Holes in the Ground

Monsters exist.

Linguist Andy Dennison-Jones knows this all too well. He and his veterinarian wife, Sun, have been chased by them before, and barely escaped from a secret underground government facility with their lives.

Now they once again find themselves trapped alongside a collection of creatures straight out of hell. Fighting with them is an unlikely group of misfits, including a misplaced British kid, a former spec-ops soldier, and a strange Irishman who might be the oldest living thing on earth—if he’s even alive at all.

Filled with the kind of slam-bang action, wicked scares, and sly humor that have earned J.A. Konrath and Iain Rob Wright millions of fans,
HOLES IN THE GROUND
is both a collaboration and a continuation of both authors’ previous work (
ORIGIN
by Konrath and
FINAL WINTER
by Wright) but also serves as a perfect introduction to their worlds.

Plus, as a bonus extra, included is an entirely different version of the novel—Wright’s original draft before Konrath touched it.

Two complete novels. One low price. Over 140,000 words of content.

The devil you know is just as bad as the devil you don’t…

HOLES IN THE GROUND
by J.A. Konrath and Iain Rob Wright
Some secrets have teeth

Foreword, by J.A. Konrath

MAP: New Mexico Monstrum Facility: The Spiral

Begin reading HOLES IN THE GROUND, by J.A. Konrath & Iain Rob Wright

Middleword, by Iain Rob Wright

Begin reading HOLES IN THE GROUND, by Iain Rob Wright

About the Authors
Works by Iain Rob Wright
Works by Joe Konrath
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Copyright

I became aware of Iain Rob Wright when I saw several of his books on
Amazon.com
in the
Customers Also Bought
section of my technothriller novel,
ORIGIN
.

I liked what I saw. I liked it a lot. Scary, science-based thrillers laced with black humor and a lot of suspense. Sign me up.

We collaborated on the Jack Daniels/Sarah Stone mystery
STRAIGHT UP
, and it was a pleasure working with Iain. When he told me he had a cool idea to continue the storyline of
ORIGIN
, I encouraged him to go for it.

It’s a fun experience, as a writer, to have another writer re-envision your characters. Especially since, in this novel, they interact with some of Iain’s characters from his horror novel
THE FINAL WINTER
. That said, as I was working on the second draft of this book, I wondered if I should change things to make it read more like
ORIGIN
. Iain is British. I’m a Yank. Our tones and styles vary. Our sense of humor is different. Hell, we even spell “humour” differently.

I spent a long time thinking about this.

Certainly, fans of
ORIGIN
will expect a sequel to be very similar. But then, Iain Rob Wright fans will also expect something similar to what they’ve grown to love, and I count myself among his fans. Ridley Scott’s
ALIEN
and James Cameron’s
ALIENS
were very different approaches to the same story, and they’re both worth seeing.

So I followed Iain’s approach. I admire his work, and enjoy his take on my work. During my rewrite, I tried my best to match his tone and style, and expand upon what he had envisioned for the storyline.

The end result was the novel you’re about to read. But if you’re curious about Iain’s original version, we’ve included that as a bonus.

That’s right. You can also read
HOLES IN THE GROUND
before I added anything, and there are many scenes that significantly differ.

Fans of my writing, and fans of Iain’s writing, and fans of
ORIGIN
and
THE FINAL WINTER
, should all find something to like here. And if you’ve never read either of us before, I think this is a fun introduction to both of us.

I hope you enjoy this as much as I did.

Jack Cullum had heard about cattle mutilations, but he never expected to see one. Not one this horrible. Not on his own ranch.

The bull was in the north east corner of the pasture, mostly. Much of it was spread out over several yards, entwined in the barbed wire fence, strewn throughout the grass. Almost as if someone had dropped a twelve hundred pound tray of lasagna from a great height.

Jack crouched down next to the severed cow head and wiped some blood off the ear tag with his thumb. Thunder 112, a two year old Black Angus. Son of the legendary Mr. Toro—a bull rated #6 in marbling and #8 in calving ease in the Spring Sire Evaluation Report. A straw of Mr. Toro’s semen had cost Jack fifteen hundred dollars. Money that had been hard to come by.

The rancher pushed back his hat and wiped a sleeve across his forehead. The midday Texas sun made the breeze feel like an electric hair dryer. This would have to be cleaned up before it began to rot. Or cook. He’d have to borrow Charley’s trailer, shovel the remains onto that. Burying something as large as a bull was impossible.

Except for the carcass and the growing legion of flies, the pasture was empty. The rest of the herd was badly spooked. They’d gathered around the pens, refusing to graze. He had to get them back into their routine quickly.

Jack looked over the remains again, wondering how this could have happened. Bobcats weren’t dumb enough to attack a full grown bull, and even a pack of coyotes couldn’t have caused this much damage. There were no tracks or spoor, other than cattle.

That only left one possibility.

Jack searched his mind for anyone with a grudge against him. His ranch was small and relatively new. He posed no economic threat to anyone locally. The cattle market had been on an upswing, and everyone was doing better than expected. Jack liked his neighbors, and they him, often trading equipment and offering labor. But it had to be a man. Or a team of men, armed with axes and saws. Nothing else could have done this much damage. Thunder 112 was barely recognizable as an animal—there wasn’t a piece of him left that couldn’t fit into a garbage bag. Jack also noted parts were missing. There should have been more of the skeletal remains. And more innards. Even spread out, there was less than half a bull left.

