His eyes scrunched at the corners. “What have you got there?”
“I don’t know.” Mills blinked as she looked at the book, like she was surprised to see it. “I just grabbed it on the way out of the basement.”
“Well?” He stared at her. “What is it?”
She glanced at the sky. It was even darker now and she sensed the approaching cloak of nighttime. But the fire was growing fast, casting wild light throughout the forest. “Later,” she said. “We need to go.”
He grunted in annoyance. But he turned around anyway and paced over the trampled wires. Mills and Elliott fell in behind him. Just before exiting the clearing, Mills took a quick glimpse at the logbook’s leather cover. Squinting hard, she saw two words emblazoned in bronze-colored text.
Apex Predator, she read. Where have I heard that before?
Chapter 47
Maybe the 2-Gens killed each other, Caplan thought just before a full-bellied roar shattered his hopes and nearly his eardrums. Or maybe not.
He descended a few more feet. Then he peered into the dark abyss. The floor, dimly lit by flickering flames, was still some ten to fifteen feet beneath him. He saw no sign of the short-faced bear or any other animal for that matter. But he could hear them. He could hear their screeches, roars, and growls. Scuffling, gnashing teeth, and the crunching of sinew and muscle tissue. At the same time, various odors rose up to greet him. Greasy fur. Sweat and body odor. Plus, blood.
Lots and lots of blood.
It’s a promoter’s dream, he thought. An honest-to-goodness Pleistocene death match.
He shifted his shoulders, adjusting his backpack and the rifle strap. Then he glanced up. Morgan’s feet were poised a few rungs above his head. Her eyes, filled with question marks, peered down at him.
His soul longed to dive into those eyes, to unburden itself of the truth behind her brother’s death. To admit he’d stood by while beasts had ripped Tony to shreds. But even if he could, he knew it wouldn’t have helped. His sin required far more than mere confession.
I’ll get you out of here, he thought. That’s a promise.
He faced forward again. Regripped the ladder with his sweaty palms. Then he finished his descent into the semi-darkness.
His right boot struck the floor and he stepped away from the ladder. Turning in an arc, he swept his rifle across the security checkpoint. Everything — the broken tables and machines, glass shards, blood smears, and pockmarked concrete pillars — was just as he remembered it.
Morgan released the ladder and fell to the floor, landing lightly on her feet. She swung her pistol around, checking the room. Then she exchanged glances with Caplan.
Caplan nodded and turned toward the entranceway. Waves of invisible heat and energy crested over him. His skin grew slick with sweat. His neck flinched at every roar, every snarl, every screech.
He made his way to the left wall and picked his way forward, avoiding the glass. Not that it made much of a difference. The death match had reached a new crescendo and the sounds of violence — chomping teeth, ripping flesh, clicking claws, cracking bones, bodies slamming into each other, into concrete, and into metal — were intense.
The heat thickened and intensified until Caplan found it difficult to breathe. His vision blurred around the edges and he felt none of the adrenaline he’d experienced during his last visit.
He took up position on the entranceway’s left side. Air exited his lungs as he scanned the Lab. Could be worse, he thought. At least you don’t have to clean all this up.
The concrete pillars were still in place, thank God. But the rest of the Lab lay in ruins. The central platform had been reduced to a fiery heap of metal and lumber. The giant skeletons, painstakingly reconstructed and mounted, had been knocked off their platforms and ripped to shreds. Pieces of machinery, broken monitors, shards of glass, and bloody carcasses littered the floor.
Two things, more than anything else, caught Caplan’s attention. First, the incubators. Every last one had been cracked wide open. Now, they lay quietly in their stations, abandoned like snake skins. And second, a tangled mass of heaving flesh, leathery skin, and fur, which occupied much of the Lab’s far right corner.
“I see four animals.” Caplan squinted into the darkness. “No, wait. Make that five. The short-faced bear is still going strong. And is that an elephant?”
Morgan, positioned on the opposite side of the entranceway, kept her gaze locked on the pulsing mass. “It’s a Mammut americanum,” she replied. “The others are a Panthera atrox, a Panthera onca augusta, a—”
“English, please.”
She grunted. “That elephant, as you call it, is actually an American mastodon. I also see an American lion, a North American jaguar, an American cheetah, and of course, the short-faced bear.”
“I don’t suppose any of them are herbivores.”
“The mastodon is.” She breathed softly. “Although it doesn’t look that way right now.”
Caplan focused on the mastodon. In the dim light provided by the burning platform, he saw it stood almost ten feet tall. Using its head like a battering ram, it attacked the other animals with quiet fury. The other animals fought back, biting its legs as well as each other.
The American lion and American cheetah broke off and went for each other’s throats. The North American jaguar attacked the cheetah while the short-faced bear ripped away at all three of them, its sharp claws drawing blood with every strike.
The mastodon backed away from the frenzied mass. For a moment, Caplan thought it was extracting itself from the fight. But then it lowered its head and charged the pile. Its right tusk cut deep into the American cheetah’s belly. The cheetah tried to snarl, but it came out more like a yelp instead. Then its body sagged and it slumped to the ground.
Caplan cocked his head, curious about what the others would do. He didn’t have to wait long to find out. In less than a second, the four surviving animals pounced on the cheetah. They tore at its eyes, ripped at its mouth, and stomped on its body. The cheetah, screaming and shrieking, tried to fight back. But its frenzied movements soon ceased under the onslaught.
Immediately, the American lion charged the North American jaguar, slashing its face and biting its shoulder. The short-faced bear rose up on its hind legs, bellowed out a roar, and plowed into the mastodon’s front right leg. The mastodon shook off the blow and resumed using its head like a battering ram. But this time, the short-faced bear was ready. It pounced onto the mastodon’s head, pinning it to the floor. Its claws swiped at great speed, stabbing the mastodon’s eyes and ears.
The mastodon reared up, bellowing fury from its trunk. The short-faced bear, growling and roaring, scrabbled for purchase. It kept its balance long enough to dish out a few more swipes. Then it leapt backward and came crashing down on the North American jaguar.
“Hot damn,” Caplan said under his breath. “I didn’t know animals were so violent back then.”
“They weren’t,” Morgan said. “At least, there’s no evidence to that effect.”
“Then what do you make of this?”
“I don’t know. But it’s 1-Gen all over again. Like a feeding frenzy without any actual feeding.”
Caplan’s eyes moved from the dead American cheetah to the carcasses of other animals. “Animals kill for sport, right?”
“Sure. But this isn’t sport. They’re destroying each other.”