Greig Beck
Primordia: In Search of the Lost World
What if it were true?
What if it were all true?
What if it was never make believe at all — that the Lost World was real? Sir Arthur Conan Doyle didn’t make it all up. I believe he was reading about a lost expedition that really happened. We need to find the notebook. And then we need to go there.
A comet impact on the Earth would be devastating depending on its mass and composition. However, even if it didn’t make landfall, the full astral effects of a comet simply passing close to our planet are not yet known or fully understood.
October 2014 — Approaching comet, C/2013-A1 (designate name: Siding Spring), has plunged the magnetic field around Mars into chaos.
PROLOGUE
Benjamin Cartwright ran like never before in his life. Damp green fronds slapped at his face, thorns ripped his skin, and elastic vines tried to lasso every part of his body. But he barged, burrowed, and sprinted as if the devil was after him.
Because it was.
The thing that followed him pushed trees from its path, and its carnivore breath was like a steam train huffing and hissing as it bore down on him. He whimpered, pivoting at a boulder and changing direction. The roar came then, making leathery-winged avian creatures take flight from the canopy overhead, and causing his testicles to shrink in his sweat-soaked trousers.
Cartwright accelerated, and immediately an explosive breeze hit his face as the jungle opened out. He skidded to a stop, squinting against it. He was at the cliff edge that dropped away to a green carpet over a thousand feet below.
He stared for a split moment; the strange low cloud swirled all around him, and he knew he only had hours before he’d be trapped forever. He grimaced and turned. Already the trees were being pushed aside as his pursuer caught up to him. He’d seen what it did to Baxter, and the thought of it happening to him liquefied his bowels.
Arm-thick creeper vines ran across the clearing and hung down over the edge of the cliff face but didn’t reach anywhere near safety. In the few seconds he had left, Benjamin Cartwright realised his choices were to be eaten, or suicide — death either way.
The foliage burst open behind him, and the hissing-roar made him cringe back with fear. He couldn’t help but turn — the creature rose up, towering over him, all coiled muscle, glistening scales, and teeth as long as his arm. The remains of Baxter still hung ragged between those tusk-like fangs.
Cartwright fired his last bullet from the gun he had almost forgotten in his hand — it had no effect, and he threw the Colt revolver to the ground. He turned back to the cliff edge, grabbed up one of the vines, said a silent prayer, and leapt.
PART 1 — What if it were true?
There's many a man who never tells his adventures, for he can't hope to be believed ―
CHAPTER 01
Benjamin Cartwright stood with his arm around his mother’s shoulders. It shoulda been raining, he thought. Instead, belying the somber mood, the sun shone gaily, and the verdant green lawn gave off a pleasant odor of cut grass and fresh soil. The leaves on the large trees ringing the cemetery quivered slightly as a soft breeze moved through their shimmering leaves.
Perhaps it was fitting, as his father, Barry, was an outdoorsman ever since he was a kid. Being here, surrounded by this forest-like setting seemed, perfect.
His mother sobbed again, and Ben squeezed her slim shoulders and felt her continuing to shudder as her tiny frame was wracked by sorrow. His own eyes blurred with tears momentarily, and he blinked several times to clear them.
It was the surprise and suddenness of it all, he guessed. His dad was only 63, and he had seemed strong as an ox… right up until chopping wood had turned into a clutched chest, and then it was lights out big guy, forever.
Cynthia, his mother, had called him first, telling him that Barry had a bad fall, very bad — that was it. Ben could tell by her voice that it was no simple fall. Both his parents were the type that brushed off trauma as a mere annoyance — even a broken wrist was described as just having a bit of a scrape. So Dad having a very bad fall set off alarms in Ben’s head.
Her voice became tiny then. “I don’t know what to do,” she had said.
Ben felt sick from fear then, but he swallowed it down. Trying to impart calm, he had told her to phone the police or an ambulance, or a neighbor, and he was on his way. He lived in Boulder, Colorado, and even though the flight was just a little over 2 hours, it would still take many hours on top of that to go point-to-point.
“Keep him warm. And Mom, just stay calm, okay? I’ll be there soon.” He checked his watch, blew air through pressed lips, and ran to his room to grab a few things and stuff them into a bag. He snatched up his wallet and phone, and then ran to the door, praying there’d be a flight he could jump on.
He’d phoned anyone and everyone he could think of; sending emergency services, plus Hank the neighbor. His mom sounded disorientated, having only said that Barry was still asleep and that she had placed his jacket over his shoulders to keep him warm.
After the longest 5 hours of his life, he was there.
When he arrived, he thankfully found that an ambulance had come and gone, but Hank from next door had grabbed his shoulders. “Sorry, Ben,” was all he’d said.
He had steeled himself, knowing what to expect, but it still hit him like a kick to the guts.
He trudged up to the house, where a local police chief he remembered from when he was a kid waited on the porch. He saluted Ben and shook his hand.
“Sorry for your loss, Ben. Your father was a personal friend of mine. He was a good man.” His jaw worked for a moment. “Massive heart attack. Probably never felt a thing.”
Ben nodded. “Mom? Cynthia?”
“Inside. She’s okay… wanted to wait for you.”
Ben went past him and into the house. He found her in the family room, sitting on the sofa, just staring at the fireplace. He had sat down next to her and put an arm around her shoulder.
“Stupid old man; chopping wood like that,” she scolded, and then collapsed into tears.
Ben felt his own eyes fill. Barry had been the perfect father — happy, strong, always there, and had taught him everything from how to do his shoelaces, to being able to drink from a soda bottle without the backwash sliding back into the bottle.
Guilt nagged at him for not coming back sooner, to have one more laugh, one more beer, or maybe one more chance to tell him he loved him. All gone now.
That all had been just two days ago. Now, family and friends were gathered at his funeral, staring at the polished coffin that gleamed in the sunlight. No one talked, and few even met his eyes after the initial handshake greeting — all bar one — Emma Wilson, a high school sweetheart. She nodded to him, and he gave her a flat smile of acknowledgment in return.
He also turned slightly, hiding the scar on his cheek — a parting gift from a grenade-throwing ISIS asshole in Syria. The line down his face from temple to chin was a reminder of his time in the military. The grenade had been a lucky throw, and landed in the center of five of them — he dived for it, but his buddy, Mad Max Hertzog, had beat him to it, shouldering him aside and covering the frag device with his body.