K-Rex: A Prehistoric Thriller Read online

  “You are an exemplary employee. You manage a group of employees with the finesse and experience I’ve been looking for. I chose you as project manager because I believe you can go to the Congo and do the job that needs getting done. It’s three months. Ninety days. I will include an additional bonus for both you and Ms. Askew,” Brunson said, and told them an amount.

  It was a lot of money. On top of the raise, it made walking away from the job almost impossible. Three months was tolerable, or more tolerable for the financial benefits they’d gain. “Seriously?”

  “I never joke about money. Do we have a deal?” Brunson furrowed his brow. Powell knew his boss was serious, and wanted an answer.

  Powell looked over at Claire. He cocked his head to the side, as if asking what she thought. Silently, she stared at him. He had the distinct feeling whatever he said, she’d go along with. He considered that. His decision affected her as well.

  “Mr. Powell, I need an answer. Otherwise, I’ve wasted a lot of time. Other candidates will have to be interviewed.” Mr. Brunson stood up.

  Powell nodded. “Okay. Alright. Three months. I’m in.”

  “And Ms. Askew?” Brunson said.

  “Me, too. I’m in,” she said.

  Brunson sat down. “Very well. I will have legal send you documents, and have the bonus payable upon your return. If we’re done wasting time, John, why don’t you take it from here.”

  “Key things. If you haven’t already, I strongly suggest purchasing a quality pair of waterproof hiking boots. Light, waterproof trousers. You will tuck those into your boots and tie the laces tight.” John stood up and put a booted foot on the chair. “Like this. With your pants tucked into your boot, nothing can get into your clothing.”

  Claire held up a hand.

  “You don’t have to do that,” Marksman said. “What?”

  “What don’t I want getting up my pant leg?”

  “The vegetation is very dense, thick. Sometimes the only way through is getting on the ground and crawling, or pulling yourself. You will want your sleeves taped off at the wrists, and pants tucked into your boots. Otherwise you invite in spiders, snakes, fire ants, mosquitoes and that kind of thing,” he said.

  She frowned. “Gotcha.”

  “Gloves are a good idea. These will protect you from sharp branches, stinging plants, and the dampness. You will want to pack toiletries and medical supplies. We will have antihistamines for stings, and antiseptic for scratches, but you will want things like razors, and shaving cream. Wet wipes for … freshness. If you have any questions while you are out shopping, here is my card. Don’t hesitate calling me. Otherwise, I will see you at the airport on Monday morning,” Marksman said, handing out business cards.

  Chapter 4

  Powell was not a fan of flying. The idea of sitting in a machine and soaring over the Atlantic Ocean made him apprehensive. Just being in the air for twenty hours was challenging enough. The Boeing was luxurious enough, however. With minimal turbulence, the flight wasn’t half bad. He’d tried sleeping, listening to music, and watching movies. Nothing removed the edge, until he started downing drinks. Claire Askew had no trouble sleeping. She used a postage stamp sized pillow, and reclined her seat two and a half inches and was out cold as soon as they were in the air.

  The tough part about consuming alcohol on the trip was his constant need for relieving himself. Seatbelted into a chair on a plane felt safer than walking the narrow aisles to use the restroom every hour. It didn’t slow down his drinking, though. The buzz he maintained kept him calmer than expected. Each time he stood and made his way to the bathroom, John Marksman eyed him.

  This made Powell self conscious, as if his manhood was being called into question because of his small bladder.

  When they landed in Uganda, he thought the worst leg of the trip was behind him, and he wouldn’t need to worry about being up in the air again for ninety days. He figured going home would make the flight better just because they were going home.

  In the small airport John Marksman secured a Rover. They loaded the backpacks and luggage in back. When they’d stepped off the plane the first thing Powell noticed was the stifling weight of humidity. Moisture appeared suspended in mid-air, and looked like it could be parted with the wave of a hand. It was as if thin, clear clouds surrounded them. It had either just rained, or was about to rain. Marksman didn’t waste time. They purchased some food at one of the airport stands, and ate on the road.

