Primordia 2: Return to the Lost World

PROLOGUE

He froze, listening to the stealthy sounds outside the cave. He sat for many minutes in the near darkness with just the dying embers of his fire giving the walls a hellish red glow.

After five more minutes of silence, he exhaled long and slow and went back to sharpening a stick by slowly grinding it against a rough stone. His knife, now rusty, was lashed to the end of a long, straight branch, making a spear — his only weapon, and his only protection.

He paused to look again at the cave entrance. Was that the soft sound of claws raking against the rock — seeking, testing, investigating? The entrance had been sealed over, as it was every night. But the creatures that hunted in the dark were more than powerful enough to force their way in.

Hiding, becoming invisible, and avoiding some parts of the jungle was the only way to survive. Nearly every night, the sounds of death and killing went on out there — but he knew, as long as they stayed out there, he was safe in here.

He looked through long strands of greasy hair up at the walls. He had spent days, weeks, covering the inside with mud, sealing over every crack, fissure, and pockmark, to make sure there were no ways into his refuge, no matter how small. He knew things came creeping at night, not just big things, but tiny, hungry things, and sleep was when he was the most vulnerable.

He shifted a little, feeling the mud flake on his body. He had also coated himself in the silky clay to create a barrier against biting insects and also to mask his scent from the beasts that had senses of smell hundreds of times more sensitive than his own.

His eyes ran along the walls. On one were hundreds upon hundreds of marks — four strokes, crossed diagonally by a single stroke, over and over, as he counted down the days. So far, they totaled to 2,920—nearly 3,000 long, lonely, and terrifying days he had been here. But there were still many more to go until his chance of escape would arrive.

His eyes shifted to the other wall — there, he had drawn an image of a memory now eight years gone by — it was his motivation and his waking dream; Ricky’s, a rib joint, complete with sign overhead, large windows, and people inside sitting at a horseshoe booth. One of the people he had carefully drawn in detail, a girl, looking out at him.

Benjamin Cartwright’s eyes began to water as he remembered. His dry lips moved. “Don’t forget me, Emma,” he whispered. “Don’t forg—”

His words caught in his throat as the sniffing came from right outside. Then the cave entrance exploded inward and the monstrous thing reached in for him.