Extinction (2 page)

He and his team stood at the edge of the sinkhole, which seemed to drop far, far down into the valley floor, straining their eyes to find Tom Bowers. It took several minutes, but the battered form was eventually spotted, half buried in the sand about thirty feet down, one broken arm and two-thirds of his mangled face sticking out grotesquely from the caved-in wall.

Burnett was issuing instructions to the retrieval team when he heard a cry from Claire Goodwin, a senior member of the team. ‘Get over here!’ There was a beat pause, and then she repeated the call with increased urgency. ‘Get over here! Everybody! Now!’

Burnett was the first one there. He peered down into the chasm, in the direction Goodwin’s finger pointed. ‘What?’ he asked, irritated by the interruption. ‘I don’t see any. . .’

Burnett’s voice caught in his throat as he saw what Goodwin was pointing at, and it didn’t take long for everyone else on the team to spot it too.

Metal, glinting dully in the glare of the sun, perhaps one hundred feet down.

There was no ancient stonework here, only a long, curved piece of metal – the outer edge of something far larger, still buried.

The discovery excited Burnett but he put aside the archaeological purpose of the mission until the body of Bowers had been retrieved, his family had been – painfully, but necessarily – informed, and repatriation arrangements had been made.

The funeral was to be held back in the US in ten days’ time, and Burnett decided to postpone his grief and concentrate on the mission at hand, determined that his friend should not have died in vain.

Some members of his team suggested the metal structure buried deep beneath the sands might be some sort of war bunker, or research facility left over from the Nazis. Hitler was known to have been interested in archaeology, looking for historical evidence in support of his ‘master race’ theories. He had authorized many digs throughout North Africa and the Middle East, and it was possible that the structure was in some way related to this.

But, Burnett argued, how would they have buried it in one hundred feet of sand – over the entire valley, he added, and not just in this one area – and then topped it off with a fifty-thousand-ton geological formation?

It was possible that seismic activity might have shifted the sand, but the granite suggested something else.

Two days later, the site had been cleared up and the walls of the sinkhole shored up and secured, enabling members of the team to descend on to the top of the structure and start clearing away more of the sand and debris.

‘What’s it made of?’ Burnett asked the team’s chief metallurgist, John Jackson.

‘I’m not exactly sure,’ Jackson replied. ‘Seems to be some sort of variant of titanium, but nothing I’m familiar with.’

‘Can we get through it?’

Jackson thought for a moment, then nodded his head. ‘We can, yes. It’ll just take some time.’

‘Get started now then. We don’t know when the locals will turn up, and I want to be inside before they get here.’

Jackson announced that he was through more than six hours later. Word quickly spread to other parts of the camp, and within minutes all thirty members of the crew were there.

The curved metal object was an access hatch, much like a submarine hatch, and was located on what appeared to be the roof of a building still buried underground.

The hatch opened to reveal a metallic access tunnel, with a ladder leading down into the dark.

Burnett stepped forward and turned on the torch secured to his helmet. ‘I’ll go first,’ he announced with authority, and as he placed his feet on the metal rungs, he only knew one thing – this wasn’t the Hall of Records.

He hoped that whatever it was would be worth his friend’s sacrifice.

Claire Goodwin and two other members of the team accompanied Burnett, while the others listened to the radio sets connected to their chief’s communication system.

There were long pauses as the four archaeologists descended the ladder, Burnett commenting every now and then on the structure of the tunnel, and their current depth.

‘We’re at the bottom,’ Burnett eventually announced. ‘We’re leaving the access hatch and entering the structure itself.’

There was another pause as the team dismounted the ladder, and then everyone still on the surface heard a sharp intake of breath, loud over the radio.

‘I . . . I. . .’ Burnett seemed lost for words. The team members still on the surface heard him breathe deeply several times, trying to collect himself. ‘I. . .’ he continued eventually, ‘I don’t believe it.’ Another pause. ‘I’ve never seen anything like this before in my entire life.’

T
HE COLOSSAL STATUE
could be seen from miles away by anyone approaching the city on the main freeway that crossed through the rainforest until it broke out on to the coastal plain. The statue loomed over the city from its position over two thousand feet high on the mountain, a robed, bearded figure with its arms outstretched towards the ocean beyond.

Made out of concrete and soapstone, the forty-metre-high statue had been a symbol of the city for over ninety years, a focal point for the nation’s devout religious fervour. Weighing in excess of seven hundred tons, it was one of the world’s largest statues, visited by millions of tourists each year, many of whom made the pilgrimage all the way up to the top of the mountain to stand at the huge pedestal upon which the statue rested. There they stood, craning their necks and looking up in awe at the image of the prophet above them.

One such group of pilgrims stood there now, squinting tired eyes into the sun to see their redeemer in all his glory.

And despite the strength of their religion and the passion of their beliefs, nothing in their experience had prepared them for what they saw next.

It was early in the morning, a time many people made the pilgrimage to the top of the mountain, to watch the sun rise over the horizon. It bathed the statue in an otherworldly glow, making it seem even more impressive, as if the statue and the sun were somehow connected. But this morning was different. As the tourists looked on, believers and non-believers alike, they saw the statue
move
.

The movement of the statue was no mere tilt, as if with the wind, or wobble, as if disturbed at its base; incredibly, the entire statue leaned backwards and raised its enormous head to look at the rising sun, lifting its gigantic stone arms high above its head.

It stopped then, leaning backwards slightly and gazing at the sky between upstretched arms, as if this was how it had stood for almost a century. But the people there knew that this was not the case; they had watched for two whole minutes as the statue had moved ever so slowly to reach for the sky, as if asking the Heavens themselves for help. But help for what?

