper rifle, are ya?”

Schoenvorts picked himself up. Resting on his knees, he looked at the pieces of glass on the ground and the splattered blood on the rock.

“You crazy b—”

“What the hell’s going on over there?” Moran shouted. He marched from Carriage Team’s Chinook over to where they stood, seeing the doctor and one of his men picking themselves up. “Dario, are you seriously telling me you let her get another few licks in? Even after she demonstrated how unhinged she was a few minutes ago?”

“Things got a little out of hand, boss,” Dario replied. “But I have it under control.”

“Like hell you do.” Moran looked at Schoenvorts. “What’s the matter, Doctor? Low blood sugar? The candy bars in that cellar insufficient during your entrapment?”

“The crazy woman!” the geneticist replied. “Everything’s ruined. I’m gonna have to go into the lab and get more supplies.”

“Might be a good time to get that antidote,” Charity said. With fuzzy vision and a throbbing skull, she stood upright in defiance of her captors.

The scientist lifted a finger to her face. “As far as I’m concerned, you can watch her die. As a matter of fact, I think I will too. How do you like that?”

Charity raised a knee into his groin.

Schoenvorts’ eyes and mouth went wide. Grabbing himself, he tucked his knees inward and fell on his rear.

Moran watched the pitiful company scientist writhe on the grass.

“Good lord. You are the sole survivor of this place?”

Groaning, Schoenvorts pointed at Charity. “Aren’t you going to do something about her?”

Moran looked at Dario, whom he shared a good laugh with.

“Nah.”

Like a bitter ex-spouse, Schoenvorts picked up his kit, raining pieces of glass onto the ground, then hurried for the compound, ranting under his breath about the vexations of working with mercenaries.

Archer went over to Renee.

She looked over at him and gave a weak laugh. “Hey, you. Don’t worry. I’ll be fine.”

Without missing a beat, Archer shrugged and stood up. “Okay.” He started walking away.

She lifted her head. “Hey! Where are you going?”

Archer turned around. “You said you’re fine and that I shouldn’t be worried.”

“Well, yeah! That’s what you’re supposed to say in these situations. And then you’re supposed to be all like… uh…” She tried to think, but came up blank. “I don’t know… you’re supposed to be all nurturing.” She looked at Charity’s bruised head. A few welts were clearly present, even with her hair in the way. “How ‘bout you, Doctor? You look like you’ve got it worse than me.”

Charity smiled and shook her head. “Nah. The cowboy hits like a sissy.”

She made sure the statement was spoken loudly enough for Dario to overhear it. As she predicted, the merc fondled his revolver handle in a manner he thought was threatening.

Charity tapped Renee’s chin. “We’ll figure something out.”

“Sure we will.” Renee, though discolored and lethargic, kept her upbeat tone. “Knowing the captain, he’s probably figuring out some bat-crazy strategy.”

Charity forced herself to contain a sigh after glimpsing the numerous armed men working across the north station.

“Can’t imagine what that would be.”

Boom!

All eyes turned to the southwest.

“The hell was that?” someone shouted.

“Sounded like a grenade,” someone else replied.

“I hear something else… More grenades?”

“No… that sounds like thunder… Wait, no… that almost sounds like…”

Stomp! Stomp! Stomp! STOMP! STOMP!

“…footsteps?”

Tremors swept through the ground beneath their feet. The trees in the distance began to sway.

Next came the roar of a dirt bike and the roar of a colossal beast.

Charity stood up, simultaneously enthralled and nervous. Only one person could possibly be on that bike, and he had found the most unlikely of allies.

“Renee, you were right.”

The motorcycle burst into the clearing. On its seat was Thomas Rodney, one hand on the throttle, the other pointing a grenade launcher at the crowd of mercs.

BOOM!

His first shot landed square in the middle of three gunmen, sending them airborne.

A second shot struck near Moran, tossing a pair of his subordinates several feet from the ground.

Thomas zoomed farther onto the property, shifting his aim to the windscreen of one of the sea stallions. His shot went through the glass and tore apart the cockpit from within.

A few enemy gunshots went his way, none of which came close to landing. It was only a matter of moments before the small army’s attention was diverted to an even worse visitor.

It emerged from the trees and laid eyes on the human buffet.

Howard began to sweat.

“Holy…”

The bipedal reptile, reminiscent of ancient predators of the Mesozoic Era, yawned its mouth open and sounded off with a roar.

A collective sense of fright swept through the unit. Rifles discharged, annoying the creature with pesky lead projectiles.

Incensed by the unfriendly greeting, it began its attack.

The result was bloody and chaotic.

It swept its head low like a gulf club, deliberately using its horns to pick off the mercenaries one by one. Two were caught in the first slash and were immediately cut down to size.

It pivoted on its heel, slashing its tail, smacking a third mercenary off the ground. The man twirled head over heels before smacking into the fuselage of a helicopter.

A group of mercs took position inside one of the personnel trailers, using it as cover while they fired from inside the windows. They struck the beast along its neck and face, doing little more than draw its focus on them.

Their sounds of regret could be heard from a mile away as the beast charged the building. Tucking its head down, it caved the entire side of the trailer inward, pancaking one of the annoying humans inside.

Another hit knocked the trailer over.

A few stomps of the reptile’s feet flattened it, and those inside, entirely.

“Ew!” Renee winced. “That’s unpleasant.”

Through the storm of gunfire and shouting was Thomas’ motorcycle. Raptor Pack caught a glimpse of their captain swinging around after having disappeared on the far side of the compound. He now had a rifle in hand and was putting it to good use.

Two enemy combatants, confused on whether to shoot at him or the creature, found themselves in the path of his bullet stream.

Dario’s sense of confidence had vanished. He was an infuriated man, barely keeping himself from losing his head.

He fired several shots at Thomas with his rifle, missing each time.

“What should we do?” one of his five team members asked.

“Hold position,” Dario said. He let the rifle hang by its strap, turning around to make use of his hostages. “Obviously, he didn’t consider the ramifications of being so bold.” He drew his Colt revolver. Standing right in front of him was Archer, whom he gladly pointed the gun at. “So much for the great Raptor Pack.”

Archer parted his hands from behind his back. Dangling from his left wrist were the restraints, and pinched in his right hand was the glass shard he used to cut them.

