Into the Mist Read online

  Te Urewera Forest, Trail Back to the Second Campsite

  De Haas slowed to hitch up his pack, the weight of the rope he was carrying making the straps dig into his shoulders. He took a moment to unravel an irritating twist in one of them, before looking up.

  Damn.

  Already he was losing Foster, the biologist’s shape coalescing into the grey of the trees ahead. Keeping his eyes on Foster’s back, de Haas hurried to close the distance. They mustn’t get separated.

  Ben Fogarty got separated and look where that got him.

  “Try to keep up,” said Foster when de Haas joined him. “We’re nearly there.”

  De Haas bit back a retort. This was Foster’s show… for the moment.

  Last night, when the biologist had come to him with the idea of capturing the Sphenodon, de Haas hadn’t wanted a bar of it. Two men going after a monster? You could count him out. De Haas wanted out of this forest – and the sooner the better. But the more Foster had talked, the more the idea of catching the animal had grown on him. Foster said he had a plan – one based on guile and wit. Between the two of them, surely they had the brainpower to take down an entire herd of Sphenodon. The plan had made de Haas reconsider. His mineral exploration was already down the tubes – that damned Te Kooti had stolen the nugget, and salting the samples was always going to be a risk – but if he played his cards right, he could still salvage something from this mission. Perhaps more than just salvage. What Foster was proposing wouldn’t be a geological discovery, but people were always finding new sources of ore. Not every day, but it happened. This beast – this Sphenodon – was something radically different; a creature from the late Jurassic according to Foster. A real-life Loch Ness monster, never before seen by humans. It was the kind of discovery guaranteed to get your name written in every new history book. Foster had whispered the words, Nobel Prize. Now that was a press clipping he’d love to send his father. Nobel Prize winner. How many rugby players could say they were one of those?

  “This is it,” Foster said, pulling up.

  De Haas took a look around the clearing. Yes, this was the place. He recognised the track leading down to the stream, and over there the grass was trampled flat where a tent had been. At least they weren’t lost. Without Nathan Kerei, de Haas hadn’t been certain Foster would be able to find his way back.

  “Okay,” de Haas said, removing the pack from his shoulders and setting it on the ground. “Tell me more about this plan of yours.”

  “We need to search the stream,” Foster said.

  “What for?”

  “Winters’ body.” De Haas’ face must have shown his surprise because Foster went on. “Even with the two of us, there’s no way we can capture it using brawn. We’re going to have to use our brains.”

  “That goes without saying, Foster,” de Haas said, impatient. “But you can’t really be thinking about using Winters’ body as bait?”

  “Why not? He’s dead – what’s he going to care? Winters will be the bait, and we’ll do it the way the Māori trapped birds, just on a bigger scale.”

  “Bigger being the operative word,” de Haas mumbled, picking up his pack and slipping his arms through the straps. “I hope you know what you’re doing.” He followed Foster. He didn’t bother to fasten the clips. The stream was only another fifty metres away. Foster was talking; something about crocodiles leaving their kills in the water to soften before they ate them, and perhaps the cousin did the same.

  “All we need to do is find the corpse and remove it from the body bag. Hey presto, ready bait,” he said.

  De Haas’ stomach roiled at the idea of handling the cadaver, but Foster’s suggestion made sense. Winters had no use for it, and while the creature was busy devouring the corpse, it wouldn’t be focused on them. Nevertheless, he patted his jacket pocket for the pistol he’d stolen last night from the one of the soldier’s tents, taking comfort in its weight. The Sphenodon might be a scientific marvel, but it’d already consumed two men. Foster could wax lyrical about brains over brawn, but de Haas didn’t intend to take any chances.

  “Here it is,” shouted Foster, pointing at the submerged body bag. He dropped his pack on the bank. Wading into the stream, he started lifting off the rocks that weighted the body down, and tossed them into the water.

  And once they’ve captured the beast, he’ll have Foster to contend with.

  Feeling the pistol bump against his hip, de Haas dropped his own pack, glanced at the trees, and waded in after Foster, the freezing water swirling around his knees. He grabbed at the body bag with both hands, straining to lift one end clear of the water.