There was movement to the right, at ground level. Jack turned, expecting a bird or some other small scavenger. At first glance it appeared to be a snake, long and black, slithering in the grass. But the rancher realized with a jolt that it wasn’t a snake at all. It wasn’t even an animal.

It was Thunder 112’s tail. Detached from the body and slowly undulating.

Jack blinked, figuring the heat was playing tricks with him. He stared hard, willing the tail to stop moving.

It didn’t.

Holding his fear in check, he approached the tail. Jack was expecting to see a gopher, perhaps, pulling on it. Or even a string, tied to one end while the other went off into the plains, being yanked by some practical joker. Silly ideas, to explain the unexplainable. But all he saw was a severed bull’s tail, lying in the gore-soaked grass, wiggling like a dropped garden hose.

Reflex, the rancher assured himself. Had to be. Muscles could twitch for a while after death. Lop off a chicken’s head, it could still run around for a few minutes. This had to be some bizarre reflex.

Jack was reaching out to touch the tail when something large hit him from behind.

The rancher sprawled face-first onto the grass. The sensation was similar to being thrown off a horse. His chest and back ached, and he could feel the tail squirming under his belly.

Jack rolled over to face his attacker, and his mind refused to accept what he saw.

This couldn’t be. He was a God-fearing man. He went to church. How in the name of Christ could this be happening?

“Where issssss Monnnnnnstruuuuum,”
the thing said as it squatted beside him.

Jack was so terrified he couldn’t speak.

“Answer meeeeeeeeee.”

“I… I… I don’t know what you want.”

The creature tilted its head to the side, apparently thinking. Then, with a quick swipe of its talon, it ripped out Jack Cullum’s windpipe.

Jack was still alive, praying to God for mercy, when the thing began to feed on him.

The hotel room’s phone rang so loud that the receiver rattled on its cradle. While there were many things that
Andrew Dennison-Jones
was thankful for—his business was doing well, his debts had evaporated, and his beautiful new bride slept naked beside him—an early morning phone call still irritated the hell out of him. Especially since he slept so poorly, waking from bad dreams several times each night.

RING.

RING.

RING.

Andy shot an irritated glance at the clock next to the bed. Coming up on 7am San Diego time. Any chance of regaining sleep now was ruined. Once Andy was awake, he stayed awake.

He rolled over and fumbled for the receiver. “H-hello?”

“Mr. Dennison?”

Andy rubbed sleep from his eyes. “Yes. And it’s Dennison-Jones.”

“This is the hotel manager. I’ve been receiving reports of a disturbance on your floor. Is everything okay?”

Andy cleared his throat. “Huh? Yeah, everything is fine. We’re sleeping. Or
were
until you woke us up.”

“My apologies, sir. I have been trying to call the rooms adjacent to you, but they are not answering. I’m unsure what exactly is going on, but other guests have been complaining of shouting and…someone speaking in a strange language.”

“I’m American.”

“Of course, sir. It’s just that the credit card details you provided us are registered to Worldwide Translation Services. I thought—”

Andy blew out a breath of exasperation and blinked his crusty eyelids. “You thought it was me. But it wasn’t. It’s our honeymoon.”

“Of course, sir. I am sorry to have woken you.”

Andy considered calling the man an asshole in a dozen different languages, but let it pass. The manager was still speaking when Andy hung up the phone. He slid back down beneath the covers and turned to face his bride.

Sun
was awake. Her eyes were open. A smirk adorned her face as she spoke in a dozy whisper. “I hope you’re not making clandestine calls to other women, Mr. Dennison-Jones. I only married you yesterday.”

Andy smiled, recalling the previous day and how wonderful everything had been. A small, private ceremony, just the two of them and a judge. Luck had brought them to San Diego—they’d won a contest and been given free plane tickets. They decided to make it a honeymoon, and hopped on a jet after tying the knot. It had been Sun’s idea for Andy to enter the 21st century and hyphenate their last names as a married couple.

When Andy told his buddies he was now Andrew Dennison-Jones they would call him whipped. And he wouldn’t mind a bit.

He kissed her forehead. “It was the hotel manager. Apparently someone has been speaking in tongues and he thought it was me. Obviously he thinks I’m some kind of hell raiser.”

Sun laughed. “If only they knew the truth.”

Andy chuckled and ran his fingers along Sun’s naked hips. Her skin was hot and inviting. Her perfume mingled with her natural musk.

It was time to do what honeymooners did.

Just as he began kissing Sun’s neck, there was a pounding at the door, loud enough to startle them both.

“Did you order room service?” Andy asked.

Sun shook her head.

Another loud pound.

“Maybe it’s the
real
hell raiser,” Sun whispered.

Andy stared at the door. There was a chance that whomever was at the door was the aforementioned troublemaker, the person causing all the complaints. It might be a bad idea opening up.

Or perhaps Sun was talking about another type of hell raiser. One who, quite literally, raised hell on earth. The cause of Andy’s nightmares.