Primordia 2: Return to the Lost World

CHAPTER 01

Emma crouched and picked up a handful of scree. She looked at the weather-blasted fragments, rolling them in her palm for a few seconds before letting them drop.

She rested her forearms on her haunches and slowly turned her head, blowing air through her pressed lips. This place, this tabletop mountain, or tepui, in the middle of nowhere, wasn’t on any map and wasn’t explored.

And why would it be? she thought. It was like the surface of another planet — riven with crevices, a few small pools of water, stunted trees, and some hardy grasses.

She continued to scan it, looking for something, anything, some sign that indicated there was something here now, or there had been something here in the past. As she watched, a small striped skink clambered out from under a flat stone in pursuit of some sort of gnat. She watched it dart forward, ruby-red gimlet eyes and jerking movements as the tiny reptile hunted down its prey with ruthless efficiency.

After another moment, she turned away. There was nothing here now, no secrets revealed. When the wettest season came, and it would as it had been doing perhaps for thousands or millions of years, then anything that was here was buried, hidden, or maybe even destroyed. And what existed 100 million years in the past became reality, just in this one place in the world.

What was lost would be found again. She placed a hand against the sun-warmed stone. “Are you there, Ben?”

She waited, letting her fingers trail over the ancient rock’s surface. But she knew there would be no answer, and maybe not for another two years until the time was right.

There was just an eerie silence on the plateau. Perhaps there were ghosts here, but they wouldn’t speak to her. Not yet.

Behind her, a huge helicopter waited. The pilot watched on, but was paid handsomely for stripping down his long-distance helicopter, loading in spare fuel tanks, and also for his discretion.

She bet she knew what he was thinking. Probably the same as everyone else that had heard her tale—jungle fever, hallucinations, post-traumatic stress disorder, fakery—and dozens of other accusations that had been thrown at her.

But she knew different, and she looked up into the azure sky. One day soon, the eyebrow-like streak would appear, heralding the return of Comet P/2018-YG874, designate name, Primordia. It would first bring an aurora borealis effect in the upper atmosphere, and then its powerful magnetic field would distort time and space on the planet’s surface. A doorway would be opened, right here, and she’d be waiting for it.

Emma Wilson stood and turned, circling her finger in the air. The pilot immediately started engines and the huge rotor blades began to turn.

She was finished here, for now. But before going home, she had one more thing to do.

CHAPTER 02

Emma alighted from the taxicab and stood out in front of the striking building and admired the magnificent sculptures and ornate stonework of the great artist and sculptor, Francisco Narvaez.

She looked along the magnificent edifice of the museum, one of the country’s oldest. It was dubbed the Museum of Natural Sciences when it first opened, but the name was eventually shortened to Museo de Ciencias—the Museum of the Sciences — to reflect the broadening of its scope over the years. It didn’t matter what they now called it; like most places of public learning, they were dying, yet more victims of the fast-paced age of Internet learning.

Emma had come to this museum for one reason. Though it housed some of the country’s best collections in archaeology, anthropology, paleontology, and herpetology, there was only one thing she wanted to see.

Emma walked up the front steps toward the huge doors, seeing the ghostly apparition of her reflection doing the same in the glass panels. The polished glass was like a mirror, and she saw her familiar features staring back — the luminous green eyes, brown hair that shone with red highlights in the sunlight, and she knew there were still a few freckles smattering her upturned nose and cheeks.

But as she got closer, the ghost became clearer, and so did reality. She paused, staring for a moment. There was a streak of silver hair at her forehead that she didn’t bother masking, and at the corner of each of her green eyes, fine lines came about from squinting into the sun, plus a line between them, creating a permanent vertical frown, perhaps from worry. The face was older, wiser, and as some even said, haunted.

So be it, she thought as she blinked it away and pushed in through the huge doors, feeling immediate relief from the Venezuelan heat. She inhaled the odors of old wood and paper, floor wax, and something that might have been preserving fluid.

The rapid clip of shoes on marble turned her head, and she smiled and waved to a small, middle-aged man with perfectly groomed swept-back silver hair, wearing an immaculate three-piece suit. She took his outstretched hand, pressing firmly. She needed to win him over, and quickly.

“Greetings, Ms. Wilson, greetings.” The man beamed up at her. “Your travels were comfortable?”

She nodded. “Yes, thank you, Señor Alvarez. You look just like your pictures: handsome.”

The man beamed and also blushed a little. He continued to shake her hand for several more seconds as he smiled like a schoolboy. He finally shrugged.

“Ah, but I need new profile pictures.” He pointed at his head. “My hair is now fully grey.”

“Suits you.” Emma looked around. “Beautiful museum. Thank you for taking the time to see me.”

He turned, grasping her elbow and raising one arm to point to a corridor leading into the depths of the building. “Fact is, we are very quiet these times.” His lips turned down. “The young people of today, impatient, get their information, and perhaps their view of history, from the Internet.” He sighed.

“I know; their loss,” Emma replied.

The pair walked on in silence for a few more minutes with just the sound of their heels on the polished floor, and the occasional squeak of heavy wooden doors as they pushed through them.

Alvarez wasn’t kidding, Emma noticed, that they seemed to have the place to themselves. The man walked with his hands in his pockets and half-turned.

“You have been to our country before? The Amazon?”

“Yes, eight years ago.” She grunted softly. “Eight years, three weeks, and two days ago.”

Alverez’s brows shot up. “You seem to remember it very well?”

Emma’s eyes darkened. “It left… an impression.”

The man watched her face for a moment and then made a small noise in his chest. “Sometimes it is not a good experience for some people.”

He walked on for a few moments more, and obviously decided to fill the quietude with a little more small talk.

“Did you know the Amazon is still the world’s largest tropical rainforest?”

She smiled and nodded. “I did know that.”

He returned the smile. “Well then, did you know that the previous estimate of our magnificent jungle being 55 million years old has now been pushed back even further than anyone first thought? There are large tracts in the deepest parts of the jungle that may have existed for up to 100 million years.”

Her grin widened. “I even knew that too.”

“You have done your homework, Ms. Wilson; I salute you.” Alverez bowed his head slightly. “And now I can see why you are one of the few people in the world to even know about our artifact.” He stopped before a locked door, and then reached into a pocket to rummage for a moment before producing a large set of keys. “But exactly, how did you learn of it?”

Emma felt a tingle of excitement as she waited. “I heard about it from Professor Michael Gibson of Ohio University. He wasn’t sure if it was even real. He thought it might have been just a story.”

“Excellent archeology professor; I know of him.” He put the key in the lock, but paused to study her. “A long way to come for something that is certainly real, but is as confusing as it is confounding.”

“Curiosity.” She kept her eyes on the door.

“Killed the cat, yes?” He grinned up at her.

“It’s killed more than that,” she responded flatly.

His brows drew together momentarily. “Quite so.” Alverez then turned back to the door, unlocking it and pushing it open. He flicked on lights in a large room filled with exhibits that had most likely been stored or were yet to be classified.

Emma’s eyes were immediately drawn to a large cabinet against a far wall, and he flicked on a small spotlight that shone down on a bank of solid-looking drawers with brass handles.

She had to stop herself from racing ahead of the man and calmly walked at his side as they crossed the room. Alverez reached for one of the largest drawers and slid it open. Emma felt her heart begin to pound.

“La huella de Dios,” Alvarez said, almost reverently.

Emma whispered the translation, “The footprint of God.”

She stared at the object; it was a shard of stone, roughly two feet long and one foot wide, and at one edge, there was what looked like a portion of a human footprint with the toes pushed in hard. At the other end of the stone shard was a three-toed print of some sort of dinosaur. From the way the prints were pressed in, it looked like the human was running, the other creature in pursuit. Emma closed her eyes for a moment and felt moisture at the corner of each.

“The matrix rock is dated at around 100 million years old, the late Cretaceous Period. The last one of the Mesozoic Era.” He turned to her. “The great age of the dinosaurs.”

Emma continued to stare, her eyes blurring. “Do you think…?” She sniffed and quickly wiped a sleeve across her eyes.

Alverez nodded. “Impossible, I know. But the rock has been scientifically carbon dated. But there were no humans then. Many experts believe it is the distorted print of some sort of as yet unidentified animal. And others that it is proof that God walked our land to admire his creation.” He shrugged and grinned again. “This is why we call it the Surama mystery, named after a place that is a tiny dot on the map in the center of the Amazon.” He chuckled. “Who would believe it anyway?”

“Do you think… I can touch it?” She turned to him, hoping her flirting would now pay off.

“What?” He seemed confused, perhaps by the audacity of her request.

“It’s important.” She stared into his eyes.

His frown deepened. “But why? What would you…?”

“Please,” she urged. “It’s important to me.”

Alverez’s jaws worked, as he seemed to mull the request over. “Señorita Wilson, you must be very careful, and do not lift the stone free.” He glanced over his shoulder. “Quickly then.” He watched her closely.

Emma raised her hand, fingers outstretched, and edged them toward the dark stone. She touched its coolness, and ran them into the slight depressions, feeling the pads of the foot, the toes.

“It was found over a hundred years ago in the mouth of a river after heavy rain. It was washed out of the dark lands of the deepest Amazon.” Alvarez watched her as she ran her fingers over the footprint, almost lovingly. “Who, or what, made those prints has been long gone for 100 million years.”

“Not for me they’re not,” she whispered. She snatched her hand back and turned on her heel.

“Huh? You are finished?” Alverez straightened as he watched her leave. “Ah, perhaps we could talk, have coffee, or… ”

Emma turned briefly as she got to the door. “Thank you very much, Señor Alverez, but I have much to do and very little time left.”

She walked out front and skipped down the steps, her mind working overtime as she thought through what she needed to do. Rather than grab a taxi immediately, Emma walked down the street, turning down avenues with her mind somewhere else, some time and place long, long ago.

She imagined Ben in that dark primordial jungle, running for his life as he was pursued. For all she knew, that race for survival had happened right here, where she stood now.

The last time, they were just a group of dumb kids who had no idea what they were up against. And they had all paid dearly, most with their lives. But this time, she’d be ready; she’d gather a team with appropriate expertise, and she’d need firepower. She had a lot to do, and she’d left everything to the last minute. But her determination to be there when the wettest season returned burned within her as brightly as the day she had scaled down from that hellish place and then watched as it vanished.

Personnel, logistics, timeframes, and finances all ran through her mind, and she paid little attention to anything else. Without thinking, she found herself in a less-salubrious area of the city. The veneer of respect was extremely thin in Venezuela, and when tough times hit, some people hit back. In this place, she wasn’t just a woman or even a human being anymore; instead, she was a target.

As she passed an alleyway, she was grabbed around the throat and a small-caliber handgun jammed into her cheek. Emma would have cursed her stupidity, but her throat was already constricted.

She let herself be dragged into the darker depths of the alley. Another man appeared in front of her. He had the brutish appearance of a thug — fleshy broken nose, jaundiced eyes, and a stained gap-toothed grin.

The pressure on her throat eased.

“Take it.” She kept her eyes on him as she held out her bag.

Broken Nose snatched it from her. “Let’s see if today is a good day,” he said in ruined English. He looked up at her. “But I think, not good for you.”

The bigger man holding her guffawed into her ear.

“Take the money and let me go. I won’t report you,” she said evenly.

“Oh, I know this,” Broken Nose said, turning one squinted eye on her again. “But I think we not finish with such a pretty lady yet.” He went to empty her bag. “Americano?”

She ignored him, knowing how this was going to go, and the theft was the last of her worries. They’d rob her, beat and rape her, and if they wanted to cover their tracks, they’d cut her throat. Every city in the world had scum just like them.

Her anger welled up. The big guy holding her shifted his grip so he could see over her shoulder as Broken Nose emptied her bag.

“Last chance,” she said.

He began to shake her bag onto the ground and frowned. “Shut her up.”

The gun shifted from her cheek, and the beefy arm around her throat moved even more as the big guy went to either clamp a hand over her mouth, or something worse.

For a split second, he wasn’t fully in control of her; it was the opportunity she was waiting for. She let herself drop, sliding down in Beefy’s arms, and he bent forward to grab at her. But when her knees were bent, she jammed her heels into the ground, launching herself back up at him like a spear, the top of her head aimed directly at his chin.

It was a direct hit — his head snapped up and she grabbed his gun hand, her finger going over his on the trigger. She jerked his hand around, the muzzle now pointed at the surprised face of Broken Nose. She didn’t hesitate for a blink and fired.

The man’s ear disappeared in a spray of blood and cartilage, and he howled as his eyes went wide with shock and pain. He dropped her bag and she wrenched the gun free from the still-groggy Beefy’s paw, and then used it to club his temple. He fell like an oak tree.

That was enough for Broken Nose, and he turned and ran. Behind her, Beefy groaned with a purple welt on his chin and matching lump growing on the side of his head.

Emma expertly ejected the magazine, and the round in the chamber, and tossed the pieces into an open trashcan. She gathered her things, straightened her clothes and hair, and headed out of the alley.

She’d been busy since she clawed her way out of the Amazon jungle. She’d trained hard, toughened herself. She might be nearly ten years older, but now she was made of iron.

When Primordia returned, she’d be ready.

Emma Wilson walked calmly from the alleyway and waved down a taxicab. Across the road, another car sat pulled in by the sidewalk, windows down. Inside, a long camera lens pointed at the woman, and the whir of an auto-drive captured her every movement.

When Emma’s taxi pulled away, the camera was lowered, the car started, and it followed.

CHAPTER 03

Emma knelt beside the bed of Cynthia Cartwright after bringing her a cup of luke-warm tea. She couldn’t help notice that the older woman looked frailer than usual. The toll of losing her son, Ben, to a damn mystery in the Amazon had aged her considerably.

Cynthia had listened to Emma’s story and had believed every word. After all, in 1908, the Amazon in similar circumstances had consumed one of Ben’s ancestors, and it was his notes that had led Ben to that god-forsaken place.

Cynthia had begged, and then demanded, Emma find her son and bring him home no matter what the timeframe, cost, or the dangers. She had made her wealth available to Emma to bring it about, and Emma had pledged to do so.

Bottom line was, Emma would have done it anyway, but having the Cartwright money at her disposal meant she could do the job right. She loved Ben, and he had been trapped only because he sacrificed his freedom so she could escape — if he was alive, she’d find him and bring him home, even if she died trying.

Emma stood and tiptoed from the room, and then headed up to her office. Cynthia had invited Emma to move in and she accepted, quickly becoming an unofficial daughter to the old woman.

She eased the door of her office shut and turned. Inside, there were several large computer screens, charts, and newspaper clippings dating back over a hundred years. Each told of weird phenomena, unexplained events, and sightings of strange creatures down in the Amazonian jungle. She’d been busy.

She sat down and pulled her chair closer to one of her screens and opened the astral chart on comet mapping.

There was just one she was interested in: Comet P/2018-YG874, designate name, Primordia. It had finished its elliptical curve around the sun and was well on its way back toward Earth. In a few months, it would be at its apparition point — the closest point to Earth where it becomes visible to the naked eye. At that time, its astral effects would be felt, but only in one place on the globe — a tabletop mountain, or tepui, in the Venezuelan jungles of the Amazon.

