Sigma Force 10 - The Sixth Extinction Page 39

  But maybe I’m wrong . . . maybe one blast wasn’t enough.

  Plus so far, that sonic cannon continued to remain silent.

  Surely that was a good sign.

  6:23 P.M.

  Dylan Wright lay in a bloody pool, racked in pain, barely able to move. He felt the nymphs squirming inside him.

  I’ve become their nest.

  Others fed upon his flesh, latched on to his legs, his arms, his face. They wormed under his clothes, burrowed beneath his skin, and explored every orifice.

  In his right hand, his three remaining fingers clutched a small device. Shortly after being abandoned, he had pulled it from his belt. He must have passed out for a few minutes, but death would not take him.

  Not yet.

  Not until I do what I must.

  He moved his thumb to the button of the remote activator for the LRAD 4000X—and pressed it.

  Distantly, the world wailed, mourning its own doom.

  If I must die this way, then let Hell take the rest of the earth, too.

  6:25 P.M.

  Gray covered his ears against the sonic assault, staring back the way they had come.

  “Turn us around!” he hollered.

  Kowalski had stopped the CAAT at the edge of the river, not far from the blasted-out bridge. They had almost made it back to the substation when the LRAD ignited once again.

  What the hell?

  Even at this distance, the barrage rattled everything on the vehicle and everyone inside it.

  A moment ago, they had both searched for noise-suppression gear aboard this CAAT, but all they found were moldable earplugs, which they quickly donned. The crew working on the LRAD must have nabbed those more powerful sound-muffling headphones.

  “Never make it to that camp without better protection,” Kowalski warned. “By the time we got there, our eyes would be bleeding, probably our brains, too.”

  Gray knew his partner was right. He stared across the river toward the glow of the Back Door.

  Then, Jason, it’s up to you. You need to bottle this place up tight.

  “What do we do?” Kowalski asked.

  Gray considered his options. “I know one piece of noise-suppression gear we overlooked.”

  “What’s that?”

  Gray shifted out of his seat and retrieved something from below. He returned with it in his arms.

  Kowalski nodded when he saw it. “That oughta do the trick.”

  Let’s hope Jason is just as resourceful.

  6:26 P.M.

  Up in the substation, the wail of the LRAD rattled the glass in the frames and vibrated the floor underfoot. Stella and Jason stood at the window, staring across the Coliseum toward the pool of light near the back wall.

  Had Gray failed to stop Wright?

  Someone had plainly reactivated the large dish.

  “Look down there,” Stella said. “There’s a CAAT stopped on the far side of the river.”

  Jason had already noted the twin spears of light glowing along the floor.

  But are they friend or foe?

  The answer wasn’t as important as stopping that blaring train whistle that was driving all life down here toward the surface—or better yet, sealing that far exit permanently.

  Jason returned to the control console. His last entry—Stella’s birthday—was still entered with the red error message overwriting it. He hadn’t tried anything else, stuck with a vague certainty that he was right about the password being Stella’s birthday.

  What am I missing?

  Working swiftly, he tried other variations, abbreviating JANUARY to JAN. He changed 17 to 17TH. He tried writing the Latin and Greek equivalents, the ancient languages her father preferred.

  Nothing, nothing, and more nothing.

  Jason pounded his fist on the console. “Is there something else we’re missing about your birthday?”

  Stella shook her head. “Not that I know of.”

  Jason fought to concentrate, which was made especially hard by the muffled screaming of the LRAD.

  “From your description,” he said, “your father was a stickler for details, not prone to flights of fancy.”

  “Right,” she said. “Maybe with the exception of this place. Antarctica. To him, the bottom of the world was always a magical place.”

  As magical as his daughter . . .

  Then the answer dawned on him.

  Of course.

  People often employed a simple trick to make obvious codes seem more complicated, yet still maintain their simplicity or significance. That solution would have been especially amusing to someone whose only fancy was Antarctica, the land at the bottom of the world.