Dario’s shock was twofold, first from the realization that the prisoner had freed himself, and secondly from the lightning-fast motion of that prisoner disarming him.

The revolver was twisted from his grasp.

Next thing Dario knew, his own gun was pointed right at him.

BANG!

The cowboy reeled backward.

His five subordinates, realizing what happened, turned around to take aim at the sergeant.

Archer kept his finger pressed down on the trigger. In a heartbeat, he marked each target. They were in a single row. Five men, left to right, all roughly twelve feet away and spaced out by four or five feet.

Archer twisted his hips, his left hand fanning the hammer.

BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG-BANG!

Five shots.

Five hits.

Five mercs dead before they hit the ground.

Archer twirled the revolver, took a knife from one of the bodies, and started freeing his teammates.

Charity’s hands came apart and went right for Dario’s rifle. She shouldered the weapon, identified a merc who was coming her way with intent to halt their escape, and put three rounds in his chest.

Howard seized a weapon and took cover near the cockpit of the nearby sea stallion. A few bullets struck near his head, delivered by enemy troops positioned near the clearing. He returned fire, proving his aim was superior to theirs.

Charity knelt by Renee to keep her covered. For the most part, the remainder of the rapidly dwindling mercenary army was focused on the reptile.

It was near the main structure now. A mercenary was backpedaling away from it, futilely shooting at its chest. As the creature towered over him, the terrified man fell backward. Throwing his hands over his face, he screamed.

Down came the reptile’s foot, ending his misery.

It went after some retreating men. Lowering its head, it snapped its jaws shut on one of them, bursting him into red mist. A slash of its head diced one of his comrades.

Moran’s voice surged through the radio channel.

“All units, get to the choppers. Retreat.”

Charity looked into the already much smaller crowd. Running from the facility to a chopper on the north side of the compound was Dr. Schoenvorts. He had a large briefcase in hand, which he hugged tightly with both arms.

At the chopper was Moran, Leso, and two other mercs.

She turned to the sound of Thomas’ motorcycle. The captain was coming around the pyramid structure.

She ran in his direction. “Thomas! Thomas!” He made eye contact with her. Charity pointed at the scientist. “Get that briefcase!”

Thomas hooked his bike to the left. Running from the main lab to the chopper was a guy in regular clothing. Near the chopper he retreated towards was the guy he really wanted to get even with—Moran.

Firstly, he needed to get that case. He wasn’t sure why it was important, but if Charity said it was, then he would not question it.

He sped his bike towards the target.

In a few seconds, he closed in on the man with the case. Thomas stuck his right foot out to kick him in the back.

Right away, Moran and his small group sent lead flying in his direction. Forced to abandon his maneuver, Thomas veered sharply to the left, returning fire from his own gun.

One of the henchmen caught one in the chest and fell against the fuselage.

The man with the briefcase reached the chopper.

Moran and the other merc stepped inside, still spitting lead at Thomas.

“Get us out of here!” he shouted to the pilot.

“But the meteor!” the man with the briefcase protested.

“We’ll get it,” Moran replied. “Let us take care of the problem, first!”

The door slammed shut and the chopper lifted off the ground.

Thomas brought the bike to a screeching halt. All across the field, men were scrambling for the choppers. Rotor blades were spinning and pilots were broadcasting their warnings, informing the stragglers they had a matter of seconds to get aboard before they were left behind.

Far to the south was his team. They were in good condition by the look of it… except for Renee. He could not tell what was wrong with her from where he stood. Initially, he feared she had been shot during the skirmish. Then he saw Charity once again pointing frantically at the helicopter Moran was escaping on.

He could barely make out what she was shouting, but just like before, he knew the tone and body language.

There was something important in that man’s briefcase.

Moran’s chopper was fifteen feet in the air. It rotated thirty degrees starboard. Machine-gun fire struck the reptile’s hide, driving it away from a band of evacuating mercenaries.

The beast looked up at the aircraft and roared its displeasure.

More machine-gun fire came its way.

In defiance, the beast charged the group. Lowering its head, it diced them one-by-one with its horns. Its feet pedaled with increased force, driving the beast directly at one of the Chinooks.

Two men yelled in a futile effort to repel, their rifle fire going completely unnoticed by the beast. It struck the chopper, caving its entire side inward, crushing all of those within. Stomping feet made short work of the two mercs.

The pilot crawled through the busted windscreen. No sooner did he emerge in the sunshine was he snatched by those jaws. His legs kicked from the creature’s mouth as it tilted its head skyward. A flicking motion tossed him up, the mouth extending wide to let him freefall to the back of its throat.

“AGH!”

Thomas’ eyes went back to Moran’s chopper. It was rotating again, pointing its forward guns in his direction.

He lifted his grenade launcher. Only one chamber was full. Thomas found this suitable, as he only had time for one shot anyway.

He aimed high and unleashed the projectile.

BANG!

To his own amazement, he struck the target directly on the tail rotor. Smoke spewed in thick black plumes as the sea stallion descended into a crazed tailspin. In spite of the pilot’s best efforts to prevent a crash landing, the bird spun like a top in midair, zipping westward over the north station.

Thomas turned around, watching the trajectory of the aircraft. Its downward arch continued two hundred yards west, disappearing behind several trees.

CRASH!

There was no explosion or fire. The amount of smoke remained the same, with the addition of dirt and dust expanding from the point of impact.

Thomas turned his bike around and accelerated. Hooking around the north side of the station, he sped for the crash site.

Charity watched the captain disappear in pursuit of the target. In-between him and the rest of the team was a world of chaos. The beast was attacking the second Chinook. Using its horns as giant scythes, it smashed the cockpit and the pilot inside. A slash of its tail broke the spin of another mercenary behind it.

It moved to the next sea stallion. The rotors were spinning, the bird moments away from lifting off.

The creature moved in on the rotors, horns first. The blades snapped against the curved weapons, removing all hope of the aircraft taking to the sky. A few men inside fired at it from the fuselage, screaming in horror before one of its forearms slashed.

Blood smeared the inside of the chopper. A kick from its leg folded the cockpit in on itself. The beast continued the punishment, reducing the helicopter to useless scrap metal.

“We might wanna move,” Howard said.