It was a place she knew that was near inaccessible. And even more so during the height of the comet’s effect, as everything electronic was knocked out — nothing worked — and if you could find it, you couldn’t fly over it; even a compass went haywire.

Emma sat back, staring at the screen for a few more moments. She knew what would happen then — on that mountaintop, the world was turned on its head, as perhaps a snapshot of the first time the comet ever passed close to Earth was replayed over and over again, every 10 years. But it wasn’t just a vision of a long-dead history, but the worlds’ actual primordial past became a reality — then became now; there became here.

That window remained open for just over 24 hours, and when it closed, everything on that plateau vanished back to where it came from, and any visitors still inside that portal went with it. The way she understood it, the primordial jungle was still there, but only there in prehistory, 100 million years ago.

And that’s where Ben Cartwright was now. There was only one way to find out if he was safe, or even still alive, and that was to be there when the window opened again.

She sucked in a deep breath, filling her lungs as she reviewed her list. Last time, they had been dumb kids on an adventure, high on excitement and self-confidence. That had proved fatal.

This time, she’d be ready. This time, she’d have her eyes wide open, and she’d make damn sure that with the firepower and people she took with her, she’d give herself a fighting chance. She looked down at her list again — first things first: firepower.

CHAPTER 04

Emma pushed in through the door and stood just inside for a few moments, allowing her eyes to adjust to the semi-darkness. It was two in the afternoon and the bar was near empty — except for one table near the rear wall.

Four hulking men sat there, shots and chasers in front of them — boilermakers. Little early for the hard stuff, she thought, but maybe not if your goal is chasing away demons.

They were dressed in denim and leather, and some might have mistaken them for bikers, except there was stubble but no beard, and their hair was crew-cut short.

The door opened and closed behind her and she ignored it, continuing to focus on the men. To her, they looked exactly how she expected them to look — ex-military on leave, temporarily or for good. She saw that one had a sleeve half-rolled up, and on the brawny forearm, there was a tattoo of a skull wearing a beret with a sword through it — Special Forces.

This is them, she thought, and walked straight up to the table. Four sets of eyes turned to her, appraising, enquiring, amused, but not defensive or alarmed.

“My name is Emma Wilson. I’m a friend of Ben Cartwright.”

The men’s eyes narrowed. “He sent you, did he?” The one with the tattoo carefully put his beer down.

“In a way, yes, he did,” she replied.

“You mean you used to be a friend.” His eyes slid back to her, and this time, his jaw was set.

Emma stood her ground. “No, I mean, I am. I think he’s still alive, and I also think, no, I know, he needs your help.”

One of the other men with a ginger crew-cut tilted his head to her. “Yeah, yeah, I know who you are now. You’re the chick that went down to the Amazon with Big Ben… and was the only survivor of the expedition.” His eyes drilled into her. “Eight walk in, and only one walks out—you. That’s some luck.”

Tattoo guy lifted his chin. “And how is it that a Special Forces guy of the caliber of Captain Cartwright doesn’t make it out, but a little girl like you does?”

“First up, I’m no little girl.” She glared at them. “And second, I’m alive because he saved my ass. I wouldn’t be alive today if it wasn’t for him. Bottom line, he got trapped there because he allowed me to escape.” Emma leaned her knuckles on their table. “I swore I’d rescue him, and I damn well will.” She straightened. “But I need some help.”

The men grinned and tattoo man chortled, lifting his beer to sip again. He drained a good third before lowering it. “We all need help with something, darling.”

Emma had been in Ben’s condo over the years and looked through his correspondence, his records, and old photos. And she knew the guys from his old mission team were the closest thing he had to friends.

She folded her arms. “If it was one of you in a jam, he’d be there like a shot to help. He was like that; always had his buddies’ backs.”

Tattoo snorted, but he looked less comfortable now. “Look, Ben was my brother in the field. Woulda died for the guy. But he’s been gone over nine years. I don’t know what happened in there to him, to you, and to all your friends. But you don’t go missing in the Amazon for nearly a decade and then come walking out. Know what I’m saying?”

Emma folded her arms and smirked. “What if I told you that in a few months, there’d be an opportunity to rescue him? That he’ll be there, waiting for us. I know it.”

The men sat and stared for a moment. Tattoo’s face dropped a little. “Give it up, miss, he’s gone.” He sighed. “If there was a chance he was alive… ” He shrugged. “We ain’t got the time for wild goose chases into the heart of darkness.” He looked up. “The Amazon eats people. But you already know that now, don’t you?”

“Yeah, I know it. And that’s why I need you. I expect it’ll be a few weeks’ work, plus some prep time.” She began to grin. “And I know that a thousand bucks a day expenses, for each of you, isn’t bad pocket money for just chasing geese.”

The men looked at each other for a moment, but then she added the knockout blow, “Plus a $100,000 bonus, for every one of you… when we return.”

The redheaded man spluttered and sat forward. Tattoo lifted his beer and drained it, and then slid it back on the tabletop. “Okay, you’ve got our attention.” He stuck a large hand out. “Drake Masterson.” He pointed to the redhead on his left, Fergus O’Reilly, and then to the next man, who was the color of dark coffee and had a lobe missing from one ear, Brocke Anderson, and then to the last, the youngest, but possibly the biggest. The man looked sullen and his eyes burned into Emma with something she thought might have been distrust or maybe animosity.

Drake thumbed toward him. “And last but not least, Ajax Benson.”

The big man smiled, but it was without a shred of humor of friendship, and all he did was momentarily display a silver tooth at the front of his mouth.

She nodded to each man. “Emma, Emma Wilson.”

Fergus reached behind himself and grabbed a chair from the next table. He skidded it up to their table. “We’re not saying yes. But like Drake said, you’ve got our attention. So sit down and tell us more.”

“Of course.” Got ‘em, she thought. She turned to the bar. “Another round here, and I’ll have the same as they’re having.”

Camilla Ortega slid into the bar behind Emma Wilson. She ordered a single scotch and then sidled into a booth at the other end of the bar from the table of men that Wilson was talking to.

She’d been an investigative journalist for over 20 years with Nacional De Venezuela, one of the most prestigious newspapers in all of South America. Nearly half of those two decades had been dedicated to finding out what happened to the Cartwright expedition of 2018.

She sipped her drink as she watched from the shadows. Her personal theory was that the American woman had killed them all and had then wormed her way into the aging Cartwright widow’s affection with the intention to inherit the now-childless estate fortune.

The story had been going nowhere, but then one of her friends in immigration told her that Ms. Wilson was suddenly making trips down to South America again, and Camilla’s journalistic antenna had quivered. Wilson was up to something, she just knew it, and she also knew this might be her last chance to find out what happened.

She sipped and watched. Camilla had no proof of anything, but the one thing she did know was that sooner or later, killers always returned to the scene of their crime — just like Emma Wilson had started doing.

Camilla carefully withdrew a notebook and pen from her bag, placing them out of sight on the seat beside her. She pretended to be staring off into space as she faced the group. But her hand moved rapidly as she took notes. There was something else she’d picked up along the way in her journalistic travels — lip reading — and as Emma and the men discussed their plans, she took it all down.

After 10 years, it looked like a criminal mystery was about to be solved. And this time though, Camilla would be right there to scoop it.

CHAPTER 05

Airman John Carter grinned as he sped over the treetops in his Corsair Fighter. The USS Bennington, the huge Essex-class aircraft carrier, was heading back to Bermuda, and he and a few other pilots had been ordered to patrol the eastern seaboard of the South American continent.

Basically, it was a belt-and-braces job. The war had been over for three years, and no more resistant stragglers had even been encountered. After the conflict ended, most of the serving men and women went back to their lives. But not Carter; he loved the Navy, loved flying, and had decided that this was going to be his life. So he stayed.

And this was why — he banked, looping even lower over the dense green jungle below him. He pushed the stick forward, feeling the huge Pratt & Whitney engine call on its 2000 horsepower, and accelerated with ease. Up here, he was free as a bird, and with the world war over, he could enjoy his flying time free of the fear and fury of war.

Carter was a couple of hundred miles in from the east coast of Venezuela, over what was uncharted jungle. He snorted—like just about all of it down here, he thought. But he wasn’t worried, as his Corsair had a range of over 1,000 miles and was as reliable and tough as John Wayne with a six-shooter. Sure, the birds were a bit tricky to land on a carrier’s deck, hence why they were called bent wing widowmakers, but he and his airplane knew each other like an old married couple.

Carter’s Corsair and five others were spread in a line over 250 miles and would continue to zigzag on for another 200 before heading back to the Bennington. So far, the sky had been a clear blue, except for a growing smudge on his horizon.

He squinted; it was strange, and even though it looked a little like a storm, it was only over a small part of the jungle. He’d never seen a weather pattern like that before. He radioed it in and got the okay to give it a little look-see.

Carter rose to 2,000 feet and saw the thick, purple clouds slowly hanging over just one area of the jungle, and as he got closer, he saw that the effect had a type of ceiling, and even more oddly, it rotated, getting thicker and darker at the middle. He closed in on it and decided to rise above it to look down into its eye.

That’s when the shit hit the you-know-what. As soon as he was over the top of the boiling clouds, warning lights flashed and then to his horror, the Corsair’s powerful engine sputtered.

“Don’t you do it to me, baby.”

But she did — the massive Pratt & Whitney engine shut down.

“Mayday, mayday, going down… ” He quickly glanced at his instruments panel to give his bearings, but the dials were frozen, all of them.

Jesus Christ, he whispered. He knew that the radio was also probably dead, but his training took over; it was all he had left.

“This is Lieutenant John Carter, last known position 5.9701° North, 62.5362° West, approximately 240 miles in from the Venezuelan coast. Engine has failed, I am going down, I repeat, I am going down… ”

Carter looked out of the cockpit window as his plane dropped into the boiling cloud. His visibility vanished.

The Corsair was a magnificent and efficient fighter plane, but she was no glider, and very quickly, she started to turn nose down and gather speed.

“What the…?” Outside his cockpit window, he thought he could make out, in amongst the fog-like cloud, other airplanes glide past, but bigger than his Corsair.

Still well over a thousand feet above ground, Carter had no option but to bail out, and just as he reached up to slide his canopy back, he broke through the cloud and saw the jungle below him.

But it wasn’t like the jungle he had just been flying over. In fact, it was a jungle like he had never seen before in his life — strange towering trunks with grass-like fronds instead of leaves, pulpy ferns, spiny-looking cycads dozens of feet around, and in the distance, a glittering lake that caught rays of light from a growing hole in the cloud ceiling above him.

Carter was relieved to see those other airplanes he spotted still soaring over the treetops. But wait, no, they weren’t aircraft at all, but freaking birds, giant freaking bat-like birds with claws on their wings.

I’m losing it, he thought.

“Mayday, mayday,” he yelled again into the mic. Carter gritted his teeth and wrestled with the controls. He was thankful to be low enough to bring it in, but he needed somewhere to put it down. He pushed all flaps up, trying to compensate for the heavy nose of the machine.

There—in the distance, he saw the clearing, close to a cliff edge, and he prayed as he headed toward it. At the last instant, something lifted from the treetops — a head on a neck that must have raised five stories into the air. It turned to glance at him with large liquid eyes, and he yelled his fear and jerked the stick, trying to bank away.

But time was up, and speed and gravity won. Carter came down hard and fast, shearing the tops of trees and then coming down on the gravel-covered clearing. The corsair’s nose was too low, and instead of sliding, it dug in, stopping way too fast for a soft human body to take. The initial jerk slammed him, his face, and his forehead, into the instrument panel.

Hope they find me, was his last thought before darkness took him.

CHAPTER 06

Emma sat at a desk and scrolled through the historical newspapers. The files the university had available were from its own stocks and from obtained collections that stretched back hundreds of years. Now, thankfully, all digitized, so no more squinting into huge microfiche machines and slowly inching along at a single page at a time.

The digital files meant she could set clear search parameters, and to begin with, she confined her search to anything after the 1700s, in both North and South America, and in any year ending in 8.

That was her magic number, as the comet, Primordia, was on its elliptical orbit in a periodic recurrence of every 10 years, and it arrived every decade in a year ending in 8. Even though it only lasted a few days, to the locals, this had always been known as the wettest season.

During the last one, Emma was in the Amazon, and she had personally seen the coma streak in the sky looking like a silver eyebrow. But then, when it was at the closest point to Earth, in what was called its perihelion or maximum observable focus, this particular comet did something unprecedented, something unbelievable; it distorted the time and space directly over a vast tabletop mountain in Venezuela. No one would believe her, but she knew it was true. She’d seen it herself.

It was then that strange distortions occurred on the mountaintop — time and space became rearranged, reordered; pathways were created and doorways opened. It was only observable for a few days, but in that time, a gateway to a little piece of Hell opened upon the Earth.

Emma sat as if in a trance as her mind took her back to the tepui and their expedition of December 2018. She and her friends had been transported back 100 million years, or perhaps that primordial timeline had been transported here.

In the past, she had tried to obtain answers from physicists, theorists, and even science-fiction authors; and trying to get her head around quantum realities, spatial time distortions, and past-life theories, had only left her more confused than ever. But whichever it was, that hellish place had killed all her friends in little over a day, and she’d been the only one to escape.

She’d given up trying to convince people that she was telling the truth, or that she wasn’t mad. Only Ben’s mother, Cynthia had stuck by her, but Emma soon realized it was up to her and her alone to rescue Ben who gave up his freedom so she could have hers. When the doorway closed, Ben had been trapped behind it with all those primordial horrors, and she prayed daily that he somehow survived.

She shook her head to clear it and looked at the results that had been returned from her historical search of news events. She wasn’t exactly sure what she was looking for, but she now had over 200 entries, going back to the late 1700s. She organized them by story headline and began to sort through them, discarding anything mundane about trade, armed conflicts, or politics, and after 30 minutes had narrowed it down to several dozen that spoke of strange weather, disappearances, or sightings of inexplicable things in the jungle.

She even found an article about the naming of a new comet in the late 1700s. Primordia. She whispered the name, now even hating the sound if it.

She opened an article from the NY Times from 1908, titled: ‘President Roosevelt Offers Reward for Giant Snake.’

She read on: Theodore ‘Teddy’ Roosevelt was the 26th President of the United States, and also an explorer, soldier, and naturalist. He’d heard tales of a monstrous snake in the Amazon, and offered a $1,000 reward to anyone who could catch it. Amazingly, the reward was only withdrawn in 2002 and had stood at $50,000 when it ended.

She remembered she and Ben had talked about the possibility of one of the prehistoric animals from the plateau somehow escaping into today’s jungle. It would be an oddity, but also it would become a thing of legend — and all jungles had them.

Next, there was a 1928 column about an expedition to find missing explorer, Percy Fawcett, who vanished in the Amazon. It caught her attention as Fawcett claimed to have shot a giant anaconda over 60 feet in length. He also claimed to have found giant footprints that he believed came from a creature from the dawn of time.