  Jason typed in the new password and hit enter.

  A green acceptance window opened.

  “You did it!” Stella said.

  Jason stared down at the accepted code.

  3991 ,YRAUNAJ 71

  It was Stella’s birthday, simply written backward, a flipped-around version, like how one would have to reverse the globe in order to view this continent properly.

  Jason clicked on the acceptance window to reach the detonation controls. A new screen opened with simple instructions. Jason followed them to the letter until at last a red warning blinked with a button that read Detonate.

  Jason shoved back and motioned Stella to take his place.

  “You should do this.”

  She nodded, reached forward, and touched that button.

  6:28 P.M.

  Gray stood atop the CAAT when the world jolted underfoot, bouncing the vehicle on its treads. A thunderous boom accompanied it. He glanced back toward the distant station—then up to the Back Door.

  Good job, kid.

  But in case those bunker busters failed to fully collapse the mouth of the cavern system, Gray lifted his own improvised noise suppressor and rested it atop his shoulder. Considering it had been Dylan Wright’s weapon of choice up top, it was no surprise Gray had discovered it below in the man’s CAAT.

  He aimed the long tube of the rocket launcher and fixed its sights on the distant glow of the LRAD workstation—then pulled the trigger.

  The rocket-propelled grenade blasted out of the tube and tore across the near-empty Coliseum. It exploded with a flash of fire at the back wall, striking true. The blast quickly echoed away.

  He closed his eyes, enjoying this moment.

  At long last, silence had returned to Hell.

  33

  April 30, 2:29 P.M. AMT

  Roraima, Brazil

  Jenna stood at the base of a Brazilian mahogany tree, her arms crossed. It had taken too long to retrace her path, the one she and Jori had followed through the canopy. Instead, it was the familiar buzz of the hornet’s nest—the same hive that had killed that poor sparrow—that finally helped her find her way back to this spot.

  Cutter touched her shoulder and drew her aside. “Stand clear.”

  From the canopy overhead, a pair of natives dropped to the forest floor. One carried a machete; the other bore a blanket-wrapped object under one arm.

  “Hurry,” she said.

  The blanket was placed on the ground and folded back. Inside was the sloth cub, still painfully tangled in the barbed vine.

  Was it still alive?

  Jenna reached to pull the vine away, but Cutter pushed her arm back.

  “Watch,” he said.

  He took a cattle prod and shocked the severed end of the vine, sending a charge down its length. It contracted once, then relaxed, withdrawing the hooked barbs back into its green flesh. Cutter used the tip of the prod to tease the loops off the cub.

  Once it was free, Jenna bent down next to it, placing a palm on its chest. She felt a heartbeat. The ribs swelled and contracted with shallow breaths. Multiple small punctures covered its body, seeping blood.

  “Jori . . . said poison,” she struggled out through the haze and thick tongue.

  “Megatherium are tough. I engineered them that way. It’s why I made them omni
vores, instead of herbivores. Gives them a wider range of nutritional options.” He nodded to the cub. “They’re also more resistant to this vine’s toxin. Slowly adapting to it due to the vine’s presence in their immediate environment.”

  She leaned down and scooped the cub into her arms. He was heavier than she suspected from his compact size, at least forty-five pounds. She carried him over one shoulder. She heard that soft mewling again, and his snout moved closer to her neck, leaning against her with a sigh.

  “Caves,” she said.

  “Over this way,” Cutter set off with his remaining four men.

  Jenna kept among them, letting them lead, placing her boots where they did, wary of this dangerous forest. She held the cub close, shifting it from one shoulder to the other.

  “Do you want me to carry it?” Cutter asked.

  “No.”

  She couldn’t explain why, but she knew she had to be the one carrying this burden. The creatures they sought were not dumb animals. Back at the electrified pens, they had waited until Jori climbed the cages before attacking. And now they had kidnapped the boy, possibly hoping the unspoken threat would drive these trespassers off their lands. For Jori to have any chance, she had to respect their intelligence.

