Greg Keyes: Dawn of the Planet of the Apes: Firestorm

“A thing or two, I suppose,” Malakai replied. “But you must know that already, or I wouldn’t be here. I consult for those who study apes in the wild—help track and find them so they can be studied. I work with various rescue groups, as well, and am employed by several zoos.”

“Yes,” Phillips said. “But back in the day you wore other hats. Safari guide, for instance. Mercenary. And you poached mountain gorillas and chimpanzees.”

Malakai shrugged. “If I’d done anything like that, it would have been illegal. So I don’t suppose I did it.”

Phillips eyebrows dipped a little, and Malakai felt the danger lurking there.

“I’m not concerned with the legality of anything you’ve done,” Phillips said. “I’m concerned with your qualifications. And the results you achieve.”

“Mr. Phillips,” Malakai said, softly, “You contacted me , sir—not the other way around, so I wonder why this talk of qualifications. Yes, I know how to hunt apes. And yes, I know how to capture them. And I daresay—if it is necessary—that I know how to kill them. If those are the qualifications that concern you, I’m your man.

“If not…” He shrugged again, trying to seem confident while wondering what his “if not” might lead to. A flight back to San Francisco? An unmarked grave in the Muir Woods?

Phillips sat silently for a moment, tapping his finger on the table.

“You signed a confidentiality form before coming in here,” he said.

“I did,” Malakai agreed.

“You understand the penalties involved in breaking that contract?”

“It does not matter,” Malakai said. “Asking for my word would have been sufficient to secure my discretion.”

Phillips gave him a long, hard look in the eye.

Malakai gave it back unflinchingly. A moment of truth was coming, a wind blowing through.

Phillips finally nodded.

“Fine,” he said. “Here’s the job. Lead a team into the woods. Find the apes. Capture them.”

“How many are there? Which species?”

“Chimps, mostly, including some bonobos. A few orangutans and gorillas.”

“They’ll be all over the place, then,” Malakai said. “The different groups won’t stick together. Depending on how many there are, it could take a while.”

“We believe not,” Phillips said. “We believe they keep together as a group.”

Malakai blinked, but didn’t say anything. That didn’t make any sense at all, but then again, neither did anything he knew about the incident on the bridge. He’d half believed the whole thing had been some sort of weird American publicity stunt, staged for a reality show of some sort.

“How many did you say, sir?” Malakai asked. “How many apes all together?”

“It may be as many as several hundred,” Phillips answered.

“That is… a lot,” Malakai said. “You want me to capture a few hundred apes?”

“As many as possible,” Phillips said. “At least one from each species would be nice.” His lips thinned into a smile.

“That’s the job,” he said. “Now, shall we discuss compensation?”

The compensation was considerable, which didn’t make him feel any easier about the situation. Nevertheless, he accepted the job.

A young man with a nametag that identified him as “Flores” escorted him to his quarters.

“You get the special treatment,” Flores said. “No barracks for you. You get the suite.”

The “suite” was a square prefabricated hut with a sort of entry room, a small bathroom with a sink and toilet, and two bedrooms. It was unoccupied except for his backpack and small suitcase.

“Where is my rifle?” Malakai asked.

“You won’t need it,” Flores said. “We’ll do any shooting that needs to be done. And that reminds me—if you have a phone or anything like that on you, I’ll need to hang on to that for as long as you’re here.”

“May I ask why?”

“I’m just told that this is a very sensitive situation,” Flores said. “No communications allowed except through official channels.”

Frowning, Malakai produced his phone and handed it to the young man. Flores gave him a quick, apologetic pat down, and then seemed satisfied.

“See you at chow,” he said. With that, he left.

A quick look though his things revealed that—as he suspected—they had been searched. His tablet was gone.

He picked the room to the right, moved his things in, and sat on the bed.

Malakai hadn’t smoked a cigarette in five years. Now he wished powerfully that he had one.

For some reason, the orangutans always heard the helicopters first, and from their disturbed calls Caesar knew that one or more of the flying machines must be approaching again. He quickly worked his way to the top of the canopy, followed by Rocket, a gray, almost hairless chimpanzee who was one of his seconds.

For a moment he could only stare, caught as always by the wonder and magnificence of the woods. The morning fog was all but gone, and the tops of the great trees bent under a gentle breeze. A blue-colored bird with a black crest was complaining noisily about his presence, and, above, a much larger bird drifting above on expansive wings. He remembered the first time Will had brought him here, how the forest seemed to shape itself around him, take him in, fill something inside of him he hadn’t understood was empty.

He shook off the reverie and set himself to the task at hand—keeping his troop alive and safe.

Rocket spotted the helicopter first, and a moment’s observation showed the machine coming straight for them.

Find this many , he signed to Rocket, holding up six fingers. Go, and be quick. Then he raced back down, leaping from tree to tree, toward the main body of his troop. Most were in the middle canopy, and he searched through them, making low calming noises, until he found one the orangutans, Maurice. Maurice knew the hand language that Caesar had been taught.

Calm them , he told Maurice. Make them quiet, and lead them in that direction. He pointed off toward a thicker region of the woods, away from the approaching helicopter.

Then he moved further on down, to those who were too injured to climb or walk well. Most had been hurt in the fight at the bridge, some badly. Most of them did not know the hand signs, although a few of them were learning quickly.

As his feet came to ground, he saw a young female tending to an injured gorilla. She looked up and then bounded toward him. He recognized Cornelia—she wasn’t wounded, but had taken it upon herself to care for those who were. She put her head down and held out her hand when she got near, but only just in time, as if she was reluctant to do it at all. She seemed agitated, but that often seemed the case with Cornelia.

Helicopter coming , he told her. That way . Stay with Maurice.

She raised her head, a little defiantly.

Moving hurts them more , she signed, gesturing at the injured. Need rest .

Caesar shook his head.

If rest, die , he told her. Go. I lead them away .

Need rest , Cornelia persisted.

Caesar pant-barked at her, a clear threat. Cornelia’s eyes widened, but then she put her head down, backed away, and went to help the wounded to their feet.

Satisfied, Caesar took back to the trees. Moments later Rocket joined him with three orangutans and three other chimpanzees, one of whom was Koba.

Caesar had found Koba at the Gen Sys labs. The bonobo had been given Will’s mist, as had the apes from the San Bruno refuge. He was smart, and he was tough, and this far had proven very useful. But he was a little unpredictable.