The dawn of time. Emma felt a tingle of excitement. She believed him, but she bet no one else did.

Her mouth quirked up at one corner at the next story from 1948—Airman John Carter from the USS Bennington went missing in a Corsair Fighter. She sighed, remembering. You’re not missing to me; I know where you are, she thought as she smiled sadly. Thank you for the loan of your plane, Airman Carter. We tried.

Emma leaned her head back on her neck, shutting her eyes. She reached up to rub at them. “What am I looking for?” she said to the ceiling.

Something, anything, she knew, that indicated a way up or down the tepui, or that where she had been transported to could be accessed sooner than the decade-long wait. Or even some sort of concrete proof anywhere, anytime.

But there was nothing.

She guessed something that was there for a little over a single day once every 10 years was a blink-and-you’ll-miss-it event; especially when that event took place in one of the most remote, inaccessible, and inhospitable places on Earth.

She opened another window on her computer and searched for South America, 100 million years ago. One of the results was an app that ran a tectonic plate movement simulation. She ran it.

It showed the formation of the last great supercontinent called Pangaea. It started to break apart about 175 million years ago, and 100 million years ago, South America was still the basic shape it was today, except it was ringed by a shallow coastal sea, and interestingly, was only separated from the west coast of Africa by a few hundred miles.

She leaned in closer to look at the 100-million-year-ago tropical green mass of a primordial jungle that was still the impenetrable Amazon of today. That’s where you are, Ben, in there somewhere, she thought.

She was a rock climber, and those skills are what gave her the edge getting on and off the plateau. But she needed a way in and out for a team that didn’t necessarily require those skills this time. She steepled her fingers at her chin, thinking.

“We can’t risk climbing again.” She rubbed her chin and stared into space, letting her mind work. And no one will fly over it, or even could, as instruments don’t work. There’s got to be another way, she mused.

Emma drummed her fingers on the tabletop for a few moments, and then quickly grabbed her things, pushed her chair back, and headed for the doorway. She suddenly had a whole bunch of new things to investigate and now only a few months to get it all together. Time mattered; and the comet was already on its way again.

CHAPTER 07

Ben slowly lifted his head from the mud and opened one eye. Predators homed in on identifiable shapes, and two eyes, especially ones with white sclera, were like neon lights in the dark.

To survive, he used all his Special Forces training of concealment and stealth, but he knew that the adversaries he faced here had senses hundreds or even thousands of times greater than any human foe he had ever faced.

He opened his other eye and scanned the ground, then looked back along the tree trunks and bracken stems, then once more overhead, looking up into a strange tangled canopy in this area that was heavy with giant cycad branches, palm fronds, and massive ferns like cascading waterfalls of green.

Finally, he allowed his eyes to drop back down to three turkey-sized creatures that picked at fallen berries. They were beaked, like a bird, but squat and pebble-skinned, and their four stubby legs ended in blunt, three-toed clawed feet. Their dull eyes constantly swiveled, like some sort of chameleon, always moving and keeping a lookout for predators.

Ben ran through his plan: get a little closer, spear one of them, then snatch it up, and get back to his shelter, pronto. His stomach grumbled; he needed food, and though he’d found some berries and tubers he could digest, he needed protein for energy and also to preserve his muscle mass. In this place, it was only the strong that survived.

He began to squirm forward—slide, stop, slide, stop—until he was as close as he could get. He drew his spear forward, and then began to ease to one knee. He brought one foot forward to plant it in the mud, the ooze squelching up between his toes. He braced the muscles in his arm, his gaze unwavering as he exhaled, then…

Something burst through the ferns and screeched so loudly that Ben literally felt himself blanch from shock. He threw himself down into the mud.

The thing stood about seven feet in height and seemed all box-like head, serrated teeth, and a green and brown camouflage tiger stripe that would have rendered it invisible in the twilight jungle.

It was some sort of theropod and its jaws clamped down on one of the turkey things with a wet, bone-breaking crunch. It then shook it quickly from side to side, much like a dog that had caught a rabbit.

The other plant-eaters fled, one straight at Ben, and he only had to flick an arm out to grab its neck and twist sharply.

With the hunter occupied and the sounds of ripping flesh loud enough to mask him, Ben began to back into the brush. He made sure to drag his dead prize through the mud, coating the creature to also conceal its scent. One of the many things he had learned in his long years here: to stay alive, you needed to be able to vanish — no scent, no sound, and no movement.

He began to squirm into one of the tunnels he had carved out through the roots, stems, and branches of the ground bracken, straining his body to fit inside.

He couldn’t help farting, and he froze, grimacing. He waited to hear if there was any sound of pursuit. After a few minutes, he exhaled.

Idiot; can’t take you anywhere, Cartwright, he thought, and pushed on. In another few minutes, Ben was well away.

The largest theropod, the leader, was joined by several others of its pack, and after it had its share of the small animal, he allowed them to tear at the remains to finish off even the skin and bones. The small creature was barely enough to take the edge off the pack’s appetite — they needed more, always more.

The leader sniffed the air, catching the scent of the methane. Its sensitive snout was able to analyze the tiny airborne particles in the gas and understand everything about the animal it came from; the food it had eaten, that it was warm-blooded, its health, its sex, and finally, the direction it went.

It grunted once, calling the pack in, and they began to follow the scent.

CHAPTER 08

Emma was on a mission, and she headed for the Smithsonian’s special exhibits gallery. She was rapidly ticking off her list of things she’d need. Her plans were coming together, and she tried to think of everything that caused their downfall last time — sure, there was the gross underestimation of everything they’d all walked into. But there were resources they could have made use of to improve their chances.

Her jaws clenched when she thought of how naïve they all were when they sat around in Ricky’s Rib Bar and high-fived at the launch of a grand adventure — they were all dumb kids who thought that money, enthusiasm, youth, and a spirit of adventure was enough. It wasn’t, and it killed nearly all of them.

Her teeth were grinding so hard they ached as she entered the special exhibits hall and slowed as she came to the display she was looking for.

At the sight of it, her brain yelled a warning and her heart began racing in her chest. But her legs kept moving her closer.

The Titanoboa exhibit showed a reconstruction of the massive snake. It was as wide as a car and muddy brown. It was frozen in the act of devouring some sort of antelope. The back end of the animal was disappearing down the huge fang-toothed maw — it made Emma feel a sudden wave of nausea.

In the exhibit with the model were two people, a young man and woman, who crawled over the snake’s body, touched-up paintwork, and cleaned the display site as they chatted to each other. Emma just stared, and eventually, the young man noticed her, smiled, and wandered closer.

“Pretty awesome, huh?” He turned back to the snake and stuck his hands in his pockets. “It was around at the time of the dinosaurs and probably ate them for dinner.” He turned to her and grinned. “Wanna know why we think that?”

Emma shrugged. “Sure.”

“Regurgitation debris.” His eyebrows went up.

“Vomit?” She tilted her head.

“Exactly. We found crushed dino bones that were pulverized before they were fossilized. The fragmentation size led us to believe that a snake crushed them, ate them, and then regurgitated them.” He chuckled. “The big guys do that sometimes.”

“Don’t we all?” Emma returned the smile.

“Yep.” Andy laughed. “Weird thing is though, the Titanoboa outlived the dinosaurs by millions of years. We still don’t know how.”

Emma’s eyes slid to the model. “It’s too small,” she said, her gaze trance-like.

“What is?” he asked, frowning.

“It’s too small, and the body was striped, like a tiger, except green and brown.” She licked lips suddenly gone dry. “And it was far more muscular, sinuous, and powerful-looking.” She shrugged and nodded. “But it’s close, given I understand you only had a few vertebrae to work with.”

He turned to stare and his female colleague had stopped what she was doing to listen. Her eyes narrowed. She wiped her hands on a rag and wandered over.

“You’re Emma Wilson, aren’t you?”

Emma nodded and blinked, her name snapping her out of her trance. “Yes, I am.”

The woman shook her head and turned to her colleague. “This is the woman who said her friends were attacked by a giant snake in the Amazon ten years ago.” Her lip curled a little.

Emma folded her arms. “And you two must be Andy and Helen Martin, brother and sister paleontologists who are also specialists in herpetology.” She smiled at the young man. “You did good work on the Borealopelta markmitchelli fossil find.”

Andy grinned. “Thank you. It was a relative of the Ankylosaurus, and undoubtedly the best-preserved specimen in the world. You can actually see all the plating. Fantastic to—”

Helen nudged him and turned back to Emma. “What can we do for you, Ms. Wilson? We’re a little busy right now.”

“I understand,” Emma replied. She tilted her head. “But I see your eyes light up when you talk about your fieldwork and making such magnificent discoveries. And I know funding is hard to come by. After all, it’s not every day you get to find something truly magnificent.”

Helen’s jaw tightened, but Andy nodded.

“I don’t know what you’ve read about me, but I can guess.” Emma looked from one to the other. “The fact is, my friends and I mounted an expedition to the Amazon, and we discovered something there that was as magnificent as it was deadly. We failed because we underestimated everything about the place, the animals there, and the jungle.”

Emma looked from one scientist’s eyes to the other. “We’re going back, and this expedition, I’ll be taking everything I need. This time, we won’t be underestimating anything.”

The pair looked at Emma for a moment before their eyes slid to each other. Helen lifted her chin. “I’m guessing you want us to go, as part of that taking everything you need speech.”

Emma hiked her shoulders. “You’re the first specialists I’ve asked. This is a great opportunity. And consider this: I’ll fully fund your research for a year, and any discoveries we make there are yours.”

Andy’s eyebrows rose, and the corners of his mouth couldn’t help twitching up. Helen’s face remained implacable.

“And what’s in it for you?”

Emma met her gaze. “Fulfilling a promise I made to someone a long time ago. I left someone behind, and I intend to find them.”

“After ten years? I think you mean what’s left of them.” Helen tilted her head. “So, a waste of time.”

Andy sighed, and then looked up at his sister. “It’s probably a hoax, or all a big mistake. But if there’s even the sliver of a chance… ” He lowered his voice. “Sis, come on, we gotta think about this.”

“And if there is a sliver of a chance its true, it’ll be beyond dangerous.” Helen’s brows were still drawn together.

Emma’s jaw set. “I won’t sweet-talk you; it will be damned dangerous, and deadly. That, hidden place, killed all my friends in a little over a day. But we weren’t ready then.”

“And you are now?” Helen’s eyes were half-lidded. “Who else is going?”

“I’m bringing some firepower this time. Four ex-Special Forces soldiers with jungle experience, all kitted up. Then there’s you two, and me. And that’s it.”

“All kitted up? You can’t be shooting up a foreign country. You’d get everyone locked up,” Andy scoffed.

“The guns are coming. And if you decide to come, and I hope you do, then you’ll be glad they’re there.” Emma smiled flatly. “In or out?”

Andy didn’t even wait. “In.”

“I know I’ll regret this.” Helen sighed. “… probably, in.”

Emma nodded. “In one week’s time, we meet for introductions and our first expedition briefing. I’ll send through the details.” She stuck out her hand. “Welcome aboard.”

CHAPTER 09

Ben had found a new home. He hated to have to leave his old one behind, and he thought it had been well hidden and fortified. But, he found that the longer you stayed in one place, the greater the odds that he’d eventually be found.

And he’d been right. He was lucky that he had an escape hatch, or he would have been dug out like a grub from a rotting log. One to two years, and then he was usually on the move again.

His new cave descended into the ground as opposed to into the side of a rock face. All around it was thick growth — good for concealment, but unfortunately, the twin fact of that was that it meant it gave good concealment for any approaching hunters. Every time he went out or came back, his neck prickled at the thought of something waiting patiently to ambush him.

He always prayed that if it did happen, it would be quick. Ben still remembered after all these years, watching in horror as their guide, Nino, was torn limb from limb and then eaten while still alive. He shuddered at the red-raw memories.

Close to the mouth of his cave, there was also a massive tree trunk, rising easily 80 feet into the air. It had fur-like bark, and its massive canopy was more like long ribbons of grass or reeds than leaves. Over the months, Ben had used his knife to chop out wedges into the bark, creating a type of ladder, and every so often, or just when the mood took him, he climbed to the top of it. Then, hiding in amongst the grassy canopy, he looked out over his primordial land.

Ben sucked in a deep breath of the humid air, catching the familiar fishy scent of animal dung that he now knew to be dinosaurian. There was also the sweet smell of rotting vegetation, the sharp tang of plant saps, and also strange-scented flowers. Huge insects zoomed by, and higher up, he could see leathery-winged pterodons riding on thermals. Some of them were no bigger than ravens and flitted from treetop to treetop. But others were enormous, like airplanes.

In the distance, huge heads on long necks rose and fell as the land leviathans fed on grasses, trees, and pretty much any plant matter they could get into their gargantuan mouths. They trumpeted a little like elephants, and the mournful cries traveled along the valley floors for miles to be answered by another of their kind lost in the hazy distance.

Ben sat forward; he had learned to keep moving, and the land he was currently in stretched to a wet, green valley with raw, towering cliffs. Even the geology of this primitive place was huge, as continental drift was still pulling, pushing, and uplifting the earth, and then eroding it back down.

He had created a small perch within his branch nest, and momentarily, he looked down toward the ground. He knew that hunters were probably down there somewhere. But up here, he felt safe. Beside him was a woven sack of fist-sized rocks — he’d collected them and carried a few aloft every time he scaled up to his nest, and if anything got too interested in his trail, he’d rain the rocks down. Nothing liked having a baseball-sized rock hit their heads, no matter how thick those boxy, tooth-laden skulls were.

Ben grinned mercilessly; he had other safeguards as well. This was his patch, and any intruders would soon find he was not going to make for an easy meal.

He sighed and leaned back, placing his arms behind his head. Hazy sunlight shone down on him, and he turned to stare toward the plateau—his plateau—right now; it wasn’t like it would be in the future. The iron-hard granite walls were sloping on some sides and only rose a few hundred feet where the cliffs fell away, unlike the thousands of feet the sheer walls would rise in his home time. Today, his tepui was young and still growing up.

But just looking at it filled him with hope and horror. He knew he’d need to make his way back up there one day. He hoped that his theory that the wettest season would once again grab that junior tabletop mountain and allow anything and anyone on there to be thrown forward into the future. When it did happen, he’d damn well make sure he was there.

Ben almost wept with joy, impatience, and frustration, and he couldn’t help thinking back over his long time spent here. It was like a jail sentence where all the other inmates wanted to tear you limb from limb, literally.

In his travels, he’d seen vast volcanic plains that looked like the surface of alien planets. He’d crossed jungle valleys that contained monstrosities no one had ever seen or recorded. There were stinking swamps with soft-bodied things with hook-like teeth that drained blood or had segmented bodies and dozens of sharp-tipped legs and pincers.