“Hold on,” Charity said. She pointed at Vulture Four, on which they had ridden aboard. “Get on the radio and alert the Crixus. They’ll contact Kilmore and get backup sent over.”

“Got it!” Howard rushed into the chopper, stopping briefly after noticing the biologist starting to sprint to the garage. “Where are you going?”

“I’m gonna help Thomas. Archer, stay with Renee.”

The sergeant stood near the sickly pilot, monitoring the escalating situation.

Charity arrived at the garage’s side door. Just as she hoped, there was an ATV inside.

Not too far from the vehicle was a black duffle bag left by one of Moran’s men. It was left open, its contents plain as day.

C4.

It was meant for demolition of the site, but their efforts were cut short by the arrival of Thomas and the reptile.

She turned around to the sound of rotor blades. One of Moran’s sea stallions managed to successfully lift off. The reptile went after it, bouncing off its heels and chomping its jaws a few feet shy of its underside.

The chopper reversed until it was on the north side of the compound, far from the creature’s reach. It set down, the man at the side door waving at some survivors to come out of hiding and get aboard.

While the men filed into the chopper, one of them took a firing position with an RPG. He waited for the creature to come within fifty yards before firing. The rocket-propelled grenade struck its left knee and exploded.

Roaring in pain, the reptile fell forward. From the cloud of smoke and dust arose its two feet, kicking angrily while the creature worked to correct the situation.

The man with the launcher followed the rest of the men into the chopper. It lifted off and turned west, pointing its cockpit at the smoke rising from the crash site.

They were going to pick up Moran. Furthermore, the beast was going to follow them, intent on paying them back for that RPG hit. Its leg was bloodied, but functional enough to carry its weight, albeit with a limp.

It would probably not get there in time to intercept Moran’s chopper. However, it still spelled trouble for Thomas.

Charity inspected one of the ATVs. The key was in it, enabling her to start it up. Next, she grabbed a few blocks of C4, some arming devices, and a detonator. She throttled out of the garage and turned west.

CHAPTER 14

“Mother of Christ,” Moran growled as he pulled himself out of the chopper. The bill of his hat was crunched inward. His brow was bloodied, his hands sore, and his temper flaring.

The chopper had landed on its port side. Its pilot was unconscious, as were Leso and Dr. Schoenvorts. Only his fellow merc, a man named Hale, managed to keep control of his wits. He first extended the doctor’s briefcase to Moran in addition to his rifle.

Moran tilted his ear to the east, picking up the sound of a rapidly approaching dirt bike.

“That guy just won’t quit.” He looked down at Hale. “Get me the RPG.”

The weapon was handed up to him, loaded and ready to go.

Moran lowered himself to the ground and pointed the weapon at the approaching enemy.

Thomas Rodney emerged from a batch of trees, speeding right for the wreckage. He made eye contact with Moran, cursing after recognizing the weapon on his shoulder.

The projectile came his way.

Thomas made a sharp turn to the left, gaining three yards of distance before the rocket struck behind him.

Mounds of dirt spat from the point of impact. Next thing Thomas knew, he and his bike were lifted off the ground, spiraling forward for several feet. He flipped forward in midair, landing on his back.

Every muscle in his body tensed. A smell of gunpowder and burnt fuel and rubber enveloped the area. His bike had smashed against some rocks a couple yards west from where he landed. His rifle was nowhere to be seen. The grenade launcher lay a few feet from his outstretched arm.

Approaching from the chopper was Moran, tossing the RPG launcher aside in favor of his M27 rifle.

“I’ll hand it to you, Captain Rodney, you’re a crafty one. You did your team justice.” He pointed the gun. “Too bad they weren’t able to do the same for you.”

A growling engine gave him pause.

Speeding over a small hill was an ATV, with Charity clinging to its handlebars. The small all-terrain vehicle went airborne, angling straight for Moran. He dove out of her way, rolling over his shoulder.

Thomas moved to an upright position. Drawing his pistol, he took aim at the second mercenary standing on the helicopter wreckage. He was popping off rounds at Charity, forcing her to retreat farther northwest.

One of those rounds struck the front right tire. The ATV spun out of control, throwing its operator off its seat. Charity hit the ground hard, setting face-down near a tree.

The guy adjusted his aim to finish her off.

Thomas beat him to the punch, popping off multiple rounds. The first two went wide. The next three struck him center mass in the vest.

He followed up with several more shots, cutting through the merc’s defenses and cutting his life short.

Moran shifted to a kneeling position, his gun held across his body. Thomas panned his gun to the right, centered his iron sights on the merc, and squeezed the trigger.

Clang!

Moran fell backward, his gun frame indented from taking the bullet for him. Thomas squeezed the trigger again.

Click!

Angling the gun upward, he saw its locked slide.

Damn it!

Moran was getting back up. He dropped the M27 and went for his pistol.

Thomas had only a split-second to react.

He broke into a sprint, hands clenched into fists. Moran extended his pistol. Thomas made a bounding leap, tackling the merc to the ground.

Mounting his opponent, the captain grabbed his wrist and slammed it back to the ground. The impact shook Moran’s hand, severing his grip with the pistol.

He sported a smile, delighting in a good brawl. He lifted his knee and planted his foot on Thomas’ chest, pushing him backward. Thomas rolled over his shoulder back onto his feet, hands in a guarded position, ready to deal damage to the shorter opponent.

Moran stood up, casually cracked his neck, then moved in on the captain.

Thomas eyeballed his foe. A well-placed hit to the chin would be more than enough to put his lights out. It would not be the first time the captain ended a fight in such fashion. Once was on leave at a bar when someone tried assaulting his wife. The guy did not know what hit him—literally. From what Thomas heard, he woke up with a broken jaw, and no memory of the last several hours.

That hatred was nothing compared to what he felt towards Moran.

He shuffled his feet and went for the attack. His fist flew, the knuckles zeroing in on Moran’s face.

A circular hand motion by the merc redirected Thomas’ punch. His fist hit nothing but air, his arm threatening to fly out of the socket.

Moran’s foot came off the ground and connected with Thomas’ abdomen, blowing his air out. The captain stumbled backwards, mouth open, his guts feeling as though they were about to spew out of his body.

A right hook caught him across the face.

