Final Scream (2 page)

Twin headlights pared a lane through the jungle gloom shrouding the rugged terrain on the Hawaiian island Kauai. The late-model Mercedes stopped and illuminated the front of a deserted, ramshackle Bed-and-Breakfast Inn. The brawny driver climbed from behind the steering wheel and opened the rear door for his emerging passenger. The man strode briskly past him without a word of thanks and entered the rundown structure.

The driver popped the trunk open and recklessly dropped two live bound hostages on the ground. The hostages didn’t cry out because they were drugged out of their minds. That was the only way to keep them quiet for the long journey to the secret Chrysalis’ Genetic Bio-engineering Laboratory on Kauai. The scientific facility was four stories beneath the weather-beaten Bed-and-Breakfast. A hidden elevator whisked special visitors and employees into the subterranean hive constructed inside an old volcanic lava tube. The driver slammed the trunk lid shut and dragged the two men by their ankles to the elevator, where his passenger waited impatiently.

After the elevator security scanner accepted the passenger’s fingerprint and retinal scans, he pressed the
ON
elevator button. The lights inside the car flickered to life, the doors slid noiselessly together, and they were whisked down to the fourth and deepest sublevel of the vast laboratory. The doors cleared, and the driver dragged his stupefied charges to the left, while the passenger marched briskly to the security station on his right. The two guards admitted him immediately on sight. The Genetic Bio-engineering Lab was the man’s baby, and his scientists conducted the most sophisticated genetic research on the planet.

A man sporting black framed glasses and a baggy white lab coat pulled crookedly over his thin frame rushed out of his small office to greet his uncompromising boss.

 “Good evening, Ulrich,” the fortyish scientist hailed nervously.

 “I suppose it is, Robert,” the man snapped, his cordial retort sounding reedy and hollow. “Well, just don’t stand there gawking at me. Any new results to report?”

Dr. Robert Wilton anxiously twisted his fingers. “N-n-not really, but I can explain.”

Ulrich grabbed Robert’s arm, roughly shoved the doctor back into his office, and slammed the door. The bald, forty-nine-year-old Ulrich Strasser was a large, powerful man who had put down numerous people without so much as a sliver of remorse. He was a slick, genial salesman on the outside, and a vicious viper on the inside. His captivating Nordic ice blue eyes demanded respect and could mesmerize the women who stared into them for too long. But as they soon discovered, Ulrich’s handsome, amiable appearance was a cruel sham.

“So explain!” Ulrich demanded, planting the scrawny scientist in his desk chair. Robert’s elbow smacked the desk edge, and he groaned.

“We’re … we’re out of genetic samples.” Wilton’s voice trailed into nothingness. “We attempted to assimilate our island DNA material with our last live human specimen, but he died horribly within the hour, along with the island sample.”

“What went wrong?” The bright fluorescent lights magnified Ulrich’s pitted cheeks and nose.

“Their DNAs clashed and burned; they simply weren’t compatible. But we need more live human samples to isolate the snag.”

“Maybe I need a new project leader!” he growled, standing over the cowering scientist. “We made it work with that fuckin’ lizard-insect transformational serum, so I don’t exactly understand
your
fucking
problem with the new DNA.”

Wilton cleared a frog from his throat. “DNA varies greatly from each species of animals and plants. And to make matters worse, instead of an entire common species sharing identical genetic makeup, some in the group have evolved with slightly dissimilar DNA strands, which would be barely noticeable in less intense analysis. However, their minute genetic differences are enough to play havoc with our experiments. And don’t forget, we’re dealing with more than a few creatures manufactured here with major gene modifications.”

“Excuses are for losers. If you can’t make this work, I
will
replace you.” Ulrich stepped away and watched the scientists hustle from lab to lab outside Robert’s window. “Is E.V.A.N. still alive?”

Dr. Wilton swallowed hard. The E.V.A.N. project continued to be a runaway train of recombinant DNA from an unknown island species. Scripps had done a bang-up job of cloning the monster, but unfortunately they had to use DNA from a variety of other sources to make their replication work. They used these DNA strands to fill in the missing sections of E.V.A.N.’s a
lien DNA
. He had no idea which DNA Scripps had thrown into their genetic stew, but the Pentagon brass didn’t care about the particulars. Their only concern was that the Frankenstein-like monster be genetically restructured into a viable military weapon. “It’s still alive, but you wouldn’t recognize it from your last visit. It’s changed … and grown. And the Scripps creature has continuously mutated from smaller chimeras to larger ones. The bottom line is that it’s growing every day, gaining tremendous strength, and developing some very eccentric physical characteristics.”