His eyes slid back to the juvenile flat-topped mountain and felt his stomach knot. Everywhere in this damn place was dangerous, but up there on that huge risen landmass like an island in the sky, lived an alpha-apex predator that was worse than anything that hunted in these lowlands, and it was the reason he had been made to flee all those years ago.

He sucked in a deep breath and continued to stare, like he did most days. The gargantuan snake, the Titanoboa, wasn’t just another monster. This thing was like a force of nature. He couldn’t help replaying that last handful of minutes where he had led the monstrous snake away from Emma.

Then the chaos of swirling wind and boiling clouds had vanished and he found himself alone. Alone, except for something that was from his worst nightmare pursuing him. It had pushed him to the cliff edge, and when he stood on the precipice, he didn’t see the Venezuelan Amazon he recognized anymore; instead, it was this place.

It was then he knew why no one could find the place unless it was during the wettest season, once every 10 years. Because it just wasn’t there anymore. The doorway had closed, and he had been trapped on the wrong damn side.

Ben had no choice but to leap then into the vast unknown of this brutal, primordial world. He began to chuckle sourly.

“And I’m the only guy here, and will be for the next 100 million years. Just me and the monsters.”

Ben looked back to the plateau. There was something that bothered him; in his travels, he found few incidences of the Titanoboa in the jungles. The massive snakes seemed to prefer it up on the plateau. Or something kept them up there.

Ben knew he’d have to move on soon. He’d already stayed here longer than he should have. It was like a sixth sense that told him he wasn’t safe anymore.

He wished he could go back to the ocean. Sure, it had its own vast menagerie of wonders and horrors, but he’d liked it there… until he was evicted. His mouth pulled up on one side as he remembered: the endless blue water, the fresh fish, and his only friend, Ralph.

“Still miss you, buddy.” He sighed and prepared to scale down, but paused, listening.

The hunters tracked the scent of the strange animal for miles. Its warm blood smell, its salty tang of sweat, and its exhalations were irresistible to them.

The lead theropod, a seven-foot-tall biped with toes that ended in scythe-like claws, paused, turning its head bird-like to listen to the sounds of the jungle. The thing they hunted was close, they could smell it strongly now, but strangely, it was still out of sight.

The hunter crept forward, about to edge between two large tree trunks, when its three-toed foot snagged on some twine strung between them. Immediately, a horizontal branch whipped out, and along its length were sharpened spikes that came at it faster than the creature could react.

The theropod was frozen to the spot as the three-foot-long sharpened spikes were embedded deep into its gut, holding it in place.

High above it came a sound. It was the first time the hunters had ever heard it, and never would again — it was the sound of a human laughing.

CHAPTER 10

Cynthia Cartwright had let Emma use the family home to bring everyone together. It was the largest house in Greenberry, and the most discreet place she knew.

Emma saw the old woman talking softly and earnestly with the huge and formidable Drake Masterson. The big man held her tiny hand in one of his large paws and patted it, nodding as he listened. She could imagine her extracting promises from him to bring her son home. And Emma could also envisage him in return saying, and honestly, that he’d die trying.

Emma trusted and liked the big guy, and she was thankful he had agreed to lead them in. He gave her… confidence.

She guessed that now that the four ex-Special Forces guys knew there was even the slightest chance of Ben being alive, they probably would have gone in to get him for free, such was the bond within their fighting unit. But she knew that risking their lives needed compensation — she just hoped they all lived to enjoy it.

The soldiers were like a different species to the others in the room. All were huge, wide, and loud. The redheaded Fergus O’Reilly joked with his buddy Brocke Anderson, whose blinding white grin lit up the room. She wondered how he lost his earlobe — was it shot off or bitten off? Time would tell.

Brocke noticed her looking at him, lurched forward to pick up the coffee pot, and theatrically held it out to her; she smiled and shook her head. As he went to put it down, Fergus nudged him and held out his own cup.

Emma let her eyes slide to the biggest and youngest of their group — the still-sullen looking Ajax Benson. She made a mental note to speak to him, try and understand him. There was something he was keeping bottled up, and given where they were going, she didn’t want any underlying issues bubbling to the surface. As Ben told her once, small imps of the mind can grow to become monstrous demons once in a field of combat.

Combat? She snorted softly at the thought. It was ridiculous of her to think like that, but after surviving the plateau once, she had a right to feel a little battle hardened.

Andy and his sister Helen, Emma’s paleontological firepower, stood together by the fireplace and the pair chatted as Helen looked over the photograph collection on the hearth — she paid extra attention to the smiling face of Ben, as though trying to memorize his features.

Emma had a moment of doubt about her selection — the pair of scientists seemed too young and naive. She was about to throw them into a grinder they had no way of fully appreciating.

Over the years, Emma had grown armor plating, as well as a little single-minded ruthlessness in pursuit of her objective — rescuing Ben — nothing else mattered. The Special Forces guys looked like they ate barbed wire for breakfast, but these two… they looked more like they’d prefer to be eating smashed avocado on wheat toast and sipping soy latte at their favorite Bohemian café.

She girded herself; they were picked because they could help her bring Ben home — end of story. She’d lay out the risks and then they could choose to go or stay. She still had time to replace them.

She swallowed; it was time to bring things to order. Emma cleared her throat. “Morning, everyone.” She smiled and looked at their faces as the group turned toward her.

She first crossed to Cynthia and took her by the arm, leaning closer. “I’m going to talk to the team now. You don’t have to stay if you don’t want to.”

The small woman suddenly seemed to steel herself. “You’re going to talk about rescuing my Ben, our Ben. I want to hear.” She looked behind her and pointed to her favorite chair. Fergus sat in it. “I’ll just sit quietly and listen.”

Emma raised an eyebrow at the redheaded man and he immediately stood, made a show of wiping the chair seat down, and then turned to bow. Emma led Cynthia to it and helped her sit, poured her another tea, and put a small slice of her favorite orange sponge cake on a tiny blue and white plate.

Emma then moved to one of the large walls beside the fireplace and took down a few of the pictures, leaving it blank. On the table, she turned on the projector sitting there and plugged it into a laptop computer. Behind her, the wall lit up.

The first image appeared, and she stood with handheld remote and folded her arms. It was a picture of South America showing a red dot on the edge of the Canaima National Park.

“Where I, we, began our expedition.” She breathed deeply. “Almost ten years ago to the day.”

“Begging your pardon, Emma.” Drake Masterson turned in his chair. “But how did you know to start there?”

She expected the question. “We had maps, a notebook, and a legend to follow. And I know what you’re going to ask next; no, we don’t have all of those resources anymore. They were all lost.”

“But I guess the legend remains,” Andy added.

“Yeah, that’s a good start,” Fergus said. “And given the Amazon is over three million square miles in size, it shouldn’t take us any time at all to find what we’re looking for.” He winked at Brocke.

Ajax snorted and shifted his huge bulk. “Who cares? We bumble around in the jungle for a week; maybe some schmuck gets sick, or injured, maybe even killed. Then we all come home with money in the bank.” He looked at her. “By the way, if the schmuck that happens to get killed is you, I want to make sure we’ll still get paid.”

Drake Masterson glared at him, but Emma stared the young man down. “You’ll be paid. And you all have something else that we didn’t have the first time.” She looked at each of their faces.

“You have someone who was there, who survived, and who can tell you what to look for, and even better, what to look out for.” She eyeballed Ajax. “Happy?”

“Yes, ma’am.” He grinned and saluted with two fingers.

“Good. And over the years, I’ve drawn maps and made notes from my memory… several maps.” She progressed the images to another view of the jungle that was taken from a lower level, this one starting on the Rio Caroní River.

Everyone sat forward as they followed the dotted line, branching off the main river, with notations, such as: Covered River, Shallows, Sunken Idol, River Of Paradise, Swamp, And Forest Of Tree Ferns.

Drake nodded slowly. “Not bad.”

Fergus grunted. “Scale is probably up the shit; but yeah, it’s a good start. We can work with that.”

“We’ve worked with worse,” Brocke added.

Emma moved them on to some hand-drawn images collected together; there was the tepui from a distance, the massive edifice like a giant wave of rock rising from the jungle. The next was a temple with gargoylish sentinels on each side of the massive doorway.

Andy squinted and then stood, coming closer to the illuminated wall. He pointed and then turned to Helen. “The Snake God — the Yacumama.”

“Mother of the river,” Emma replied. “That’s what Jenny… ” Emma grimaced. “… called it.”

“How high is that tabletop?” Ajax asked.

“Probably about 1500 feet, give or take a hundred. Not the highest in the jungle, but it was sheer on all sides.” She walked closer, her arms folded. “There was a hidden passage in the temple, a chimney that we could climb all the way to the top. Took us several hours.”

“Okay, good,” Ajax said.

“No, not good, as it’s not there anymore. It… collapsed.”

“So we do it the hard way,” Drake responded. “Going to take a lot more time to scale. I know you have climbing experience, so does my team.” He turned to Andy and Helen. “Anyone else?”

“Well… ” Andy bobbed his head, his eyes looking up and to the left into his head, as though rummaging for the necessary experience.

“No,” Helen said firmly. “Neither of us.”

Andy looked to her and then sighed. “Nah, not really. Some gym stuff on the climbing wall, but nothing… outdoors.”

Ajax guffawed, momentarily showing his silver tooth. “Don’t sweat it; it’s exactly the same.” His grin widened. “Except you’re not gonna have some sap holding your line on the ground, and there won’t be little colored bits of plaster to hang onto, plus no cushioned mat to land on if you fall. Oh, and then there’s the bit about being higher than the tip of the Empire State Building. Otherwise, yeah, exactly the same.”

Emma couldn’t help smiling at the shade of pale Andy went. “There are other caves, or rather one other I know of. It was the one I came down in. But it was no easy climb and took two days. I don’t want us to waste the time and take the risk.”

“Take a chopper. I know some guys down there who’ll loan us a Hewie — armor-plated, and we can refit the gun, 50 cal. We’re in and out fast, and we got decisive firepower.” Drake opened his arms wide. “You’re welcome.”

“Own the sky, own the war.” Brocke clapped his hands together once.

“Too easy.” Fergus leaned across and bumped knuckles with the man.

“Won’t work,” Emma said. “In fact, nothing electronic will work. Whatever magnetic distortion the comet, Primordia, makes, it renders all electronic devices useless. The locals think it’s just some weird weather effects, maybe ball lightning, but they avoid the place for a week.”

Ajax lifted his chin. “Then we go early and wait. You said the effect of this distortion thing only occurred for a little over a day. So we get there the day before, and wait for it. When it’s over, and the effect’s gone, we fly out.”

“I thought of that,” Emma said. “And I’ve spent ten years researching the phenomena. In 1978, they dropped some survey beacons on the tabletop mountain we’re interested in. Afterward, when they went to recover them, they found they had vanished. Not just destroyed, but gone-gone, like they’d been canceled out of existence.”

Emma folded her arms. “My theory is that if you happen to be there when this effect begins, the distortion is so powerful as the doorway is opening that anything underneath is obliterated.”

“Well, that’s fucked up.” Ajax sat back.

Emma waggled a finger in the air. “I believe there’s another, faster, and safer way.”

CHAPTER 11

Ben settled down in his cave with one mud-crusted arm behind his head. The theropod meat he’d dined on was tough and needed to be chewed until his jaws ached. But it was tasty, and nourishing.

Loneliness was the mind killer now, and as he drifted off to sleep, he let his memory take him back to the only friend he ever had in this hellish place. He closed his eyes and dreamed.

Ben traveled mostly during the night, heading east. He had crossed the Venezuelan Coastal Range, a line of huge jagged mountains that ran along the northern coast. There were no roads, and the only paths were animal tracks, and following those was a high-risk option, as it invited ambush from wily predators on the lookout for unwary animals.

It had taken him over a month, but finally, at one of the peaks, he had stared down at the vast, blue ocean. It sparkled, calm, inviting, and azure as the sun rose over it. It took him the rest of the day, but by dusk, he had stood at a slope looking down onto long sandy beaches to his left, and to his right, steep cliffs to the water’s edge, with the dark and mysterious mouths of caves, some huge, some small.

Caves meant danger. But then again, empty caves meant safety, and even better if they were ones that were hard to get to. Ben could see that some of these caves were 50 feet up from the ground and were very promising indeed. It was there he headed first.

Ben stood peering down from the cliff that dropped 80 feet to a horseshoe-shaped, sandy beach. It had a fair-sized lagoon that was barricaded off from the ocean by a breakwater ring of jagged rocks.

He then got down on his belly to inch forward and looked down over the edge. One of the largest caves was about eight feet down and with a nice ledge he could navigate — big enough for him, but way too small for serious predators.

Ben rested on his arms. “Well, looks like I just found home for the night.”

He strapped his spear and woven bag to his back and started down. With the fading light, he peered around the edge — he sniffed — fishy shit odor, but that was it.

He clambered in, pulled his spear out, and crouched there for a moment, letting his eyes adjust to the gloom. There were a few screaming pterodons, but tiny ones no bigger than gulls.

Ben smiled. “Hello, breakfast. Mind if I join you?”

He took off his pack and sat with his back to the rear of the cave, watching the sun set on a shimmering ocean. After a full day trekking, in another moment, his eyes became so heavy he didn’t even remember when he had fallen asleep.

CHAPTER 12

“I got it. HALO drop.” Brocke clapped his hands together. “High Altitude Low Opening. If the tabletop mountain, or tepui thing, is as big as you say, then we can drop from high up, and only open our chutes over the top. Plus, if we’re really high, maybe the magnetic disruption won’t be an issue.”

“Brilliant.” Fergus sat forward. “And if it is an issue, we jump out a couple of miles from our target site and glide to where we need to be.”

“Jesus, and I thought the cliff climbing was going to be tough.” Andy’s mouth dropped open. “I can’t do that.”

“That’s me out too.” Helen just looked wearied.

“None of us can,” Emma said. “Besides, how do we get off, if we were all ever to make it down in one piece?” Emma asked.

“Re-gather and repack our chutes. Base jump off when we’re done.” Ajax sat back, smirking.

“We encountered a massive updraft as the doorway or portal began to close. You jump into that, you’ll end up being blown a hundred feet back into the jungle.” Emma smiled. “But you’re not far off.”

“Come on, darling, the suspense is killing me,” Fergus said, chuckling.

“We use our first ever mode of air travel. And one that doesn’t care about magnetic interference.” Emma smiled. “A hot air balloon.”

There was silence for a few seconds before Ajax slapped his huge thigh and guffawed with his head thrown back. “Seriously?” He rocked forward. “A freaking balloon? We’re all dead, just kill me now,” he said, braying again.

Fergus rubbed his face, and Brocke also wouldn’t meet her eyes. Emma’s jaw jutted out, and she saw Drake Masterson watching her closely, assessing her.

Ajax sat forward, grinning from ear to ear. “Hey, maybe she’s Mary Popp—”

“Excuse me.”

Ajax stopped talking and looked around.

“Excuse me.” Everyone turned to where Cynthia was sitting forward, with the perfect lines of her eyebrows arched. She pointed one thin finger at Emma.