Thomas’ life flashed before his eyes—twice, after a second punch landed, this time over his left eye.

It was a lesson he had always taught soldiers working under him—never underestimate your opponent. It was a lesson he was learning the hard way for himself right at this moment.

He retaliated with a left punch. Once again, Moran deflected it. Thomas threw a kick. It, too, was deflected by a hammering motion by Moran’s fist, throwing the captain off balance.

Moran pressed the assault, striking Thomas on the chin with a fierce jab, a kick to his inner thigh, a backfist to the eye socket, and a left uppercut to the chin.

Thomas managed to keep himself upright through that line of punishment. It wasn’t until Moran pivoted on his left foot and extended a powerful kick to his chest that he went down.

He landed on his back. A sense of alarm had set in. While he didn’t expect Moran, a trained soldier with no shortage of combat experience, to be a cakewalk, he absolutely did not think things would go this badly. The guy was deadly fast and accurate with his hands and feet, so much so, he could have made a living as a Hollywood action star. Alas, he preferred the real thing, as Thomas was finding out in brutal fashion.

The captain got himself up, stumbling backward to gain a little bit of distance as Moran approached.

Bearing a wicked grin, the merc increased his speed. He threw a jab for Thomas’ face, forcing the captain’s hands up to block. It proved to be a fake-out, opening up his midsection. Moran struck him center mass with the toe of his boot, blowing the captain’s air from his lungs.

An elbow struck Thomas on the nose.

Bleeding from his face, he attempted a right hook, only for Moran to parry it and land another kick to his ribs.

The merc put one foot in front of the other, spun in place, and swung his right leg high. The spinning heel kick caught Thomas across the face.

For the second time, the captain was knocked to the ground. He propped himself up on his elbows, watching Moran through hazy vision.

The merc stood over him, satisfied in the punishment he inflicted on the troublesome captain.

His foot came down hard on Thomas’ throat, pinning him to the ground. Alarm signals alerted him to the closing of his airway. He put his hands on the merc’s boot, failing to lift it free.

Maintaining pressure, Moran looked over his shoulder as one of the sea stallions arrived near the wreckage.

Two of his men exited the aircraft and started getting Schoenvorts and Leso aboard. One of them waved to Moran.

“It’s coming!”

Moran lifted a finger. “One moment. Gotta finish something real quick.” He looked down into Thomas’ eyes and drew his knife. “Well, Captain, I can see you’re feeling miserable. Let me give you a break.”

Thomas watched him angle the knife downward with intent to drive it into his chest. Realizing he could not stand toe-to-toe with the merc, he decided to change his close-quarters strategy.

The knife came down.

Thomas put his arms up, catching Moran’s wrist and stopping the blade within an inch of his chest.

Moran increased his force, gradually lowering the tip to its target.

The captain kicked his heels against the ground, scooting him a few inches backward. It was enough to shake Moran’s balance and force him to remove his boot from his throat.

Thomas lifted his foot and thrust outward, pushing the merc away. Coughing, he got himself up.

Moran moved in for the kill. He slashed with his knife a few times, coming short of his target. Thomas backed away, feeling his heel bump against something. Glancing down, he saw the M1 Carbine he lost in the RPG blast.

Picking the gun up by the barrel, he swung at Moran as he came in for another attack. The stock of the weapon struck the merc’s wrist, sending the knife shooting from his grasp.

Moran retaliated with a high kick, disarming Thomas of the gun.

The captain opened his hands and awaited the merc’s next attack. By now, Moran was clearly feeling a little too confident. He put his left foot forward, winding his other leg for a kick.

Thomas pushed off his heel and ran at him.

Moran threw the kick.

Thomas leaned forward like a football player making a tackle. He wrapped his arms around the merc’s leg, catching it mid-kick. He went to the ground in a corkscrew motion, taking Moran down with him.

A frenzy ensued, with Moran attempting to free himself from Thomas’ grasp. The captain released the leg and grabbed at his vest, forcing Moran flat on his back.

Naturally, Moran threw a fist up at his face. It was something Thomas was counting on.

He grabbed the merc’s hand, swung himself clockwise, keeping Moran pinned with his legs. The merc growled, realizing he had set himself up for an armbar.

“SH—”

Thomas pulled back with all his might, over extending Moran’s arm over his thigh.

Crack!

“—IIIIITTTT!”
Thomas maintained his grip on the merc’s broken arm, catching his breath before putting a permanent end to their feud.

A series of tremors gave him pause.

Stomp! Stomp! Stomp!

Branches bent outward as the reptile’s head pushed through the canopy. Menacing eyes looked down at the soldiers in combat. Saliva dripped in large globs as lips peeled back.

Both men looked up at the beast, simultaneously muttering, “Crap!”

The fight was officially over. It was each man for himself.

Thomas released the merc and made a run over to the unconscious Charity Black, who was still lying on the ground. Behind him, Moran got to his feet and ran for the chopper, holding his broken arm.

The beast stopped briefly, looking at the two sects of people.

“Go! Go! Go!” Moran shouted as he boarded the aircraft.

“Wait… the briefcase!” a stirring Dr. Schoenvorts protested.

“Leave it!” Moran said. “Go! Take us up!”

The fuselage door slammed home and the bird ascended. Right away, it retreated southeast, slowly vanishing into the horizon.

Thomas knelt beside Charity and tapped her face frantically. “Hey! Wake up!”

She lifted her head. “Is it time for our celebratory drink?”

Stomp! Stomp!

Looking at the oncoming reptile, she felt a surge of adrenaline.

“I take that as a no.”

“Come on,” Thomas said, helping her up. “Let’s go.”

“One thing…” She pulled out a couple blocks of C4 from her vest. “This might come in handy.”

It was a delightful sight. For Thomas, the only question was how to utilize the explosive. Catching the monster in the blast was not going to do the trick. They would need to add something extra to get the job done.

Thomas turned his eyes to the west, seeing the top of a large cliff a few hundred feet away. He remembered the overhead sweep the team conducted earlier that day, particularly the sight of the large unstable cliff shelf.

“I have an idea.”

He helped Charity to her feet. Together, they ran through a patch of jungle to the destination.

“Hope it’s a good one,” she said.

Thomas listened to the footsteps behind them. The beast was on their tail, slowed down somewhat by an injury to one of its legs.