Ulrich froze at that last phrase. “Such as?”

“It has developed another pair of eyes above the old ones, and they’re all functional. And a … a jagged dorsal fin sprouted along its bony spine,” Wilton reported. “Like a shark.”

“Weight?”

“Its mass is just under a thousand pounds. I’m afraid it might…”

“Might what?”

“Break out of its confinement. Although its cell door is steel, it wasn’t designed to contain such a powerful creature.”

“Then order a new fucking door and arrange to have it installed in place of the existing one! Do I have to do all your thinking for you?” He hand pressed the wrinkles from the front of his suit coat. “And be proactive when you order the damned thing. Purchase a door that can withstand the pressure from a
two
thousand pound monster. Any questions, Robert?”

“No … no, sir. I’ll get right on it.”

Ulrich spun and paused in the open doorway. “I’ll have more island samples for you soon,” he announced. “Don’t squander them! They don’t grow on trees!”

With that, he slammed the door and stormed down the hall toward the security desk and elevator. One of the burly guards held out a cordless landline phone receiver as he approached.

“A phone call for you, sir.”

Ulrich snatched it from the man’s hand. “Secure?” he demanded from the caller.

“It’s scrambled,” he said.

“Well? What’s your problem?” Ulrich demanded.

“Uh, you hit the nail on the head.”

“Then deal with it! It’s
your
problem!”

“I … I know, but this is beyond my authority. Noah Wright’s mother has flat out refused to accept our generous compensation for her loss.”

Ulrich turned away from the guards. “Hmmm. Is that right?”

“Yes, sir.”

“So eliminate her, but make it look like an accident.”

“That’s easier said than done.”

“Jesus, now what’s the problem?”

“If Noah Wright was just a plain John Doe, I would have no problem wasting his mother, but the guy’s first cousin is Nick Bellamy.”

Ulrich was silent while he evoked the name. Then it struck him. “He’s that supernatural investigator, right?

“Yep.”

“What rotten fucking luck!”

“So now what do we do about Wright’s mother?”

An imperceptible grin creased his lips. “Kill the whole damn family, including Bellamy. Check in with our colleague in La Jolla and advise her to unleash her Wicker identity. Then no one can stop her from slaughtering the family, plus Bellamy.”

“But … but Bellamy’s dangerous. The word on the street is that he’s invincible. It won’t be easy, boss.”

“
Won’t be easy?
It’s about time you started earning that hefty salary I pay you to kill helpless children and old church ladies.” There was a loud click; the apprehensive caller got the message.

The red-faced Ulrich slapped the receiver into the guard’s open hand and marched irritably into the elevator. He hoped
Final Scream
would flush out the targets he and the Pentagon had been hunting for years. Those beings had been sighted in the general vicinity of Terror Island a few years ago by a tramp steamer’s crew, so that was proof enough for him they existed! They weren’t pipe dreams. Or a druggie’s hallucination. And because they
were
real, it was only a matter of time before he tracked them down.

So what if he had to kill thirty or forty people on Terror Island?

The billions of dollars in profits were well worth the lives of Oracle’s sacrificial lambs. Oracle public relations gurus would spin the tragedy. The poor victims went down in a blaze of glory, and their memorials would garner sensational television ratings for the network … and him.

Best of all?

His South Pacific targets wouldn’t suspect they were being played.

A striking thirty-two-year-old man strode purposefully up the front walk to the sprawling green and white Wright home in La Jolla, California. Long ash hair spilled over the collar of his light red windbreaker as his glacial blue eyes explored the stucco house. The place was just as he remembered it. Friendly. Inviting.

The man ducked beneath the vine-covered arched trellis that greeted visitors before they stepped up to the front porch. He was six-feet-tall, clean shaven, and medium built. He nimbly ascended the steps to the shaded pavered porch and pressed the doorbell. He stepped when he heard the thumps of rushed footsteps and the sharp crack of the deadbolt being shoved back. The hinges shrilly creaked as the door swung open.

The woman answering the bell was tall, thin, and prematurely gray at forty-six. She was the male visitor’s late-stepmother’s baby sister. His aunt. Although she had been divorced for eighteen years, she still raised her two adopted sons, Noah and Nate, and her adopted daughter, Natalie, as a single mom. She wasn’t destitute by any means, earning a salary in the mid-six figures as a biological oceanographer at the nearby Script’s Institute of Oceanography.

“Nick!” she exclaimed, her hands flying to her lips. “Thank God you came!”