“This woman not only survived but walked out of the Amazon jungle all by herself. She is one of the bravest, toughest, and smartest people I know.” She turned to Drake Masterson. “My son, Ben, will be there waiting for you. Help her get him and bring him home.”

Drake’s eyes were unwavering. “Yes, ma’am. That’s the plan.”

Ajax cleared his throat. “But seriously, just how long do you think we have? Riding in a balloon will take weeks, and we have to rely on the right winds and weather. Plus, fuel tanks are heavy.”

“Not unless we get real close first,” Drake said. “Good-sized balloon, that will take up to a dozen people, can be broken down quite small — bag, basket, burner, and fuel tanks. I know the commercial bags of about the size we’d need weigh in at 155 pounds.” He thumbed at Ajax. “The big guy here could carry that on his back and not break a sweat.”

“Easy.” The young soldier grinned with confidence.

“He’s right.” Emma paced. “Baskets are wicker or aluminum. We don’t expect to be in the air for that long, so we won’t need many propane tanks — average of fifteen gallons in a high-pressure tank will buy us eight to ten hours air time. More than enough.”

Drake nodded slowly. “Doable.”

“But what happens if the wind is blowing in the wrong direction?” Andy asked. “Emma’s notes said there was near cyclonic winds and low clouds. We could be blown off course.”

“Yeah, balloons are a little like sailing ships,” Drake agreed. “It doesn’t help if the wind is in your face. But, also like sailing ships, you can tack across wind, using flaps and vents in the canopy, and also lower or raise the balloon to chase the best thermals.” He bobbed his head, as he seemed to be thinking out loud.

“I do some sailing; up and down the west coast.” Andy had his hand up. “Catamarans to dinghies, and even acted as a deckhand on a seventy-foot racing sailboat during the last America’s Cup.” He grinned and looked around, but no one seemed to care. “Um, and yeah, you have to chase the wind. But you follow it by watching the water, seeing where the breeze is going, and you have white caps or ripples to indicate its direction and strength. But tip over in a boat, you just swim or hang on. Tip over in a balloon… ” He shrugged.

“Without a doubt, it’s going to be a challenge, and the cloud might be an issue,” Drake agreed. “We can bring it in to come down real gentle in a balloon, but if you snag the bag and rip it, it’ll take time to repair. Not great if we’re under time pressure.”

“Very true.” Emma was delighted someone had read her small report, and also seemed to be in her corner. “The cloud was damned thick, but it lifts as the day progresses. Also, I remember it opens at the center, directly over the plateau. A little like the eye of a cyclone. I remember seeing the sky — I know I did — it was calm and clear.”

“Good. Every second we can preserve is one more second we can spend looking for Ben.” Drake picked up his coffee mug. He toasted Cynthia, who nodded her approval.

“You took days to get there,” Fergus said. “I understand you were following the clues, searching for the right pathways and tracks. But now you know the basic ways there, can we not shortcut some of the legs? I don’t see why we need to travel by boat.” He shrugged. “Why can’t we use a seaplane?”

“Works for me.” She paced a little closer. “Some of the hidden streams were very narrow and might present a problem if we have a lot of equipment.”

Emma remembered the coffee-dark hidden streams, and then finding the sunken idol that led the way to the beautiful Rivers of Paradise. She also remembered how that brief hiatus had then led on to the miasmic swamps. It had all taken them days to traverse.

“So I agree it’d be advantageous if we could leapfrog over some of the thicker jungle. But where we finally emerged from the swamps, we had no GPS, satellite, or even compass, as the magnetic effects of Primordia were kicking in. Plus, when you added in the thick, low-cloud cover, we had line-of-sight navigation only.”

She moved the images along to the tabletop mountain, but it was a picture taken when not in the wettest season. The plateau rose up monolithic, impressive, and imposing from the jungle floor.

“This is what we’ll be looking for. And in the wettest season, its top is hidden by the cloud cover.” She left the image up and turned to the group.

“You said there was a small clearing on the bank of the Rio Caroní River, before you turned inland, correct?” Drake asked.

“Yes, it was where I was found… after.” Emma looked up.

“And you still had electronic capability there?” Drake lifted his chin.

Emma nodded.

Ajax sat forward. “Then we don’t need to tell you, but in the dense jungle, you can spend a day going just a couple of miles. Much better to be above it, if only to lower the risk of running into snakes, spiders, poisonous plants, and all manner of creepy crawlies that a big jungle hides in its belly.”

“Then that coastal clearing will be our base camp and launch point. Should be enough water for the flying boat to land and get us to the bank. Plus enough clearing for us to prepare our balloon and electronically mark our position.” Drake held his hands wide. “Save us a helluva lot of time.”

Helen leaned around her brother. “Mr. Masterson, just how fast can a balloon travel?”

“Call me Drake.” He saluted her with a couple of fingers.

“Helen,” she replied.

“Nice to meet you.” His eyes gave her a quick appraising look as if he just noticed her, and he smiled as he spoke. “Balloons don’t quite travel as fast as the wind, but on a good day can scud along at between five and eight miles per hour. Sure beats hacking or paddling all day for a few miles.”

“Are they safe?” she asked.

“Mostly. Accidents happen when they’re overloaded, or the fuel mix isn’t right, or the heat blaster is set too high.” He kept smiling. “Or if you go up when the winds are too strong.”

Helen frowned and he waved her down.

“But these days, the package is pretty tight. We play by the rules, and the balloon will probably be the least of our worries.”

“I suppose we can wear parachutes,” Andy added hopefully.

Drake nodded. “Sure, you can wear one. But as we won’t be going up that high, by the time you yell rip-cord, you’ll be eating jungle.” He chuckled.

“But Emma’s notes say that the plateau is around 1500 feet high. That’s high,” Andy responded.

“Relatively,” Drake replied. “Skydivers jump from over 10,000 feet. A parachute needs a good 100 to 200 feet to fully deploy, and then takes more time and distance before your velocity is slowed enough for you to land without breaking every bone in your body. Like I said, you can wear one if it makes you feel better.”

Andy sighed theatrically, and Drake held his hands wide.

“Bottom line, Andy, is that more people die from parachuting accidents than they do ballooning. Like I said, we follow the rules, we’ll all walk away smiling.”

Andy didn’t look comforted. He turned to Emma. “And what about protection?” he asked. “You said you’d be better prepared this time. We have Mr. Masterson and his colleagues; is that it?”

Emma smiled and held out an arm. “Drake, the floor is yours.”

The Special Forces soldier got to his feet and stood in front of the group. “Thank you, Emma.” He put large hands on his hips, and he seemed to fill the room. “Everything we bring is designed for self-defense purposes, and I hope we never have to use any of it. But, if we are threatened, then we must respond fast and decisively.”

He nodded to Fergus who lifted a black carry-all bag onto the coffee table and unzipped it. He handed Drake one of the objects — it was a metallic gun that looked like it was made from black plastic. It had what looked like another gun strapped underneath it.

“Cool.” Andy sat straighter, and Helen groaned.

“What I have here is a—”

“M16,” Andy shot out.

Brocke snorted. “Looks like we have an enthusiast.”

“Close,” Drake said. “I’m holding an M4 carbine tactical assault rifle. A shorter and lighter variant of the M16, and now the primary infantry weapon of the United States Marine Corps combat units.” He paused to glance at Andy. “And we will all be getting one.”

The soldier held it forward. “The M4 is a 5.56×45mm, air-cooled, direct impingement gas-operated, magazine-fed carbine. It has a 14.5-inch barrel and a telescoping stock.” He balanced it in one hand. “It weighs 6.5 pounds empty and 7.49 with a 30-round magazine inserted. The M4 is capable of firing in semi-automatic and three-round burst modes and is also capable of mounting a Heckler & Koch M320 grenade launcher.” He indicated the smaller, stubbier-looking gun attached underneath.

“Oh wow.” Andy’s eyes blazed like a school kid.

“Oh Jesus Christ, this is overkill.” Helen bared her teeth. “And I, for one, will not be going to war down there.”

“Begging your pardon.” Drake’s gaze was direct, and though he hadn’t raised his voice, the authority in the tone was like a fist slamming down on a desk. “If only one-tenth of what Ms. Wilson’s report says is there, happens to really be there, then you’ll be glad you have something more than a university degree to defend yourself.”

Helen’s eyes narrowed and she folded her arms and sat back. “Nope. I won’t be taking one, end of story. That’s your job, if I’m not mistaken.”

Drake remained calm. “Yes, we are to be your shield and the sword, ma’am. But survival is everyone’s job.”

Emma held up her hand. “We’ll all need to do training, regardless of whether we decide to take a weapon. Last time, we had a few guns, but many of us had no real idea how to use them. I won’t make that mistake again. That’s why I’ve personally undertaken extensive weapon training, taken a first-aid course, and some basic zoology, paleontology, and biology studies. But I’ll still go to Mr. Masterson’s training sessions, because he’s a survival expert, and I have this peculiar desire to survive.” She turned. “Go on, Drake, please continue.”

“Thank you.” He held up the rifle. “The M320 grenade launchers will only be attached to ex-military personal M4 rifles; however, as the unit can be detached and used independently, we will be practicing with these as well.” He stared hard at Helen until she looked away, still looking like she smelled something bad.

Drake pointed at the bag and Fergus removed what looked like some weird striped clothing, shoes, plus other smaller items.

Drake held up a shirt that had numerous pockets and flaps. “There’ll be knives and other items for survival and defense, but this will be your best buddy night and day. The digital tiger stripe jungle uniform — lightweight, cool, odor free, and damn tough as all hell. There’ll also be tactical all-terrain and water boots, with built-in snakebite protection and rapid drying. But no padding, as it absorbs water, so take these home today and start wearing them in.”

He held up some goggles. “Last but not least, old, but reliable — the Generation-3 Auto Military Spec U.S. Night Vision Goggles. They’re a little dated now, but they work, are easy to use, and they’re low-tech, meaning a lot less can go wrong. They’ll do for us.”

“May I?” Andy held out his hands.

Drake tossed the goggles to him and Andy put them on, flicked a switch, and his mouth broke into a grin underneath the plastic and rubber seals.

“Weapons training begins tomorrow morning, 9am, at the Bristolville, Grand River target range.”

“Can you make it?” Emma asked the pair of paleontologists.

Andy nodded and Helen shrugged.

“There’ll be other sessions before we depart. There’s a lot to learn and not a lot of time — call it cramming for the most important test of your life.” Drake smiled grimly.

The rest of the afternoon was spent on a few questions, getting to know each other a little more, and some trip and logistics planning. Drake headed out onto the back porch for a smoke, and Emma joined Cynthia on the couch. She looked a little wearied.

“Do you think you’re ready?” Cynthia asked.

“No.” Emma turned to her and half-smiled. “But just as ready as we can be.”

“It will have to do. Ben is waiting for you, I know it.” She reached across to take Emma’s hand and squeezed it. “I know you’ll find him.”

Emma held her small, thin hand, but kept her lips tight. She hoped Ben was there, and if he were, she would do everything in this world to bring him home. But one thing she wouldn’t do is make promises she might not be able to keep.

She patted the old woman’s hand and then stood. “And now, I’ve got to order a hot air balloon.”

Drake sat on the back step, slowly rubbing the hunting knife against the whetstone. The slow, circular rotation, over and over, made a soft hissing noise as he filed the large blade’s edge to razor sharpness.

Special Forces soldiers knew to keep their weapons in top condition, but there was something about the repetitive nature of the task that allowed Drake to think, and sometimes that wasn’t a good thing. Memories came back, not all of them welcome.

Drake hadn’t thought about big Ben Cartwright in years. The captain was a tough guy, and one of the best that he’d ever served with. If it wasn’t for Cartwright, Drake knew he’d be a pile of bleached bones somewhere out in the Syrian Desert right now.

The mission came rushing back — it was a night incursion into no-man’s land to get in behind enemy lines and find and destroy an ammunition store. There were eight of them, eight of the best of the best Special Forces, the Gravedigger Unit. Two of them were out at point, Gino Zimmer and Ron Jackson; both good soldiers, but that night not good enough.

On that night, there was no moon, and they had their quad night vision goggles in place, the eerie four lenses and their body armor making the Special Forces operatives look like armor-plated robots.

They walked into a patch of desert that immediately had the hair on Drake’s neck rising. But it wasn’t until Cartwright raised a clenched fist that the unit halted. The captain reached up to his quad lenses and must have flicked them from night vision to thermal.

In the next few slices of a second, the captain had yelled a single word that turned their world upside down: “Contact!” And then all hell broke loose.

They’d walked right into the center of a terrorist’s nest — spider holes all around them, and only slits showing their positions. With thermal imaging, Drake could make out the thin slice of red-warmth, telling of the bodies hidden inside under those camouflaged trapdoors.

They’d engaged — loud, bloody, and brutal. And they didn’t stop until the air was filled with a red mist, smelling of cordite and the tang of coppery blood.

They’d wiped out every single terrorist that night but lost four good men. Zimmer and Jackson were the first to buy it — the price of letting your guard down.

Yeah, without Cartwright’s sixth sense, he’d be dead. All eight of them would be dead.

Drake continued to circle the blade on the stone. He owed the big guy, and it was time to pay his dues.

In a car concealed under the shade of trees and as close to the Cartwright house as she could get, Camilla Ortega held up the sound gun, with the earphones over her head. She had her eyes closed and she concentrated on the voices. In her other hand was a pen, and she made notes as she picked the valuable details from the group’s plans. Beside her, a dark-eyed man sat leaning back in his seat, looking bored.

“The meeting is breaking up,” Camilla said.

“Good; they been in there all morning, and I’m hungry.” Juan Marquina exhaled loudly and shifted, making the seat complain under his weight. He let the telescopic lens camera rest in his lap so he could wipe sweaty hands on his shirt.

Camilla glared at him. “This might be the biggest story in our newspaper’s history. In fact, I’m betting it’ll make headlines in both North and South America. So I think you can hold off on your donuts for a little while longer, yes?”

He picked up the camera again. “Yeah, because the picture guy always gets the awards.” He snorted derisively.

“Get ready. I want photographs of the mercenaries. I can use them.” She licked her lips as she lowered the sound gun and dragged the earphones off her head.

“I don’t get how we’re ever going to track these guys in the Amazon. They got mercenaries, guns, money, and all you got is a skinny expense account, and a lovable, but ever so slightly overweight, camera guy.” He grinned.

“Slightly?” She chuckled. “And you got me. But we won’t be tracking them.” She turned in her seat. “Because we’ll be invited along.” She pushed open the door.

The doorbell rang, and Emma swung to Cynthia and frowned. The old woman shook her head. Everyone else simply looked back at her. Emma pointed to the weapons, and Drake and Fergus quickly gathered everything up and started to store them away.

She went to the door and pulled it open to see a 30-something, black-haired woman with eyes just as dark staring back at her with the hint of a smile on her lips. She stuck out a small brown hand.

“Ms. Emma Wilson; I’m delighted to meet you in person at last.”

