K-Rex: A Prehistoric Thriller Read online

  K-Rex

  L.Z. Hunter

  Copyright 2015 by Severed Press

  Chapter 1

  The water in the stream was crisp, clear. It wasn’t much deeper than two feet. The rocks and sand below were visible. There wasn’t much of a current. The most dangerous aspect was the slippery rocks. Barefoot, the man let his toes curl over whatever he stood on for balance. His back hurt most. Standing bent forward for hours took a toll. He stood and stretched every few minutes. The pain hit the lower back. The muscles twisted into knots. The heat and humidity didn’t help. If he were under the canopy, it wouldn’t be as hot. Thankfully, a splash from the stream now and then cooled him off.

  The jungle was alive around him. As the sun set, it would get louder. The chimps and bonobos shouted back and forth, working themselves up. The grunts and screams became more high-pitched and aggravated. That was normal. Owls hooted. Branches snapped now and then. The lions and hyenas were out, but they stepped carefully. It wasn’t them breaking twigs.

  Where the stream turned, and became slightly swifter, he panned for coltan. He swirled water and sand around, letting them drain leaving only chunks of minerals for picking through. He wore a canvas bag over his shoulder, and filled it with the coltan found. He kept the bag close. The militia robbed him often, or paid rates less than what the dig was worth. Either way, he and his family lost out. It didn’t stop him, and although annoyed, he didn’t let the theft make him angry. There was plenty of coltan. He could make up the lost money just adding extra working hours to his day.

  Or evening.

  He didn’t like being away from home for long. Walking home in the dark was less than ideal. There was more than militia to fear. He’d never seen the giant Kasai Rex. The stories told sounded fabricated. He knew dinosaurs existed. The crocodiles in the rivers were proof of that. The crocs, however, were the only prehistoric animals he’d ever seen. Night-time was funny, though. After spending the entire day under the sun, the mind cooked. His imagination was like the nocturnal animals around him. Awake.

  There was no fast way of moving through the jungle. Slow and safe was best. The moss-covered rocks were slippery. The thick vegetation needed machete cutting every few feet. Any temporary paths made were swallowed back up by the rainforest within days, overgrown and difficult to find to get through within a week. Tree roots existed simply to cause stumbling. They snaked across the covered ground, and were large enough that falling over them seemed likely. Low branches, usually wrapped up by snakes, or webbed by giant spiders forced people to bend lower, ducking left and right. And there were always things crawling around under fallen tree limbs and behind large plant leaves. Best way to prevent injury was giving yourself enough time so you have some daylight left to walk under, without feeling the urge to run.

  He swished the water and sand out of his pan. The dull black mineral inside was coltan. It was just a few pebble-sized pieces. It was always just a few pieces, but once added with the others in his bag, the pieces became handfuls. A handful was equivalent to a couple of days’ pay.

  Those who mined deeper into the earth rather than panning streams found larger quantities of coltan, and larger sized chunks. Except land where coltan was excavated was bought up by companies from all over the globe. Men with guns protected the parcels. Even if a section of land wasn’t owned, it didn’t mean someone wasn’t mining it. While he wouldn’t mind bigger finds, he wasn’t greedy.

  The rustle came from several yards inside the forest. He looked toward the trees. The leaves, vegetation and setting sun was far too thick. He could barely see further than a foot into the thicket.

  It was time to go. The nocturnal animals hunted this time of night. His wife would have dinner waiting for him at home. He would much rather have dinner with his family, than become dinner for a pack of hyenas.

  He pulled open the strings on his bag, and fit his large, round and thin pan inside with the small amounts of coltan collected.

  The rustle came again. Closer.

  He pulled the machete from the sheath on his belt. Quick movement was never a good idea when being watched.

  It happened fast. He saw the head of a female lion as the ground cover parted.

  His breath caught in his lungs. His heart sank into his stomach.

  The second lioness popped out of the trees beside the first.

  The rustling must have been them running. They came at him, sprinting. Their paws were so large. The animals’ eyes were opened so wide.

  He tried not imagining the takedown. He planned on defending himself. He raised the machete with one hand. His other arm wrapped around the bag, as if the lionesses wanted his panning. He wasn’t protecting the mineral. He was hugging himself.

  He screamed as he began slashing the air with his long, curved blade.

  The lionesses never made eye contact. They splashed through the stream, crossing it in two leaps and one bound. They were on the other side of the bank and back into the forest.

  He stared at the tree line they’d entered. His machete lowered beside him, and breathed out a long, loud sigh. And laughed. Those lions were after prey. They had tunnel vision when it came to hunting. They weren’t after him.

  His laugh became a little louder, as relief passed through his entire body, and his muscles relaxed some. He had no intention of telling the family this story. His wife didn’t like him panning anyway. It was one of the few ways of making a solid living in the Congo, just not one of the safest.

  Turning around, he stopped.

  It stood on the west bank, staring at him. He didn’t move. His mouth went dry. He couldn’t swallow.

  When it blinked, the pupils became larger.

  Lack of sunlight.

  Its three toed claws looked sharp, like talons.