  Slowly the forest grew taller, the canopy thicker. The sunlight waned down to a persistent emerald twilight, while the fungi growing along the trunks seemed brighter. As they hiked, the undergrowth also thinned out, starved of the sunlight by the taller trees.

  At last the darker shadows ahead became discernible as cliffs of black rock, draped with vines and orchids. The air grew muskier with the reek of damp pelts and the rot of spoiled meat. Multiple cave openings appeared. Some looked entirely natural; others looked widened by the scratching and sharpening of claws.

  Cutter slowed their pace.

  The denizens of these caves were nowhere in sight.

  “What now?” Cutter asked.

  “I should go,” Jenna mumbled out. “Alone. Stay here.”

  She passed Cutter and headed forward on her own. She crossed until she could see the darker shadows shifting in those black caves.

  Watching me . . .

  She lifted the cub, crossed her legs, and sank to her backside, cradling the small sloth in her lap. He mewled a soft complaint, batted her with a hooked claw, but then settled.

  She sat there, waiting.

  At some point she started to hum a lullaby, not remembering the words, but the melody remained inside her.

  Finally a lone sloth appeared, knuckling on her claws, and it was plainly a female from her stained teats on her chest. The female bobbed her head up, letting out a soft chuffing noise.

  The cub stirred, rolling his head toward the sound, and gave off a couple of answering bleats.

  Clearly mother and child.

  Very slowly Jenna lowered the cub to the ground and retreated away, staying hunched, her head bowed submissively.

  The female crept forward, scooped the body up one-armed, using those claws like gentle hooks to pull the cub to her chest. Then she turned and lumbered back into her den.

  Jenna sat again, waiting. Occasionally she would nudge her chin up and imitate that chuffing noise. The pack here had seen her traveling through the canopy with Jori. They would believe he was her child. It was why she had to carry that cub herself. Getting its scent all over her. To intensify the sense of maternity and nurturing.

  After another ten minutes passed, she found it harder to think. For a brief moment, she forgot why she was here. She started even to rise. Then movement again. A small figure came running out of a cave to the left.

  Jori ran up to her and hugged her, flying hard enough to roll her to her back.

  “Careful,” she said hoarsely.

  He helped her up. She did so with great care.

  Then a massive bull sloth charged out of a cave and barreled toward her. She pushed Jori behind her, knowing if she ran they’d both be killed. She stood her ground, arms out, sheltering the boy. She kept her face turned, not wanting to challenge him.

  The Megatherium bull skidded to a stop, its nose right at her face. Its breath blew the small hairs from her damp face, reeking of blood and meat and savageness. She knew it was the same creature from earlier, the same one who had followed her to the edge of the clearing.

  It sniffed her in turn, moving from face to crotch—then bumped her with that nose, not to dismiss her, but as some manner of acknowledgment, as if to say I know you, too.

  It began to turn away, and she took a step backward.

  A gunshot cracked across the silent jungle.

  The bull’s ear exploded into a pulp of blood and fur. It roared, swinging around and clubbing her in the side, knocking her flying.

  Another shot struck its flank, flinching the limb on that side.

  “Run, Jori,” she said, struggling for breath after the blow.

  The boy refused, coming instead to help her. Cutter saw this and came rushing low toward them, ready to protect his son.

  Another shot struck the beast in the head, but it glanced off the thick skull. Jenna spotted Rahei flat on her belly near a rock fall by the cliff’s edge. She must have crept into that position very slowly, keeping her presence from the pack.

  Cutter reached them, grabbed Jori by the arm, and pulled the boy back with him.

  The bull noted this movement and charged.

  Jenna managed to pull Jori to the ground, rolling on top of the boy. Cutter took the full brunt of that fury as he was bowled onto his back and a claw ripped through his vest and shirt, scouring a bloody track down his chest.

  The other men behind Cutter opened fire, a fierce barrage.