Emma reached forward automatically, still confused, and the woman grabbed her hand and pumped it.

“And you are?” Emma forced the hand to stop pumping.

“Camilla Ortega, journalist for Nacional De Venezuela.”

Emma released her hand, and her gaze became flat. Immediately, she sensed danger.

“Yes?”

“Call me Camilla, please.” The woman’s smile remained fixed in place.

Emma folded her arms, waiting.

“Nice place you have here.” Camilla looked over Emma’s shoulder into the house for a few moments, and then her gaze returned, and she seemed to force a smile. “You know, Ms. Wilson, I feel I’ve known you forever. I was just doing mundane local stories at the newspaper when they brought you, just you, out of the jungle all those years ago.” Her eyes were intense as she scrutinized Emma. “But you fired up my journalistic passion. And now, after all this time, you are finally going back.” Her eyebrows just lifted a hint.

Emma shook her head slowly. “Nope.”

She became coy. “I think, we may finally solve the mystery of the missing Cartwright expedition, yes?”

Emma felt alarms going off in her head. How the hell did this woman know this? she wondered. Her jaw set, and she leaned forward.

“Listen, Ms. Ortega, I don’t know what you want or expect. But you have your facts wrong. I have nothing to offer you, and don’t intend to be talking to the media, local or otherwise.”

Camilla’s red lips remained lifted at the corners. “But you’ve given me so much already, Ms. Wilson.”

Emma’s frown deepened.

Camilla went on. “I know you’ve hired mercenaries, have a few scientists working with you.” She tapped her chin for a moment. “And now I believe you will be preparing for a little trip down to our magnificent jungle once again.”

“Piss off.” Emma went to shut the door, but Camilla’s arm shot out.

“Wait.” The woman’s eyes were gun steady. “I can be your best friend or your worst enemy, Ms. Wilson. One call from me, and you’ll never get a visa to our country, ever again.”

Emma felt her heart sink, and she shut her eyes for a moment. She had spent years trying to plan for everything, every conceivable risk, but had overlooked the most basic one — people. She steeled herself and glared back at the woman, but now Camilla looked more empathetic than triumphant.

“Hear me out. Please.” Camilla’s hand went to Emma’s arm. “I can help you. But this mystery has been part of my life almost as long as it has yours. I only wish to help you solve it. Because it will give you closure, I think.” She shrugged. “And I can help you in Venezuela; I know people.”

Emma felt torn — their plane was to fly to Caracas, but then she and her team would immediately board a private charter seaplane to transport them and their cargo to a destination she would reveal to the pilot only when she was onboard. It was costing her a fortune in under-the-table fees.

The last thing she wanted was to be hauled in by Venezuelan immigration officials and questioned. A horrifying thought of being detained, even for a few days, might mean she’d miss her slim window of opportunity — Primordia would come and go — for another goddamn ten years.

Emma felt the knot in her gut tighten. She couldn’t even afford to gamble on having her shipment confiscated or scrutinized. Her mind whirled as she tried to think.

“I can help; I promise.” Camilla’s hand was still on her arm, and it moved to her hand where she then squeezed her fingers. “I promise.”

Emma looked at the journalist — small, but robust-looking, well-dressed, but not dainty, and with an ornate silver crucifix around her neck. Did she really care if this woman wanted to risk her own life, or worse, lose it?

“You don’t know what you’re asking.”

“No, I know exactly what I’m asking,” Camilla responded confidently. “You’re going into the Amazon jungle. I’ve been into its interior several times on news stories. I’m fit, and I can climb, hike, swim, and shoot with the best of them. So can my cameraman.”

“Cameraman?” Emma scoffed. “Deal breaker.”

“No, he won’t film anyone that doesn’t want to be filmed. In fact, each day and at the end of the expedition, we can review the footage and edit out anything you don’t like.” She stepped back and crossed her heart, briefly touching the silver crucifix at her throat.

Emma noticed. “Do you believe in the devil, Ms. Ortega?” she said evenly.

Camilla frowned, but her lips curled up slightly. “I believe in good and evil.”

“Hmm, I never used to believe in him. But I do now.” Emma continued to look deep into the woman’s eyes, trying to decide.

“You won’t frighten me off.” Camilla tilted her head. “So… ”

Emma knew she didn’t have the time to wrestle with this now. Besides, there was something she needed the woman to do. And something that only a local with knowledge of the Amazon and its workings could do. If she wanted to come so badly, she needed to earn her way in.

Emma decided. “I need you to do something for me. Consider it a test. Or an entry fee.”

“Sure, what is it?” Camilla smiled benignly.

“To find and contact someone in the Amazon, the jungle, that I haven’t been able to. Can you do that?” Emma lifted her chin.

“Sure can; try me.” Camilla looked serious.

“I’ll give you the details — it’s important. Do it, and you’re in.”

Camilla nodded. “Consider it done.”

“Good; we leave for Caracas in ten days. Be ready.”

Camilla continued to look serious. “We will be, and thank you.”

They swapped phone numbers, and Camilla then turned and made a call. In a few moments, a car pulled up with a larger man sitting in the driving seat that had obviously been parked close by.

Emma sighed and closed the door. Now she had to break it to the team that they’d suddenly picked up a couple of extra members… who were press. She groaned.

“They’re gonna kill me.”

Camilla jumped into the car and slammed the door. She turned and grinned. “We’re in.”

Juan’s mouth dropped open. “You’re good; you’re real good. So what’s the plan?”

“We leave in ten days, so we need to prepare. We join their team. We’ll be with them the entire way. Filming the entire way.”

‘They’ll let us film… everything?” Juan’s eyebrows shot up.

“I told them that they could review the footage. But I never said we’d delete anything. Just make sure you back everything up to the secondary camera drive.” She turned back to the front of the car. “We’ll be there, right there, when we all find out what happened to Mr. Ben Cartwright and his friends. And if Ms. Wilson had anything to do with their disappearance, then she may find her stay in Venezuela is a lot longer than she expected.”

CHAPTER 13

Ben woke to sunshine on his face, and he blinked a few times before even remembering where he was. The warmth of the rays had also warmed the guano in the cave, and a miasmic steam began to rise off the fishy-smelling paste.

He sat up as the small reptilian birds flew past him, in and out, gathering the morning’s fish from the ocean surface. Ben turned about and immediately spotted a few nests close by with grey, leathery-looking eggs nestled within.

He scrambled over and lifted three, tearing the oblong cases open and drinking their protein-rich contents. He wrinkled his nose at the bitter sardine taste of the first two, and then the third from a different nest turned out to be a bit further along, containing soft bones and a hint of salty blood. It didn’t matter what they tasted like; he needed the protein for his energy. Nothing was wasted anymore.

Ben wiped his mouth, and several times across his beard, and sat staring at the view while ignoring the stench of the small pterodons. It was entrancing and he moved closer to the cave mouth and then inhaled the odor of the sea — the fresh saltiness, drying weed, and warming sand. He hadn’t realized how much he missed it.

It all felt familiar, and he could have been back at home, looking out over the expanse of never-ending blue water from a pier down at a California bay. That is, except for the sight of long necks lifting, swan-like, from the water, and diving back down to be gracefully raised once again with flapping fish in their toothy mouths.

He watched them for a while longer, mesmerized by their grace and beauty. Like a pod of whales, he thought, as the group of plesiosaurs moved together, some huge, their slender, shining necks rising 20 feet from the end of large cetacean-like bodies, and others small, no more than six feet in length, obviously their calves.

Ben closed his eyes and sat for a while, letting the sun warm his upturned face. He relaxed, something he was rarely able to do in this time of tooth and claw, and let his mind drift to not if, but when, he would be back home.

What would he be doing now? he wondered. Would he be fixing up a motorbike in his garage? Would he be drinking with his buddies at one of the local bars? He inhaled, smelling stale beer, ancient cigarettes, and the press of bodies.

Or would he be out somewhere with Emma, sitting under a tree, talking, or perhaps just holding hands and staring into each other’s eyes. He groaned, feeling a wave of homesickness wash over him.

While there is life, there is hope, he reminded himself. His eyes flicked open to the sound of squawks and clicks from down along the beach. Two theropods, both only about four feet tall, walked like a pair of ostriches along the sand at the high tide line. Now and then, their necks would drop to pick something from amongst the weed to be gulped down. Probably dead fish, he guessed.

Even though they were both fairly small, he knew from experience that those triangular heads contained teeth sharper than those of a wolf. And they cut like shears. Best to avoid ones even that size.

In another few minutes, they were well out of sight. The tide was drawing out, and Ben looked down into the large, natural pool below him. It was roughly circular, hundreds of feet across, and a perfect lagoon. And by the look of it, the breakwater rocks had trapped a good deal of sea creatures in its depths.

The water was extremely clear, especially in the shallows that ran for several hundred feet, but then there seemed to be a ledge where it gradually dropped deeper and then toward the far edges closest to the ocean, it must have been over a dozen feet deep, and a type of kelp weed stopped him from seeing the bottom. Still, even in those shallows, he saw fish darting back and forth.

He grinned; they had no idea what a human was like, or whether they were even dangerous. He bet he could spear one with ease.

His mouth watered; he hadn’t eaten fish in years. Even raw fish with the ocean’s natural saltiness would make a change from berries, tubers, and even a dinosaur’s tough and gamey meat.

Ben turned to look over his shoulder, which immediately elicited some loud and serious warnings from the small pterodons sitting on their nests.

“Hey, guys, looks like I might not be able to join you for dinner tonight.”

He chuckled, lifted his spear, and looked down over the edge of the cliff. “We can do this,” he said. He noticed he spoke to himself quite a bit now. Hearing his own voice was better than not hearing any voice at all. It somehow made him remember he was a human being.

There was a ledge that would take him all the way to the horseshoe-shaped beach. He was kinda looking forward to it; even as a kid, he loved peering into rock pools and turning over stones to see what weird sea thingies lived underneath — crabs, octopus, starfish, urchins, and tiny fish with huge mouths like a mudskipper.

He pulled off the tattered remains of his boots, now held together with vines and animal hide, and began to thread his way down the cliff ledge. It only took a few minutes and in no time, he was able to leap the last few feet, feeling the sand scrunch beneath his feet as he landed. Ben made fists with his toes, smiling as he remembered the sensation from his childhood.

He turned to the water, feeling good. In fact, better than he had in years. A change of scenery is as good as a holiday, he remembered his dad used to say. He continued to stare, thinking of the paradox he was trapped within — his father or mother wouldn’t be born for another 100 million years. Somewhere in some corner of this prehistoric world, there was a special sort of creature that would evolve into one of his progenitors.

“Better not step on it,” he said with a grin.

Ben paused at the notion — and what if I do? Will I simply cease to exist? Vanish? Will it change the entire course of human evolution and then some other species will rise to be the new rulers of the planet? It made his head hurt just thinking about the paradox.

Ben glanced quickly up and down the coast, not seeing any threats for miles heading north along the sand, and looking down south, it ended in cliffs that rose hundreds of feet. He felt pretty safe with empty beaches, cliffs at his back, and a pod of plesiosaurs more interested in fish than a weird upright, hairy creature on the shore.

He began to walk along the tide line, looking at the strange in amongst the familiar. There were bivalve and coiled shells, crab bodies, and jellyfish. But also, the front end of a creature that might have been a dolphin but had a plated boney head, large disk-like eyes, and backward-curving teeth like those of a barracuda. There were ribbed shark egg casings, starfish as big as hubcaps, and after a while, something else he noticed. It wasn’t something that was there, but something that wasn’t—there wasn’t a speck of plastic — no modern flotsam and jetsam.

He scoffed softly; the ocean was better off before we arrived, he thought. He waded into the shallows of the lagoon and saw sprats darting about over a rippling sandy bottom. He lifted his gaze to the deeper water near the rock barrier and raised a hand to shield his eyes from the still-rising sun.

The lagoon was bigger than he expected now that he was down at water level, running for hundreds of yards to the left, right, and out to the breakwater. Where the water began to deepen, he could just make out colorful weed growing like underwater trees and spiny starfish with long spiky arms hung in amongst them. Shrimp, crabs, and colored fish also moved about, and as he hoped, none paid him the slightest bit of attention — in fact, many of the fish came closer to him to investigate.

“I bet if I fed you, you’d be eating out of my hand in a week.”

Ben looked along the breakwater and mentally mapped out a route along the jagged rocks that separated the lagoon from the sea. It could be navigated, and he planned to try and circle the entire lagoon one day. But for now, even the lagoon depths were an unknown place, and out beyond it, the deep, dark ocean was far too forbidding to even contemplate.

Save that for later, he thought.

The sun had risen a little more and lit the shallows. Golden sand, beneath only about two feet of water — he waded in. It was warm, and he smiled, enjoying it. Fish darted by him. They were only about eight inches long and like silver streaks of mercury.

A little further out, something bobbed mid-water, and he moved toward it. He reached in and lifted it. It was a coiled seashell — striped in brown and ivory, and also occupied. Tentacles emerged and one large eye regarded him with disdain.

“Nautilus, nautiloid, or something like that, right?” He held it up, turning it one way then the other. His stomach rumbled, and he’d eaten worse things, but he had other fare on his mind. He let it plonk back into the water, where it hovered for a moment, and then motored away backward.

He shuffled further out, coming to where the natural edge of sand fell away into deepening water. It was still extremely clear, but it was about three feet there, and then must have dropped to three or four times that further out.

Ben got down on his knees first, and then ducked under the surface and opened his eyes. The water felt glorious on the skin of his face and was so clear he almost didn’t need goggles. Holding his breath, he was always amazed at the sounds of the ocean. He could just make out the clicks, pops, and grainy movements of sand as the sea life went about its business.

He surfaced, flicked his long hair back, and rubbed his face. His heart told him to swim further out. But his brain urged caution and listening to his logical self was what kept him alive so far. He decided that until he knew the waters a little better, he’d take his investigations slowly.

Ben got to his feet and continued his exploration along the edge of the sandbank.

He spun; spear up.

His sixth sense told him he was being watched. He let his eyes move over the water, and peering below the surface, he could see for hundreds of feet below as well. But there wasn’t any dark shape lurking there. There were only lumps of rock or patches of weed gently billowing on the bottom.

After many minutes, he managed to tear his eyes away and walked back into the shallows where he spotted a large conch shell on the bottom. He reached in and lifted it.

“Nice; I would have loved you on my desk back home.” He turned it in his hand for a moment more and then stuck it in his pack.

Ben had almost finished his search by moving back and forth in the shallows. And then, movement, plate-sized, and along the bottom. He raced after it and jabbed down with his spear, receiving a satisfying crunch.

“Yes.” Ben lifted his spear. The large crab came up and he strained to hold it. It was a big one with blue tips on its legs and large claws. It must have weighed in at about five pounds. “You’ll do.”

He walked up the sand and jabbed the spear hilt into the sand. Then he removed the large conch and placed it atop a large rock, like a cap.

“The first of my collection.” He looked at it, and then turned to the splayed crab. “Man’s gotta have a hobby, right?”