Soon, it wasn’t just those who were there who were asking the question. The first footage went out over the social media networks just seconds after it happened; within ten minutes, everyone who had filmed it or taken pictures had sent them over the airwaves to family and friends across the globe. And within thirty minutes the entire world knew, and had seen it.

The statue – this seven-hundred-ton block of concrete and soapstone – had
moved
.

And the world wanted to know why.

J
OYCE
G
REENFIELD FELT
the bracing morning air and smiled. Another beautiful day, she thought as she skipped lightly down the steps of her brownstone apartment, holding the lead of Sebastian, her pedigree hunting dog.

Sebastian was the pride of her life, at least ever since her boyfriend Adam had left her for another woman late last year. You couldn’t trust men, she’d learnt that the hard way. But dogs you could trust. Especially Sebastian, whom she’d had since a puppy, a wonderful little thing who had been her constant companion in both the good times and the bad.

It had happened late last year, the same old clichéd story heard a million times before, except this time it had happened to her: she had come home from work early one afternoon to find Adam – her beloved, the man whom she had hoped to one day marry – in bed with another woman. In
their
bed – an even worse betrayal. It was where they had discussed their hopes, their dreams, their ideas of what living a life together would be like; it was where Joyce had told him the little things, the secret things which made a person unique, and which she had shared with no one else.

And the woman wasn’t even just
another woman
, it was Georgina Wilcock; maybe not her
best
friend, but a friend nevertheless. How could a friend do that? Joyce supposed she should have known – she’d seen Georgina do the same to other women’s boyfriends, even other women’s husbands, but she had never suspected it would happen to her. Stupid. You couldn’t trust men, and it turned out you couldn’t trust women either.

But, she repeated to herself as Sebastian trotted along obediently at her side, you
could
trust dogs. You could
always
trust dogs. Cats were nice too, she thought, but not like dogs. She had always agreed with the idea that there were dog people and cat people. You could like both, sure, but not equally – you had to decide one way or the other which you preferred, and she was definitely a dog person.

She had lived with dogs all her life – her parents were dog people too – and had even found a way to smuggle Francis, her pet from the age of six, into her college dorms for the whole three years she was there; she just couldn’t live without dogs.

She had had others over the years, often fostering dogs for animal shelters before they found permanent homes, and the stories of their lives more often than not reduced her to tears. How could people be so cruel? It never ceased to amaze her. Malnutrition and neglect were the least of the dogs’ problems – some had been forced into fights, resulting in horrific wounds, another had been set on fire for making too much noise during the night, one more had had all her teeth pulled out with pliers for chewing the leg of a kitchen chair.

But with Sebastian, it was a clean slate. She had always loved the breed, long and sleek but well-muscled, a ridge of hair rising along the length of its back giving it a unique look. And some of the things it was bred to hunt! But Sebastian was a pure pet dog, bred for health and appearance, and Joyce felt herself admiring his perfect form, his long, easy gait, the way he carried his large, heavy head proudly, chest out, chin up.

Being a pedigree – descended from champions, no less – he hadn’t been cheap. But she had always wanted one, she earned good money, and the opportunity was there – why not take it? And so she had paid her five hundred deposit – the balance of fifteen hundred would be paid when a new litter was born and she had made her selection – and put her name on the waiting list.

She had never regretted the decision once, and it made her feel good to walk with him through the city streets, as she felt eyes turning towards them, admiring Sebastian; and in that admiration she felt mutual acclaim, the fact that she was with him making
her
someone to be admired –
look at how that lady walks that beautiful dog
, people would say,
she must really have something about her
.

And that was how she felt that morning, a deep glow of satisfaction within her, making up for all the other problems in her life. She would walk down the street, across the junction and then into the park, where Sebastian would have a good half-hour runaround, and Joyce Greenfield felt good. Sure, she worked long hours and hadn’t had a proper relationship since Adam, but with the sky blue and full of promise, and Sebastian at her side, her worries faded into the background.

She first felt the difference as they waited to cross the road to the park. Sebastian would normally wait patiently by her side, in a perfect ‘sit’ position, but this morning he seemed agitated by something. He started to fidget as they waited for the lights to change, then stood up and pulled forward, yanking her arm.

Surprised, she nevertheless managed to rein him back in; and then the lights changed and they crossed for the park, although Sebastian kept on pulling her. What was wrong with him? Could he smell something? she wondered. Maybe a girl doggy over in the park? She’d been meaning to have him ‘done’ for a couple of years now – after all, it was supposed to help prevent serious disease and all sort of other things – but she still thought she might breed from him one day and so had never made the appointment.

Sebastian calmed as they entered the park, and she momentarily forgot about it as they walked down the tree-lined paths towards the playing fields where she would throw the ball for him.

But then she noticed that other people walking their dogs were being jerked along by their agitated canines. As she started to pay more attention, it seemed everyone was having some problems with their dogs.

And then Sebastian pulled her again, harder this time, and she fought to correct him, but he fought back and pulled her forwards, faster and faster, towards the playing fields, and now she had no control, she was just being pulled along behind him, stumbling over herself in an effort to keep up. What the hell had gotten into him?

They were in the playing fields just moments later, and Sebastian paused, tense, as if sensing something beyond Joyce’s comprehension.

Her head snapped round at the screams that broke out seconds later, and she saw the huge dog just two hundred yards away with its jaws wrapped round its owner’s arm, blood gushing.

Over to the other side, a pair of old ladies screamed as their little toy dogs began to snap and bite at their heels, continuing their attack as the women fell to the ground, claws and teeth going for their faces with savage ferocity.

Everywhere she looked, dogs were attacking their owners, biting legs, arms, faces, necks. The green grass of the fields was stained red with fresh blood everywhere she looked.

And then Sebastian turned towards her, lips pulled back in a feral snarl. No, surely not her own dog as well, surely not Sebastian, her faithful companion?