  There’d be plenty of time to sort out the details later, when they’d captured the specimen.

  * * *

  The lady scientist needed a toilet stop so the sergeant called a time out, giving Hamish the chance he needed. He stepped off the trail and into the bush, doing a quick CTR before getting the foil packet out of his DPM smock. He’d been patient, waited all night, and now he wanted it. He deserved it too. He’d thought about telling Read, as they said you shouldn’t do the first few doses on your own, but Read could be a bit of a goodie-two-shoes and the Army was even worse. The NZDF didn’t even go for ciggies, for chrissakes. It was ‘highly discouraged’. You weren’t supposed to bring them on an op. They were like a beacon to anyone wearing infrared gear. He laughed silently.

  Whatever.

  Hamish placed the packet on a flat branch close to the trunk of a tree, where the precious dust would be protected from the wind, and opened the foil with care. Even in the low light, the tiny crystals glistened like sugar. He was going to have to snort it. He hadn’t the time to smoke or inject it. That lady scientist mightn’t take that long to pee. Snorting didn’t appeal, though. Chris said it could hurt like shit. Like when you accidentally snorted beer through your nose. But snorting was quicker, both for getting the drug inside you and for the effect to hit you, so that was that. He took another quick look about, in case anyone was nearby. Then, taking his spoon from another pocket in his vest, he used the handle to create a sandcastle of meth: 4cm long and 1cm wide. He held up the spoon. A few crystals still clung to the handle. Not wanting to waste any – this shit cost a fortune – he licked it carefully before putting the utensil back in his vest. That done, he lowered his nose to the foil.

  * * *

  “Are you nearly done over there?” de Haas asked, impatient. It was late afternoon and Foster’s trap still wasn’t ready. De Haas’ nerves were in shreds.

  “Nearly,” Foster said, his hair dropping over his face like a girl’s. “I just need to finish a few more knots, test them for strength, and then we can set up. It’s important we get these knots right, it’s been a while since I was in the boy scouts.” He paused for the hundredth time to scrub the hair out of his eyes.

  “Speaking of boy scouts, where do you think McKenna and his jarheads are?” de Haas asked.

  Foster picked up the rope and, nodding to him, shifted his weight backwards to test the knot. “They’ll be back at the road.”

  De Haas leaned back, putting his weight on the other end of the net and acted as a counterbalance in a two-man tug of war. They’d got it off pat now, having tested every knot that made up the net.

  “Not tracking us here? We’re civilians. The army were sent in here to protect us.” The knot held. Both men released the tension and straightened up.

  With one hand holding his end, Foster examined a callus on his other palm. “Except I don’t count,” he said. “I joined as a volunteer.”

  “Well, me then,” de Haas replied. “I’m the Task Force leader. If he leaves without me, there’ll be questions to answer.”

  “They’ll save the women and children first, just like in the navy. My guess is McKenna will see Jules to safety before coming after us. That should give us a day, maybe two at the outside, to catch our Sphenodon and write ourselves into history.”

  Writing themselves into history! De Haas couldn’
t wait. Still, he wished Foster would shut up and get on with it. It’d be dark soon and he didn’t want to be exposed here with Winters’ corpse stinking up the air, and the trap not set. Foster was convinced these were the monster’s regular hunting grounds, since it had already killed here more than once. The Sphenodon could come back at any minute, which was what they intended, only preferably not this minute.

  De Haas wasn’t sure he’d have the energy to react if the creature attacked right now. Up half the night running back here, and busy concocting Foster’s net-trap since then, his shoulders were burning, and his leg muscles cramping from cold and damp; and unless you counted a handful of scroggin, he’d hardly eaten anything in the past two days.

  “How many more knots?”

  “… three, four, five… another six.”

  Taking up the slack in the rope, de Haas glanced into the trees and wished again that Foster would hurry it up.

  * * *

  Not far out from the campsite, Coolie’s skin prickled again. He slowed and listened. The muted scuffs and murmurs of the group in front carried back to him on the breeze. He frowned, straining to filter them out, and concentrated on the sounds from the forest. Nothing. The bush was quiet.