Ben feasted that night. But raw crab was a little harder to remove from the shell than cooked crab so a lot was left behind. Still, the claws each held a fistful of meat.

Ben kept the shells with shreds of meat to use as bait for the next day’s hunt. He slept soundly, safely, and his mind relaxed and took him back to a little rib joint in Ohio.

He smiled in his sleep as a dark-haired girl with luminous green eyes and a spray of freckles across her cheeks and nose put a hand over his.

I love you, she mouthed.

I love you too, he said and lifted her hand to kiss the knuckles.

Her expression became sad. I came, but you weren’t there.

What? Ben asked, frowning.

You weren’t there, Ben.

No, no, I was, he beseeched.

You weren’t there, you weren’t there, you weren’t there—her voice became shrill, loud, and squabbling.

Ben opened his eyes and blinked. The pterodons were fighting over the remains of meat in his crab shells.

“Hey! Piss off.” He shooed them away, and then rubbed his face. He picked up a shard of shell and tossed it at a few that were still bickering. “And thanks for fucking up my dream.” He scowled. “It’s gonna cost you a few eggs for breakfast.”

He turned back to the sunrise over the perfect ocean. He sighed as the sight immediately calmed him. He’d stay here for as long as he could. It was safer than the jungle and a hundred times safer than the plateau. Ben headed down to the water to start his new day.

First job was placing the broken crab shells in the lagoon water, and then that day, he decided to walk down along the beach, scouring the tide line, but remaining wary. The open beach had no cliffs at its back, so any hungry or fleet-footed theropods might have run him down if he wasn’t careful.

He found some driftwood he could use, and also another shell for his collection. In the late afternoon, he also speared another crab in his lagoon, albeit a smaller one that had come to sample the contents of its kin’s broken shells. It was another good day.

But the next day, he had no luck at all for food. The only thing he found was another large shell in the water. It was huge conch, spiny and a foot long.

Standing knee-deep in the water, he admired its beauty. But it was odd as the shell hadn’t been there before, and as it was empty, it certainly hadn’t crawled there. Also, the night had been calm and no waves entered his lagoon to wash it there. Must have been the tide… somehow, he thought.

“Another beauty.” He added it to his collection.

The next day was the same, no crabs, and only a few fish in his shallows, but once again, another magnificent specimen of a shell, although this one even further out and closer to the edge of the sandbank.

Ben reached in to lift it. Again, it was a fantastic shell, but instead of looking at it, his eyes never left the water. The drop-off still was fairly shallow here, and crystal clear, so he didn’t see anything other than the clumps of weed and patches of corals and sponges. But today, his sixth sense alarms were going off.

He squinted. At the bottom of the sandbank slope, there were two more shells; big, unique ones. He wanted them, and he stared for a moment. There was nothing close by, and the water was clear and warm.

But he just couldn’t bring himself to wade in or dive into the deeper water.

“Nah, not today.” He turned and shuffled back to the shoreline.

The next day, Ben woke extremely hungry. He’d dined again on pterodon eggs, but his large frame craved protein. The sky was just turning an azure blue and was cloudless to the horizon. The air was still and the morning sea mist was rapidly burning off. He could see from his cave perch the large torpedo shapes of fish out at the breakwater in his lagoon. He wanted them. His hunger demanded them.

Today’s the day, he thought.

Ben climbed down, looked once again up and down the sand, and then hefted his spear and crossed to the rocks and then headed out along the breakwater. It took him 15 minutes to make it toward one of the deeper ends of his ocean pool. The rocks formed a barrier but were more like broken teeth in that they let the tide run through between them, and on high tides obviously also let in good-sized fish, without anything larger gaining access.

On the inner side was the lagoon, and on the other, the vast ocean. He leaned forward on one of the rocks to stare out at the magnificent sea. Where he was, it looked deep. So deep, he couldn’t see the bottom, and it was dark indigo that might have been 20 feet deep or 100.

Ben leaned further forward and looked northward. He could see another jutting promontory several miles up the coast. He wondered what it would be like if he went there, keeping along the coastline until he came to America. Would it feel like home? He doubted it.

He pulled in a deep drought of warm sea air, flooding his lungs, and scanned the horizon. Oddly, there were no plesiosaurs anymore — gone home or chasing schools of fish somewhere else. Or for all he knew, they were there, just diving deep.

Ben continued to watch for a few more moments; it made him feel uneasy. One thing he knew was that the ocean was just as dangerous as any jungle and staring into the deep-dark blue might mean that something was staring right back at him and he’d never even know.

Ben turned back to the calm of his lagoon. On this side, the water was like a massive swimming pool. But even though the water looked inviting and the sun already warm on his shoulders, he couldn’t quite bring himself to dive in—yet.

He liked the idea of having his own personal swimming pool and aquarium. But he needed to be cautious — it was what kept him alive so far, and looking down, the water was deeper here and the weed could hide a multitude of things he had no idea even existed. He read somewhere once that it was a one in a million chance that an animal became fossilized. That meant there could be thousands of creatures that evolution tried out that we didn’t even know about.

As Ben stared into the lagoon’s depths, silver fish longer than his arm skimmed back and forth along the surface. There were oysters on the water’s edge, and he used the butt of his spear to break a few free and extract their meat. He was tempted to eat the pulpy, grey meat then and there, but today, he had other plans. He mashed them in his hand and tossed the remains onto the surface before him. He hoisted his spear and eased down a little closer to the water.

In seconds, silver torpedoes rocketed through the cloud of debris, picking off the larger portions, and then literally swarming to then look like knots of boiling mercury.

Ben only had to jab into the center of the cauldron of feeding fish to feel his spear strike flesh. He then hoisted a good eight-pounder from the water.

“Yeah, that’s what I’m talking about.”

He brought it to him, and then lowered it to the rocks beside him where he carefully pushed it off the blade of his spear and used the sharp edge to sever its neck to kill it.

By the size, Ben thought two fish would make a nice meal, and probably breakfast. He rinsed the blood from his hands and left his first catch on the rock close by, bleeding out, and turned back to the water. The oyster debris had gone, save for a milky cloud that a few fish glided through sensing the food, but not finding any.

Ben eased a little bit closer to the water but saw that the fish were thinning out rapidly as they lost interest now that the food was gone. He kept his spear ready, but in a flash, the fish vanished. He could smash another few oysters open or maybe use the head of the fish he’d just caught as bait. He turned to look at it.

“What the fuck?”

It was gone.

The rock was still smeared with blood, and he was certainly high enough not to have had any waves wash it off, but there was no sign. He had left it on a flat rock, just between two boulders that created the barrier between the lagoon and the ocean. Blood had leaked down the side of the rock that washed between the two bodies of water.

He looked up, checking for any pterodons, but though there were a few, even the small ones’ wings flapping sounded like you were shaking out a wet towel, so no way they could creep up on him.

Ben stared hard back into the water of the lagoon. The fish was as dead as they come, and there was no silver body floating on the surface. He stepped lower, peering deeper into the water — it was impossible to see the bottom because of the weed, but he was sure there was no silver shape down there.

Ben was furious and for a few seconds, contemplated diving down to feel around at the base of the weed — somehow, the fish must have slipped off the rock and glided down in amongst that forest of weed. All his work was wasted—crap, he fumed, as he had been proud of his success.

“Fuck it,” he muttered. The sun was getting hotter, but for some reason, he felt a chill run up his spine and he looked one way then the other. He didn’t see any threats, but he was spooked now, and his Special Forces intuition was setting off a warning.

“Okay, maybe just one fish today, and then I head home,” he whispered, squinting out over the lagoon. He began to step down closer to the water, planning on cracking open another few oysters when what felt like a wet glove latched onto his ankle… and then stuck there.

“Wha…?”

He spun and looked down.

“Shit!”

A jolt of fear rocketed through him — there was a tentacle, thick as his wrist, coming up out of the water beside the rock, and in the few seconds, he was frozen watching it as it inched a little more up his calf to grip on.

Ben leaped to the side, but the thing held on tight, and looking down into the water, he finally realized where his fish had gone, and horrifyingly, what was lurking there.

Its camouflage was so effective that even so close, Ben had to concentrate to make it out. The massive creature was spread out like an enormous rug beneath the water, and the bulbous bag of a head had two plate-sized eyes staring dispassionately up at him. It was easily 30 feet across and as he watched, it changed color, flaring red and becoming brilliantly visible from its camouflage in amongst the weed beds.

As part of his Special Forces training, Ben had dived in deep water where the giant Pacific octopus dwelled and knew they could get to 150 pounds with an arm span of 12 feet. They were smart, curious, and strong as hell. But this thing was three times that size and might have been one of its ancestors.

Maybe it was just curious, and maybe it was hungry. But Ben had no intention of letting the thing drag him into the water, as he knew underneath the massive cephalopod’s body would be a horned beak, probably a foot across on this monster, that would sever limbs and crack his skull open like an egg.

Ben also realized that this must have been the thing that had been gifting him the shells. It scared the shit out of him knowing that it had been watching him probably since he arrived. And it was baiting him, trying to lure him to deeper and deeper water. And when that failed, it had decided to come get him itself.

“Fuck you.”

Ben brought his spear around and jabbed at it, and then began to hack with all his might as the head began to breach the surface. It ignored him and started to bring more arms to bear on its task.

“Shit, shit, shit.”

Ben continued to stab, but it was like trying to put holes in a soft and super tough rubber blanket, as the limbs or boneless bag refused to be penetrated. There were tentacles around both his legs now, and his feet began to skid on the rocks… toward the water.

“No. Fucking. Way.” Ben lunged with the spear, this time catching the edge of one eye, and blue blood spurted from its side. The tentacles curled back up for a few moments, a little like a boxer protecting its head in the ring.

Ben backed away. Would it stay in the lagoon? he wondered, or rather, he hoped. He remembered seeing a nature program once that showed an octopus leaving a rock pool to chase down a crab. It was fast and ruthless, and once it had caught its prey, it hauled it back into the water to dine at its leisure. Ben didn’t want to find out if the bigger variety could do the same.

Ben used the moment to clamber higher on the rock and scale down onto the ocean side. He peered back between the boulders, spear held ready, and saw the bulbous thing start to heave itself from the water. The large disc-like eyes caught sight of him, and the body flared a fire engine red—if ever there was the color of anger, this was it, he thought.

Perhaps the lagoon belonged to it, and the monstrous octopus was about to show the soft two-legged creature that it was boss around here. He bet he knew who’d win that fight.

Ben looked up and down the breakwater. The rocks on the ocean side looked slippery and also covered in oysters closer to the deep, dark water — he didn’t like his chances of moving quickly. At worst, he’d slip and hurt himself, but at least he’d end up in the ocean. Though he desperately wanted to avoid those bottomless-looking depths, if need be, he’d damn well swim for it.

He considered his options; he could go south and try and swim around the octopus, and all the way back to the beach. Or swim to his north, where the breakwater met the cliff face? Though he doubted he’d be able to scale the sheer edifice, he might have been able to at least get up and out of the water, and perhaps higher than the heavy creature could climb.

He grimaced with indecision. How long would he have? How long would it take him to climb with that big bastard in the water, throwing sticky tentacles at him while he slipped and slid on the rock face?

Ben glanced between the rocks again and saw the huge muscular body launching more tentacles from below to latch onto the rocks and haul itself out. Its body now undulated in stripes of red, green, and brown, and he knew it wasn’t going to give up and just go away. His time was up — the beach or the cliff? He chose — the beach it was — and he ran for it.

Skipping across jagged rocks in bare feet meant he’d be crippled for days, but he had no choice. Back between the huge stones, he saw the octopus now fully out of the water and pulling itself up to the top of the border rocks. Thick tentacles were thrown like climbing ropes over the jagged stones and the bag-like head began to appear.

Ben knew he’d never get past now, and worse, the thing had the high ground. He had one chance left. He gripped his spear and dove into the ocean.

He swam hard and fast, knowing he had seconds to get around the huge beast before it was fully over. If it decided to launch itself into the water, it’d have him in seconds. Ben knew his one chance was to get around it, clamber back onto the rocks and then, damn his feet, just freaking run like a mountain goat over the rocks and back to the beach.

Ben swam, almost right beside the huge cephalopod and past it, and then flicked over onto his back for a quick glance back. It was moving fast, but maybe it had decided to stay out of the ocean. The huge body was all writhing tentacles like a coiling bag of snakes and flaring redness as it perched high on the rocks.

He was almost past it, and a glimmer of hope started to flicker in his chest. But the huge eyes continued to stare at his flailing arms and must have found them irresistible, as a warm rippling effect ran over its skin color — satisfaction, delight, or hunger? Ben might never live to find out.

To Ben’s horror, it started to descend, and he was going to be trapped in its element. He wasn’t far enough along, and he glanced at the rocks and knew it’d be hard to pull himself out of the water quickly here. So, instead, he wedged himself in amongst the boulders, feeling oysters and barnacles slice into his back. He ignored them, gritted his teeth, and pointed his spear outwards.

“Come on!” he yelled in defiance.

The massive octopus began to clamber down and at the water line, stopped, and spread itself out like a parachute on the rocks. Colors flashed and rippled on its body, and the lead tentacles touched the ocean water, coiling back as though being scalded.

To Ben, it looked like it couldn’t decide what to do. Then, instead of coming in, it lifted itself and began to slide across the rocks at the water line. Horrifyingly, the boneless creature flowed like some sort of glutinous liquid — straight toward him.

Jesus Christ, it’s going to drop down right on top of me. Ben eased out of his shelter and was about to start swimming again when the ocean exploded around him.

Something like a submarine launched itself from the depths beside him. Ben’s eyes were so wide with panic, they nearly bulged out of his head, and his sudden, sharp intake of breath was mostly seawater.

He spluttered and thrashed as the biggest thing he’d ever seen in his life surged up on the rocks to grab at the bulbous head of the octopus. It was shining gray-black with a triangular head as big as a truck that split open to be nearly all mouth and full of tusk-like teeth.

Ben thought it might have been some sort of colossal whale ancestor but discarded that thought as he remembered mammals didn’t even exist yet. Then he saw flippers and a long reptilian flattened tail thrashing behind it as it brought itself up higher onto the rocks so its jaws could snap the more than thousand pounds of octopus from the breakwater.

With a muscular flip, the colossal body was gone with a massive surge wave that threw him against the rocks. He clung there, feeling stars pop in his head from shock.

Now he knew why the octopus wouldn’t go in the water, and also why the plesiosaurs had vanished. This thing must have been patrolling the shoreline. He looked back up to where the octopus had been, and he coughed water. Nothing remained. He turned back to the ocean.

Thanks, he whispered, and scrambled up onto the rocks, and then quickly over the breakwater to the lagoon side in case the great beast came back feeling like some human dessert.

He sunk down to sit, resting his back against the stone. He sucked in deep breaths, willing his heart rate to slow.

“How was your day at the office, dear?”

He started to laugh, but then a wave of nausea wracked him, and he began to shiver. Shock, he knew, and he screwed his eyes shut.