  Road was a rudimentary word. It suggested pavement, and street signs; yellow lines and traffic lights. The uneven dirt was red, and more like clay. They were bounced and banged around for hours. Powell couldn’t be sure, but thought his thighs might be bruised.

  The A/C worked well enough. The cold air shot out of the vents. It provided an illusion. Claire and Marksman chatted most of the drive. Powell sat in back and just stared out the fogged up window, wiping a palm across the glass every few minutes. For several miles, they passed villages with small hut-homes. Used American cars were parked here and there, and many of the people wore championship shirts of NFL teams who actually lost the Super Bowl. After crossing the border into the Democratic Republic of the Congo the land they passed became all the more breathtaking. Green mountains and plush forests lined both sides of the road. There were fewer villages, less cars, and he hadn’t seen another human for miles.

  “When we reach the boat launch, we’ll have time for a quick dinner with the locals, and then we’ll want to get on the Ulindi, and try to make it to camp by morning,” Marksman said. “Early afternoon at the latest.”

  Powell was exhausted. He regretted not being able to sleep on the long flight. There was no way he could have slept on the drive. The idea of cruising along a river in the Congo didn’t sound any more promising. The sooner they reached camp, the better. That might be the first chance he’d get for sleeping.

  An hour later, John Marksman parked the Rover outside of a long, rectangular tin-hut. “Food here is pretty good. Don’t drink the water. Get something that comes in a bottle. Unopened,” he said, shutting off the engine.

  A man sat on a stack of discarded automobile tires smoking a cigarette staring at them. He held the cigarette below the knuckles between his fingers, and took a drag with his fingers erect and palm to his face. He wore jean shorts and a red Coke t-shirt.

  “Plenty of hands will be held out. They see you’re American. They assume you’re rich. Well, to them, you are. You’re Donald Fuckin Trump in their eyes. But listen to me, you don’t give them anything. This country is one big humanitarian fucking disaster. The UN patrols the DROC, but they don’t do a thing to help these people. Thing is, it’s not our job to fix anything. What’s best is if we just keep our eyes looking straight ahead, and get where we’re going. You understand?” Marksman removed his gun from the shoulder holster and verified the clip was loaded.

  “DROC?” Powell said.

  “Democratic Republic of the Congo, DROC.” He motioned with his head. “Let’s go eat and get out of here.”

  They walked past the man on the tires and into an almost pitch black room. It took a while for Powell’s eyes to adjust. Marksman led the way. Claire was sandwiched between them. People sat at tables inside. Marksman picked an empty one in a back corner. It was just a picnic bench. Something you’d see at a park, only with a white cloth sheet over the table. It was dirty. Powell wondered how often they were removed and washed.

  Marksman sat with his back to the wall. He translated the French menu for Powell and Claire Askew. It was a sheet of loose-leaf paper stuffed into a plastic sleeve. There were three main items: Pan fried fish, whatever the catch of the day happened to be, with cooked plantains; Fufu, a sticky dough-like dish made of cassava flour; and goat meat with rice and vegetables. Any item ordered came with a side of pili pili. Marksman explained these were extremely hot peppers.

  Powell watched Marksman. His eyes constantly scanned the room. He didn’t even look the waitress in the eye when o
rdering. They all got the fish. Catfish was the catch of the day.

  A man approached the table. A pipe dangled between bent forward yellow teeth. Puffs of smoke blew out of his mouth, and rose from the packed tobacco. His sky blue dress shirt was only partly tucked in, while a front flap hung out. The bottom few buttons were fastened. The rest left undone, revealing sweaty dark skin with aged scars across his chest. He spoke, his words lyrical sounding. Very French, Powell assumed.

  Marksman smiled, but looked annoyed. He answered the man. His French appeared fluent and flawless.

  Powell and Claire exchanged looks, mildly amused.

  The man nodded toward them, and held out a hand. “Pin-twa” is what it sound like he said.

  Powell shook his hand, and patted himself. “Louis.”

  Claire introduced herself.