  But something’s not right.

  Turning to face the way they’d come, Coolie brought his rifle up, using the sight to scan the trees for movement. He sniffed. Nothing. Just the damp odour of beech and leaf litter.

  Where is it?

  A faint whine reached him, drifting through the tree trunks. With a glance at Eriksen who’d disappeared around a bend in the track, Coolie stepped off into the bush and listened again. Above him, in the canopy, two branches creaked as they rubbed together. Coolie jumped back, his heart thumping. He shouldn’t have risked stepping off the track. What if it’d been the Sphenodon? He had to be more careful. It was how they’d lost Winters.

  He checked back along the narrow track before stepping out, his weapon at the ready. He hadn’t actually laid eyes on the creature since the morning it had charged through the camp and trampled the radio, but still…

  “I know you’re there,” he whispered, turning to follow Eriksen.

  For about an hour now he’d had the same crawling feeling he’d had on the ridge when they’d been searching for cell reception. His imagination playing tricks on him? Like the pig-hunter had said, after a while the forest put ideas in your head. But Coolie trusted his instincts. They’d served him well in Afghanistan, getting them out of trouble on more than one occasion. Now, when they kicked in, he was inclined to trust them.

  Something in his peripheral vision caught his attention. He swung his Steyr to face the blur; squinted into the murk. Nothing there. No movement. Just that infernal unease. It was here. And getting closer. He’d better push forward and let McKenna know.

  Coolie jogged after Eriksen, his skin still prickling.

  He scanned the trees. It was canny, that’s for sure. You’d think a creature that big would make a lot of noise. It could teach the army a thing or two about stealth. The forest was calm. Tranquil. Coolie wasn’t fooled.

  On his left there was a small crunch. He swivelled.

  Tricky.

  That smell.

  The Sphenodon loomed on his right.

  How did you get there?

  He didn’t even get in a shot.

  * * *

  Voices up ahead. The separatists again, or the missing scientists? Jug’s money was on the scientists, since they were getting close to the campsite where Winters had been killed. Nathan had tracked the pair for that first half hour after they left the camp last night. Once it was clear de Haas and Foster were retracing their steps, McKenna guessed they’d come here, to the last place they’d been. It was the last place Jug wanted to be, too. He’d rather be at home with Priya and the kids.

  Picking up the pace, they followed the path down to the water, passing the spot where two days ago he and Lefty had discovered Winters. Jug glanced nervously into the shadows, hoping McKenna wasn’t inadvertently serving them up for dinner, but when they emerged from the forest beside the stream bed, Foster and de Haas were there.

  Immediately, the section spread out, Trigger and Eriksen crossing the stream to watch the trees, and Lefty and Read positioning themselves on either side of McKenna. Jug hung back with Nathan and Miller. Jug couldn’t see where Coolie had got to, but then when did he ever see Coolie? He’d been around, probably creeping forward to cover the situation from some other angle. The little corporal was as canny as they came.

  Jules was rushing over to where her colleague seemed to be assembling some kind of net. “Richard, what on earth were you thinking, leaving the camp like that? You could’ve got yourselves killed!”

  Foster pushed past her, carrying one end of the net to a nearby tree and circling its trunk with the free end of the rope. “So you want us to walk away? That Sphenodon is the first of its kind ever seen by man. I can’t let it be the last.”

  “But we talked about this last night. It’s too dangerous. Please, we need to get out of the forest.”

  “Dr Asher is right,” McKenna interjected. “That animal has caused too many deaths.”

  “It’s not the animal’s fault. It’s a predator. It kills for food,” Foster insisted, yanking on the rope to tighten the knot.

  “And for sport,” the sergeant said.

  “You don’t know that.”

  “No. Only what I’ve seen.”

  One hand still holding the rope, Foster rounded on McKenna now, stabbing his finger at the sergeant. “Which is exactly my point. How can we know anything about it unless we study it!”

  “Your study will have to wait. Your safety is my responsibility.”