  A noise came to his left. He turned his head slowly, and stopped when he saw what made it.

  Peripherally, standing just in front of a tree was another one.

  He had never seen them before.

  There were the rumors and stories about the Kasai, but this. . .

  The lions weren’t after him because they’d been running away from something else. The lions were the prey. How often did that happen? Didn’t matter if they were at the top of the food chain. When something chased them, they didn’t hesitate. Instinct kicked in and they ran.

  Lions ran fast.

  His legs felt stiff, frozen. Every muscle in his back screamed in pain. He’d been standing, and bent over the last eleven hours. He was nearly forty years old. How fast could he run?

  He backed up a step.

  They watched him. Looked at each other. Looked back at him.

  He knew his lips moved, but no words came out. He wanted to tell them to stay where they were. Everything was okay. He was just going to leave them alone now.

  Not a sound escaped him.

  Another step backward. His heel slipped on a rock. His boots were old. The traction was worn away. He lost his balance and his arms shot up, reaching out far left and far right. It worked, though. He didn’t fall. Somehow he kept his feet. Smiling, he looked up. The smile vanished.

  They were gone. Both of them. He looked around. Slow at first, and then his confidence built. They weren’t anywhere around. The two lionesses would make a much better meal, he imagined. Maybe they just became curious seeing him straddling the stream. An anomaly is all. He’d confused them. They weren’t interested in eating something new.

  No one liked eating something new. Tried and true was always best. You eat something you never had before and you risk getting sick and upsetting the whole digestive process.

  He couldn’t help it. He felt good. Damned good. He had absolutely no idea what those th
ings were, but he was going to be alive to talk about it. He’d lived in Africa all of his life. Moved to the Democratic Republic of the Congo seven years ago and spent most every day since in the forest panning for coltan. Countless times he now recalled scoffing the locals and their legends.

  In the morning, he wasn’t panning for coltan. He needed a gun.

  The high-pitched squawk, followed by a guttural growl came from behind him. He didn’t stop, nor did he look back. He just picked up the pace. He looked at his feet. He made each step carefully. He was not going to trip. He refused to fall.

  If he didn’t stop, he was all set. He walked with pure confidence.

  His left had held onto the machete so tightly his black skin looked ashen, white. He knew he breathed too fast. His breaths were quick and shallow. The heat and humidity had nothing to do with the way his body perspired.

  It was behind him. Its claws splashed in the water as it followed close behind.

  Everything inside of him wanted to turn around. He would not give in. He did not look, would not look. He wanted whatever it was to think he didn’t care, and that he wasn’t afraid.

  He was petrified.

  The things he saw were not giants, like locals warned. It only meant they might be babies. If they were babies, where were the mothers? Worse, the fathers?

  What if they were in their teen years?

  Hormonal and crazy.

  Did these things have puberty?

  He was losing his mind. He knew it. The randomness of thoughts couldn’t be stopped. They just filled and cluttered his mind. He had no way of sorting through them. Best he could do was push them aside after having thought them.

  He almost screamed. His mind was berating him for having random thoughts.

  He needed to focus on whatever was behind him.

  He stopped walking.

  Listened.

  Waited.

  He turned around.

  They were matched in height. Head to head, and nose to nose.

  It breathed heavily through its nostrils.

  Something splashed into the water. He felt suddenly nauseated, and worried he might vomit. Moving just his eyes, he looked down into the stream. It was filled with blood, and intestines. The current attempted pulling it downstream.

  He put his right hand over his stomach.

  It was gone. A hole was there.

  The thing had slashed him, disemboweling him. Strength gone, he fell to his knees. The creature in front of him shouted up at the darkening sky. He would have covered his ears with his hands. Instead he tried gathering guts and stuffing them back inside his body.

  He knew something had bitten him.

  His machete fell into the water beside him. It splashed cool water onto his leg. When he looked down, he knew he would not be picking it up. His hand was still attached to the machete handle, along with half of his arm. His head felt woozy. His balance teetered. Both legs became weak, as if his kneecaps had turned into jelly.

  Looking to his left, he saw the second monster. Part of his body and cotton clothing was stuck between its teeth.

  He opened his mouth to scream. It lunged for him, eating his face. He saw down the thing’s throat as it bit into the sides of his head. He felt teeth crush skull, and finally the popping of his temples, and then. . .

  Chapter 2

  Louis Powell straightened the knot in his tie. He used his reflection on the closed elevator doors as a mirror. His stomach sank as the car rose. The bosses were on the twenty-second floor. He worked on the third. Except during orientation, he’d never been this high in the tower before. The message was on his desk. “Gary Brunson wants to see you in his office as soon as you get to work.”

  At first he thought it was a prank; one of the engineers pulling his leg. He checked with the software secretary since the note was in her delicate handwriting. She was a woman born lacking a sense of humor. A smile now and then was as far as it ever went. When asked, she confirmed the message’s authenticity.

  He wasn’t relieved. A joke at his expense would have been better. Flying under the radar was how he preferred it. Come in, do his work, go home.