  The poor beast hunched itself against that onslaught, as if leaning into a stiff breeze. But even its majestic bulk could not sustain such damage for long. It trembled, took a step backward, and fell heavily to the ground, almost crushing Cutter.

  Jenna hurried with Jori in tow, both of them collecting Cutter from the ground.

  Rahei came bounding as light as a gazelle from out of hiding, plainly triumphant for her part in slaying the beast. Still, she kept wary watch on the cave openings, never turning her back.

  From one of the tunnels, a smaller Megatherium charged out of a den, maybe the mate to the slain bull. Rahei swung her rifle and fired, but the first shot only grazed the beast’s shoulder. The creature’s other forelimb cast out toward Rahei, claws unfolding, as the beast braked hard in the loam. From its grasp, the Megatherium launched something wrapped in a leaf. As it flew, the leaf fluttered open and fell away. What it had held—something small and black—spun through the air and struck Rahei in the cheek.

  She stumbled back as if hit by a bullet. Her face turned, revealing a small ebony-skinned frog glistening on her cheek. Rahei screamed, dropping her rifle and pawing at her face. She knocked the amphibian off, but emblazoned on her skin remained a bloodred burn in the shape of that frog. Rahei fell to her knees, her spine arching backward, her mouth open, her limbs quaking in a grand mal seizure.

  Then finally she collapsed to her side, unmoving, dead, the mighty hunter brought down by a lowly frog.

  Must have been one of Cutter’s toxic creations.

  As if the violent death were a cue, more of the sloths charged out, drawn by the scream, the bloodshed, the death of one of their own.

  Jenna retreated with the others, pursued through the jungle, chased by the roaring from many throats. They all simply ran, forgoing any attempt to even fire at the beasts.

  Never make it . . .

  Then the canopy ripped apart over them, letting in the blinding sun shattering the darkness. Winds whipped and tore at the forest. The craft overhead roared far louder than any Megatherium.

  The pack fell back, intimidated and confused. Then as one, the beasts slunk back into the deeper shadows and retreated.

  Lines fell from the aircraft, and men traveled smoothly down them to land in the forest, carrying heavy automatic weapons and wearing
body armor.

  Cutter’s group was quickly subdued, stripped of their weapons.

  One of the soldiers came forward to her. “You’re a hard lady to find.”

  He tipped his helmet back, revealing a familiar face. Even through the fog, she knew him—and smiled. Relief flooded through her, accompanied by a surge of warmth from deeper inside, an emotion still new and unexplored with this brave man.

  “Drake . . .”

  “At least you remember me. That’s gotta be a good sign.” He reached forward, jabbed a syringe into her neck, and pushed the plunger. “A small gift from Dr. Hess.”

  2:39 P.M.

  Cutter rose through the air on a stretcher, lifting free of the dark canopy and out into the blaze of the day. He surveyed his handiwork, the many-tiered gardens, his Galapagos in the sky. He took a moment to appreciate his triumphs and defeats.

  Around him was a crucible of evolution, one driven by a simple edict.

  Survival of the fittest.

  The Law of the Jungle.

  But doubt had settled into that perfect garden of his soul, a bright seed of new possibility, shown to him by the small figure of a woman, an Eve in the guise of a park ranger. She had pointed to a new Eden, maybe one that need not be so dark.

  He had witnessed today something new.

  The Law of the Jungle was not all there was to life, to evolution, but that in equal parts altruism, even morality, could be as strong an environmental factor as any, a wind for change to drive the world to a more vital, healthier existence.

  Yes . . .

  It was time to start anew, to plant a fresh garden.

  But to do that, the old one must die and be tilled over.

  Besides, it is my work. Why should I share it with a world that was far from ready, too myopic to see as clearly as myself?

  He slipped a hand to his pocket, picturing the munitions buried in the oldest tunnels underneath the sinkhole.

  He pressed the button, activating the countdown.

  God created the heavens and the earth in seven days.

  He would destroy his in seven minutes.

  11:40 A.M. PDT

  Sierra Nevada Mountains, CA