Nick Bellamy stepped over the threshold and hugged his Aunt Sue Wright. Tears trickled down her cheeks and onto his shirt, but he didn’t mind. He expected it. One of her sons, Noah, disappeared with the other contestants and production staff before the fall’s first episode of
Final Scream: Terror Island
even aired.

Oracle Network dispatched a professional search and rescue team two days after they lost contact with their employees on the island, but that group was never heard from again. This time, the network hired a well-armed mercenary outfit to undertake the quest and unearth the reason for the sudden communications breakdown. As of today, there was absolutely no contact with anyone on that island.

The television talking heads all agreed the individuals on location for the South Pacific reality show were more than likely dead. The incident was still a tragic mystery, and the tight-lipped Oracle executives seemed to prefer it that way. Rumors spread on all the social media sites that the network
did
receive satellite video from Terror Island that first night but declined to make it available to the public. Despite the network staunchly refuting these claims, Congress was busily organizing an official hearing in Washington, D.C., to grill Maggie Wentworth on the subject.

The Terror Island debacle was the talk of the country.
Were the contestants and production staff victims of a pirate assault?
Or had their communications equipment failed?
That last question was ignored when the first rescue team failed to report back to the network. It appeared they disappeared as well. Victims of violence. Everyone had an opinion to share, which they freely did with others in bars, restaurants, around the water cooler at work, and on television and radio. Every news agency and talk show speculated about
Final Scream’s
enigmatic communications blackout, but nobody outside Oracle actually
knew
what really happened.

The legal sharks began circling the network waters, too. Many of the missing victims’ families hired lawyers to take Oracle to court and force them to financially compensate them for the loss of their family member, but since no one knew if these contestants were dead or alive, the cases were immediately rejected by the courts as having no merit.

However, Nick suspected foul play from the beginning. After receiving his aunt’s frantic phone call about his cousin Noah’s disappearance, he hastily reviewed several
Final Scream
episodes from previous years, examined a South Pacific map to find out Terror Island was located on the northern edge of Indonesia, and directed his computer savvy partner, Crow, to scrutinize the Oracle Network with a fine-toothed comb.

Crow responded quickly, as always. His security company’s supercomputer,
Geronimo
, confirmed there had been an uplink transmission from the island to Oracle’s satellite that fateful evening. After fifteen minutes, the island uplink was severed, leading Nick to believe the network lied about receiving no communications from Terror Island. He was certain they possessed some critical video of the season’s first
Final Scream
show.

Nick Bellamy launched his law enforcement career many years ago as an
Orion Sector
agent for the FBI’s clandestine supernatural division. However, he wasn’t one to follow orders and do things by the book. He was a hunch type of guy who followed his own instincts. After several years of struggling with agency policies, he and his two best
Orion Sector
friends formed their own paranormal investigations company,
Nick, Neo, and Crow, Incorporated
(NNC).

They weren’t hurting for business. Their latest financial windfall came from United States President Shelton Hanover, who awarded them a lucrative long-term contract with the Department of Justice for defeating a powerful alien menace in North Dakota. The case file was titled
The Burial Ground
.

Sue pulled away from her nephew, straightened her hair, and led him to the family room in the back of the house. Nick spotted a sizeable flower garden outside the bow-bay window. Inside, ranch oak paneling complemented the light tan brick hearth of an immense fireplace.

He eased himself into a leather recliner while Aunt Sue sat across from him on the curved sectional sofa. “Did you fly out here to help find Noah?” she asked anxiously.

“Absolutely. I won’t leave any stone unturned until I find out what happened to him,” he vowed buoyantly, but inside he wasn’t confident of the investigation outcome. From what little he actually knew, the odds were slim that Noah survived a calamity if no one else did. Plus, Terror Island was a hell of a long way away from the states, and any primitive inhabitants might not greet trespassers with open arms. “If you wouldn’t mind, I’d like you to answer a few questions for me.”

She sniffed. “Ask me anything.”

Nick brushed a stray ash blond hair from his forehead. “How did Noah get involved with the television show,
Final Scream
, in the first place?”

“Noah was hired by Scripps Institute when he graduated from UCLA with his master’s in oceanography.”

Nick nodded. “Oceanography seems to run in your family.”

A brief laugh exploded from her throat before her smile flatlined. “A couple months ago, Noah agreed to audition for
Final Scream
, even though he didn’t think he stood a chance of making it. But he did. He received a phone call at work from
Final Scream’s
producer, Jack Brunnel, who selected him as a contestant from over two hundred candidates. We were all one hundred percent behind him.”

Nick frowned. “Was that all there was to the story?”

“Uh, yeah. That’s it.”

