“It’s aspirin,” Perkins said, exacerbated. “Just the thing for headaches, muscle aches, ocular problems, breathing issues, and God knows what else. Now, do you want it or not?”
Caplan exhaled. Then he grabbed the container and surreptitiously stuffed it into his pocket.
Turning slightly, he studied the dark forest of Sector 48A. He thought about what had happened in the area five months earlier. And he thought about how it wouldn’t happen to him.
Then he shifted his backpack on his shoulders. Checked his bearings.
And strode into the darkness.
Chapter 21
Caplan twisted his head to the left. Then to the right. He possessed an excellent internal compass. But the Vallerio was no ordinary forest. It played endless tricks on one’s sense of direction. Almost as if it was deliberately trying to lead people astray.
Very faint crackling noises, just a few degrees to his right, caught his ear. A shiver shot down his spine. Shifting his gait, he hiked quickly toward the sounds.
Pearson hurried to keep up. His boots, as well as the rest of his outfit, was soaked with pungent mud. His jaw was a little red from Caplan’s punch. But he breathed easily with no signs of injury.
Doing his best to hide his own aches and pains, Caplan swept his beam through the dark woods. He thought back to his childhood, back to his obsession with monsters, myths, and legends. He could still remember walking into the local library. The rich smell of old books. The hushed whispers of elderly patrons. The disapproving looks from bespectacled, stern-faced librarians.
He recalled walking down narrow aisles, sandwiched by massive bookshelves. And he recalled his favorite section, two little shelves of books devoted to the Kraken, Bigfoot, the Loch Ness Monster, and all sorts of other interesting things. It was on those shelves that he’d first learned of the Vallerio Forest, of the myths, truths, and uncertainty that surrounded it.
Located in northern New Hampshire, the Vallerio covered millions of acres of undeveloped land. Only three scientific studies had been conducted within its limits since it fell into private hands — apparently, those of Corbotch’s ancestors — centuries earlier. According to those studies, the Vallerio featured endless trees, grasslands, rock formations, cliffs, lakes, a deep box canyon, streams, floodplains, waterfalls, and a whole host of other natural wonders.
He shifted his beam. His eyes traced a tall pine tree, dripping wet, as it rose into the stormy sky. Pine trees were common inside the forest. A group of scientists and engineers had planted a whole mess of them in 1885, as part of a plan to rebuild the soil. Caplan wondered how that fit into Corbotch’s rewilding scheme. Was the point of rewilding to find the right megafauna for the current state of vegetation? Or did Corbotch plan to eventually return the Vallerio to its original, pre-human vegetation?
Pearson grunted. “Why do you keep doing that?”
“Doing what?”
“Turning in circles.”
“I’m watching our flanks.”
“For what?”
Caplan wasn’t sure how to answer the question. Something vicious lived inside 48A. But what? “Lions,” Caplan lied. “They roam through this part of the Vallerio from time to time.”
Pearson’s face tightened. Reaching to his waist, he grabbed hold of a large pistol. Twisting his neck in either direction, he studied the forest. “Animal attacks are rare here, right?”
Tony Morgan’s face flashed before Caplan’s eyes. “There was one five months ago.”
“You’re talking about that Morgan guy? I heard he disappeared.”
“He did,” Caplan lied again. “But we found bloody clothes near his abandoned vehicle. An animal attack is the most likely explanation. You have to remember the creatures that live here have zero human interaction. So, they have no reason to fear people.”
“Zero interaction? That’s strange. Don’t they ever cross paths with Hatcher’s scientists?”
Briefly, Caplan wondered about Hatcher Station, about its current status. Was it still operational? Or had the Blare somehow damaged it? If so, how were the terrorists reacting to the sudden change? “Have you ever visited Hatcher?”
Pearson shook his head.
“It might be in the Vallerio, but it’s not a part of it. It’s surrounded by electric fences. And the employees hardly ever venture outside the concrete walls. They eat there, sleep there. Very few people receive permission to go outside. And when they do, all precautions are taken to avoid wildlife. And with good reason.”
“Because that’s how James likes it?”
“In part. But also because Tony Morgan wasn’t the first person to die here. Three research expeditions have visited the Vallerio over the years and all of them reported incidents involving aggressive animals. The last expedition to come here — the Dasnoe Expedition of 1904—lost six members to a pack of wolves.”
The color drained out of Pearson’s dark cheeks.
Caplan lifted his nose skyward. Took a quick sniff of the still air. It was a bit warmer than he remembered. But it smelled of fresh rain and was free of cinders. The crackling flames remained at a low volume, giving him some much-needed hope that the fire was contained.
They crossed a small stream, overflowing with water. Climbed over a fallen tree trunk. Weaved in and out of bush-heavy areas. And all the while, Caplan thought about the conversation with Pearson, about what he’d told the man regarding Tony Morgan and the ill-fated Dasnoe Expedition of 1904.
He didn’t feel guilty about what he’d said. How could he? Pearson had no business knowing the truth about Tony. Not where he’d died or how it had happened.
And it was better if Pearson didn’t know the truth about how the Dasnoe Expedition had really ended. It would just unnerve him. And that was the last thing Caplan needed.
Six people had indeed lost their lives in 1904, but not as he’d described it. After escaping the forest, Joseph Dasnoe spent the rest of his short life begging the U.S. government to send troops into the Vallerio. To seize it. To destroy the creatures that had killed his men. For the creatures weren’t mere wolves. They were, he’d claimed, the stuff of myth.
Monsters.
Chapter 22
“What do you think caused that thing?” Pearson inhaled a short breath. Despite the difficult terrain, he held his own with ease. “The Blare, I mean.”
Caplan picked his way through some dense thicket. The air wasn’t as thick or as hot as he expected, which he took to be a good sign. Maybe the fire had stalled. “Hell if I know,” he grunted.
“Do you think—?”
“Less talking, more walking.”
Pearson replied with a terse nod.
More minutes passed as they hiked toward the dull sound of crackling flames. The soggy ground made it difficult to walk. Dripping water struck the top of Caplan’s head over and over again, as nature subjected him to its own version of Chinese water torture.
As he walked, Caplan sensed something in the air. It was in the giant tree trunks, the ancient mud, and the shifting shadows. It was everywhere.
Dread pitted in his stomach. He’d felt a similar sensation five months earlier, just prior to Tony’s death. And it had happened in the same sector as well. Was this some kind of long-dormant sixth sense, reawakened to warn him of impending doom?
Like most casual observers, he’d always treated the Dasnoe Expedition stories with a large grain of salt. They were definitely interesting. And he felt certain something had wrecked havoc on Professor Joseph Dasnoe’s party. But a monster out of myth? That had been too hard to believe, especially in the absence of physical proof. Even Bigfoot, bolstered by decades of alleged photographs and plaster castings, outranked it on the credibility scale.