***

It was a hundred-thousand-years-old, born from the shifting of tectonic plates and breaking of landmasses. At the start of its lifespan, it was a large hill, cone-shaped, home to all sorts of animal life. Over the course of the centuries, corrosion wore on its southern side. Storms, earthquakes, and floods chipped away at the base, gradually wearing it away. At the turn of the 21st century, humans added to the ordeal by excavating this portion of the island for resources.

Its top contained a thick layer of solid granite, weighing hundreds of thousands of pounds. The cliff wall under the shelf cracked little by little in the recent decades, its strength holding up the overreaching top, but only just barely. It was a natural structure that was doomed to collapse.

Thomas gazed at the spectacular landmark, envisioning its long history. Charity was shaking her head, exhausted from the day’s events.

“You sure about this?”

“Sure I am,” he replied. “Why? Aren’t you?”

Charity answered with a wide frown and a loud “Nope!” The crashing footsteps approaching from the east forced her to let go of her reservations. “But since I don’t have any better ideas…”

They ran to the base of the cliff.

Its shelf towered over a hundred-and-fifty-feet over their heads. Tiny pieces of gravel shook loose and rained around them, adding to Charity’s anxiety.

Thomas planted the charges on the wall and inserted their triggers.

“How are the others?” he asked.

“Archer and Howard are good,” she replied. “It’s Renee who’s in trouble.”

Thomas looked over at her. “What happened?”

“That bite on her leg?” she said. “It’s septic. The lizards carry a deadly infection, probably in their saliva. The company was trying to harness it.”

“You’re kidding? Can we find a cure?”

“I think there’s one in that briefcase the doctor was carrying. It was in the chopper. But those people got away; I’m not sure if they took it with them.”

Thomas shook his head. “No, I overheard them as they were taking off. They had to leave in a hurry, thanks to our scaly friend.”

Charity clasped her hands together. “Thank God. Then we still have a chance.”

Behind them, the footsteps grew nearer and more intense. Branches snapped off trees, making way for the towering mutant. It stomped out into the open, leaves and bark falling from its horns.

Charity backed away. She put a hand on Thomas’ shoulder, urging him to step back from the cliff.

The moment of truth had arrived.

They made distance from the trap, using themselves as bait. The beast saw them as an easy meal. To it, there was no better way to end the killing spree. It still remembered Thomas as the human who had struck it with explosive projectiles after its fight with the crocodilian.

“Come on,” he said. “Keep coming. Nice and easy.”

The beast approached, entering the cliff’s vast shadow.

Charity pulled the detonator’s antennae.

“By the way, Thomas?”

“Yeah?”

“Thanks for coming back for us.”

He smiled. “You’re my team.”

Suddenly, Charity felt her doubt slip away. In its place came grand confidence in his strategy.

She pressed the button.

BOOM!

The charges detonated, blowing a hole in the base of the cliff.

The reptile stopped in place, leaning left as the shockwave threatened to knock it off its feet. It turned its head to the wave of smoke and dust rushing from the blast. It exhaled through its nose, puzzled and confused.

Next came a dull cracking sound from high above. The beast turned its eyes to the sky in search of the source of the vibrations. It saw the enormous cliff shelf, getting larger and larger, until hundreds of thousands of pounds of rock connected with its face.

Thomas and Charity, having sprinted for safety, took cover near some trees. They tucked their heads to the ground and let the resulting shockwave do its thing. Thick dust surged over them, caking their gear in a white-tan color.

For two whole minutes, the tremors persisted. Soon, a calm silence returned.

The teammates looked upon their work.

A new mound of rock had formed at the base of the cliff wall. Over time, it would pack together and form the base of a new hill.

Staring back at them from underneath it was the flattened skull and busted horns of a mutated reptile.

Thoroughly exhausted, Charity leaned her head on Thomas’ shoulder. Finally, they could rest, for the mercenaries were gone and the monster was dead.

CHAPTER 15

“I see you’ve been busy,” Charity said to Thomas as they walked back to Moran’s crashed Sea Stallion. “I was worried you were dead.”

Thomas shook his head. “Not for lack of trying.” He stopped and gazed at the wreckage in front of them. “How far did they get in clearing out that station?”

“They were just about finished when you arrived,” Charity said. “A lot of the hard drives were in one of the Chinooks. I don’t have much faith that they survived, after seeing what the mutant did to it.”

“Go figure,” he said. “Most of their data was probably in the south station’s computers.” He kicked a rock as he moved closer to the helicopter. “They’re not going to stop. What happened here today was nothing more than a little setback. Same with the Scarlett Caldera. They’ve invested too much into their project. And, as we found out today, they’re willing to kill anyone who gets in their way.”

Charity nodded. “I never thought I’d have to point a gun at a human being ever again.”

Thomas took in the unspoken meaning in that statement. “Air Force days?”

“In a base in Afghanistan,” she replied. “Not exactly my favorite moment in life. Oddly enough, it’s worse than everything else we’ve gone through.” She pointed her thumb in the direction of the dead lizard. “The mutations can mostly be seen as freaks of nature. Bad, dangerous, but in the end, they’re just creatures that got a raw deal. But people like Moran and the companies he’s working for…”

“Like Brom-Caylen,” Thomas interrupted.

“Like them… they’re worse. They choose to be evil.”

Thomas stopped and looked at her. “Then we’ll do everything we can to stop them.”

Charity smiled at that.

Together, they searched the interior of the crashed helicopter.

“Found the case!” she said.

She brought it outside and knelt down to open it. As she did, Thomas used a radio to get in touch with Howard.

“You guys alright over there?”

“It’s a little messy, but we’re all still breathing. How about you and Charity? I got nervous when I saw the merc’s helicopter racing off.”

“No, we’re on our way back,” Thomas said.

“What about the cure for Renee’s illness? Please tell me you found it.”

Thomas clenched his teeth as Charity opened the briefcase. She picked up a vial, read the label, and proudly sported it to the captain.

“That’s affirmative!” he replied to Howard.

“Yes! Hurry back.”

“Nah, we thought we’d take our time,” Charity said.

Thomas chuckled and clipped the radio to his waist. His smile shrank after laying eyes on the other contents inside the briefcase.

“What are those?”

