Z. Raptor

Table of Contents

 

 

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Copyright © 2011 by Steve Cole. All rights reserved.

This book, or parts thereof, may not be reproduced in any form without permission in writing from the publisher, Philomel Books, a division of Penguin Young Readers Group, 345 Hudson Street, New York, NY 10014. Philomel Books, Reg. U.S. Pat. & Tm. Off. The scanning, uploading and distribution of this book via the Internet or via any other means without the permission of the publisher is illegal and punishable by law. Please purchase only authorized electronic editions, and do not participate in or encourage electronic piracy of copyrighted materials. Your support of the author's rights is appreciated. The publisher does not have any control over and does not assume any responsibility for author or third-party websites or their content.

 

Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Cole, Stephen, 1971- Z. Raptor / Steve Cole. p. cm. Sequel to: Z. Rex.

Summary: In New York City to spend Christmas with his father, thirteen-year-old

despite his father's objections, Adam finds himself drawn back into the struggle against

hyper-evolved, deadly velociraptors determined to wreak havoc and spread terror.

[1. Dinosaurs—Fiction. 2. Virtual reality—Fiction. 3. Fathers and sons—Fiction.

4. Islands—Fiction. 5. Science fiction.] I. Title. II. Title: Z Raptor.

PZ7.C67356Zac 2011 [Fic]—dc22 2010041650

eISBN : 978-1-101-51612-6

Special thanks to Michael Green for a true z-edit and Tamra Tuller for shepherding those rambunctious raptors along. Thanks also to Justin Richards for helping me steer the
Pahalu
through an earlier draft and to those who've helped along the sometimes difficult way—to Jill, Tobey, Amy, Mike, Jason, Paul, Holly, Annie and Philippa.

A
fter a night spent searching the black cracks of memory, the creature was certain now.
I have a name. I am not like the others. I have a name.

The wind ruffled the tough, ragged feathers that half covered the creature's hide. As dawn picked at the darkness, he stayed staring out from a grassy cliff top over the ancient spite and wildness of the ocean. The sea hurled itself relentlessly at the rocks, hissing and frothing as it was thrown back, gathering itself again to strike.

The creature understood the strike of the sea, the way it battered furiously at its boundaries.
The name,
he thought.
What is my name?

A rustle—a stamp from the forest behind him. Something was coming. Not one of the humans; the tread was too heavy. He turned and peered into the windblown darkness, scanning for unnatural movement. His snout twitched at traces of reptilian scent. His sensitive ears caught the clack of heavy claws and the sweep of a thick tail through foliage.

The creature's heart beat a little faster. He was being stalked by one of the Brutes again. All they cared about was hunting and killing.

He tensed himself as the stealthy footsteps drew nearer . . . nearer....

In a sudden rush of movement, the Brute broke cover and pounded over the open grassland, a roar building in its thick, scaly throat as it spat a stream of yellow liquid.

Nimbly, the creature threw himself to the side, dodging all but the last burning drops. Hide stinging from the acid, he hit the ground and twisted under the Brute's belly, raking two sets of long, deadly claws through the unprotected flesh.

Blood pumped from the wounds in a grisly shower. The Brute bellowed its pain, turned and raised a huge, clawed foot, ready to stamp down on the creature's rib cage.

But the creature was too swift. He extended his sickleshaped claws and jammed them up through the sole of the Brute's foot before scrambling clear. With a savage scream, the Brute lashed out with its heavy, barbed tail and struck him in the jaw. He was stunned for a moment, but then coiled his own tail around the Brute's good ankle and tugged hard. Losing its balance, the Brute was forced to fall back with all its weight on its ruined foot. The agonized howl as it collapsed to the ground was deafening.

Panting for breath and tasting his own blood, the creature watched his wounded enemy squirm on the ground, pure hatred in his stare. The Brute wouldn't stop now until one of them was dead.
Why? Why did you come for me when other prey is so much easier?