Nick instantly sensed she was lying,
but why?
He needed all the information he could get if he was to get to the bottom of this mystery.

“Did Noah ask Brunnel why he chose him from so many other candidates?”

“He said he did, but Brunnel brushed off the question,” Sue replied vaguely. “Is it important?”

“Maybe,” Nick answered elusively. It would be
extremely
important if Noah and some of the other missing contestants turned out to be dead.
Chosen to die?
Someone at the Oracle Network would be the logical murder suspect; someone who likely set Noah and the others up for the fall.
But why?

Sue leaned back. “It sure is ironic,” she muttered, more to herself than Nick.

Nick stiffened. “What’s ironic?”

Sue grinned sheepishly, like someone caught talking to themselves. “That Noah ended up in the South Pacific. Before he auditioned for
Final Scream
, Scripps volunteered him to join a government research team planning to explore several Indonesian islands in the vicinity of Terror Island. Once Brunnel selected him for the show, the research expedition was postponed indefinitely.”

“That’s odd. I wonder why the powers that be postponed the expedition when Noah could’ve easily joined the group after the show’s final taping.” Nick flat out didn’t believe in irony or coincidences. “What was this government expedition looking for?”

She twisted her fingers in knots and scooted to the edge of her seat. “I don’t know. He works in a different department than I do, so I’m not privy to their oceanographic research projects. All I can tell you is that there’s intense competition in our field from many other national and international corporations and government agencies, so we tend to be pretty closed mouthed about our research at Scripps.”

“I understand.” Before Nick could ask another question, his attractive twenty-four-year-old cousin, Natalie, stormed into the family room through the back patio doors.

The redhead’s eyes were hazel thunderheads. “The stupid sons-a-bitches!” she swore and then ended her tirade when she eyed Nick. A wide grin displaced her angry scowl as she raced across the room and hugged him python tight. “God, you’re a sight for sore eyes, cuz!”

Nick chuckled and inspected her at arm’s length. He hadn’t seen Natalie for seven or eight years, but they had always gotten along. As long as he remembered, he was about the only person she let into her inner circle. Other than him, she was branded a loner by most of her classmates. He glanced at her left hand and noted there was still no engagement ring. That was too bad. She was a sprite soul with a morose exterior. Despite her initial enthusiasm at meeting him, Natalie appeared frazzled. Her freckled face was drawn and paler than usual, and her meticulously styled carrot-top hair was unkempt and frizzy.

“It’s good to see you, Nat,” Nick said and meant it.

Natalie’s smile faded. “I wish it were under more pleasant circumstances.”

“Yeah, I know.”

“Did you get to see anyone at the network, dear?” Sue asked her daughter.

Those thunderheads flared again and spit lightning. “Oh yeah, the guards in the lobby. The friggin’ Oracle Network bigwigs blew me off and refused to see me. One of the damned guards handed me a PR paper defending themselves from the media blitz from the news outlets and social media. They blamed the whole mess on a technical glitch. Can you believe that shit?”

“Natalie!” Aunt Sue exclaimed, pretending she had never heard that profane word before.

“Well, it
is
,” Natalie insisted. “The paper went on to say they spoke to Jack Brunnel last night, and his staff was working feverishly to get things back up and running. What a bunch of liars!”

Nick’s cell phone rang, and he answered it immediately. It was Crow, his close personal friend and business partner who built the world’s most powerful and sassy supercomputer,
Geronimo
. Crow conveyed the bad news that
Geronimo
was unable to decipher the encrypted video feed from Terror Island to Oracle’s network satellite. Nick hid his displeasure from his relatives and quickly summarized Natalie’s experience at Oracle.

“What a crock, white man! Take it from
Geronimo
, there has been absolutely no contact between the outside world and Terror Island after that video uplink died,” Crow stressed. “
Geronimo
would’ve picked up any communication in a heartbeat.”

Nick drummed his fingers on the recliner’s worn arm. “Does
Geronimo
even know where Terror Island is? There are thousands of islands in and around the Indonesian area,” Nick asked.

“Yeah, he pinpointed it from the video transmission,” Crow replied.

“Do you or
Geronimo
have any theories as to what might have happened out there?”

“We don’t have enough facts to even make an educated guess,” Crow responded.

“That’s what I thought,” he said soberly. “Do me a favor, will you?”

“Name it.”

“Keep digging into Oracle Network. I’ve got a feeling something’s not quite kosher there.”

“Your instinct is usually on target. Consider it done,” Crow promised. “Happy Trails, Custer.”

Just as Nick disconnected the call, one of the glass patio doors exploded and Natalie promptly buckled and hit the oak floor head first!