Charity was looking at them too.

There were three vials, each roughly a foot long, and made of bulletproof glass. The mixture inside was a strange mix of purple and black. Whatever it was, it was completely different from the cure.

Charity’s expression hardened. “I think I know what this crap is.” She secured the vials and shut the case. “This is what they injected into the octopus. And in our friend back there.” She gestured in the direction of the reptile. “The mutation process got out of control, as did the specimens.”

“So, they’re creating some sort of mixture using the particles taken from the meteorite sample,” Thomas said.

“And injecting directly into the bloodstream,” Charity added.

Thomas looked into the distance. “That damn company. They don’t know what they’re messing with. They’re playing with fire.”

“Worse,” Charity said. “They’re playing God.”

Both of them stood quietly, thinking about that fact, and how it never turns out well.

CHAPTER 16

Renee opened her eyes to a golden evening on the beach. The sun was sinking low in the west, giving the ocean a dark, yet foreboding atmosphere. She recognized the sound of helicopters and model one MEAVs in the sky, touching down on the island. Soldiers were on the move, examining every inch of the north station.

“How are you feeling, Lieutenant?”

She sat up from her stretcher. To her own surprise, she was feeling really well. It was a sight much welcomed by Archer, Howard, Charity, and Thomas, as well as General Austin Kilmore.

“I could really go for a beer.”

The general, anticipating such a response, lifted one from a cooler and passed it to her.

“You earned it. The Crixus is a few miles offshore. I want you to spend the night in the infirmary for observation.”

Renee lay back. “Aww.”

“Don’t worry, our hospital food’s better,” Kilmore added.

“Plus, you’ll have an endless supply of coffee,” Charity said.

Renee smiled at that. “Glad to have that.” A sigh followed the statement. “Unfortunately, I lost my ship. Those assholes blew it to kingdom come. I really liked my Firebird-One. It was the best thing I’ve ever flown. And now, it’s gone.”

“Oh, geez,” Howard said. “It’s not the end of the world. Besides, while you were snoozing, Charity was giving me a few tips on how it could be improved.” He brought up a blueprint image on his tablet and handed it to Renee.

She looked it over. “Whoa!”

“Yep, the model two MEAV. Or, in this case, Firebird-Two.”

Renee liked what she was looking at. It was similar in concept to the model one, but far grander in scale. It was larger in size, making room for scientific workspace to be used by Charity and Howard.

The best part, aside from the cockpit, was the improved coffee station.

“I approve.” She handed the tablet back and clapped hands with Thomas. “Nice work back there, boss. What happened with ‘Ball Cap?’ Please tell me he got eaten.”

Thomas shook his head no. “He got away, unfortunately.”

“What about the station?” Charity asked. “Is there anything to connect the place with Brom-Caylen?”

“On paper? No,” General Kilmore said. “A lot of the evidence was destroyed when the lizard attacked the Chinook. They had gotten the hard drives out of the offices. Unfortunately, they’re all smashed up.” He turned to look at the large coffin-shaped container. “It’s not a complete loss. I’m glad to see that meteorite is no longer in their hands. God only knows what they would’ve done with it.”

“What’s gonna happen with it?” Thomas asked.

“We’ll keep it in a holding facility in Texas,” Kilmore answered. “I hate to say it, but I’m already fighting another battle. There’s people in our own government who want it placed in a different facility where they can run their own tests on it, without us interfering.”

Howard scoffed. “Wow, that’s not suspicious at all.”

“Right?” Kilmore watched as the X41 meteorite container was lifted by helicopter and transferred to one of the ships anchored offshore. “There’s a burr in my hide named Stephen Yuel.”

“The senator?” Charity asked.

“That’s him,” Kilmore said. “He apparently has huge interest in our finding. Unfortunately, he has a way of persuading the commander-in-chief. I’ll do my best to keep his mitts out of our operations for as long as I can.”

“Yeah, he tried to cut my funding,” Howard complained. “I’m making headway on my special weapons developments. Just wait till you see my Mountain Lion prototypes.”

Thomas raised an eyebrow. “What are they supposed to be? Tanks?”

“Robots!” Howard proudly said. “It’d be nice to reduce human casualties on the field.”

Thomas nodded. “That it would. In the meantime…” He discarded his empty beer bottle and pulled another from the cooler. “I’m calling it a night.”

Charity did the same.

“Me too… after about six more of these.”

The team laughed and carried on with their ceremony.

The End

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Prologue

Bright Spring Lab, Staten Island, New York, 8:19 PM EST, present day

The night sky glowed with flames, and the acrid scent of burning chemicals filled the air. Thick clouds billowed across the complex, a relentless wind driving the smoke east.

At the center of the thriving scientific campus, the state-of-the-art biological laboratory stands as a bastion of innovation and discovery, and even as the structure burned, its majestic beauty of glass and dull metal remained. The facility hosted groundbreaking research that promised to revolutionize cellular biology and genomics via DNA and RNA splicing, cell-renewal, and deep gene sequencing. It was well known that the researchers who worked at the center created unique life and then killed it as part of their experiments.

The once-pristine corridors flickered with red and white flames, and panic and chaos reigned as researchers and staff burning the midnight oil fought to escape the blaze. In the distance, sirens wailed, and campus emergency services were doing their best, but it was like trying to take the salt out of the sea.

As the flames grew hotter the laboratory’s safety protocols were compromised, and hazardous substances were released into the air. Contaminated smoke filled the sky and was carried east with the gusting wind. Sparks shot into the darkness like fireworks, and black specks of ash twisted and eddied like ethereal snow.

Despite the firefighters’ best efforts and the laboratory’s advanced emergency protection system, the building burned through the night, and when the sun rose over Long Island the Gene Katz Center for Molecular Biology and Genomics was nothing but a smoking skeleton of steel and blackened bricks.

Firefighters poured water, sprayed foam, and spread dry powder on the remnants of the building, but it would take days to fully douse the smoldering remains. Smoke twisted and swirled in a mesmerizing ballet, ghostly tendrils caressing the air, and in this dance, the smoke and wind became one.

The Atlantic Ocean to the east and south, and the Long Island Sound to the north, created a maritime climate, and as the sun heated the island, the temperature rose faster over the land than over the water. This difference caused cooler air from the ocean to flow inland, and this resulted in easterly winds that could carry a candy wrapper from the top of the Empire State Building to the Montauk Lighthouse.

