Day of the Predator - Alex Scarrow [88]
Her heart was his, though, and his alone.
Broken Claw had cradled it now for hours, unwilling to let go of the last thing of her. But now was the time. Now, as he stared down through the dark night to the cove far below and the flickering orange flower on the beach surrounded by those pale creatures.
His serrated teeth tore a chunk from the purple organ and he vowed as he chewed on the fibrous tissue that every last one of those new creatures would die. He would be sure to stare closely into their eyes as his claws dug deep into their chests and pulled the pumping source of their life out.
The others began to wail and mew softly, young males grieving at the loss of their mother, as Broken Claw placed the rest of the organ in his mouth and bade farewell to his lifelong partner. He turned to the others and silenced them with a soft bark.
We do not need to fear new creatures.
The others understood this too.
They are as plant-eaters, harmless without their sticks-that-catch.
And they were careless, foolish creatures that often placed these lethal tools on the ground and walked away from them, unaware that without them their clawless hands and small, even, white teeth made them as vulnerable as freshly born cubs.
Broken Claw watched their distant movements on the beach, illuminated by the yellow flower. Of course they all had to die to avenge her … but also to be sure his kind were the only intelligent pack hunters in these lands. To allow these pale things a chance to breed and increase their number would be foolish.
He opened his mouth and his black tongue curled and twisted as he softly tried to reproduce again the strange sound the short fat creature with ginger hair and those strange eyes had made. Broken Claw’s throat gargled and whinnied, and his tongue shaped the sound into something that sounded, to his recollection, to be a very passable facsimile.
‘Aye … ammmm … Fanck … leeeennn …’
CHAPTER 48
65 million years BC, jungle
The morning sun was already warm on his back and shoulders as Liam poked at the smouldering remains of their campfire with his spear, carefully probing the flaking ash remains of branches for what he was looking for.
‘Do be careful,’ said Jasmine, standing beside him. ‘They’re brittle when they’re still hot.’
‘All right,’ he said, going about it more carefully. Presently, the blunt end of thick bamboo cane hit something hard: a dull thunk.
‘I got one.’ He carefully pushed the ash out of the way and traced a rough rectangle outline, something approximating the size of a brick. ‘It looks like it survived the cooking without cracking.’
Using a fistful of waxy fern leaves as an oven glove he reached down and pulled it out, then quickly dropped it on the soft sand. ‘Ouch! Still bleedin’ hot!’ He squatted down beside it, gingerly wiping ash away from the rust-coloured surface of fire-cooked clay. The fine lines of letters and numbers were clogged with ash. The others gathered round and stared down at the small oblong tablet lying on the beach.
‘My God, look! It totally worked!’ uttered Laura.
The lettering was there to see, clear, unmistakable.
‘Of course it did,’ replied Jasmine. ‘I know what I’m talking about. Me and my mom make ceramic jewellery all the time. We sell it on eBay.’
Liam leaned over and blew at it, the ash fluttering out of the inscribed lines and curls of his handwriting in little clouds.
Take this to Archway 9, Wythe Street, Brooklyn, New York on Monday 10 September 2001.
Message: -89-1-9/54-1-5/76-1-2/23-3-5/17-8-4/7-3-7/5-8-3/12-6-9/23-8-1/3-1-1/56-9-2/12-5-8/67-8-3/92-6-7/112-8-3/234-6-1/45-7-3/30-6-2/34-8-3/41-5-6/99-7-1/2-6-9/127-8-1/128-7-3/259-1-5/2-7-1/69-1-5/14-2-66. Key is ‘Magic’.
Whitmore was reading it over Liam’s shoulder. ‘You think that book code of yours is going to work? I mean, I don’t know what book you’ve used but I know every