  Pin-twa sat down at the table across from them. He rested his elbows on his knees. Smoke filled the space around his head. Powell was reminded of a locomotive engine. One of the trains from the old west. The smoke pipe spitting plumes into the air as the wheels fought for traction on the rails. He couldn’t help but imagine a whistle blowing.

  The man continued talking with Marksman, and for the most part, Marksman responded. Until the food came. The man still wanted conversation. Marksman waved the man away. His tone of voice changed drastically.

  Tension filled the diner. Powell casually looked around. Everyone was watching them, paying attention to the exchange. The waitress set the food in front of them and walked quickly away.

  Pin-twa couldn’t weigh more than a hundred and forty pounds, and was maybe five-eight. Marksman was armed to the teeth with knives and guns. It wouldn’t be much of a fight. Powell assumed Marksman wouldn’t need a weapon. Marksman was muscular, the soaked in sweat black t-shirt he wore clung to pecs and biceps and six pack abs as if the cotton was painted onto his skin.

  Pin-twa tried again, as if what he needed to say was vital. His eyes were open wide. He held the pipe away from his mouth, as he stood up and pleaded.

  Marksman jumped to his feet. He slammed a hand on the table. While he responded in French, he waved at the food, and pointed at Powell and Claire. He climbed over the bench he sat on and made an aggressive step toward Pin-twa.

  Pin-twa held his ground. He pointed in general toward front of the diner.

  The two stood toe-to-toe.

  Neither said a word.

  Pin-twa shook his head, and his shoulder slouched. He looked at Powell and said in English. “I am sorry. I tried. Be careful.”

  He walked to the exit and left the diner.

  Marksman stayed standing and stared the rest of the patrons down before sitting in front of his meal.

  “Um,” Claire said. “What just happened?”

  Marksman shook his head. He inspected the fork on his plate, and wiped it up and down on the table cloth. “Locals.”

  “We got that,” Powell said. “What was he saying?”

  “What was he sorry about?”

  Marksman forked his food around on the plate. Set the fork down and sighed. “The guy knows why we’re here. Word gets around. I hate that. We don’t need our operation publicly displayed. We’re going to be out in the jungle, okay? The less people that know, the better.”

  “The less people that know? That doesn’t sound safe,” Powell said.

  “It is. Trust me,” Marksman said. He leaned forward and whispered, “Coltan is bread and butter for a lot of people here. Some would just as soon steal the mineral after it’s been mined, rather than get their hands dirty.”

  “And that’s what he was warning us about? Raiders?” Claire said.

  “No. Not exactly. It was nonsense. That’s all. Nonsense.” Marksman stabbed his fish. The fried breading crumbled, exposed white meat. He ate some. Chewed it. Swallowed. Set his fork down. His elbows were on the table. His hands folded together. “Look, we aren’t back home. This ain’t Kansas anymore, if you know what I’m saying?”

  “I don’t know what you’re saying,” Powell said. “What are you saying? Because a Wizard of Oz reference seems appropriate, but I am too tired for riddles.”

  Marksman let himself smile. He moved the food around on his plate some more. Ate another bite of fish. “Eat. Don’t let the fish get cold.”

  “The humidity will keep it warm,” Claire said. “Please, continue.”

  “The locals spread around this rumor.” Marksman set down his fork and ran his tongue over his teeth. “The nice gentleman who I was just talking with wanted to make sure we were aware of. . .”

  When Marksman stopped talking, Powell said, “Aware of what?”

  “The Kasai Rex,” he said.

  “The what? What is that?”

  “It’s a fabled dinosaur. They call it the Elephant Killer.”

  “A dinosaur,” Powell said.

  “Never went extinct. Survived the Ice Age, or meteor showers sixty million years ago and is alive and well living in the Congo,” Marksman said. He stared at them, waiting.

  Claire laughed first.

  Then Powell.

  “They think there’s a dinosaur in the jungle?” Claire said.

  “A giant dinosaur. Bigger than the, what is it? From that movie. . . Tyrannosaurus Rex. The T-Rex.” Marksman smiled. “Told you it was ludicrous.”

  “Something like that, we’d have seen it? YouTube or Facebook or something.” Powell ate some of the catfish, raised an eyebrow in surprise at the wonderful flavor.

