Dave Freedman - Natural Selection

Phil went back to his camera. “Maybe I’ll work on that next.”

Jason smiled. Phil Martino was into his own thing, wasn’t he? And clearly still angry that Jason hadn’t made him a researcher on his report to the Species Council. Was that why he’d snipped at Craig earlier? Jason decided he didn’t care. He typed his notes then joined the triumvirate and Lisa in the galley when Lisa surreptitiously slipped past him.

“You got a sec?”

He followed her up on deck and… was amazed to see a full moon. The sky had been completely socked in with clouds only half an hour ago. The weather patterns in Northern California were bizarre.

“You want to howl at the moon or talk to me?”

He turned. “Can we do both?”

She smiled. “Maybe later.”

“I didn’t mean to scare you with the rifle stuff.”

“I know. And I shouldn’t have jumped down your throat like that. Guns just really scare me.”

“I got that. Like I said, they scare me, too.”

“But I was thinking…. If you really think I should learn how to fire one… I will.”

“I don’t want you to do it if you’re not comfortable with it.”

“I’m not comfortable with it!” She exhaled. “Sorry.” Then added softly, “But maybe it is… prudent.”

“That’s how I meant it, to be prudent.”

“All right, I’m gonna help with dinner.”

She disappeared, and he looked up at the moon once more, then at the dimly lit redwoods. With Phil’s computer simulation fresh in his mind, he tried imagining one of the creatures flying among the trees and to his surprise, the vision came quickly. Just like the simulation, it was incredibly lifelike.

“You look like I feel.” Darryl Hollis walked up on deck.

“What’s up, Darryl?”

Darryl eyed the distant creek, glistening in the moonlight. “That bear-cub skeleton’s stayed with me, Jason—makes me nervous. Makes me wonder if maybe one of those rays really would come to land.”

“What are you getting at?”

“We should double-check the creek. Make damn sure no people are on it.”

“We already did that, and we didn’t see a soul. Monique thinks there could be a better conduit further up the coast anyway.”

Darryl gave him a stern look. “We should check it again, Jason.”

There was something ominous in his tone. “OK, we’ll check it again.” Jason paused, looking up at the moon. “You don’t think anyone would go near that creek at night, do you?”

“Nah, the park doesn’t have overnight campgrounds, and it’s probably closed anyway. I just want to be conservative.” But just as he said the words, Darryl Hollis reconsidered. Would anyone go out at night? But no, that was ridiculous. Who on earth would do that?

WAYNE ABBOTT was a big guy, six-three and a rock-hard 235 pounds. A former tight end for UCLA, Wayne had been out of school for a little more than a year and liked to stay in shape. He had big strong thighs from squatting up to four hundred pounds, a ripped, muscular chest from benching nearly as much, and healthy lungs from runs like this one. Wayne hadn’t made the cut in the NFL and didn’t have a job, so he lived with his mother in a desolate area near the outskirts of Leonard State Park. The park was closed for maintenance and almost entirely empty, but Wayne didn’t care. He snuck in regularly. The paths here were nice and flat. After two hundred push-ups and four hundred sit-ups, he ran them almost every night.

Screw the NFL, Wayne thought, pumped up and running hard, thinking about what awesome shape he was in. Wearing sky-blue UCLA mesh shorts and a white T-shirt drenched with sweat, he was two miles into a seven-mile run. Redwood Inlet Trail was his favorite, a runner’s dream: perfectly flat, as wide as a two-lane road, and topped with black soil that was easy on the knees but still allowed good traction. The scenery was great too. Wayne had already passed the prettiest part, the creek itself, but here, much deeper in the forest, wasn’t bad either. There were towering redwoods everywhere, as far as the eye could see.

Wayne glanced at a little green metal sign staked in along the side, a trail marker that told him he’d run two and a half miles. He was feeling good and had a good sweat going. Wayne liked it when he sweated. It made him feel like he was working hard, like he was young and strong. And like he would live forever.

THE PREDATOR surged out of the towering mountaintop cave. Easing into the moonlit air, it surveyed the surroundings. To the west, the sea, quietly rumbling, a place it no longer belonged. To the south and north, more mountains. And farther inland, the cornstalk field, blowing slightly in the wind, with the redwood forest beyond.

As the creature banked into a wide, sweeping glide, it focused on the trees, their silhouettes looming in the pale white light. Then it dove toward them.

Rocketing through the air, momentum carried it to the end of the mountain range in seconds. It banked, smashing a patch of stalks, then sped toward the forest. Moonlight guided the way when the white orb was blocked out, and the forest rushed up….

The animal hurtled in, and suddenly shadowy redwoods were everywhere. Speeding like a flying freight train, it banked sharply, nearly crashing into a grove of two dozen trees growing much too close together to squeeze through. It began tuning its sonar, only now it was radar, the echo-location organs seamlessly adapting to the air. Navigating with great precision, it immediately located clearings that could accommodate its massive form. Tearing through the trees, it focused on one particularly large one, studying everything about it: the deeply grooved bark, the perfectly straight, branchless trunk, the crown, the powerful evergreen scent. It ripped past it and continued.

Then, for no reason at all, the creature made a sound. It was the same sound it had once made at sea, only now it was considerably more chilling, a deep, bass rumble, rolling over itself like an idling cruise-ship engine. It continued for a moment, then stopped.

The predator flew on in utter silence, its eyes studying leafy ferns, rhododendrons, flowers, and evergreen after evergreen. Then it began flapping, first rising gradually, then very sharply. Climbing to just below the treetops, it leveled off and began tuning for prey.

Suddenly its head jerked downward. Several hundred feet below was a foraging raccoon, sluffing among the ferns. Its black eyes studied the rodent briefly, then the animal flew forward. Up ahead, through the trees, was a very large clearing…. Hurtling into it, the creature looked down, and its own speeding reflection looked right back at it. It was flying over a familiar creek. The reflection disappeared and it entered the forest on the other side.

That’s when it picked him up. Wayne Abbott was more than five miles away, and he hadn’t been seen, smelled, or heard. His heartbeat had been detected. The predator locked onto it and flew forward.

SPEEDING THROUGH the shadows, Wayne Abbott sprinted toward a small footbridge. Wearing size thirteen New Balance sneakers that sprayed black dirt behind him, he focused on the bridge’s wooden lip. He’d tripped over it once before and wanted to be careful….

He took the entire structure in three big strides. On the soil again, he eased into a jog, just as the moon came into view over his right shoulder.

THE CREATURE turned. For a moment, it had lost the signal. But then it heard the pounding on the bridge, a very distinctive sound. The resulting directional change was slight, but significant. The range was narrowing.

WAYNE SUDDENLY felt bored. The sprint to the bridge was the last big test of the jog. He still had a few miles to go, but the rest was routine. He looked up. Damn, those are some big trees. Wayne was a physically large man and not accustomed to feeling small. But every time he jogged through a redwood forest, he felt tiny. Minuscule even. Like an ant next to a blade of a grass.