As Long Islanders went to work, many noticed nothing more than the faint scent of smoke and the astringent smell of burning plastic. Newscasters did stories about the Canadian wildfires and preached safety and lectured about the Air Quality Index, a numerical scale used to communicate the quality of the air in a specific location at a given time. The AQI formula measures various air pollutants, including ground-level ozone, particulate matter, carbon monoxide, sulfur dioxide, and nitrogen dioxide, but it was the unknowns that kept the conspiracy theorists and the employees of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention awake at night.

The smoke plume carried over Long Island and dispersed, and the AQI maxed out at a hundred and seventy-nine on a scale of zero to five hundred. The government urged Long Islanders to stay indoors and avoid outdoor activities, especially sensitive groups like children, the elderly, and those with respiratory conditions. If one had to go out, an N-95 mask or equivalent was recommended.

There was a pile-up on the expressway, a shooting at the Davis Park Casino, and a famous pop star was found passed out on a beach in the Hamptons. The hot sun burned away the morning mist, and by evening rush the smoke plume had passed the lighthouse, where it was scattered on the ocean and within its swirling mists and thick spray.

Saltwater possesses unique properties, and it is often hazardous to tender biological organisms. The toxic smoke was neutralized as it dispersed, the seawater and its briny wind transforming its composition.

What was for a brief time was no more, but the ecology of Long Island was forever altered.

1

Stones Throw, Long Island, New York, 12:27 AM EST, six days later

Scott Ward couldn’t sleep, and he stared at his bedroom ceiling, trying to piece together his life and figure out what had gone wrong and when.

Jenni ripped a snore, and Ward looked over at his new wife. It wasn’t so much that things had gone wrong as much as things hadn’t gone as he’d expected. At thirty-one, he’d just enjoyed what he liked to refer to as his second shot at being a teenager. One with some cheese. College graduation led to his job at the firm, and after he passed the bar and got his license he was promoted and was making good money. The problem was that he hated family law, but when he met Jenni, everything had been fresh and new, and the job receded into the background.

A spider crawled across the ceiling and Ward fixed his gaze on it.

The chaos of the engagement, the challenges of COVID-19, then the wedding planning, the event, and the honeymoon period that followed all masked the fact that Jenni and Ward didn’t know each other very well and lately, he felt their relationship floundering. He loved her. That he knew, but depression constantly gnawed at the edges of his happiness, and he couldn’t seem to shake it.

Beep. Beep. Beep.

Ward’s hand shot out and he silenced his phone before it woke his wife. The last thing he needed at two in the morning was a series of questions he didn’t have the answers to yet. He couldn’t recall hearing the foreign beep before, but the phone showed an alarm from the water sensor in the basement.

Ward sighed as he leaned off the bed, lifted a window shade, and peered outside.

The streetlight cast wavering light over the dark road, but he saw no rain. He’d installed the sensor because the basement leaked sometimes, and pain knifed down his spine as he tried to think of another reason why the sensor was triggered. A malfunction? Then he remembered the old water heater and vaulted from bed.

Jenni stirred and said, “What is it?”

“Nothing.” Ward closed the door behind him.

As he padded downstairs, he heard Muffin mewing and crying. When he reached the bottom of the steps he peered through the windows at the top of the front door. No rain.

Ward found the orange and white tabby house cat pressed to the carpet staring under the basement door. Muffin’s coat shimmered in the darkness, silvery white whorls and stripes glowing in the half-light.

“Everything alright, Buddy?”

The cat clawed at the carpet as if trying to squeeze under the basement door, then looked up at Ward and meowed.

He bent and stroked the animal. “Easy, sweetie. Easy.”

As if Ward hadn’t believed her explicit warning, Muffin arched her back, turned, and lifted her tail to give Ward a view of her undercarriage. The cat meowed once more, then sprang away into the darkness.

The house went still. A clock ticked in the kitchen, a fan whirred in the living room, the refrigerator hummed, and he caught the faint scent of garbage. Pale moonlight leaked through the windows, shadows frolicking with the darkness.

An unease crawled just beneath his skin that he couldn’t explain. An itch he couldn’t scratch, and a warning light flashed on his mental dashboard. Ward considered grabbing one of his guns. The pistol, the Benelli M2 tactical, and the double barrel were secured in the gun locker mounted to the wall in his bedroom’s walk-in closet, but he kept a single-shot crack barrel shotgun loaded in the downstairs closet secured with a combination trigger lock.

He rolled his shoulders and shook off the anxiety. What he probably needed was a mop and bucket.

The basement door creaked open, and Ward flicked on the light. An LED dome at the bottom of the steps came to life, illuminating the stairwell. An odd smell wafted up and tickled his nose, and it wasn’t the stale odor of soaked carpet. Ward sniffed. The air was oily and musty, and he didn’t think he’d ever smelled anything like it.

Ward rubbed sleep from his eyes as he descended the steps, the wall to his right giving way to a half-wall. Moonlight streamed through two egress windows and painted the basement ghostly black and white. He turned on the lights, and old fluorescent fixtures tinkled and snapped as they came to life.

The newlyweds had done nothing to the basement since they’d purchased the house, and green and orange carpet circa 1960 covered the concrete slab floor. There was a series of shelves holding household items, exercise equipment, and a stack of boxes that contained items that hadn’t made the cut when he and Jenni had combined their lives. Most of the boxes had his name on them. An old bumper pool table that he and Jenni had never used sat at the center of the space, a rack holding pool cues mounted to the wall by the staircase.

In the far corner was the washer and dryer, and an old wooden table that held supplies and a mound of dirty clothes. On the opposite wall, a door led to the unfinished section of the basement that housed the boiler, the water heater, and an old workbench he hadn’t touched.

The musky scent grew stronger, but still Ward saw no signs of water.

He threaded through the basement and inched open the boiler room door. Nothing moved in the pale light leaking in through the egress windows, and he wandered into darkness until he found the chain hanging from the light fixture. He pulled the cord and the space filled with light.