  “Thing is,” Marksman said.

  Powell stopped chewing.

  “A lot of people are going missing in the jungle. Don’t get all crazy. It’s not a K-Rex. We’re not idiots. Safety is key. That’s why I’m here. As long as you do what I say, when I say, without question, my team and I will be able to protect you, protect Circuitz investment, and we’ll all make a little money while we’re at it. Capisce?”

  Marksman was not Italian. Capisce sounded funny coming out of his mouth. “Got it,” Powell said. He laughed again, lifting flaky fish to his mouth. “A dinosaur. Too funny.

  # # #

  Louis Powell missed the uneven and bumpy road. He longed for the air-conditioned SUV. The jungle was dense. Green, plush, and dense. He never would have thought to pack gloves. He’d thank Marksman when they eventually stopped walking. Swinging the machete to cut a path on the path was exhausting. He still figured his palms would blister.

  They hacked at giant leaves, tall stalks and low-hanging branches. If he wasn’t so out of breath from hiking in the heat and humidity, he would complain. Complaining wouldn’t get him anything. It was obvious why they couldn’t get the Rover through the thicket of the forest. Walking was challenge enough.

  Using his forearm, Powell continually swiped at sweat on his brow, keeping the salty beads out of his eyes. He took big steps. The last thing he wanted was tripping, falling, and winding up injured. He also did not want to accidently step on anything. When he set his foot down, half his leg was lost to growth on the ground.

  Things in the jungle squawked and chirped, buzzed and squealed. It was both surreal and amazing. He thought of it like the first time he’d seen the ocean. Standing on a sandy beach in Florida, he stared out at the water, watching the waves crash onto the shore and realized just how insignificant he truly was. It was like that now. The canopy above him, the animals and insects around him were overwhelming.

  “Forgot to mention it, but if we come across gorillas,” Marksman shouted over his shoulder. “We’re in trouble.”

  Powell swung the machete. The stalk toppled. It looked like a dirt path for the next few yards. The easy life. “That’s funny,” he said.

  Marksman stopped walking. He removed a canteen off his belt. “It’s not funny. The gorillas are not friendly. They will kill us before we can get twenty feet.”

  Powell watched the merc drink water. “Do they live in these parts?”

  “These parts? If you mean the Congo, then yes. They live in these parts. Have
a sip of water. Catch your breath, and we’ll get started again,” Marksman said.

  “We getting close? I feel like we’ve been walking for three hours.” Claire twisted the cap off her bottle, but before taking a drink she removed her hat and poured some of her water onto the top of her head.

  “Don’t waste that water,” Marksman said.

  “I’m hot.”

  “We’ve been walking for less than two hours. We will continue until it is dark, and then find a place to make camp for the night. By this time tomorrow, we should reach the Circuitz parcel, where my team and the company employees will be hard at work. So if you have twenty-four hours of water in your canteen, have at it. Take a bath if you want. Me, I’m saving mine. Drinking it in small sips like this.” He demonstrated taking a small sip of his water. He replaced the cap and clipped the canteen back onto his belt. “Let’s keep moving.”

  “We’re going to sleep in the jungle?” Claire said, whispering.

  Powell tried smiling. For some reason, he envisioned a building beside the dig site on the parcel. Worse case, a small hut. He suddenly wasn’t as confident about the idea of a structure existing. He now imagined tents. Muddy, bug-infested tents. “Only for the next three months, Ms. Askew. Only for the next three months.”

  Chapter 5

  “Sir, we were starting to think a search party was going to be needed.” The woman stepped out from between trees. Powell had not seen her prior to. She was clearly a female version of John Marksman. Dressed in black cargo pants, the legs tucked into tightly laced black boots, and heavily armed, she smiled as she said hello. She wore an Ares-16 Assault Rifle strapped over her shoulder. A large knife in a sheath was strapped against each thigh. The black tank-top she had on was mostly hidden under a heavy Kevlar vest that had anti-tank and stun grenades, as well as extra ammo clips affixed to it.