  The elevator let out a soft ding. The car stopped. He looked ahead as the doors opened. The twenty-second floor lobby out-shined the street-level foyer. There were white marble floors, and spiral pillars. Floor to ceiling windows provided an exceptional view of the city skyline, and three rivers. The receptionist was in her fifties, pretty. Her blond hair was tied up in a bun. Light brown glasses sat on the end of her nose. The tan v-neck sweater was over a starched white dress shirt. “Mr. Powell, thank you for coming up. Mr. Brunson and Ms. Warwick will meet you in the conference room.”

  He nodded, smiling. He had no idea where the conference room was, and pointed right. “This way?”

  The woman stood up and walked around the counter. She wore tight black slacks, and high heels. “This way,” she said, and went left. The hallway was wide, white, and bright. The lighting was soft. It didn’t hurt his eyes. She stopped and opened a door. “There is coffee, water, bagels and danish. Help yourself while you wait. They shouldn’t be long. Is there anything else I can get you?”

  “I should be fine, thank you.”

  She nodded, and pulled on the door.

  “Ah,” he said. “Do you know what this is about?”

  “They’ll be with you shortly, Mr. Powell. Please, make yourself comfortable.” She closed the door.

  The windows in the conference room were also floor to ceiling. He walked up to them, hands in his pants pockets and took in the view. From here he could see the football, baseball and hockey stadiums. With a pair of binoculars, games could be watched from this window.

  He looked at the clock on the wall. It was a little after eight. The refreshments were on a table in the back corner. He decided he’d fix himself a cup of coffee. As good as the fruit and cheese danish look, he passed. If he’d of taken one, the minute he bit into it, Gary Brunson would open the door. With sticky fingers he’d be forced to shake hands. No. He’d pass on the pastries.

  Two cream. Two sugar. He used a stir stick, and picked up a napkin.

  The conference table was glass with black legs. The chairs around it looked awkward and uncomfortable. He figured he’d stand until the boss joined him. He had no idea who Ms. Warwick was.

  He placed the coffee cup on the napkin on the table and pulled out his phone. He accessed the Circuitz intranet website. He typed in Warwick. Hit enter.

  She was in the Legal Department, inside counsel for employee relations.

  Powell sat down. He didn’t want to stand any longer. He set his phone beside his coffee, and dropped his head into his hand as he tried recalling any recent employee issues.

  He’d fired employees for a number of reasons in the past. It always started with submitting the request for termination, with reasons attached. Legal reviewed the submission, and as long as there weren’t any obvious issues, permission was granted. Issues only came up if the person fit into one of the state or federally protected classes.

  It didn’t mean a person couldn’t be let go, it just meant the company ensured the employee wasn’t fired because of the protected class they fit into. It became hairy at times. Powell knew documentation was key, and kept a journal recording most every interaction. The journal was discoverable, but he knew it was better covering his ass and protecting the company in a potential discrimination lawsuit, over letting everyone get burned and lose millions in paid out damages.

  Currently, he didn’t have a pending termination request. Jobs were tough to find. Employees of Circuitz knew they had it good. Competitive pay and pretty good benefits made them better than most employers. People showed up, generally on time. Most worked past quitting time. When he was in the manufacturing part of the company, it was different. Supervising software engineers was a walk in the park in comparison. His people were professional. Quirky, but professional.

  Was it him? Had he done something wr
ong?

  He wondered if someone had filed a complaint. About what though?

  He was single. Twenty-nine. He spent his days and evenings here, and went to bed early when home. He had zero social life outside of the job. What could he have done that caused someone to report him to legal?

  If Gary Brunson and legal were involved, it must be bad. He just had no idea…what.

  There was a knock on the conference room door, and then it opened.

  He stood up, and ran his hand over his tie.

  “Mr. Powell,” Brunson said. He held out his hand as he stepped into the room.

  “Mr. Brunson, sir.” They shook hands.

  “And this is Ms. Betty Warwick,” Brunson said.

  “Ms. Warwick.” He shook her hand next.

  She didn’t say anything, just walked around the large table, set her briefcase down on the glass top and sat in a chair by the window.

  “Please, sit down,” Brunson said. “Have you tried the danish?”

  “Had a big breakfast,” Powell said, and patted his stomach. He thought if he had anything to eat now, he’d vomit. This reminded him of driving with a police car behind him. Even though he hadn’t broken any traffic laws he couldn’t help feeling guilty.

  “Sit, then. Please,” Brunson said.

  The boss’ suit was Italian, and cost more than Powell made in a month.

  “Ms. Warwick?” Brunson pointed at the refreshments.

  “I’m all set, Gary,” she said.

  Powell watched the dynamics. She used his first name. He’d called her Ms. Warwick. What was up with that?

  Brunson snatched a bottle of water. He sat at the head of the table with the lawyer on his right, Powell on the left.

  “I bet you’re wondering why we’ve called you up.” Brunson said. He opened the plastic bottle, took a long drink and set the bottle down. He smiled.

  “I’m curious, yes.”

  “You’ve been with us, how long?” Brunson said.

  “About seven years, Mr. Brunson.”

  “And you like it? You like working at Circuitz?”