The creature flinched as another stream of acid jetted from the Brute's hanging jaw. Spatters fell across his legs, burning, enraging. A red haze fell over his eyes, and he darted forward, grabbed the injured foot, twisted hard. This was the only way to end the conflict. The Brute convulsed with pain and clawed at the grass and earth around it, heaving itself closer to the cliff edge in its struggles to be free. The creature clung on through a rain of bone-jarring blows and kicks that tore blood and quill feathers from his side.

“See?” the creature hissed. “Should've . . . left . . . me . . . alone. . . .” But as he spoke, with a sudden jolt, he let his grip on his victim go slack. The words had sparked a connection, a clue, plucked from the bloodred crevices of his brain—it was
that
he needed to hold on to now.

Less than a meter now from the precipice, the Brute broke free at last. Slavering, it tried to roll clear but was too close to the edge. Panic flared in its cold eyes as, with a last despairing roar, it fell from sight, plunging to its death on the distant rocks below.

Alone again
. Panting hard, the creature sank to the ground. He smeared his wounds with mud to slow the bleeding, the stir of the ocean soothing him now.

The last stars faded from the sky. Feeling stronger, he stared across the bay to where a stone building stood in semi-ruins, hiding so many secrets. He had been trapped in there for so long. He had felt so alone.

Alone . . .
He could see black capital letters in his mind, hear ghostly voices.
Low. No. Kneel low . . . Lone . . .

 

“That's what I am,” he whispered. “Loner. I don't belong here. I will not stay.”

Adam Adlar quickened his step. He couldn't shift the feeling. Fighting his way through the Christmas crowds along Fifth Avenue, he told himself to chill for the hundredth time.
Of course someone's following me
.
There's got to be a gazillion people on this street.

It was close to six P.M., and with only ten days to go until Christmas, New York City was heaving. Wide-eyed tourists soaked up the sights; weary office workers pushed past in huddles, hurrying home.

Adam supposed the evening rush hour was probably not the best time to head downtown to meet his dad. But he wasn't about to pass up the one time his father had actually suggested a meal out together. Normally Bill Adlar was so into his computer work he didn't get back to the hotel until late, so Adam was seizing the invitation for pizza with both freezing cold hands. It was a long walk to his dad's office, and he supposed no self-respecting New Yorker would dream of making the journey from Midtown to Greenwich Village on foot. But Adam had ninety minutes to kill, and he couldn't face the even greater crush of the subway or figuring out which bus to take.

Besides, walking had its advantages. He could hit the “R” Zone inside the giant Toys “R” Us on his way—sixteen hundred square feet of the latest electronic games and DVDs. Dad had left him money for a taxi, but Adam figured if he put the cash toward a new game for his DSi, it would be a much better investment.

He tried to lose himself in the cold, Christmassy moment. The scale of everything here made him feel like a tiny kid playing in the land of a giant. It was all so big and bright. Skyscrapers rose up all around like sheer cliffs disguised with glass and metal. A jigsaw piece of night hung high above, impossibly black. Holiday lights strung about the trees and gaudy displays in store windows tugged at the eye. Steam drifting up through subway vents mingled with the smoke from hot-dog carts and the charred aroma of roasting chestnuts. Even the heavy traffic seemed festive tonight—the big cars bumper to bumper in a parody of paper chains, fairy lights reflecting off windows and bodywork, the honk of horns sounding tonight more like greetings than rebukes.

But Adam's feeling of being watched persisted, and the nagging voice inside wouldn't shut up.
Someone knows what happened over the summer,
it said.
They know about Geneflow Solutions—what went down in New Mexico and Edinburgh. There might even be a Geneflow base here in New York.

When he stopped to think about it all, it still scared him stupid. Geneflow was a secret scientific group with huge resources and even larger ambitions. Somehow they had not only brought to life an actual T. rex, they forced it to evolve to the ultimate level—creating a
Zenithsaurus rex
—known to its creators as Z. rex. Four months ago, they'd kidnapped Adam's dad, used his programming skills and pioneering video game technology to warp the mind of their creation, to turn it into a living weapon to be unleashed on any target they chose. But that “Think-Send” gaming tech had been developed using Adam's own thought control, and he'd found himself taken too—by the Z. rex itself. ...