  Foster tossed his head, flicking his hair. “You can’t make me. I’m not part of your precious task force.”

  You can’t make me? Jug shook his head, incredulous. That was the sort of thing his daughter Navil said, except she was twelve.

  “And I exonerate you from any responsibility,” de Haas told McKenna. He handed Foster his end of the net. “We’re grown men. We’ll make our own decisions. We certainly don’t need your permission.” He turned his back on McKenna, as if to put an end to the discussion.

  McKenna’s expression hardened and Jug caught the involuntary twitch of his jaw. Jug couldn’t blame him. It was a tough position to be in. Jug’d faced it himself when patients refused treatment – you end up trying to protect someone who didn’t want to be protected.

  If it were up to him he’d leave them, seeing as they were stupid enough to want to stay, but that was probably because he was a doctor first, and medical ethics dictated that patients be allowed to make decisions for themselves. Informed decisions, though. Maybe that was the problem here: Foster and de Haas underestimated what they were up against. Because, although the two scientists saw the beast stampede through the campsite, they hadn’t seen what Jug and Lefty had. They hadn’t seen it pick up a man as if he were a poppadum and crunch him between its jaws…

  Jug shuddered. He’d seen death before, but even in the army it was usually from accidents or disease, or some kind of disorder. In those cases, at least there were new treatments coming on line all the time, and even if you couldn’t do anything, there was always palliative care, allowing the patient to die with dignity. He’d been trying not to think too hard about Winters. There wasn’t much dignity in being eaten.

  “Oi,” said Lefty abruptly, making Jug look up. “What’s with the body bag? What’s it doing here on the bank—?”

  Jug hadn’t seen it there before, but now that he had, it didn’t take much to put two and two together. Lefty must have done the same because even from here, Jug saw his eyes widen in disgust.

  Before Foster could answer, de Haas whipped about, a pistol grasped in both hands.

  “Hey!” Trigger shouted as de Haas pointed the weapon – an army issue Sig Sauer P226 pistol – like it were a hosepipe.

  Instinctively, the sold
iers dived and crouched, finding cover, while McKenna leaped sideways, pushing Jules behind a large boulder. Jug edged himself behind a tree trunk.

  Prone on the bank, McKenna called out, “Put that gun away, de Haas. Save it for the Sphenodon.”

  “We’re not going to kill it!” Foster shrieked from alongside de Haas, the muscles in his neck straining. “We’re trying to save it.”

  “And get yourselves killed in the process,” McKenna said.

  “If you’re so desperate to play the big man and protect someone, McKenna, why don’t you and your men take Jules and get out of here? We don’t need your help.”

  “Dr de Haas—“McKenna raised his head.

  “Back off!”’ shrieked de Haas. He fired at the ground in front of McKenna’s face. The gun cracked and pebbles flew. McKenna covered his head with his hands, but Lefty was already on the move, rising from a crouch, coming at de Haas.

  De Haas jerked the muzzle round to aim at the soldier.

  “Christian,” Foster said, putting his hand on the geologist’s forearm, and Lefty took advantage of the movement to veer off, diving into a dip in the beach.

  His fingers gripping de Haas’ arm, Foster took a step backwards, his face contorting in terror. He pointed towards Jug.

  What? He’s pointing at me? No, not at me, behind me.

  Jug’s stomach lurched. He went cold. There was only one reason Foster would point in this direction. He turned his head, the smell of rot hitting him. The Sphenodon was only metres away! So quiet, Jug hadn’t known it was there.

  It’s coming this way!

  Jug didn’t think. Blood thundering in his veins, he threw himself to one side. The monster lumbered past. Razored scales grazed his arm as it passed. Jug’s feet churned, like a paddle steamer. Desperate, he scrambled though the ferns. If it had a mind to, the creature could reach out with those talons and eviscerate him. Thankfully, it didn’t slow. Didn’t look his way. It broke from the bush, heading for the others.

  “Look out,” Jug yelled, still scrambling. He plunged into a narrow depression, squeezing his body in, the earth solid around him. Trembling, he peeped out from beneath a log.