“Hold it together, buddy.” The sound of his own voice reassured him. “We’re still here,” he said softly. “Just you and me.”

He slowly opened his eyes and stared at the calm lagoon. It seemed like an oasis compared to the ocean now. And even better, the previous owner had just been violently evicted, so it was finally all his.

Ben contemplated spearing a fish now that the pool belonged to him, and he hefted his spear, but his hand shook so violently, he knew he’d never hit a thing.

He blew out a long breath and looked up toward his cave on the cliffs. The small flying pterosaurs darted in and out as if nothing had happened. His mouth pulled into a lopsided grin.

“Sorry, guys, looks like eggs are back on the menu after all.”

Ben watched from his cave mouth perch for many days, still shaken by the octopus attack. He saw the huge sea creature cruising up and down along the coast, its dark shape just visible when the sun was low, as the massive paddle-finned leviathan stayed just below the surface.

After a few days, it had vanished, and then in the next, the plesiosaurs were back.

“That’s a good sign,” he said, eyes still on the water.

Ben sucked in a deep breath and once again headed back down to his lagoon. He’d spent his time fashioning a long length of twine from a strong fibrous and elastic vine. At one end, he had carved a hook from a large seashell, and finding half a fish carcass on the tide line, had used it to bait his hook.

Ben swung it back and forth a few times, before tossing it out as far as the line let him. His goal wasn’t to catch fish, but to draw out any more lurking octopus. He trawled his bait for days but attracted nothing but fish bites.

It was as he hoped — from his diving days, he knew the big cephalopods were territorial and rarely tolerated their own kind; even mating was over in a matter of moments and then the males had to make a break for it to avoid being eaten by their paramour.

Ben lifted his chin and took in the sea air, swelling his chest and then letting it out slowly. He sucked in another one and this time, let it explode out as words.

“This lagoon is mine,” he shouted, and the cliff walls echoed it back at him in a chorus of agreement.

He felt the sun already hot on his chest and face, and he waded into the clear cool water, took one last look around, and dived.

He opened his eyes below the surface and was once again surprised how well he could see in the glass-clear water. Large fish came to check him out, and he picked at shells on the bottom, examining them, before surfacing and flicking back long hair. He wiped his face, blinking a few times, and couldn’t help the smile breaking out on his face. It was, invigorating.

He moved quickly back to the shallows and turned, feeling his neck tingle, and then he spun — nothing followed him. No large shadows crept forward to try and ambush him. No massive leviathans that were all teeth, or bulbous bags that flared red with plate-sized eyes and eight crushing arms, watched from the depths.

But schools of fish did. He waded up onto the sand and retrieved his spear, and the next time a silver torpedo closed in on the shallow water, he stabbed down, skewering it.

Ben wasted no time gutting and cleaning the fish, and then tossing the bloody remains into the shallows, where they were immediately gorged upon by the fish’s kin. He wanted them to get used to seeing him close by, and also used to thinking when they did see him, it meant feeding time rather than death.

Days passed. Ben felt his strength and good spirits returning with each moment of this idyllic life. Sunrises were clear, clean, and magnificent, and his personal lagoon was usually always replenished after the high tide let water gush through the breakwater that acted like teeth, allowing in the fish, but keeping out the larger predators.

After one particularly high full-moon king-tide, Ben awoke to see the recognizable fin of a shark cruising in his lagoon. The age-old creatures had been around for 400 million years, so he kind of expected he’d see one sooner or later.

From his lookout cave, he could see down into the lagoon, and judged the predator to be only about eight or nine feet in length. But it was squatter and more barrel-shaped than the streamlined modern sharks he knew and would have probably weighed in at about 500 pounds.

Though it was a big fish, Ben didn’t think it would be much of a problem. “I can share.” He nodded to the creature. “You stay in your side of the lagoon, and me in mine, and we’ll a-aaall be friends, okay?”

The sudden surge in the lagoon and a few seconds of thrashing that ended in bloody spray meant the shark had already begun its hunting.

Ben waggled his finger at it. “But listen up, buddy. You eat all my fish, and you’re toast, got it?” He grinned, quite liking the company.

Over the coming days and weeks, Ben would spend his evenings down on the lagoon’s water line, talking to his shark. When he had caught his own fish, and cleaned them, he’d always throw the remains to ‘Ralph,’ named after a beloved dog from his youth.

It didn’t take long for Ben to start speaking to the shark. First, just saying hello, in the mornings, but soon, he was having long conversations with the shark about his fears and his hopes, and basically anything that came to mind.

Oddly, it felt good to talk to someone, even if it wasn’t another person. Ben fiddled with a shell as he watched the shark.

“I bet you’re surprised to see me,” Ben said, watching Ralph glide close to the sand. “I know, I know, I shouldn’t even be here. In fact, you shouldn’t be seeing me, my kind that is, for another 100 million years, give or take a million.”

He dug his toes into the sand. “How did I get here? Long story, Ralph.” He chuckled. “Oh, you’ve got nothing but time, you say.”

So Ben told Ralph about finding the letters between Sir Arthur Conan Doyle and his great, great grandfather, the original Benjamin Cartwright. He told him of his friends who came with him; all funny, happy, enthusiastic, idealistic, and fatally naïve.

“I killed them,” he said, staring trance-like at the fin as it slowly cut the water in front of him, always moving, but staying close to the shoreline. Ben was sure he could see it roll slightly every now and then, so it could keep one black bead-like eye on him.

“No, not really, but, if I had used an ounce of sense, I may have made sure we were all better prepared… or better still, didn’t come at all.”

He gave Ralph a crooked smile, and then sighed. “Anyway, this gateway sort of thing opened on the plateau, between your world, I mean, time, and mine. Happens once every ten years.” He looked up. “My girlfriend, Emma Wilson, got away.” He grinned broadly. “But she’s coming back for me. And when that damned gateway, or portal or freaking door, or whatever the hell it is, opens up again, I’ll be there, front and center.”

The shark came up real close, its snout seeming to lift from the water. Ben shook his head. “No, Ralph, I’m sorry, but I can’t take you with me.” He laughed and tossed the shell out into the center of the lagoon. The shark spun away to investigate the splash.

Days came and went like that, and to begin with, Ben regarded their relationship as something akin to that of coaxing a wild wolf into your camp — there was wariness, but also a mutual respect. When Ralph was hunting, Ben stayed out of the water. And in turn, when Ben was in the shallows trying to spear a fish, Ralph usually stayed away, cruising along the deep end of the lagoon.

Once he had cruised in a little too close and got pushed away with the butt of the spear. After a while, the stout shark seemed to get it and remained out in the deeper parts of the enclosed rock pool. In fact, as if in payback for the scraps Ben tossed him, there were times when Ralph seemed to herd the fish toward Ben’s waiting spear.

Some days, Ben spent his time out at the breakwater, on the rocks, leaning on his arms and looking out at the huge sea beasts, or up and down the coastline. Northward, he could see the jutting landmasses that might have been headlands or perhaps islands in the far distance. He knew his home was up there somewhere, and often wondered what it would be like now — perhaps miles of shallow coastal estuaries, foreboding swamps, or vast plains of grasses, and forests of weird trees that looked like 50-foot-high Q-tips.

Ben was about to turn away, when he noticed something else. It was in the far distance and in near to the jutting shoreline. But oddly, it looked square against the horizon.

He frowned; other than geologically, nature didn’t really do squares or geometric shapes. If he had been back in his own time, he wouldn’t have given it a second glance, as he would have immediately known what he thought it was—a sail.

“Insanity, or a solitude-induced hallucination?” He laughed softly as he watched the thing. It seemed to tack away and finally vanished from sight. He continued to stare for many more minutes, but there was nothing bar some humidity mist rising from the ocean’s surface.

“Wasn’t a sail,” he said softly.

But Ben kept looking for the square, while in his stomach he felt the leaden heaviness of longing and homesickness. When he had finished for his day and turned, Ralph was always cruising back and forth behind him. “I thought I saw… nah, nothing.” Ben saluted. “Night, big guy.” And headed for his cave.

Like clockwork every evening, Ben marked off more notches on the cave wall, always carefully keeping track of his calendar. He knew it would take him many weeks, and maybe even months depending on what he faced, to return to his plateau. But he had years to go just yet.

There was time to enjoy his paradise, and over his many years, he had found so few safe havens such as this that he shouldn’t rush to leave it.

There were still dangers here, and from time to time, he spotted two-legged hunters patrolling the tide line. They rarely hung around for long and avoided the water, seeming to know that in those depths things waited that were even more fearsome than they were.

As the sun was going down one evening, Ben felt the change in the air pressure, and noticed the horizon was filled with a wall of clouds, like a dark tsunami bearing down on him.

Storm coming, he thought, and made a mental note to secure his items in the cave, and sleep well back in its depths that night. It meant sucking in more of the pterodon shit, but at least he’d stay dry.

“Hello?” Ben squinted. “What’s that?”

There was something else in the distance. Coming down along the coast and in close to the shoreline, he spotted what looked like a huge fallen tree, just floating. It was hard to make out clearly, and as the sun set, he began to lose sight of it.

“Damn,” he breathed. At first, he thought it might have been the sail again. But, even now, he thought that was his mind playing tricks on a fatigued and lonely mind. He squinted, concentrating. It had to be a tree stump, and he kinda hoped it would float all the way down to him and wash up during the storm — he could certainly work with the wood.

He rubbed his red eyes. “I’d give my left testicle for a good pair of field glasses right now.”

Then it was gone. Ben sighed and moved further back into his cave as the angry clouds swallowed the light.

The storm hit a few hours after dark in an explosion of furious wind and rain. At first, sleep was impossible as the thump of huge waves against the cliffs was like the beat of a titan’s drum. Outside, lightning forked, thunder cracked, and he could only turn his back and pull some of the large leaf fronds he had gathered up over himself to stop the wet wind rushing in at him.

Ben’s body made a small barrier to the storm’s fury and a few of the small pterodons came and nestled in close to him. He almost regretted eating so many of the little guys’ eggs. Almost. And they still stank terribly.

Regardless of the thunderstorm, Ben managed to catch a few hours sleep, and when he woke, it was to the sound of his flying roommates greeting the dawn with their usual squawks and chirrups as they headed out to skim the surface of the ocean with their toothed beaks to catch sprats from the surface, or to go and pick at the lines of debris washed up after the storm.

Ben sat up and rubbed his face, and then pulled his beard flat. He let his hand run down its foot-long length, and then glanced at his knife-tipped spear. He had promised himself he’d scrape the beard away when he set off back to the plateau, and would, even though he didn’t relish the idea of scraping his face with the now chipped and rusting blade of his former hunting knife.

Ben eased forward, keen to see what damage the storm had inflicted on his lagoon, and the first thing he noticed were the tracks on the sand — massive and strange — like someone had beached a boat in the night. The drag marks had to be at least 20 feet wide, and on each side, there were footprints, or rather, claw prints, and each as large as a manhole cover. He’d never seen anything like them.

He crawled further forward until he was at the lip of the cave mouth and rested on his hands and knees following them. They came from the ocean well down the beach, and then whatever it was, was dragged all the way along the sand toward his line of cliffs. The deep gauges finished at his lagoon, where they vanished.

The sun wasn’t fully up, and it was still too dark to make out anything in the water, but he swallowed, feeling a knot begin to form in his stomach.

“Hey, Ralph, did you have any company last night?” Ben asked softly. It looked like some sort of large dinosaur had patrolled the beach in the dark. But as the sand was so churned up, and also many of the tracks obliterated by the downpour, it was hard to determine where the thing eventually went. Or even, if the tracks were leading to or from his lagoon.

Further down along the beach, there was no sign of anything larger than a few pterodons squabbling over something in amongst the weed.

He stared out at the horizon for a few moments, and as the sun rose, he watched the light slowly go from a blush in the distance to creating a golden highway along the vast blue ocean. His lagoon was still in the shadows and remained an inky black. But it looked calm and mostly untroubled by the storm, save for some debris floating within it.

Might be something he could salvage, he thought. Ben strapped his spear to his back, grabbed up his fishing line, and began to scale down. He walked along the sand, feeling a slight chill against his chest from the morning breeze.

“Ralph, you there, old buddy?”

The water of his lagoon was calm, but not pond still. There were swirls and bubbles popping, and some sixth sense kept Ben from going to the water’s edge this morning. He let his eyes run along the entire surface and was confused that the fin of the shark wasn’t there somewhere.

“You went home?” Could Ralph have been washed out in the storm? Ben wondered. “Most likely,” he answered.

Ben leaned against the only rock on the beach, perhaps a massive piece of sandstone that had broken off the cliffs a thousand years before. He laid his line on top of it and turned back to the water. Still no fin, and his friend not being there depressed him.

“Ralph!” Ben yelled, and the name echoed against the cliffs, but it still didn’t bring the shark to the surface. Ben pushed off the rock as the sun began to peek over the top of the breakwater, and he took a few steps toward the lagoon’s edge.

And then froze.

The devil was in there, watching him.

And when he saw it, it knew he saw it.

And it attacked.

The giant sea crocodile exploded from the water, and a mouth larger than Ben was opened wide.

Ben threw his arms up and stumbled back, but only took two steps before falling beside the only rock on the beach.

The massive creature’s jaws struck the rock, and that split second gave Ben the chance to sprint away for his life. Ben didn’t stop until he was up the cliff face and into his cave. Only then did he turn and look back with his heart beating fast and hard in his chest.

“Oh shit.” His spirit sank.

The massive fallen tree he thought he had seen last evening hadn’t been a tree at all. In his lagoon was a crocodile that must have been 40 feet long if it was an inch. It was close to the shore, and just its eyes and snout were at the waterline — it had reset its ambush, perhaps hoping Ben would try for the water again.

“Ah shit, Ralph.” Ben sat back. He knew his friend was gone for good. He also knew he’d never get close to the water again.

Ben sat watching for another few hours as the sun rose higher and higher. The crocodile pulled itself up onto the sand to sun itself. It was a monster.

The crocodile’s jagged skin rose like spikes all along its body and down to a flattened tail-like a paddle. The claws were massive and broad, and the body was wide as a bus. But it was the mouth that was its most fearsome attribute — the jaws gaped open as it rested, and Ben could see shreds of flesh between its tusk-like teeth — he knew it was his friend. Ralph wouldn’t have stood a chance being trapped in the lagoon. His speed was useless when he was within a confined space.

Ben remembered from his time in Florida that modern crocodiles nested at certain times of the year, and also stayed close to their nests if they found a good spot — like this one.

Ben looked up at his cave wall with all the calendar marks. “Well, looks like I’ve been evicted.” He gathered up all his things into his woven mesh bag, strapped his spear to his back, and packed a few pterodon eggs in for his travels.

He turned to the rear of the cave. “Goodbye, kids; it’s been fun.”

The small pterodons just squawked their response. Ben then went to the cave mouth and looked down one last time.

“Hope Ralph gives you indigestion, you big bastard.”

Then he started up along the ledge to the top of the cliff.