Everything was exactly where he’d left it. There was no water on the floor, and the boiler and water heater looked fine. He breathed a sigh of relief. The sensor was malfunctioning, and that was a hell of a lot cheaper than bringing in a plumber. Not that he had to worry about money, but nobody liked paying for home repairs. There were uneven decks, leaky roofs, puddle-ridden walkways, and ugly paint jobs all over the world that proved this.

The sensor was in the far corner of the room under the workbench, because that was where the water usually found its way in. Stones Throw was just north of Montauk Highway, which meant the Ward Casa was only a couple of miles from the Great South Bay. If Ward dug a hole in his backyard, which he had yet to do, he would hit water at around eight feet. That meant the house’s basement floor was only a foot or so above the water table.

Ward got down on his hands and knees, the concrete digging into his kneecaps because there was no carpet in the utility room. He reached under the workbench, his hand searching for the sensor, but he couldn’t find it. He got low and used his cellphone light, and he jumped when a camelback cricket caught on a glue trap bucked and heaved as it fought to escape. The fat spider-like beasts gave him the willies, even though they were harmless, and he avoided touching the traps as he grabbed the sensor.

He wasn’t a tech genius, but he knew his way around a cellphone, and it only took a couple of minutes for Ward to determine that the sensor was functioning properly. With a sigh of frustration, he reset the device, put it back in its place, and made a mental note to hire the kid across the street to replace the glue traps.

With a potential problem averted, Ward straightened and cracked his back.

The sound of a box hitting the floor carried into the boiler room.

His thoughts went to the shotgun. Ward pulled the light cord and killed the lights as he went to investigate, all the bugs in his stomach that had just nodded off to sleep fully awake and stirring the spaghetti and meatballs he’d had for dinner.

At first, he saw nothing unusual, the fluorescent light pushing away the darkness, deep shadows filling every hollow and gap.

Ward’s breath caught in his throat, cold terror rooting his feet to the floor.

Beneath the bumper pool table sat a creature that looked like a camelback cricket, better known as a spider-cric, but this was no ordinary house pest. The thing was black and larger than a cat, the upper portion of its hind legs the size of turkey drumsticks, its forelegs arced well above its humped back, which was crisscrossed with white stripes. The vicious thing looked to be half mouth, its jaws lined with transparent icicle-like teeth. Two long antennas wavered above its bulbous eyes, but it was the pinchers at the ends of its front legs that drew Ward’s eye.

He stepped back and the Cric inched out from under the pool table, its bulbous eyes locked on Ward. The Cric hopped forward, and Ward pressed himself to the wall and felt the rack holding the pool cues.

The Cric hopped again, this time three feet in the air, and it landed five feet away.

Ward grabbed a pool cue, flipped it so he was holding the thin end, and brandished it like a bat. Sweat trickled down his back, his head pounding as he struggled to wrap his noodle around what he was seeing.

The thing hissed as it pressed itself to the carpet and hopped forward.

Ward swung away with the pool cue but missed.

With a deftness and speed that made Ward’s vision go blurry, the Cric sprang at him, jaws flexed open, pinchers snapping and out front in attack position.

He swung again, and this time he made contact.

The thick end of the cue stick smacked the Cric’s humped back, and the sound of the cracking carapace and the beast’s squeal echoed through the basement. Black blood-like fluid leaked from the cracked shell, and the creature’s legs cycled wildly as it tried to right itself.

Ward swung again, and again. He was lost in his fear as he pounded the Cric. When the cue snapped there was nothing but a broken pile of thin bones and black ooze.

He looked around, certain there must be more of the beasts because he felt them, but he didn’t see any. With his heart pounding so hard his chest hurt, Ward knelt and examined the Cric’s remains.

Without a doubt the creature was some type of camel cricket. A freak of nature, a crossbreed monstrosity that shouldn’t be. Crics shouldn’t have teeth, and he’d never seen any with pinchers, but what did he know? He’d only had a damp basement for a year. What he did know was the things his mom had called sprickets weren’t supposed to be bigger than cats. His thoughts shifted to Jenni.

“Shit,” he said to the dead Cric. If Jenni saw this she would want to move, and not just to another house. But what she didn’t know wouldn’t hurt her. And what did it matter? This mutant was surely one of a kind, an anomaly, and until he saw another one, he saw no reason to worry his wife.

Ward searched the basement and saw no signs of more super Crics. Nor did he see any openings big enough that the monster Cric could’ve gotten through, even though he knew normal Crics could squeeze through very small cracks, and their eggs were almost microscopic. He used a piece of cardboard to shovel the remains of the dead Cric into a laundry bag and buried the evidence under a pile of empty detergent and fabric softener bottles in the trash can.

With that done, he hid the broken cue stick and did his best to clean the carpet of the Cric’s spilled guts with a dirty towel before heading upstairs.

The house was quiet, as if the events in the basement had occurred on another plane of existence. He took a deep breath and let it out slowly before he set out to search the first floor.

Shadows danced in the moonlight that slanted through the windows, and the hum of the house soothed Ward’s nerves. The kitchen was clear, the den, his office, the dining room, the living room.

The bathroom door flew open and crashed back against the wall.

Ward no longer had his pool cue, so he threw up his arms to shield his face, his mind’s eye painting a picture of bulbous eyes sitting above a mouth full of crystal teeth.

Muffin bolted from the bathroom with a scream of frustration.

Ward fell back and yelled at the cat as it scampered away. “Thanks, Muffin. I really needed that.”

With his nerves still tap-dancing on his spine, Ward went up to bed.

“Are you O.K.?” Jenni asked as Ward slipped under the sheets. “You were gone a long time.”

“Everything is fine. Go back to sleep.” That was what Ward tried to do, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw the Cric, its claws and teeth. Couldn’t be, he told himself. Not possible. But his mind just couldn’t deny what he’d seen, and he lay still for over two hours staring at the ceiling before he finally fell into a fitful sleep.

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Table of Contents

- G.O.R.E. SECTOR
- CHAPTER 1
- CHAPTER 2
- CHAPTER 3
- CHAPTER 4
- CHAPTER 5
- CHAPTER 6
- CHAPTER 7
- CHAPTER 8
- CHAPTER 9
- CHAPTER 10
- CHAPTER 11
- CHAPTER 12
- CHAPTER 13
- CHAPTER 14
- CHAPTER 15
- CHAPTER 16